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The End of the World Pot Luck.

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It was like a wraith, a cold shadow and a feeling, a visitation before or after death and like a cat or a wolf detecting danger, my hackles rose and my mind jolted down to earth and it all came together. There had to be an end of the world pot luck and I would host it.  It’s hard for me to put thoughts together because there is so much. It goes back fifty years or more. But let me start on the beach. Nevil Shute’s novel about an atomic apocalypse and the end of the world. It stayed with me. On the Beach . And then came the film directed by Stanley Kramer.  It goes something like this. They’ve dropped the Bomb and all life north of the equator seems to be gone. No signal. Incommunicado. Nothing. And now radiation is slowly making it’s way across the equator, high-altitude currents gradually mixing with southern winds drifting down towards Melbourne, Australia, possibly the last place humans survive after the apocalypse. It was my home.  And then they pick up an errat...
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Tehran.

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Somebody told me: “Oil is raining on Tehran”.  The war was driving me crazy, the television flashes and black and white explosions over and over and the broken gray concrete and rebar and chards of glass and scraps of clothing. Somebody said: “What about the cats and dogs?”  I’d been doom scrolling for days as the Middle East caught fire again and I felt sick so I took a toke turned on Clapton and sweet relief flowed through my body and I came back to reality. I got off the couch to see if the Snow Drops I planted in late Autumn at the base of the huge Hemlock tree outside my front door had come yet. But not yet. And I turned to look at Point Mountain to see if there was a first blush but not yet either and I turned to my dwindling wood pile  and carried four logs inside.  The feeling was overwhelming. I needed the Goddess. Over these past days my energy was drained and sucked from me by the doom scrolling and I tasted blood and bone and burning steel and rubb...
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Aloka: Sanskrit for Illumination and Light.

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I awoke and the gray cat was curled in a bundle beside the bed and the sun had not yet risen but silver light was coming and the line of pines and skinny oaks   was skeletal against the sunrise. This morning there was no ice and frost on the old wooden sash windows. A week ago they were opaque and ice formed where the needle wind found its way into the cracks.   This morning I turned, as I usually do, to  gaze a minute or two on Hassan Hourani’s painting, hung on the wall in a two by three foot  black frame. The painting is Hassan’s  journey from Palestine to New York. Hassan is a character in his own paintings  and in this one lays across a steel trestle bridge in a long yellow robe that conforms in color with the peeling remains of the unpainted plaster and floral wallpaper on the bedroom wall. Hassan stretches across the bridge like a cat amid crooked tenement buildings with yellow lit windows and television aerials and lamp posts and yellow light. ...
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