Down the Rabbit Hole

The Feminine Charms of the Moon and an 18th Century Uber

"Blogging Circle of Friends "
DAY 1785 October 5, 2017
I stumbled across an interesting poem this evening by Marge Piercy called The Moon is Always Female. I've included an excerpt and the link for your reading enjoyment. I'm interested in your reactions to this controversial poem by Marge Piercy

The moon is always female and so
am I although often in this vale
of razorblades I have wished I could
put on and take off my sex like a dress
and why not? Do men always wear their sex
always? The priest, the doctor, the teacher
all tell us they come to their professions
neuter as clams and the truth is
when I work I am pure as an angel
tiger and clear is my eye and hot
my brain and silent all the whining
grunting piglets of the appetites.

Growing up I always heard the stories of the man in the moon, that winking charlitan in the night sky. How more fitting is it to believe the moon to be truly female instead? Who could dispute that the harvest moon, glowing with rich and fertile promise, is not ripe and feminine? The crescent moon, shaded and obscure can draw our gaze like that of a dancing, mysterious woman. The moon in all her stages, hangs above the world ever present and unwavering even as the sky shifts moods and violent weather paints the landscape.


"Blog City ~ Every Blogger's Paradise"
Day 1299 October 5, 2017
Prompt: A man dressed in 18th Century clothes, driving a fancy, black carriage pulled by 4 beautiful black horses arrives at your door and says he is here to take you to see someone special. What happens next?


Elsa raised her head from her book. Her tea had gone cold and the fire had burned down to just the faintly glowing embers. The story had been captivating and she had lost time in the tale. It was surprising because Elsa had never been a fan of period novels or films. She closed the book and drew the fleece blanket around her shoulders. Suddenly Barton raised his wide head began to growl, he heard something. Elsa did too. She pulled herself to her feet and went to the bay window, drawing back the lace curtain. She had a visitor, a very unexpected one at that.

The black carriage was polished to a high gloss. It was drawn by four immense black Frisian horses. The man at the reins wore a burgundy tailed coat with elaborate gold brocading and his starched white wig was tied in a ribbon at the base of his neck. His gold silk trousers ended just above his knees. He wore striped stockings and delicate heeled shoes with blazing gold buckles on the arch. Elsa's first thought was this was someone's wedding chariot and he was horribly lost. She stepped out on her stoop as the horses pulled up short and the man swung himself down.

He startled Elsa by dropping to one knee and bowing, his hands clasped behind his back. He stood up and extended his hand.

"Are you ready?" He asked.

Elsa stared at the black beauty mark on his right cheekbone and the heavy liner around his hazel eyes. He was handsome under all the pomp and fancy gobbledygook.

"You must be lost, who is it you are looking for?" Elsa asked.

"You, Elsa." He insisted.

"You should have dressed a little warmer, the carriage is sturdy but a bit drafty I'm afraid."

Stunned to silence, Elsa allowed herself to be lead inside the black carriage while Barton began to bark and toss himself against the bay window in protest.

The interior of the carriage was lushly appointed in black and cherry velvet seats. Candles set inside gold lanterns cast everything in an amber glow. The wood floors below her slippers were polished to the same rich gloss of the carriage's exterior. With a jolt, the horses came to life and Elsa's mysterious journey began.