The Sunday Scribblings prompt this week is birth.
After giving birth to four babies, as clean and pure and close as possible, I am in that birthing realm once again. I've written about birth a number of times and this is an ode to the beauty of birth that I wrote last year. A home birth, a baby boy, and that fertile place: the Full Harvest Moon...
The Moon-Blooded Boy
Each baby arrived early, but never in this lucid way. The boys, ever so ready to tread their way about, could not be late. More so than his brothers, hungry little Govinda, beckoned by an autumn sky, embraced a graceful yet sudden welcome. Little did I know, he would not wait for a dim-lite night.I was asked by my mid-wives to consume a healthy dose of Vitamin C, for he had ruptured the first seal early. Off to the Co-Op we went, all the while, Govinda(who we referred to as Shani, of the Navagraha, then) breaking his way through blood and womb. Allowing my senses to fall from reality, an endearing acceptance of pain I had willingly developed by the forth pregnancy, I paraded on.
Waddling from aisle to aisle and back home took quite a while. A ridiculously bumpy ride in Hildagard, our 1969 Volkswagen bus, was the escape Govinda anticipated. Under the light of the golden sphere, my flesh, quickly becoming a servant to pain. An invitation from the night's sky, Govinda would leave his cloudy ocean behind to devour a hearty brew of oxygen and hue. Senselessly drunk on a melange of milky midnight, mother, and moon.
I nudged him to stay and swim a bit longer, not knowing that his blood belonged to the moon. And Mani must have his way. So, there he came under the glittering ball in the sky. I closed my eyes, painfully shut, accepting his mulberry bottom in my right palm. And in that moment, I was immediately conscious of who he was, the bringer of a full night's glow.
His papa insisted on holding him bare under the Samhain sky, listening to Autumn's cry. I watched and danced against cold concrete on achy nude feet. Aaron, always humming a whisper to Jah when his newest son is born; Govinda, a silent Hare; me, accepting the shallow howl from a distant breeze; the Full Moon, placing a spell: every twenty-eight days, the moon thirsty boy and his herd of the many who are hungry and free, must come out and play.
Dance in the light of the Moon, Govinda Hare!
As writer and artist, Sam Kieth has placed Batman inside of a dark tunnel where his most beloved nemesis, Joker, waits and watches as Bruce revisits some of his most strange and dreary childhood secrets.
Sam himself seems to have a clear grasp on images of strange. His faces are always lenghty, hair and chin showing some sense of liquid. He has a way of illustrating Joker's sinister smile, his hellbent eyes and bloodthirsty lips. "Bang" and "wham" and crimson streaks and very nice girls in polka-dot dresses. Mr. Kieth has an incredible eye when it comes to lay-outs. He cuts and he pieces, one stringy scribble on top of another. His idea of interlude in this trade, are dark pages of debate between Batman and Joker while they are "...trapped in the same hell together, on opposite sides." 
There is the anniversary of the Apollo Moon Landing, the idea of live satellite broadcast television, media and its lustful thrill-ride on the expense of others dismay, a young Bruce Wayne, the Joker with a story to share, and a creeping secret, a single shell and the feeling of feathers and the smell of foul.
If this is not true testament of how mankind has diseased itself, I don't know what else is.
Is it too much to ask for urgency? How can we hold a corporation accountable for a mishap of this multitude?
Blood and our lustful thirst for war, this desire to drill, constantly initiating unjust sanctions, Earth and her silent call, our pathetic idea of a 'left' who denies the necessary progressive leap onward. And most importantly, our water and Her air and yet, another filthy mess.