"Man's nature is made up of four elements, which produce in him four attributes, namely, the beastly, the brutal, the satanic, and the divine. In man there is something of the pig, the dog, the devil and the saint."

Al-Ghazali

Seems the good side of man is overshadowed by the bad. Outnumbered 3-1. No wonder its impossible to expect too much goodness from our neighbours. Better to resolve oneself to dealing with the realities of the pigs, dogs and devils around us. But then do we miss the divinity?
I came home so disgusted and miserable, so revolted by the ugliness of the world, that I didn't even notice the lovely pink tulips set on my table. It took a good two hours of decompression before I could appreciate the subtlety of the arrangement and the textures of the flower.
Perhaps the ugliness of the world is intended to make the divine that much more lovely?
Is God not then remote but waiting to be discovered in the everyday details?

The silhouette of an oak tree against the twilight sky reminds me of the placenta and the patten of vessels outlined on the interior of the womb.
I wonder how they communicate, placenta and fetus, and what they might say to each other?

Sails are full of wind and no need to bail. Standing on the bridge of a much more spacious vessel, calmer seas and more stars to steer by. This stage of the voyage promises to be much calmer.
Must beware the doldrums though.
And pirates.
To say nothing of sea monsters.

Moved on a most auspicious day! The spring equinox saw me sitting in my favorite old chair in a much bigger and quieter backyard, beneath the shelter of a stately spruce with a new moon in the twilight sky.
My whiskey never tasted so good!

Barely got to say vagina, but did write a series of articles on caviar.

Also discovered the Goddess of Spring was named Oestara, now called Easter.

Those church fathers were cunning.

I plan to say vagina as much as possible this week as my tribute to womanhood.

Sunny, clear skies, brisk wind from the south east. My sails are full!

Writing a series of articles on seal hunting, can't help but imagine myself on the sea ice, club in hand looking for a wet-eyed baby to skin. In the old days they'd be on the ice 12 hours a day with little food and no shelter, straining to hear the bosun's whistle that would tell them to get back to the ship double quick. Those wooden schooners would be crushed like wet paper in the ice, so if the wind changed or the temperature dropped, as it does very quickly in the North Atlantic springtime, they had to haul ass. Hard biscuit and tea for supper, sleeping three to a bunk in the same clothes you were wearing two weeks ago, assuming you got a chance to sleep.
What desperation must drive those men to the gory killing grounds? My sympathies are with the seals, but if it was your brown eyed baby or mine and this was the only chance I had to make some cash all year, sorry mama seal.