The City Of Brotherly (And, Of Course, That's Sexist) Love
Tonight, in Atrios' lovely city, I was thinking about what an interesting phenomenon it is to meet people in "meat space" whom you've known in silicon for years. I came to Eschacon to hang with some of my dearest friends in the world, although I met some of them, in flesh, for the first time tonight, and many of them for only the second or third time.
I was trying to think of any other generation that may have had a similar experience and I just couldn't. This is interesting, this is new, this is, I think, in many ways, the early days of de Chardin's noosphere. Assuming that's true, how cool is it that I get to play in that field? V. cool.
Son was reminding me today of the lovely Spring dinner on the patio at Morton's when he told me, "Mom, you should check out this blog called Eschaton. The guy who runs it does v. funny riff on 'Preznit Give Me Chicken.'" Of course, no matter what he says, I told Son about Old Glory (family joke). So we're kinda even. Sorta. Nah, not really. I bought G/Son an Eschacon t-shirt and I'll spend the weekend knitting him a sweater vest. If you are one of the two morons who talked at maximum volume on your cell phone all the way from DC to Philly in business class this afternoon, I hate you.
I'm a woman, a Witch, a mother, a grandmother, an eco-feminist, a gardener, a reader, a writer, and a priestess of the Great Mother Earth. Hecate appears in the
Homeric Ode to Demeter, which tells of Hades who caught Persophone
"up reluctant on his golden car and bare her away lamenting. . . . But no one, either of the deathless gods or of mortal men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit: only tenderhearted Hecate, bright-coiffed, the daughter of Persaeus, heard the girl from her cave . . . ."