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Back when Gerry Ford was being shot at and the Who were playing Winterland, you and I saw it the same way.

You said it yourself, before you played my song to a packed house: May the gods bless you; there's many, not just one. So many small things, tiny miracles: a sunrise every day, music running heart to ear, kidneys that functioned, your fingers, my love for you.

Small miracles, a little god for each one. Ours, alone.

Somewhere, I've never known how or why, we came apart at the seams. And all the gods and the miracles died.

Just finished something that's been in my files for a year. I doubt that anyone will ever want it, but it feels nice closing one. (writes article name in black on the Board in my head)

Cheerios: And here's my drabble.
The closest I get to faith is to check my mailbox every day. Will it be a card? Maybe even an invite or a check. Or will I be smitten with paperwork governmental and ominous enough to make me sweat like I robbed a liquor store? That’s where the faith comes in, as always, the uncertainty. Sometimes the postal gods are good and bring me sustenance, sometimes enlightenment, like books or Netflix. Sometimes they’re confusing like when solicitors have me listed as “Patricia” Why does this happen? Maybe it is part of a bigger plan.

nativity

Born in darkness, born in rain
Rainbow cradle where the babe was laid
Born of the Earth, of the Universe
Wrapped in a cloud, the baby cried

Woman and Man, they brought the child
To this place, to my backyard
In my yard, she played
Tumbled among the tumbleweeds

Pricked her fingers on the yucca's spikes
Chased the ravens and the snakes
She bled into the earth, once, twice
At this mesa, the center of the world

Adult too soon, she wed the sun
Bore him twins, Monster Slayer
And the Child Born of Water
Changing Woman, she lived here

That's beautiful, Liese.

Venus

It wasn't much to look at; a featureless, non-descript molding from clay, kiln fired, unglazed, undecorated. No bigger than a fist, the little statuette was slab-legged and pot-bellied. Pendulous breasts hung over the mounded stomach; plum bobs of fecundity pointing toward her pubis. Her formless face looks down at breasts, belly, obviously exaggerated female features; a silent contemplation of what made her special. Who knows how many of them were made, countless little goddesses of fertility? A faceless, nameless god of her time with feet of clay—any woman, every woman, no woman; we call her the Venus of Willendorf.

Thanks, Susan.

It's a nice juxtaposition with Sail's Venus. Two views of femininity.

Damn, this is a good topic.

Liese, that was gorgeous. Going to go dig out my mythbook again. There was this one pinnacle of rock, somewhere, that has a Spiderwoman attached to it. She was a bit of a tragic villainess, iirc. I loved that story.

The thing I like about the Venus of Willendorf is that all, and I mean all, the earliest experiments with fired clay figurines were females. It's all that's been found in the earliest kiln sites in Europe. Men weren't such a big deal, then. Stick it in your eye, Adam!