We have come a long way since I was a girl. In the 1950s the word “sex” was a dirty word. We weren’t allowed to say “sex” because it meant fucking and we certainly weren’t allowed to say that! But we knew which sex we were, even if the word itself was taboo.
Nowadays we are confused with identity and reality. I identify as a boy (my mind) in a girl suit (my body). I do this to reference my 2-Gods ideation, which involves a cascade of esoteric connections. My book goes into it. “Sex And The Single God.” I identify as a brilliant dancer, but no one will enjoy watching me wiggle about on stage for an hour. Can we say that our identifications are more like hobbies rather than full time realities?
My suspicious mind says there is more to any story. Mercury, the boy, on Taurus, the girl suit, in the 12th house, deep inquiry, square Pluto, “I see your dirty secret.”
The following is an offering about the sexes interacting. Begend at any paragraph and then circle back and around.
I can’t line things up. Not my job. My spirit animal is the Sea Anemone.
Sun Trine The Moon
Dancing. We dance together.
Sun Square the Moon
When a person walks in front of me rather than stepping aside to let me pass. We walk, brushing shoulders, turning to walk sideways, crablike, moving forward. Under no circumstances should a modern person let another modern person push through the stupormarket aisle. We do this, as if allowing another to pass would cause us to lose a valiant, meaningful race.
Sun Square Saturn
When the Queen Mother says, “No. You must not.” On being a loser. Everyone is a loser. All are enlisted to die. All is lost.
Sun Square Jupiter
The King says, “Since we are all lost, let’s Party On!”
Moon Square Uranus
“Run Forest, run!” When the tectonic plates shift. When the God-Mind shoots an electric novelty into his Earth-Wife.
Jupiter in Pisces 10th Mansion
Name it and Show it.
When the space is narrow, stop and allow the other to pass by. I do it for me. I do it to feel the moment, the connection, because the other often smiles in surprise. Allowing creates connection. I want connection, so I do this with strangers in the Temples of Modernia where passageways weave through walls of steel planks loaded with useless plastic objects. Where distracted lonely souls in search of the needle that will draw a sisal rope through steel cloth. A sturdy needle of massive proportion.
Saturn in Virgo 4th Mansion
Why do we make the ancestors clean? Make it so, Number One.
“Must find and acquire. Hunt for it. Relentlessly. This shopping and goaling and winning is hard work. Must go forward now.”
We press on believing in the worthy goal. Our attempts at goodness, creating badness. This is the way. So I step aside for the clueless, the devouring mouth behind a blue plastic shopping cart, hungry for its fix.
How did this pandemic of disrespect begin?
Did we start it or was the the flappers in the 1920s? Granny was a flapper. She even bound her breasts during that era when thin was in. The Early 20s of the past century was when thin was in and now it’s out. When Granny was Maiden she disrespected some of the Victorian morals that were installed in her.
FOMO fear of missing out
That’s the thing, you know, what’s in. Doesn’t matter, just do that, regardless of your inclination to do so. Do not pay attention to how you feel. And if you can’t digest and assimilate your feelings, we have pills for that.
“Would a modest response feel better than a screaming green haired rant?”
Drink the calories, eat the pastes, and take the pills. The priests of Modernia will prescribe your salvation and you don’t have to think twice.
The new marriage. Alone in a room with camera. Sail through the mire, wearing smiley face masks, but the pain is real and no one wants to hear you tell unless its on a screen. The young scream and whine on line. To what effect?
Married to the Light. God is Good. We are Lightworkers. Bring the Light!!! More light, now! Light it up. The dark is dirty, fallen. The dark is frightening. Lights, camera, action.
It’s my fault
We Boomer children started dancing alone to the twist and jerk, in our teen years. Some were still dancing partner styles, but single exhibitionism was all the rage. We gave up the classic face to face postures where a man guides his cooperative partner across the dance floor. Subtle. Everything is Yin and Yang. Except when it is morphing. And it is always morphing.
Identity crisis
Which mask to wear today? Scattered name tags, escaped from the garbage truck’s claw as contents fluttered and splashed into the stinking trunk maw. I told myself,
“You are not a name, or a religion, or a job. Who needs that old identity anyway? The one where I’m not in pain. Pain is my friend. The woundologist.
In search of Gods the answer is “Neti, Neti, Neti” Not that, not that, not that.
I fell hard. It hurt. Centering now. Calm down. It’s time for a fresh face. Which mask will cure this incessant need for connection? Grin and bear it will suffice. You know, the one with the grimace, a sardonic mouth, the twisted smiley face.
Out of the heat
Into a cool rainy place. Alone there in the trees but not alone when you learn the vegetable language. Seeded heads danced along a narrow trail as I passed. Reached out for a twirl. The two-step, a western style performed in pointy toe boots designed for the stirrup, not the trail. But who was I kidding. Grasses wear not boots. I meant roots! They dance under the canopy, beside water, rooted.
The Woods
A walk in the woods. An old womun. Stepping Carefully, with a cane and a cat.