hecatedemeter- This Is a Prayer to the Erinyes; This Is a Prayer for the Resistance.
- Monday at the Movies
- The Magical Battle for America 8.20.17
- Saturday Ballet Blogging
- Maybe God IS Punishing You
- The Great God Pan
- Words for Wednesday
- Southern Pride in a Time of Terror
- All of the Magical Battles for America
- Monday at the Movies
Undermining the Patriarchy Every Chance I Get. And I Get a Lot of Chances (Copyright Preserved)
Huh. Of course. Well, I used to be made of artesian spring water filtered through slate and shale in the Appalachian mountains. Now, maybe this is why I feel out of sorts. It’s not geography. It’s being made of something new and maybe not consciously integrating it.
Now I am mostly made of reservoir water and pipe lining and strange minerals and a taste I can’t define. Plus, a shockingly large proportion plastic and Fiji water. (Too much to claim I have a reasonable carbon footprint.)
I am made of trees, too. Although not so much molecularly. Tree thought forms permeate. Thankfully, even the shallow-rooted, fast reproducing, weedy trees of Florida project a solid sense of responsibility for shaping reality.
I am laughing and crying at same time. I found you through a long line of canal locks. I paddled the entire length of the Susquehanna several years back. Sometimes all that is needed is a wicked smile and soft nod.
Cuyahoga River circa 1969 (mostly).
Los Angeles River & Southern California smog 😦
But I’ve moved on since.
The Great South Bay and the Atlantic Ocean in its more northern, steel grey, salty ways. Lately, the Long Island Sound and the many creeks and rivers of Long Island are part of me, too. But, always, they each take from, or give themselves to, that deep, mystery-filled, mystical, heaving, soothing all, known as the Atlantic.
I am made of Lake Michigan water. I was raised on the Pacific Ocean. I have done a decade of Olentangy and Scioto rivers. And another decade of the Great Miami river. Now I am strictly Ohio river.
Mighty James River ….blebe
Oh, I’m made from water from way across the Pond… Old Father Thames, downstream of London (England, that is) where the water becomes salt.
I’m now far away from there, but continue to feel its pulse, because I’m still connected to the great ocean that links all rivers.