Lemurian City of Ladies

A Lemurian City Built in Memory of Christine de Pizan

Archive for January 2007

The Road to Cyberia, unknown date, but sometime in autumn

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I rose from the water and dressed slowly. I wondered what to do next. I am alone, in the woods, without food. But not without wits. And with a manifestation of the goddess in the guise of an enchanted doll. Which, I suppose, is really a symbol of my own strength and cleverness.

I started walking, choosing to follow the sun.

At the end of the day I came to a crossroads. There, the White Knight of Baba Yaga, waited, his horse pawing the ground impatiently, snorting and huffing. The knight remained seated calmly. I could feel his gaze from behind his visor. My face grew warm with a blush.

At the crossroads was also my little wagon, pulled by Jenny. I met her deep eyes, she nodded her head, “Yes, you may choose” said her gesture.

My eyes lingered on the romantic hero on his horse. Part of me thrilled to go with the White Knight. I could feel myself being pulled up behind him in the saddle, clasping my arms around his armor, listening to his heart beat through the metal, reverberating with the pounding hooves. Where would he take me? What adventure would that choice bring? Would my dreams come true?

I laughed gently inside myself. I had chosen the knight before, as a young woman, a young bride, believing love would bring me my hearts desire. In a way, it had. But I am older now, and my heart’s desire, my dreams are no longer tied to love, to marriage, or family. I do not know what they are; I only know what they are not.

Confident I waked to my Jenny. I stroked her long forehead, and nuzzled into her neck. I clambered up on the seats and flicked the reins. Behind me I heard the thunder of hooves, fading quickly in the direction of the sun, my road went south.

Around the bend, waiting for me, was Lucia and a handsome man holding her hand, Michael, the grandson of Lavengro, Chieftain of the Gypsies.

Jenny halted, turned her head to watch me leap from the driver’s bench and fly to Lucia. She gave a soft bray, a donkey laugh.

I held Lucia tightly, cried, laughed, and kissed her head and cheeks and hands. Dear friend, dearest friend, sister, daughter, Light and guide. Such joy! Nothing down the road not taken could surpass this.

Michael I knew little of, meeting him briefly during my stay at his Grandfather’s camp. Clearly he is beloved to Lucia, and therefore, beloved by me. Together we climbed aboard my wagon and continued south.

I did not note where we were going. I was too excited to ask or even to care! At evening we camped by a spring. I gathered sticks with Lucia and helped her prepare bannock for our dinner. We cooked them on the rocks by the fire and ate them with windfall apples and pears we gathered along the way.

The evening was crisp. It was delight to be wrapped in a shawl, toes toasted by the fire, a cup of tea warming my hands. Michael played his guitar. The music of his strumming, the crickets, and the night birds created a symphony of peace. Soon Lucia and I were helping each other stumble sleepily to the wagon. We curled under the blankets and slept deeply.

Lucia and I made more bannock and tea to break fast. Michael was fishing, so we curried Jenny, braiding her mane with ribbons and bells. When Michael returned we fried the fish, broke camp, and were on our way again.

Lucia and I spun wool while Michael drove. He sang as he guided our Jenny. Before too long I was singing along, at least the choruses. Such passed fair weathered autumn days.

Other days were windy and cold. Those days we walked alongside the wagon huddled in our cloaks to stay warm. On raining days we rigged a tarp off the side of the wagon nearest the little porcelain stove. Here our Jenny stood in relative comfort, her ribbons and bells bedraggled. But better than her contemporaries on the moors, as Michael pointed out.

The wildest days we spent inside, cramped and cozy, the little wagon home. I cherished these rainy days as much as the fair. It was then I caught up in this journal on all the happenings of the past months. I am grateful to Mnemosyne for helping me remember everything with such clarity.

Time passes so quickly to the rhythm and melody of gypsy travel. By noon, ten days from the crossroads, we arrived at the gates of a great city.

