Woodstock at Weedie’s Place

Don’t call Susun Weed that name, it’s reserved only to friends of long, long standing. Like thirty years. I’ve called her Weedie for a long time out of sheer affection for this wild woman who walks the green walk. Her place is near Woodstock, it’s set outside in the green rocky fields, trees and millions of singing frogs.

When she picks me up at the airport, after 12 hours of grueling transit, I am tired. Its usually late, she takes me for an hour drive and installs me in that little house in the Nettle Patch. It has turned into Tulip Patch of hot red and yellow flowers.

My room is decorated with just some flowers, a good bed, and there I can exhale at last.

As the night grows deeper I can hear the Leopard frogs begin their rehearsal. They just bring out the first singing section from their extensive choir for a trial run. While the peepers keep up a strong rhythm section. All day and all night long, the leopards come in with just one streak of their song. They hit a perfect note, and hold it more then a minute or two. It sounds like one single note, but it’s comprised from millions of small voices. Then they drop a half a note below perfectly harmonizing. Then one more, higher note. Then they take a break.

I am lying in bed and listening to this beloved concert. I have discovered them one spring, just like this one, but later into May. A little warmer, and their choir already jelled together. I heard them, and tears came down on my cheeks. It was the music of the spheres. It was the harmony of the Universe. It was a moving rich animal culture from which I have never recovered nor do I want to.

After a good long break the Leopards are back. This time they had worked out the kinks from their first run, and now they try even better. Out flows that long singular clear note, very unfloglike, and held much longer then a human being could hold the breath.

I am listening in awe. They worked and reviewed their act in the break they have taken. This time the note is sharper, and the half note drop is held longer, and the higher note afterwards is clearer.
These frogs are artists with high taste in music. After they have sung for a few minutes, once again they go silent. I guess now they are reviewing their performance, there must be some criticism, and corrections. Who conducts them? The Goddess herself?

I fall asleep. I dream of green fields, blooming tulips.

Next day my students are waiting for me. It’s a good section from all over, some drove in from neighboring states. I greet some old friends, meet the new ones. We are a cross section of middle-aged to in-their-twenties women, from practicing witches to first-timers. I teach from the Holy Book of Women’s Mysteries, first we discuss the Manifesto of the Susan B. Anthony Coven Number One. There are 15 different points in it, and we take them one by one. Politics for this generation is not as immediate then it was for us who lived in the Heroic Age (seventies) of our youth. But the issues are still burning, many points have not lost their importance at all.

We take a break. I had them in the studio for almost four hours, I am tired too. I give them some homework, they have to memorize the Invocation to the Star Goddess. Interesting how Americans don’t like to memorize poems. I grew up with poetry recitals and poetry by-heart homework’s. We made some progress.

Weedie is asking me, what nothing tonight? No circle tonight?
--They are not circle ready yet. Let what I thought them marinate.

Friday night . The Leopards started at nine pm precisely. The rain is not bothering them at all. They sing this time with two section of their large choir. It’s building slowly. They each hold one note which all are harmonious. They both vary half a note, one up and one down. I get goose bumps. Their harmony is all encompassing.

If mothers were loved, not just profited from

If mothers were loved, not just profited from ...

I am just now feeling the aftermath of Mother’s Day. The day comes long heralded by TV commercials and ideas what to do for Moms, this year my telephone company put a commercial on my phone line, before I get to reach the person I am calling, this voice comes up taunting me: have you decided what you are going to do for Mothers yet? If not, here is an idea… blah.

My own mother is long dead. When she was alive we didn’t make too much about mothers day in Hungary, its more popular now, but back then under the ugly commies, Mother’s Day was just a private matter. You did it on your own time. Flowers. Kisses. Movie tickets. May be theater. A lovely shawl. Today following in the bad old capitalists example, mothers are given chocolates, cards and phone calls.

Dead mothers get a visit. Mine is to far away, I visit a nearby cemetery park with my little dog almost daily.

Mother’s Day was established because a suffragist fought for it, Ms. Jarvis. She also gave us Father’s Day. Good activist sister.

Mothers otherwise, not to visible in the common culture.

Hollywood stars get their tummies photographed, and their fertility discussed, applauded, but even more applauded when they lose the baby fat, and work their bellies back into the flat look.

In order to do that you need to work on it several hours a day, and live for its success. Nothing else can matter as much as your tummy back in flat position and you and your motherhood is just a side effect of heterosexuality.

You yourself as a normal woman with a job and now kids, you become invisible. There is no sign of mothers during the year. Mothers don’t get mentioned, they don’t seek publicity. They want to be invisible?

Nobody wants to be invisible. Invisibility is a way of shunning. Withdrawing love. Shunning is a punishment as we know from the Amish. Its soul killing, as we know it from African cultures. Mothers are not singled out for soul killing in the culture.

All women are shunned in the culture. I have the Economist come to the house and I read it thinking I’ll learn something important, learn about interesting matters, philosophies. What I see is that there are issues and issues after issues without any woman mentioned at all in its pages. Not one of us is interesting enough for the Economist. This magazine considers males the only interesting humans. I can sum up the entire content of Economist like this, “Look here, only men are interesting. Look they messed up the economy in USA, they have messed up peace and wage war in Africa. Men messed up the planet. Men messed up each other. Men tortured and killed many other men. Men attacked other men with guns.” Interesting?

No Economist its not. Its boring. Messing up is always the same story.

But what are women doing in the Economy? Women created all the consumers, all the tax payers, and all the peace. All the love. All the families. Women cooked most of the food, grew all the foods, harvested and prepared all the food in the world. But they are not interesting.

Women are not interesting because they don’t make enough trouble. Women don’t act out especially if their kid’s lives are at stake. And nobody protects women against men. Nobody. Not in the USA and not elsewhere. Women are still the slaves to the slaves. Not interesting.

We want you to read all about the messing up, the killings and failings of men. That’s what you should concentrate on. If you don’t, you are a man hating bitch.

I work on it, thank you. I am an all out bitch.

So what am I saying? Mother's Day … not enough.

Humanity must learn to respect women all the year round. For that manhood has to be redefined.

Manhood that is now held up as role model to the young men, is still the same, be hard, have erections, make the women pregnant and leave. Don’t love women, then you are pussy whipped. If women fight, enjoy it. Stay away from marriage, marriage is prison for men. Don’t commit. Emotionally starve your women. Don’t talk with women. Don’t be a friend to women. Forget their birthdays and anniversaries, be cunning. Lie if you have to. It’s the manly thing to do. Especially, about sex.

But be always hard. Stand tall. Even if you are short. Support dick flicks with these values, make them blockbusters. Celebrate only other men. Don’t recognize women’s contributions. Don’t give them money, only if you have to, and then give them much less you give to a man.

This is the ultimate betrayal of women. Keep them poor, they would then do anything they would never do if they had money.

Men worry about losing their privileges, and women have taken a lot of rights back, for which they hate women and especially feminists like a plague.

It’s hard to believe that we are talking about the same human race. Men are also women with dicks, not clits. Their lifelong endeavor to be other then women creates all this distortions of feelings about women.

And I no longer get the Economist to the house.

I want to see women in every news media. I want to see more than poor Hilary, fembashing her for sticking up for her race. Showing us that even a first lady can be fembashed, caricatured, hated openly for just running.

Death to patriarchy in all its boring forms.