Wednesday, October 21, 2015
This is how I don't arrive anywhere anymore. On a chariot pulled by oversized lions.
Mush, lion darlings, mush!
Instead, I ungracefully unfold myself from a Hyundai while brushing crumbs of a scone off my momjean jeggings like that bronze lady the Anatolian mother goddess Cybele (above) probably never does.
[The worship of Cybele. As told by Lucretius]
It's 10 AM and hey -- where are the cymbals and drums announcing that I am about to have my bath and use my loofah to exfoliate?
Where is the person assigned to write a poem about me and my many wonderful attributes, namely mercifulness, and also fierceness, on papyrus? Where are my adoring minions? Where my Egyptian cotton bath towels? Where are my worshippers?
This is the cheap modern plastic tchotchke mother goddess shite, America, with the bogus lack of lions, towels, and you know, worship.
I don't even have a soundtrack. There is no one here with sweet voice and lute. Perhaps that's an oversight and you'll send someone soon?
Okay fine. I guess I'll have to hum Killer Queen to myself.