Morning Musings on Wild Women

[Mya Midnight]

I was reading a passage from one of my favorite books, Women Who Run With the Wolves  by Clarissa Pinkola Estes this morning and came across this wildly interesting etymological exploration (yes to be totally candid, I am a nerd):

• "Dirt: Middle English, drit, probably from Icelandic  -...filth; generally soil, dust, etc. and obscenity of any kind, especially language.
• Dirty word: an obscene word, also currently used for something that has become socially or politically unpopular or suspect, often through unmerited criticism and denigration or from being out of line with current trends.
• Obscene: from old Hebrew, Ob, meaning wizard, sorceress" (Estes, 363)

Interesting how the individuals involved in our vocation, or rather, sexually autonomous women in general, are often labeled "dirty" and "obscene." Interesting how this desire, as natural as soil, and as powerful as a sorcery, is "politically unpopular or suspect." Even more curious is when one does a search for synonyms of sorceress (who me?), words like hag and hex appear. 

"The mischief and humor of the obscene Goddess can cause a vital form of medicine to spread throughout the endocrine and neurological systems of the body..." (Estes, 364)

So when we talk dirty to each other, no matter how obscene, lets remind ourselves we are in fact casting a fiercely powerful sex magic spell. When we acknowledge and own our desires, we are unearthing a piece of ourselves, like finding a fossil in a dry riverbed.  And yea, sex is a lot of fun too...

[Guest]

Oh, lord.  A sexy etymologist! A lover of men and language!  Your middle name wouldn't be Aengus, would it???

 

The Song of Wandering Aengus

BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

I went out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;

And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire a-flame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And someone called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done,

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.

 

[Mya Midnight]

I have lots of love for and lots of thoughts on men and language, I think we would make wonderful dialectical companions

Ah Yeats, this poem feels almost Lacanian to me. That perpetual, wandering desire for objet petit a. How one desire always represents another, then another, then another. If only the desire was for the wandering itself, if instead of slouching towards bethlehem we were walking wide eyed into the horizon, collecting the little treasures we find along the way. 

[Guest]

1 hour ago, Mya Midnight said:

sexually autonomous women

/\/\/\ The most coercive, disruptive, and transformative force in human history.

[Mya Midnight]

Exactly,  thank you, and therefore, must be either demonized or erased from history.

I was just thinking about the "sexually autonomous" women who have crafted so much of the art and texts we attribute to men. For instance Aspasia, muse and philosophical colleague to Socrates,  Apollonie Sabatier, yet another muse and artist herself, often shortlisted from gallery exhibitions, the list goes on.

What, you scared patriarchy?!

[Guest]

33 minutes ago, Mya Midnight said:

What, you scared patriarchy?!

Terrified. Why else would everything from the garden onward; religion, government, social institutions be organized to try and keep you obscene goddesses under control?

[Just Jos]

seems legit 😂🙀🙊

[Mya Midnight]

Haha yes! View from my incall...