essential whim

I am slowly and a tad reluctantly preparing for delivery, which means attempting to deal valliantly with what shall be known from now on as the infamous 'Weeks 37-42 Existential Crisis'. And for some reason, I've noticed that when in crisis, there always comes a point at which it seems that if only I could get my hands on (i.e. BUY) this one very very specific item, all terrible nightmares, sweaty early mornings and hair-tearing weeping would magically cease. And do I listen when Experience, that oft maligned wise one almost loses her voice repeating that as yet, item purchasing has never solved a single existential crisis? Do I? Fat chance.

At first, the item in question (and it might be anything, I mean really ANYTHING, from organic cotton diapers to the collected poems of Sylvia Plath) is only dimly present, making its slow but certain way through the foggy suburbs of my mind. And then one morning (always in the morning), I wake up with the clarity of vision, and a mission. I MUST have it. NOW.

Today, it was the Venus of Willendorf. You know, her. I went to three stores that were likely to have her (had to think very hard what kind of stores would in fact be likely to). They didn't. Went to the one place where I'd actually seen her (or rather her replica), the store of the Gemeentemuseum, but they only had an absurdly over-priced, rather large version on a pedestal. A pedestal! I ask you, can these people be serious? I went online and found one which was a) a reasonable size (dear Marc, you can thank the goddess that I stopped short of ordering the 1,5 meter garden fountain version, the only thing that stopped me is that we don't have a garden), b) the right material (surely they didn't have bronze and silver in them days...) and c) the right prize. It was sold out. Until sometime in September.

Fate. Fate was against us (the Venus and I). So I sat down to lunch staring at her photograph on the screen. And suddenly I realized that there was something about her that had always really bothered me: she has no feet. Which is extremely worrying, and most inappropriate for a goddess. I mean, isn't the ability to carry oneself and to make contact with the ground precisely what being a goddess is all about? Then I remembered the Birth Art chapter from my wonderful new book; dug out the clay and got to work.

I am completely smitten. She is simply lovely. Just look at her. She is giving birth squatting. Look at those feet, look at those legs, look at that vulva, just look at her! The perfect birth attendant, exactly what me and my crisis needed today.