My Lion's Roar
I’ve just come off of an all-too-familiar fiction binge. This time it was the last two books in Margaret Atwood’s Maddaddam series followed by Octavia Butler’s Earthseed sequence. I have a penchant for the semi-dystopian speculative writing of women, it would seem. But what’s this feeling of fecundity? Of richness? Of just-about-to-be born? I don’t have XX chromosomes so the likelihood that I will go through labor to birth a child is low. Maybe I’m not acknowledging the labor I need to go through to birth the progeny of my heart. How many beautiful minds have I made love with to gather the genetic seeds of this child, these children (what if they’re twins or triplets?)? So many. Carse. Butler. Le Guin. Atwood. Trungpa. Mipham the Great. Mipham the Sakyong. Blake. Choleridge. Hayward. Whitehead. Wittgenstein. Varela. Gentner. Rosch. James. James. Linda Barry. Bucky Fuller. Rolling Thunder and Doug Boyd. Faulkner. Huxley. Saul Williams. Kran