Lemuria in Oakland

The celebration and veneration of the dead was an ancient holy day in May called Lemuria. In our culture it has transformed into Memorial weekend, venerating the fallen. Either way they were given burnt offerings, much like barbeque ribs today. Celebrated with eating and drinking. Food was left out for the dead or the poor who walked by.

Since it was still not very warm, Zyna and I went to the Piedmont cemetery for our walk. There was action there. Motorcycle leather jacketed men roared up the quiet hill, in respectful single line.
All the military related graves had little flags fluttering in the wind. Under my most favorite tree, my Oak mama, where I usually pay my respects by singing and chanting into her mossy crotch, there was somebody else.

She was on ground, a young woman, her face covered with a sun hat, and she was curled around on the grass a fresh grave. It had the little tell tale flag. And there suddenly I felt her searing pain. It hit me in the heart, that curving, that willing mingling of herself with the grave.
This woman was curled around the beloved who has fallen. She had a picture to hug, a hat to hide her crying. She was still, as in her bed with the beloved. Intimate. Relaxed.

Oh my god, this is a widow. A regular woman, ripped off by war. She lost. Not fighting it, she has given that up. There is no more fight in her, she just wants to curl next to her man and be left alone.
But she cannot have that forever.

There is a small group of people arriving on the scene, relatives, and a little boy starts calling her name: Mom!
The woman still didn’t move.
I left.

Seventy-Two Virgins

Once upon a time there was a very tall man called Usama who dreamed to die and go to Heaven. Not just any old Heaven, but into a heaven where 72 virgins awaited him and his every wish.

He then died as a suicide bomber. His last thought was about the feminine softness and submission. As his body parts were blown to bits and pieces, his soul howered over the scene waiting for the virgins to come and take him somewhere lovely and tend to his loneliness.

As the dust settled over the bombing area, and the people were running around collecting the other dead people, he waited patiently for his turn. Nobody came for his parts. Nobody cried for his life gone. It started to dawn on him that this 72 virgin story may not be true. And then what? He killed himself for what? To defeat western culture? Culture is never defeated with suicide. Culture is about people liking your work, you need culture to defeat culture.

Usama started floating upwards to heaven, like smoke. He was filled with hope. He went all the way to the end of the stratosphere, then was bounced back down like a ping pong ball.
Ooops! He thought to himself, Allah is not willing. Bummer!
He tried to stroke his beard which had soothed him often, but oops, no beard. He felt fear but where did the fear live if he had no body? His head? Blown away. Oh yes, the fear lived in his soul. Not a good thing. Soul in fear is not the blissful state he was hoping for.

Maybe I have to imagine those virgins, call to them, thought Usama. But what would I say? I have not really known too many women. 72 of them are too many. Ohh, they must just send me starter virgins, who slowly lead me into the pleasures.

Usama waited a few weeks and nothing happened. He only knew weeks went by because he saw the sun rise and dip, rise and dip. When you are dead time doesn’t mean so much. Then Usama began to hallucinate.

He saw several children coming by in a group, carrying water, flowers, balls, they walked right by him as if he wasn’t there. “Hey,” he called to them, “what happened to my virgins?” One of the children turned back and saw him.
“Run!” she cried to the others, “Run! Here is one of those guys, and we are not veiled!”
“Don’t run away, please talk to me. I am dead too.”
Another of the older girls turned back to face him.
“You killed us because we didn’t have a veil on, we are the children who burned in the fire!”
The children ran away like the gusts of winds in the desert.
Usama didn’t get it. He wasn’t there, he didn’t burn any of the children. But he knew his religious police had done similar acts, all the time. And these girls were dead like him.

Then something wonderful happened. The sky opened up and there were fountains and steaming plates of food, and soft pillows. Usama gained his confidence back.
“Yes! Here I am! Let’s go to heaven!”

He approached the scene, wandered into those halls, reached out to take some water because he was very thirsty. Slap! A hand came down on his. He felt the sting of it, not like before, flesh hitting flesh, but as ill will hits a soul.

