Consolidation?

Years ago, and well into my seventh month of pregnancy in New York City, it occurred to me one day that, as I would be unable to run from a fast predator, I was lucky not to run into an urban panther. These weekly blogs will consider women's lives from the perspective of one who is now older.

My dear friends -

I am thinking of suspending this blog and continuing solely with Cosmic Park Bench. I’ve been writing two blogs weekly since the vernal equinox, and have begun to question why I don’t simply write one. 

Are there any questions in Urban Panther that are not for non-female readers?

Would it be good to share thoughts based on a woman’s experience of life with all readers?

Is this blog segregating women’s attitudes from men’s? Shouldn’t that stop?

At the same time, since our society has been so male-dominated, is it pleasant to have a place for woman-dominated considerations?

Additionally, I am concerned that I will begin repeating myself.

I would value your thoughts. I don’t know why it’s so difficult, or impossible, for comments to be left on Blogspot; I thought I’d chosen settings to make that easy. But perhaps you could respond to marcianna4here@gmail.com to help me with this decision. 

Many thanks.

A poem for the solstice

Years ago, and well into my seventh month of pregnancy in New York City, it occurred to me one day that, as I would be unable to run from a fast predator, I was lucky not to run into an urban panther. These weekly blogs will consider women's lives from the perspective of one who is now older.

White Owl flies Into and Out of the Field

by Mary Oliver

Coming down out of the freezing sky

with its depths of light,

like an angel, or a Buddha with wings,

it was beautiful, and accurate,

striking the snow and whatever was there

with a force that left the imprint

of the tips of its wings—five feet apart—

and the trapping thrust of its feet,

and the indentation of what had been running

through the white valleys of the snow—

and then it rose, gracefully,

and flew back to the frozen marshes

to lurk there, like a little lighthouse,

in the blue shadows—

so I thought:

maybe death isn’t darkness, after all,

but so much light wrapping itself around us—

as soft as feathers—

that we are instantly weary of looking, and looking,

and shut our eyes, not without amazement,

and let ourselves be carried,

as through the translucence of mica,

to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow,

that is nothing but light—scalding, aortal light—

in which we are washed and washed

out of our bones.

Mammon wins again

Years ago, and well into my seventh month of pregnancy in New York City, it occurred to me one day that, as I would be unable to run from a fast predator, I was lucky not to run into an urban panther. These weekly blogs will consider women's lives from the perspective of one who is now older.

There is this advertisement on television; it’s for a pharmaceutical patch to calm overactive bladders. And it’s pitched to women:  the set pieces are huge pink words like “worry” hanging in the air. The spokeswoman is lithe but not skinny, attractive but not young. She’s wearing close-fitting white pants (a bold assurance in matters of both bladder and menstrual leakage) and a vivid blue blouse that has just a bit of drape. Her voice is soothing, perhaps not unlike the turtledove’s.

Watching the performance of this actress in this ad spot is like a quick course in how to do a commercial. She is walking very slowly, but doing it gracefully so it looks like she’s just being casual. (Try walking at one-third the speed you usually walk; it’s tricky not to look like you’re drunk or imitating someone on a high wire.)

Her speech is distinct but not clipped; her voice is modulated, and she stresses all the right words so the commercial message is clear but seems conversational. She projects intelligence and warmth and wisdom from experience without being weighty or preachy.

Then there’s the close-up. As she expertly raises the product in her right hand, we get to really see her face. She looks straight into the camera as if speaking to a friend, with just a slight smile on her face. It’s quite a perfect spokes job.

Looking in her eyes, there’s a lot going on. This is what I think I’m seeing:

“I’ve played Titania. I got an award for my Lady Macbeth. And here I am baring my (nicely toned) abdomen to flog a drug patch. I had to go through rounds and rounds of auditions, reading this same stupid copy over and over, to beat out all the other actresses and get this job. Now I am the face of adult pants-wetting. Yet, with residuals, I’m getting more money for this damned commercial than I’ve gotten for years of stage work.”

She delivers her parting line, making it sound not nearly as ridiculous as written, and walks smoothly off-camera. It’s an expert performance.

I very much doubt this drug manufacturer supports live theatre. I doubt it supports any of the arts, except by hiring artists to sell not their work, but its products. And that’s the dilemma for the artist. 

Is it also a dilemma for us? It seems to me a sad truth that women only started being recognized in this society when we became a consumer force. Not so long ago, women in commercials were solely portrayed as homemakers. (There’s a wonderful Monty Python skit of a commercial set-up with the Pythons in drag asked to tell the difference between Whizzo butter and a dead crab.) Now, advertisements have women as doctors and executives — but also as wind-up dolls who need anti-depressants.

How much of this are we buying?

Joy to the world

Years ago, and well into my seventh month of pregnancy in New York City, it occurred to me one day that, as I would be unable to run from a fast predator, I was lucky not to run into an urban panther. These weekly blogs will consider women's lives from the perspective of one who is now older.

Christmas lights are going up on the houses, stores are decorated with trees and bows and balls, it’s pretty. I like the decorations, especially the lights at night. What is hideous torment is the blaring music, every tacky version of every holiday song ever written, everywhere you go. You can’t buy cereal or cat litter without hearing “Jingle Bell Rock” or worse — if there is worse.

But I’m thinking about what happened just before the occurrence that ostensibly is the cause for this celebratory mood:  being pregnant, very pregnant, and needing to travel 80 miles through, or around, unfriendly territory because some government official said so. Being perhaps not poor, but not rich, so not traveling in style — though there isn’t much style that can help make a week’s journey tolerable for a woman whose labor is imminent.

I really loved being pregnant, but those last two weeks of the nine months certainly seem designed to inspire a sense of completeness, as in, “Out! It’s time! Out already!”

Right before birthing, your body is larger than you would have thought possible; you’ve entered the realm of epic proportions. All that energy and drive you had in the second trimester has vanished; you’re tired, you’re not comfortable sleeping, your internal space for both breathing and eating is seriously reduced. Imagine sitting on a donkey and traveling 20 miles a day. 

The civilizations all around the Israelites worshiped goddesses who were strong and powerful. And despite the fact that the Judeo-Christian chroniclers degraded goddesses, their priestesses, and eventually all women, this story of Mary about to birth her son inspires my admiration for this goddess who is so strong, so powerful, that she can be marginalized and still survive.

Christianity is a religion in which the god figure does not exalt himself, but sacrifices himself. What if we see that the goddess mother also does not exalt herself, but patiently endures hardships of human life? Can’t we see Mary and Jesus as mother goddess and son god, like Isis and Horus and Inanna and Damuzi (later Ishtar and Tammuz), who were worshipped in places close by?

Mother goddess birthing her god son. I’d like to hear a song celebrating that.