I'll see you in the spring

His eyes see beauty in the things I love.  The thoughts, the memories, the flowers.  He sees the beauty in things that I might overlook.  His lens is different than mine, an artists' lens.  The rusty dock lined with the geraniumous clumps of red and white leads me to a summer glen that I might not have seen without his nudging.

But it's cold and foreign and overwhelming all at once.  The thoughts of continuation, not the thoughts of beauty found through a camera lens.  And I fumble toward the solstice, blindly, struggling. It will come, inevitably, so the only thing I can do is await its arrival, endure the darkness, and wait til the spring.  The equinox, when things are birthed anew, from the same womb they've been birthed from a thousand times before.  And the thought of this day glimmers brightly and leaves me to wonder, what if?  What if a new birth occurs, one that's never been seen before...

I can't help it. I live in a post modern culture.

Seriously.  You want me to change my name?  My NAME?  I don’t have a lot but I have my name.  Fuck Shakespeare and his sentiments on roses.  No.  My name is mine. Mary Mac by any other name would, in fact, NOT smell as sweet. 

I am really blown away by the fact that women still change their names when they get married.  Why?  Why would you do that?  Like... you are already giving part of your identity away when you get married.  You give even more of it away when you give up your name and take the last name of your husband.  And FUCK taking your husband’s first name, too.  Really?  You want to be Mrs. John Doe?  Please.  That makes no sense.  Give me one good reason why a woman in 2011 would take her husband’s name.  And if you name something about it being easier with paperwork and whatnot, fuck that.  No.  Because you are 50% likely to get a divorce anyway, and  you will wish that, for paperwork’s sake, you never changed your damn name in the first place.