“What? How dare you to touch me without my permission! Give me some water!”
To his mighty surprise seven older Virgins rose from the nothingness with automatic rifles in hand.
“Get out!” they cried
“What do you mean? I am looking for the 72 virgins.”
“72 virgins you say? Well here you have seven of us.”
Usama saw that these were women covered modestly from top to toe in Christian nun garb. They were, indeed, virgins. Brides of Christ.
“No No! I was promised 72 virgins , young ones,” he protested.
“Nonsense! Nobody said anything about young, or Muslim . You were promised virgins, and here we are. Let’s go!”
The seven armed Virgins took him to his seat and put a pillow underneath his feet.
“There!” he said, satisfied. “That’s more like it. Could I have a drink of water now please?”
“Pretty please!” one of the nuns corrected him.
Usama now knew he was not in the proper heaven. This could not be true, after a lifetime of male domination over women.
“Pretty please,” he finally said.
The nun gave him a cup of water to drink. He lifted it to where his lips used to be, only to spill it all over the place, even the pillow got wet. Not a drop could he taste.
“Look what you have done!” the middle aged nun scolded him. The others looked at him with disapproval.
“Didn’t your mama teach you how to drink water?”
Usama was embarrassed. Of course he couldn’t…because he didn’t have a mouth.
“I am sorry,” he finally said.
“Sorry is not enough!” She advanced on him and used the butt of her automatic to hit Usama on the head.
“Ouch!” he cried, “That hurt!”
“Not as much when you had beaten my sisters for fashion crimes, like showing a little hair.”
She hit him on the head again much harder.
Finally Usama had enough and had to ask.
“Excuse me, but is this the proper Muslim heaven? Where is Allah?”
The nuns fell down laughing, they shot rounds in the air as signs of their good mood, stomped their feet, and jumped up and down like, little kids for joy.
Finally one of them answered.

“Heaven is the same for everybody idiot. If Allah is here you would have seen him by now.”
“But I have only seen you… only seven virgins, what about the rest?”
“What would you like to do with the rest?” The oldest nun approached him, her face was lined with thousands of wrinkles. As she faced him down she tore off her nun headdress, and shown her bald head underneath her habit.
“I hope my hair doesn’t offend you.” She mimed submission.
“What hair?”
“The hair women are required to hide, idiot. Up here we all are bald. Want a little more water?” She turned friendly.
“No thanks,” Usama replied, “I had quite enough.”
He felt defeated for a moment, but then he saw more figures emerging, these were younger women, totally uncovered, sporting jeans and T shirts, make up. Usama cheered up.
“I am right here!” he cried trying to attract them. “Virgins come hither!” One young nubile young woman came close. She examined him slowly.
“So you are Usama Bin Laden? Dead at last!”
“Hello.. I was wondering.. do you know where the proper Muslim heaven is? 72 willing virgins..”
“Willing virgins you said? Then they wouldn’t be virgins anymore now would they?”
“I was promised 72 virgins by Allah.”
“What for? What have you done to deserve that?”
“I have lived according to the Qu’ran.”
“No you didn’t. You spent your life making wars amongst people, and despised women. Forbid them to work, made them house slaves. None of that is in your Qu’ran. We don’t give rewards for that.”
Usama took this hard.
“What? No rewards?”
“Nope. But to show you why this is fair, here is my sister Alihiha.
She is a virgin. Show her what you got.”
Alihiha is twenty something, curious, comes quite near Usama.
“What can I do for you?”
“Oh at last a real woman. First I desire a fine hot bath. The I desire you servicing me sexually.”
Alihiha looks at him in disbelief.
“Sexually?”
“Yes, darling girl.”
“Show me what you got,” said Alihiha, like she meant it.
Usama feels his sex, oh good it’s all there, opens up his white wrap to expose himself to the girl.
Alihiha stands there unimpressed. Waiting.
Usama realizes that his body is not exciting to the girl.
“It’s ok, you get used to it. A virgin always shrinks from male nakedness. Come here and stroke me slowly.”
Alihiha still waits for more.
“Excuse me, but I see nothing there. You’ve got no male nakedness. I was hoping to see some.”
She walks away disappointed.
Usama now realizes that being dead is not a good way to get sex in the netherworld.
“Damn! At least give me a bath, steaming plates of rice and lamb.
I have forgone so much while I was alive, I have denied myself so much, for a great pay off.”
The nuns sourand him and hit him with the rifles.
“Those dreams for your heaven required a body, idiot!
Now you got no body and no past and no future.”
“I demand the 72 virgins and my hot bath now! Allah curse you if you don’t take me there to him immediately.”
The virgins stop hitting him and grab him, dragging him off.
Usama thinks he won at least. He will find the 72 virgins and his pleasures.
“Where are you taking me?”
Allah is willing, and he’ll see you . But first you have to complete your education.
“Education? What for?”
“He is putting you into the purifying fires of feminism for a century or two.”
“Feminism?? That’s the devils work! That’s corruption of morals..that’s not in the Qu’ran.”
“Oh but there you will find the 72 virgins, even more…”
“I will?”
“That’s where we keep the virgins…don’t we girls?”
“And they are nuns like you??”
“Oh no they are not, they are very sexual, yet virgins every one.”
“Thank you! Take me there! I am ready!”
“That’s a very special heaven. We hope you’ll be happier there then with us. Those are special virgins, young ones, not angry at you, you didn’t kill them while alive.”
“What are they called, pray tell?”
“They are lesbian feminists. They have never known a man, and they would not mind you missing all your body parts at all. You see…”
Usama gets it, he tried to wring himself from the nuns but their grip is hard.
“Oh no! I have changed my mind! Never mind the virgins! What else have you got up here? Anything for good mullahs like me?”
“Only other mullahs, if you like we can take you there. We have quite a collection.”
The nuns drag Usama to another cloud, where the sorry group of virgin less Muslim woman haters banded together. Nothing left to blow up or to enjoy. Nothing.