“Welcome to Cyberia, the City of
Ladies,” sang Michael.

“I have never heard of this place,” I responded, more than a little in awe of the beautiful and formidable gates.

“Not surprising. Very few know of it. Fewer still can find it. And fewer still stay.”

Comfortable enough to tease I asked Michael if he had stayed in the City of
Ladies.

“Of course! Men are welcome here, if they are gentlemen. Women are not welcome if they are not ladies.”

“What makes a lady? What makes a gentleman?”

Michael flashed a grin. “That is the question. What is the answer?”

 

Wendy Bird

Written by wendybird

January 28, 2007 at 8:33 pm

Posted in Gypsy Caravan

Meeting at The Taverna!

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996468-0701.jpg 

You are Cordially Invited To

The first Meeting

Of

The Soul Food Café’s

Blue Stocking Society

At

The Taverna di Muse

Please bring your views about

Who the Blue Stocking Society was in the Past

And who we are today.

Share your Writing, Art and Your Voice

About this amazing society

With us

This Friday January 19, 2007

(Meeting to run all weekend)

If you are not a Taverna Member please contact

 Lori

At

soulfoodcafe@yahoo.com

Thank you to Ninjacat for suggesting this week’s agenda

Who was the

Bluestocking Soceity?

In mid-18th-century England, any of a group of women who met to discuss literature. Attempting to replace the playing of cards and such social activities with more intellectual pursuits, they held “conversations” to which they invited men of letters and members of the aristocracy with literary interests. The term probably originated when Mrs. Elizabeth Vesey invited the learned Benjamin Stillingfleet to one of her parties; he declined, saying he lacked appropriate dress, until she told him to come “in his blue stockings” — the ordinary worsted stockings he was wearing at the time. The word bluestocking came to be applied derisively to a woman who affects literary or learned interests.

Written by Anita Marie

January 16, 2007 at 4:32 pm

The Barmy Bronte Bunch

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I was fascinated to read your comments re: Jean Rhys whose novels are somewhere in this house but I never felt a need to put them at the front of my reading queue. The whole concept of taking Bertha’s character and developing it into a novel in its own right intrigues me. Your comments regarding Mr Rochester make me breathe huge sighs of relief!

Jane Eyre is a good yarn – as indeed the same can be said of Wuthering Heights – but for the love of God in what way are these men in any way likable? Heathcliffe in particular is as mad as a box of March hares and Rochester is surly and arrogant. Oddly enough I can live with this, I know many women who would have hurled themselves at their feet. I cannot handle a perfectly intelligent young woman not sussing out that she shared the big house with a nutcase in the attic who had a fancy for arson! I mean come on Jane, get a grip here love, go and take a look when the screeching stops you sleeping and the flames are licking round the drapes.

Incredibly I think I could even cope with the mystery woman who could not be named, but the marriage fiasco – ‘I object, the man is married and I have nipped over from the Windies to proclaim this news’ – no.  No, no, no, no and no – but oh so convenient. I could possibly make myself get over that but no…. worse is to come. Jane ups and offs in a carriage going nowhere in particular with money that requires her to be bundled out on a dark and rainy moor and who should find her – yes, her long lost and only relative in the world who popped up in the nick of time to provide genteel comforts and hot soup!!! Bobby Ewing walking back into the cast of Dallas, through a wardrobe or a shower having spent 3 years dreaming whilst half the western world had him for dead was completely derided as the ultimate in pot-boiling garbage. Janey’s rellies are more or less on a par – the writer did not, could not devise a plot so she threw in ludicrous twists and figured her readers would think,’ Gosh! Lucky Jane.’

As for Heathcliffe and the evil that pervades his character as he frantically digs his way into Cathy’s grave so he can lie beside her – he should have married Rochester’s wife and hung out in the attic!

Just a thought, well, a diatribe really, after reading your post. Jean Rhys – wheel her in!

Jan

Written by jan2

January 2, 2007 at 12:02 am