Archive | Age Matters

Space Crone Rides the Elevator: A One-Act Play

SETTING: An extremely generic elevator in a West Village office building. It is Month Quadrillion in Quarantime.

PLAYERS: A 50-year-old broad-shouldered, broad-breasted broad, armored in full space crone gear (blonde and grey braids; fur hat, fur boots, fur fingerless gloves, sunglasses, and double mask–all purple). A 30ish cis-male of same height, clad head to toe in expensive muscles and athletic gear, including Apple Airpods Pro and inexplicably white and dry Nike Air Force Supreme trainers though outside it is sleeting.

ACT I: Space crone enters elevator car and sighs in relief upon ascertaining it is empty. Just as doors are closing, a hand snakes in and cis-male, maskless and jabbering loudly into phone via airpods, jumps in.

SC (shoving her foot in doors before they shut completely): Put a mask on or get off.
CM (into phone, without looking at her): Nobody. (He jabs “shut doors” button while SC stares at him intently, keeping foot in doors.) Some bitch, I don’t know. (Jabs button again.)
SC (fists clenched): I know you’re not deaf. So hear me when I say I will jump your ass if you don’t GET THE FUCK OFF THIS CAR. (Raises fists, takes a step forward, eyes flashing.)
CM (jumps out, yells): Crazy old cunt! (SC smizes as doors clang shut definitively.)

Space Crone Solar Return (I Am 50)

Today is my 50th birthday and, oh, I had big plans for this day. I had planned to have sold my book, fixed my bad back, and bought a shack in the mermaid woods.

I’ve always carried out my plans, having learned super-early to transform shit into gold. But with respect to Elizabeth Warren, 2020 showed us we make plans, God laughs—and sometimes shit is just shit.

You’re thinking: No shit, Sherlock! But recent financial and physical hardships have taught me I was treating the Universe, Allah, HaShem, the Force, the Flow, the Morphic Field of Resonance, the Divine Feminine—whatever you call God—as Santa Claus. That my faith was contingent on the granting of my wishes—an un-evolved if common approach to spirituality.

The bigger truth is sometimes there’s no payoff to our shit except for the enormous payoff of accepting what is, rather than what we want. And the only agency we really possess is the choice of whether to embrace the divine mystery in its fullest, starkest form. Only then can we open the door to true magic, which is this beautiful thing called life.

So as I reach this milestone age, I admit I am knee-deep in disappointment and regret. But registering this shit allows me to also register the beauty I don’t need to dress up at all. My beautiful permakitten and city and solitude. The beautiful many who have reached out with gelt, gifts, and good advice, company, and wishes—not just today but over the last 50 years. In this morning’s meditation I flashed on my Grandma Alice—a green witch who died a day before my 18th birthday and has protected me ever since. Just then, a green painting flew off my wall.

The point? We each live in a network of care and practical magic even when we can’t sense it, and it supports us even when it can’t stop bad things from happening. So as I transition from puella to space crone—from starry-eyed young woman to middle-aged broad living in the stars–let me say the Stones were right. We don’t always get what we want. But we get what we need. I’m so lucky I get you.

The Trauma of Healing Trauma

There’s a Patton Oswalt tweet making the rounds: This whole country is about to be Tom Hanks in the last scene of Captain Phillips.

For those who didn’t see it, Hanks plays a ship captain who ably protects his crew and passengers from Somalian pirates only to fall apart when they are finally safe. The movie is meh–even problematic in part–but Hanks’ breakdown is so thoroughly affecting that it validates the film’s overall existence. More than that, it haunts you. It isn’t just Hank’s extraordinary acting. It is the emotional accuracy. Continue Reading →

"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy