Guadalupe has an arm around quotidian Mary
they have begun to howl not worrying
that the moon is not in the right phase
it’ll come says the second Mary
when we reach BE
that is what matters
–Susan Hawthorne, “wolf pack” in Lupa and Lamb (Spinifex Press, 2014)
30 January 2017 BE (Biophilic Era, time of the life-lovers)
It’s been nearly a year since my last posting, and in that time I’ve gone from bordering-on-blindness to being far-sighted for the first time in my life. In the meantime, the earth’s frequency/vibration increased, and on the December 2016 solstice we crossed over the threshold into a new cosmic cycle.
Earlier this month, when I had begun reading again, I snooped around in Susan Hawthorne’s Lupa and Lamb because I was in the mood for a trans-temporal party and that’s what this book of hers is. In the lines quoted above, “quotidian Mary” and “second Mary” refer to Mary Daly, whose books I was also pulling out from the shelves. Mary Daly was a phone friend of mine for a few years after Amazon Grace came out, and, like most of the friends I’ve made this lifetime, she is not in her body at this time. If you want the particular form of mental stimulation she provides, you’ve got to invoke her or reread the books she left behind.
It was Mary Daly’s idea to stick “BE” after the day’s date, “BE” being short for “Biophilic Era,” a name she invented. It was my idea to lengthen the name to “Biophilic Era, time of the life-lovers” because I like the lush sound of it.
On 21 January 2017 BE, over 600 women’s marches for justice took place on seven continents. Together, they constituted the largest popular protest in human history, and they proved a natural umbrella for anyone choosing to resist 21st-century fascism.
The following morning, Prensa Libre, Guatemala’s foremost newspaper, featured the women’s resistance on its front page. In the foreground of their photo of the DC march, many signs are large enough to read, including:
I’m With Her (with arrows pointing in every direction)
Feminism Is The Radical Idea That Women Are Human Beings
and, my favourite, I Can’t Fucking Believe This Shit.
For the last few years, my world has been getting darker and darker, and shrinking. I can’t see well enough to drive, so Mr. Bear is my chauffeur. He reads to me the labels on grocery-store shelves, and pays at the check-out because the debit machine defeats me every time. He set the font size on my computer screen to GARGANTUAN.
Life has gone on because Mr. Bear remained devoted while his partner slowly transformed into a baby mole. I know I’m lucky and I don’t mind being a reclusive, subterranean creature — but the baby part is humiliating for someone who used to be an adult.
All this began to change in early February when I had my first encounter with surgery since I was seven years old. In the dressing room, the nurse offered me an Ativan (what’s that?), but, sailing forward in ignorant enthusiasm, I instantly replied, “oh no thanks, I’m not nervous at all.”
I was in a strange state of non-chemically-induced ecstasy when they wheeled me into the space-age operating room. They sealed me from the waist up in an oxygen-filled bubble, with a hole cut out for the eye that was to be operated on. “Look into the light,” said the surgeon, and I did.
Very soon I saw a thin red line appear, and then I saw the lens in my eye being lifted out, and then I saw a hole in my eye and a black grid centered over the hole, and then I saw the artificial lens being put in, and then I heard the surgeon say in a worried voice, “I have very little support here.”
He no sooner said this than I noticed my legs had gone rigid as a board under the heated blanket. I spent the remainder of the fifteen-minute operation wishing I’d swallowed the magic pill.
It’s now been nearly four weeks of recovery, and I’ve gone from the euphoria of discovering that the world is filled with extraordinary light, to the terror of noting that small black dots keep dancing around in my “new” eye, to utter exasperation that now both eyes hurt and I still can’t read the print in books.
When I consider there’s one more operation to go, I feel like smashing pottery. And I repeat to myself what the old kung fu master says over and over to his student: “Patience, grasshopper.”
I remember you,
erotic poets of the sea,
surrounding the whale-watch boats,
in fog and in pain,
I sent up my silent calls to you:
O let me caress your mind.
Humans, who poisoned the waters
and set earth on fire,
you approach with song.
Teach me to do the same.
– Harriet Ann Ellenberger
30 July 1989, revised 4 February 2016
note: The earlier version of this poem was published in L’Évidente lesbienne, no. 17, février 1990, and in Ms. Magazine, July/August 1993.
War babies are babies
who make war
without knowing what war is.
War babies make war
on anyone who crosses them,
on each other.
War babies have guns
that are big and mean.
War babies have money
that won’t buy them more time.
War babies hit a telephone pole
at 100 miles an hour,
and expect to walk away.
War babies stay babies
because they don’t learn.
Oh look, they’re doing it again.
–Harriet Ann Ellenberger, 11 February 2016
I go where I love and where I am loved,
Into the snow …
H.D., from The Flowering of the Rod
Early on a mid-December morning, when the light was just right, Mr. Bear ventured out with his camera to photograph the snowy landscape behind our house.
In the center of the backyard lives Mapleluselah, a maple tree that visiting naturalist Sara Wright said was at least 200 years old. Mapleluselah can be seen from space (in satellite photography) and is used by migrating birds as a way-marker (we are guessing this because twice a year the backyard becomes a small-bird staging area, a place to rest and fatten up before heading farther north in the spring or south in the fall).
Mapleluselah is loved by everyone, whether they fly with their own wings or scurry up the trunk with four little feet or stop their car to visit on two legs and sit in the tree swing.
Over a long lifetime, Mapleluselah has become a Universal Attractor.
The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2015 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 830 times in 2015. If it were a cable car, it would take about 14 trips to carry that many people.
I am still forming,
I am not yet myself,
but I dream a lover to come—
someone who will know me
from the left side,
someone who will remember my eyes
from a place where people spoke differently,
someone who will call me
white moon and lotus,
the one who dances in my heart.
People now say what I do is dreaming,
But I say winter dreaming keeps me on earth.
We ourselves are a dream of the earth.
She filled us with her mind.
And I am dreaming a life to come
as she once dreamt mine.
—Harriet Ann Ellenberger, 1990