Stand Up Goddess 2

Intermission is over. Please take your seats..
Yes… the topic is Mammals…as in human beings.
We think very highly of ourselves because we are humans and mot animals. Oh, yeah? Here is one thing animals refrained from doing: they don’t THINK, because they have true scruples.
There have been many theories we made up about god. As the ages pass and we as species evolve the gods evolved with us. But in this day and age we make a lot of money off god and speaking for god, because he cannot speak for himself. It’s like we need the TV preachers to channel god for us.
I tune into the TV: xian shows, see what do they do there. It’s pretty much all the same. God needs human money. They need money to keep channeling god for us, and they need our money to reach infidels, non xian’s to convert, especially pagans they speak of, and that’s me.
If the Taliban was on TV with the “Allah TV show,” would they do the same? “Send us money and we punish more women for being women! You can count on us, we keep your females in fear and chadors.”
I see little difference between these two male god-oriented factions. One is filthy rich as women give them their money and send in more every month so they can “convert” pagans like me. (I’d like to see one of them come to my door. I have made minced meat of Mormon missionaries.)
The Taliban jihadists just shoot women dressed in sky blue burquas. They don’t even look into their eyes and feel their humanity as they shoot them like livestock.
Who do I despise more? Of course the Taliban. But if Pat Robertson could, he would still burn women at the stake: witches, feminists, lesbians and women of all kinds. He is just out of his historical element. This is the 21st century and not the 11th. The jihadists are still in the fifth century. Living showcases of how NOT to be a mammal. But not really different. Apparently patriarchy doesn’t change, even when costumes do.

