Stream of consciousness concept dump, 6:30am, baby on my lap, coffee with maple syrup and honey, the sun is rising.
Good morning, goddess of pleasure, destroyer of shame—(remember, these are rituals to eradicate shame)
Where, in this archetype of sex and fertility, is the mother? When I sit with my children, how do I strengthen the threads to the divine instead of feeling them grow thin while my attention bleeds away into my babies?
What will it mean to be in my body, when it hurts, fails, aches, overflows, grows heavy? I think this is where you are trying to take me, into the heavy parts of my body like a lobster feeling for the first time the current against the shell on its back. Is this what it feels like to have skin?
Do I need to attach my divine connection to a face that bears your name? I see you yellow, orange, blue, green, black, shimmering; I hope your pink pearl delicate rose dove priestesses are having good sex, are in their bodies fully and gloriously. They are mysterious to me. But I appreciate your name, it grounds me—a signpost to connection.
Praise the coffee, the milk, the sweet, the skin of my child against the skin of my leg. My life is—not easier, no, let us be honest with one another—my life is stranger and denser and layered in shimmering light, now.
At the end of Venus in Fur, the author-character, tied to a pole in fear of his life, yells to the audience: Hail, Aphrodite. So when I say hail, Aphrodite, that is where I am—in the dark audience of a theater feeling my stomach twist with the pleasure and lust of that moment, the click-right-together art-sex-power-creation, the OH—oh! The way that I laughed like a bubbling deadly beautiful stream while the curtain came down, the glee.
Hail, Aphrodite.
