Wanda Gág, Circa 1935
I'll be on a little mini-hiatus until July 7th.
The serialization of The Matriarchy novel will continue on Fridays, however.
It's been raining and raining and raining. That's a good thing, unless your fields are under water or your sump pump has stopped working. Because of this, I've found myself seeking trivial diversions more than usual lately. Here is a trio of tasty pop culture morsels to brighten your soggy day:
I rose bright and early Tuesday morning to catch the commuter rail into Minneapolis:
Sun shine all over me~Jófriður Ákadóttir
I'm feeling so happy
Summer, it's summer now
And it's warm outside and I'm smiling all day long
Happiness I will always send
I hope this summer will never end.
This is chapter 7 of The Matriarchy, a serial fiction novel on FITK
A sea of women: sobbing, wailing, moaning, spread out across a moonlit desert landscape. How long had they been there? A day? A year? A million years; yes; and behind them those strange beings of dim antiquity, not-yet human yet still female: bleeding, birthing, nursing. They surrounded a hill where, lit by torches, stands the nin-dingir: the chosen woman, the goddess incarnate. She stands naked: curvaceous, her skin shiny with oil, wearing an elaborate headdress and holding a talisman in each hand . Standing on the backs of two lions, she is flanked by owls. Like the owls, her feet are talons and long wings sprout from her back. As the moon rises over the throng their discordant chorus begins to coalesce into a shimmering roar, gradually becoming a distinct three syllable phrase: “Æ… Æ… Æ…,” then, “Æ… na… aa…,” finally becoming: “Inanna.”Mary woke up. Sean was spooned behind her, lightly snoring, with a mindless erection nudging her thigh.
She raises her arms and the multitude becomes silent. A man walks up the hill. He is also naked, and carries a basket of date fronds. Kneeling, he places them before her, and then rises and stands beside her and faces the crowd.
Behold the man! It is he, the one I have chosen, the one to fulfill the moment we have been waiting for all these millennia. He is my consort, his seed will fertilize my egg; the fruit of our union shall beget the new order: the next stage of consciousness, the revelation of the great mystery, the defeat of ignorance, the restoration of the garden, and the unification of the matriarchy of all generations.
From the sea of supplicants comes a new sound—a high pitched screeching. The man's penis starts to stiffen. Inanna gets down on hands and knees, backs up to him with a rhythmic movement of her hips. He kneels, she feels his hands on her buttocks and his member between her legs, gently probing…
Decorah, May 15th
Aunt Tina again, here with all the latest news from rural Iowa. I’m writing to you in a old-fashioned letter because I just don't trust computers anymore, with all I've been hearing about the government spying on everybody. Do you know that Snowden guy? He was on TV the other day, it seems as if he’s the only person capable of telling the truth. Of course they want to put HIM in prison. Did they ever find out who stabbed you? They should put him and all those crooks in the State Department in jail.
The spring weather has been nice, with plenty of much needed rain. I’m not up to putting in a garden anymore, but the perennials are happy. That maple tree you used to climb in has split in a thunderstorm. It looks pretty sad, it was rotten inside. If my uncle Henry was still alive he’d have it chopped it up into firewood the very same day. He always kept the place tidy. I don’t have the energy to keep up with things the way I used to. My vision isn’t what it used to be, either, I’m OK in the sunlight, but can’t see worth a darn at night anymore.
I know you’ve been busy with work and all, but there are some things going on here which you should know about. I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately and I have come to the decision that it’s time for me to move on. After the winter we’ve just had I’m not going to stay on the farm another year. I’ve got a buyer for the land (Mel Henderson, he’s been renting it for years) but the house will be torn down. It’s sagging, broken and leaking—just like me! The Masons have a pretty nice assisted living place in town, some of my friends are there, I’m on the short list. We’re going to have an auction in August. Can you imagine, the auctioneers told me people will actually pay good money for the old junk that's laying around! So ends the saga of the Carroll homestead.
Getting to the point of this letter, could you come out and take care of those things of yours from college? There are also some boxes of your mother’s. I could have it all hauled away, but I think you’d want to go through it first. If you do come, could you bring your lady friend too? I would love to meet her, she must be very smart to pick someone like you (ha ha)!
P.S. There is also a room full of your Grandmother’s stuff you might want to look at it.
“As you all know, I’m not one for public speaking—hell, I’m not one for public anything. This is the last time you’ll have to listen to me, so I’ll have to take advantage of it. You don’t need me to give you a pep talk, we all know that we we’re the best in the world at what we do. That’s not going to change, but you will have to do it without me. Now that the papers have been signed, I’m no longer your boss. You all know about the ‘Iceland incident.’ The fact that Sean and I were personally involved, and, due to the subsequent investigation and its lack of closure, The Amasales Corporation has decided that, because of these certain special circumstances, Sean Carroll and I are not to be part of the new structure. That sounds like a bunch of legalese but it’s just one of those things that can happen in a business deal such as this. Shakespeare’s phrase ‘The better part of valor is discretion’ has never been more appropriate. Don’t worry about Sean and me, we’re going to be fine, and maybe someday we’ll finally be rid of the specter of ‘Billygate.’ I’ll certainly miss you all. I have always appreciated all your efforts over the last five years… although I’ll make an exception for whoever thought that we should hold ADR's farewell party in a room shaped like a giant vagina.”
This is chapter 6 of The Matriarchy, a serial fiction novel on FITK