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I didn’t do it on purpose, but I took some of these pics at exactly 2:28 am in 2/28. Technically, I took them at 2:28 on 3/1 but I don’t switch the day in my head until after I’ve fallen asleep.

Full Moon, February 28th 2010, 2:28 am

I intended to post these images of the crone moon along with a tribute to pianist Martha Argerich and wax on about the furious potency of certain women as they age, and that I have never seen or felt any man hold a candle to a woman like her. Maybe I was going to write about how watching her almost makes me believe in a pantheon of goddesses. I think I might have intended to use her as just one example of why feminism is still relevant to me: that women of talent, of fury, of power, and of age are so invisible to us and when we do notice them, they’re despised and/or part of a fetishized niche: curiosities collected by people with very special interests.

Triple Goddess in the form of YouTubed Martha:

I’m not somebody who believes the only way to celebrate age is to exhibit disgust for those who are enchanted and aroused by youth, I just think think the imbalance of visibility and admiration is grotesquely skewed to a point that pains and mystifies me. I want MOREMOREMORE grey hair and widened wisdom and that patient look of years of practice you can see in Martha’s eyes. Like she could summon up thunderbolts and DESTROY YOU in the blink of an eye and go right back to playing with smoking fingertips except that destroying you would be a waste of her time so maybe she’d just wink and shuffle off to mist her orchids and you’d know that she knows exactly how many pounds of bullshit you’re full of.

The mastery of older women. I want to be surrounded by that and bow before it at least once a week. Towards that end I seem to be in certain kinds of love with a stout greying-haired dyke with twinkling eyes who told me about oxytocin and makes me want to beg her take me golfing. Even with ten other people in the room listening to her I feel like she’s talking directly to me and I’m drifting towards her, ready for our bosoms to melt into each other. You know that feeling like you’re RIGHT ABOUT TO KISS SOMEONE even though she’s halfway across the room? I can imagine breathing our mouths into a soft little seal where she could magically keep talking, ministering to me, reeling me into a quiet place removed from everyone else’s noise where I could even become blissfully deaf to myself. Every time I see her now I can feel it, melting into her at the mouth and the chest and the belly. I don’t think I’ll do anything about it because I’m pretty sure she has cats (or A cat, at least, of course) and I’m too young and scattered to waste her time with my crushing, but a somewhat-younger woman can dream. And melt and drift and submit.

February Full Moon Dancing

I didn’t get around to digitally memorizing the most recent full moon in March, but I was CLOSE with a camcorder in a windstorm at night while clouds raced across her wake of light without losing any speed. And then there were too many of them and only my eyes could appreciate the glimmers of shine that were still visible from down here on the ground.

*****

Note: I hate the words “pics” and “vids”, but those abbreviations work really well and are more popular search terms, so I stick them in my blog entry titles anyway (also to alert folks following my RSS feed that it’s a multimedia entry and maybe worthier of a click-through).