For my mother, a staunch Catholic who desperately tried to kill her children’s spirits, when her own were dead, using every possible way, except literal poison. Although by giving back to the “wandering Jews” as she called me and my husband—our own, intended to be loving gift, the now much less fresh, nine-day old fishes disguised as new ones—points in that direction.
…a real “Wandering Jew”
Still, it seems wise to recognize the fact of her life to be not hers and hers alone. This is dedicated to my male twin, to my namesake who made a heroic, decade-long attempt to fix-it-all, to take her place, to fill the hole in me where a shaking Despair of Mother was waiting to be found.
Roughly every thousand years, God makes economic miracles out of brother-and-sister love. “Too bad I was not a real Semite,” the Israelites told me on the High Holy Days, so as a New Family, we could have changed the world in Jerusalem, back on Mother’s Day, as we sat on the Kasbah where alley cats pleaded the case to my soul, for new souls to come down to perch inside of a slowly aging body.
We said that I was Wagner’s Erda: condemningly harsh with her accuracy of prediction, retreating to The Underworld too frequently to sustain Life. Still, symbols remain, and predictions often outlive both Men & Progeny. These are events we can place bets on, righteously so, tracking it all, one-way-or-the-other, even when we might win or lose by the very act of doing so, weaving together shared accounts, these measurements render records from a perspective common to us called Mnemosyne.
In Life’s name and for Life’s sake may you be written in the Book of Life. As for me, women of the word, of the wheel, and of the horse—Trimurti in matters of fact never achieve the exotic, however short-lived glory of the Public Arena, even and especially when we envision the world as it ought to be. No seated Empress, no killer of Cyrus, always they are cursed as things of mere Legend. “Ohne kraft, ohne mach.”
While the “Me Too” phlebotomy was not only wrong-headed but barely literate, consequently it hurt the Legends I describe who possess the Trimurti. In turn, wiser and wiser men pushed them further from The Arena. You dumb broads! There should be a “Me too” rebirth in the spirit and letter of feminine law, a Queen of Mars with persons of the word, tenderly we kiss the lips of the accursed, until actual preferences are revealed as true Economic Miracles, with theories about nature’s gluts coming from their capital: Birthing Bodies and Labor.
Enough already—with these reading of the winds, enough with these tea leaves, with your psychics of Federal Reserve and false ingots as idols. Our last pearly-white, blue-hued ghost, was not Mary Mother of God but Miss Wollstonecraft, who died in childbirth. It has simply been too hard to refocus on the subject: Here, I humbly ask for a repurposing and for focus.
The Lord still silently blesses the unborn, the ones that, in our manufactured scarcity we could not allow to live and grow in their own way; all at once for themselves, for each other, and all Mankind!
