Thursday, August 6

"the parking lot gives me gifts"

We don't have internet in our apartment. It saves money, and forces us to walk across the complex to the business center to use the free internet there. The exercise is nice. Last time we had internet in our home, it became a bit of a vampire. We are both reluctant to get cable for the same reason.

Just now, I stepped out of my apartment, to make the walk, get online.

Stream of consciousness culminating in synchronous (unlikely) event:
[recounted here for your pleasure]

Wow, the sun is bright today. I can't even look at it. Face turned to the sky to be blinded. Repeat. Repeat. Strange how we forget how dependent we are on the sun for life. The sun is our father. The moon is our mother. Why is the moon our mother? Oh, yea, the correlation to the menstrual cycle. Women wax and wane with the moon. The call it "getting their moon," "being on their moon." That time of the month. That time of the moonth. Oh, that's it. Eyes pointed to the ground, avoiding the glare of the 5 o'clock sun, placing one foot in front of the next. On my way. There are thirteen moons in a year. It used to be, after the thirteenth moon/month, the king would be killed, a new king chosen; this would guarantee appeasement of the diety, a bountiful harvest, survival of the tribe. One king decided to use his authority to change tradition, give us twelve months, not thirteen. Thirteen becomes the unlucky number. Who was it, Mitch Hedberg? He said, "A lot of buildings go from floor 12 right to 14, they don't have a thirteenth floor. But everyone on floor '14' you know what floor you're really on..." Face points down, avoiding the glare. Having been in the car so often these past few weeks, under the sun, roasting with the other commuters, I feel no desire to "get my vitamin D." Makes me think about all of those other 'repression of the goddess' themes. The paradigm of the dominator culture, yang, individualistic, conquistador, overwhelming the partnership culture, yin, group-minded, earth mother. Tom Robbins wrote a lot about this in Skinny Legs and All. Terrence McKenna wrote a lot about this in Food of the Gods. Easter is named after Astarte/Ashtar/Ishtar, a former name of the divine goddess. We don't know this about our own traditions. I wonder where else the signs of the coup are. I suppose if you want to change a culture, you change their holidays, their holy days. You change the rituals of the masses. Every culture has them: Ramadan, Kwanzaa, Chinese New Year, etc. There is a universal desire in us to have parties, dates on our calendars, social codes with irrational traditions and behaviors that somehow unify the strangers in the same strange land. The sabbath. The fourth of July. Christmas. Wow, don't get me started on Christmas. The one with possibly the most interesting hybrid of backstories behind it, the purest of holidays in principle, the one most easily mangled into a marketing/consumer/shopping mall/landfill orgy.
Head pointed down, eyes averting the sun. A green flicker, my eye focuses on the pavement just ahead. I squat down to inspect the tiny piece of litter, to receive the August gift of the asphalt parking lot:

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