Vagina-friendly world

I have learned this expression from Jane Fonda’s new book called “Jane Fonda’s words of politics and passion” (The New Press).
Apparently she got this from Eve Ensler the playwright and actor of the “Vagina Monologues” fame. (The play has encircled the world, I have seen it performed in Hungarian in Budapest)
I have read the book cover to cover in two days. I often wished her speeches were avaible to ponder in print. It brought back to me the young times in 1972 when I met Jane at the Venice Women’s Center. She was very pregnant(with Vanessa) and I was in love for the first time with a woman. (Stayed together with her 17 years, still good friends)
Jane came to speak to us with her slide show from Viet Nam. We were all awed by this passionate actor who actually had brains and used them! Yes, she was Hollywood royalty, but at this time of her life she was fully awake to her responsibilities as a US citizen. She actually went to Viet Nam, her compassion was awakened and now she was telling us what she saw.
We were more interested in Feminism then Viet Nam which we all saw as a man-made tragedy. We believed if women led the world there would be far less violence, and lot more vagina-friendly times. What does that mean? A world where women are safe, for openers. Safe to live in their world, love and work, raise the kids. A Vagina-friendly world had no rape that seen as something “normal.” Instead, rape was a mind/soul sickness. In a vagina-friendly world we would lock up the mean guys, not torture women at rape trials with more abuse.
Masculinity would not rob men of their access to their feelings, and Femininity would not require women to give up their humanhood.
To my great pleasure, I am discovering sister Jane in our special position of Crones, post 60, in our third destiny. What a joy. Now she is more feminist then ever before and still anti-war and anti-oppression. But she got wisdom along the way, wisdom which she had little of when young, is now in balance with passion, which she always had in spades.
She is talking about the vagina-friendly males she knows and loves.
Their numbers are growing. She is raising hope levels for us all.
If Jane is with us, working with her wisdom and leadership, we are in good shape. Back in the seventies I was worried somebody would shoot our fair sister dead.. But no, she was born well, protected by her good spirits. Now she is more beautiful and more productive then ever before.
I followed her on TV promoting her movie “Georgia Rule” which I am going to today as my Sunday treat. She talked off the cuff on Larry King, she was hilarious on the Colbert show. She was well informed and spoke with power. I know her latest movie is not “On Golden Pond” which is what they want from her, those critics who have panned the movie. But they (the men in charge of reviews) just don’t want Jane to rebel against violence and rape and child abuse, because when this Amazon smites you, it’s the best battle you will ever see.

Grave robbers in Kunszentmiklos

Don’t even try to pronounce it. It’s a sleepy little town on the puszta, in eastern Hungary. My fraternal grandparents and my father grew up there. I visited there last summer in the worst heat wave.

Heat wave in Budapest is intensified by the presence of the many stones and bricks, but here on the plains, it’s the earth that holds the heat, it’s the earth that exhales it on you as you walk. Your face burns, it’s a relentless heat, with no wind to lift the spirit.

First I thought I’d stay in this little town four days, breathe in the town’s past and present. I’ll do some good and then come home. My gay cousin Andy was driving me, bless his soul. We hooked up with Zoltan Nemeth, a local folk historian, who knew everything about the old families, mine included. He took me to the dusty cemetery, and showed me where my grandfather was buried in the middle of the night so the commies wouldn’t know where, but the gravediggers knew, “that’s where the Governor is buried.” The gravediggers passed this knowledge down to each other.

It made total sense. Grandfather was a famous man, a beloved governor, he did a lot for the poor, his deeds somehow ended up posthumously on the internet, and Zoltan suggested to rename a street after him in Kunszentmiklos which to that time was named after a communist long gone.

First the town voted yes.

This fact also landed on the internet, where my cousin who is a big Nerd found it and told me about it. This fact is really what got me to go back, to witness old grandfather’s street. By the time I arrived they had changed their minds; it was too expensive to change the street signs, and addresses of people who lived on it, so maybe the only good that came from it that it took me back to my ancestral home.

Now this is a town with no hotels, only one restaurant, but when I stepped out of the car, in spite of the heat, I was captivated. There was a feeling, strong and convincing, that I had been here before. Of course I was. When I was 4 years old I lived in a big old ancient home with grandfather and his nurse for six months. Half of my genes came from here. My strong body, shoulders, grew here, like the poplars.
All I recalled from this time there was a big wooden table, where he held many meetings, but also served as a dining hall. I would sit there all alone, a little girl, drinking my milk and eating my bread. Alone looking at the huge paintings of the puszta that grandfather had painted. The horned blond cattle, gemeskut(well), a dog. And the huge expanse of the land. No trees. Just grassland.

My hands cupped around my plate, (to this day I have to catch myself to stop it) protecting my food, but there was nobody else in the room.
Back then the concept of childcare was not invented yet. I was left there by my father because they had no food in the city. Postwar conditions, you know.

Grandfather was isolated from me by his nurse, whom he later did marry. She was only there for him, I was just like the cattle, gave me food and drink, open the door and let me roam the small town. Well that’s when I wandered about in Kunszentmiklos. Everybody knew who I was. If I got lost, they took me home. Or if they found me near sundown.

There was an artesian well in front of the ancient home, and I still recall its taste and smell. It was a dark brew, full of minerals, mostly iron. It stank a little, but I got used to it.

Much later, another time, when I was nine years old, my father came down south with me, and we visited the swimming pool filled with the artesian water. I already had many swimming lessons which didn’t work. On this occasion my father just tossed me in to the pool like lint off his collar, and after my first burst of feelings of total betrayal, I started swimming. Swimming is still my most joyous activity.

The swimming pool is still there. Much smaller of course then I remembered it. A nice long soak in its warm section and a long nap in spite of the lingering swine poop smell that was wafting to my room from the nearby farm. Deep rest. A kind of homecoming.

I was feeling fuzzy and loving, came downstairs to meet my host Gabor Szekely. I was staying in his home for 3ooo forints a night.
This man was a collector of 1848 stuff, when we had a huge big revolution against the Hapsburgs. Hungary averages a revolution per century. Somebody always needs to to be knocked off our back.

I didn’t know you could make a living from 1848 stuff, but he proved that there was good money in it. He had lots of artifacts, especially Petofi Memorabilia, a great poet and hero like Elvis in the USA.
Mr Szekely uncorked a bottle of locally brewed wine. It tasted like the puszta, easy to go down, burned your soul once swallowed.
I am not drinking anymore, but I do make exceptions, and we had a glass. I was looking forward to some intelligent conversation.
But instead as he got loaded slowly his talk went more and more against feminism, women in general and women in particular. A lot of rage was in this man.

Now long ago I made myself a promise, and one should never break an agreement with oneself, that in my presence I will not tolerate any anti-woman talk. No sexism will go unchallenged in my presence.
I started defending my sex against him, still thinking there is a good man inside, not a sexist pig. Oink oink. But I was wrong. It came to a huge shouting match, (my voice had been trained to public speaking) and I finally stormed out of the kitchen. He was hopeless and I was done with him. He finished his bottle, alone, cussing in the dark.
I would have packed up my stuff and left his house, but there was nowhere to go, I had no car. There are no taxis in Kunszentmiklos day or night.
Next day my cousin came to pick me up and I stayed with him in Kalocsa.

Now, about the grave robbing…
In mid -April this year this same sexist pig guy who knows everybody from way back, he “owns” the small town, somehow managed to open a grave from a local hero from 1848. His favorite collecting year. This turned out to be the hero Gedeon Virag, one of my ancestors five generations removed. I was descended directly from his sister Cecilia who was my great great grandmother. I am the only living descendent once again.

Zoltan notified me and told me how Gabor stood at the grave as it was opened. Zoltan asked me to protest in a letter to the Police and the County, because these graves are protected. I have done so. Today I got a letter from my cousin that my letters have stirred up huge waves at the police station. I wonder if they will even answer the letters.
I don’t know what else I can do from here, but in the old country there is far more then swine poop stinking. Robbing graves is a sin against the dead, and it brings bad fortune. I told them so. I demanded to know by what authority did they open the graves and why?
I could see old Mr Szekely paying off the local police chief to let him have a peek at my ancestors’ burial outfit. I bet he was after Gedeon’s sword. That would fetch a nice sum. Next time I am home and travel south, I may get a glimpse of the stuff he pulled off Uncle Gedeon’s back.
I shall continue writing about this disgrace, this is my only power, publicity.

Plum Jam on the Sidewalk

You know it’s Midsummer when my plum tree drops her fruits on the hot sidewalk. They land already ripe and roll away. Splash.
Walkers make a bee line to the other side, especially the ones dressed in white. My plum tree waits for those who have forgotten her, and if they step below her tree she drops on them plums and stains their clothes and head.

I often wonder what kind of people planned Oakland. The city is planted generously with these decorative plum trees. They bloom first thing in the spring and look wonderful. I guess this is the reason the early Outlanders planted so many of them.

Suddenly I have parking space in front of my house, because the stain takes the paint off the cars if they get blessed with a few plums.
My old car is used to it, we don’t care about paint.

Blue jays come and eat the fermenting fruit and get drunk, They totter about, sometimes barely missing the traffic. But the god that protects fools and drunks seem to look after drunken blue jays as well. It shuts them up, too. Blue jays have a terrific chatter, especially if they are sassing a cat.

Lemons are ripe in the backyard. I eat them as much as I can. These are sweet lemons, Ponderosa, heirloom kind.

The two together would make a lovely pie.
It’s to hard to pick the plumbs – dangerous, too high. The branches are unreachable over the traffic. Baking a pie with them remains a plan. I think I need a wife.

Stardust

The year has come half way round again. It’s magical Midsummer, and we are celebrating our 4th year anniversary in the Dianic University. I salute you my students, spread across the globe, learning, self-teaching, sharing, building the Dianic Community.
The purpose of this community is to make sure women are not abandoned, not alone struggling, but connected to each other via friendships and sharing.
The Goddess of the ten thousand names must be pleased with our work to allow us longevity this long. Blessed be!
This last year went by so fast I don’t even know where to start to review it. It seems the years are going by faster and faster. Sometimes I worry that I don’t catch enough time to just be a planetary dweller.
I’d like to thank my students first, about a hundred women now, new and old ones, on all three tracks, for continuing this Goddess Movement in your lives. It’s not as easy as it would be if you could just show up at my doorsteps for lessons, or to rituals in Berkeley.
In addition we have now posted the translations of my books into many languages, so we can connect with more sisters around the world.
In the Heroic Age, (who knew?) the seventies, when everything we started managed to set down herstorical roots and take off, continuing till today. I am grateful to have grown old in this movement, and blessed by witnessing its success. Each time you post a passionate interaction between you and a tree, or flower or animal, my heart goes thumping for joy. Women connected to Nature means Peace on Earth.
Activism has now moved into our homes. We are making goddess-loving decisions in what we eat, shop for and use in our lives. These are all acts of worship. We have extended our prayers into actions, recycling, picking up garbage, loving each other, it all shows respect for our mama Planet.
As the earth is treated so are the women.

Rabbit’s presence as my assistant was of major importance this last year, she has given me a” right hand”, “another pair of eyes” to view the homework. Thank you, Rabbit.
She was ordained on Mothers day this year, not because she is the best assistant I ever had, but because she is also running 5 covens on her own. “Come as you are covens” she calls them, are springing up, like organic flowers under her leadership. May we keep her in the D.U. for many more years.
Slowly I am coming to terms with money. As a reaction to the Christian God churches who always ask/demand money we hardly ever do. I believe the Goddess has enough money, I am not going to ask money for the Goddess. She owns everything.
But this entity, this D.U, this WSF, our nonprofit, does need more money. I’d like to hire a very good programmer, pay people for professional jobs, not have to ask everybody to volunteer. Advertising is expensive, each time I organize an event, I have to reach the women somehow, and that’s where money plays a very big role.
We are tax deductible, have a clean, long track record. Make a Birthday gift donation to the Women’s Spirituality Forum, via any of the Pay Pal Buttons we have on the site.
Donate a house or a building or your estate to the WSF, we’ll put it to good use. Women have a lot more money then before, Boomers are coming into third destiny in droves daily, the generations are progressing, let some Stardust fall on this herstorical achievement.

Blessings on all our sisters and brothers, and contemporaries who share these times with us and the good earth.