November 26, 2022

Well. Fuck. An essential part of the dissident dialect, it landed easily and comfortably for me in the sixties. That’s the 1960s, not my 60s which are both some time ago. One, two, three, four. We don’t want your fucking war. Killing for peace is like fucking for virginity. And then there was the red, white, and blue six foot plaster hand with finger extended that we carried around during the anti-war demonstrations. It was glorious.

Well, glorious for me but not so much my parents and others who named it profanity. But then my life has been pretty profane by conventional standards. No end in sight. Which is also glorious. I didn’t have Helen’s wisdom to guide me. Seems it wasn’t necessary. But it’s nice to know this sentiment lives in the sisterhood. 

It certainly lives in me at the age of 71. The potency of it has not faded. Well, I did put a bit of a damper on it during all those years in graphic design and consulting. Was a prudent decision. But now it’s back with no damper or apology, just perhaps a bit of discernment. Because it’s important to know how to manage your fucks.

When I’m in Ireland I do try to give it the Irish lilt. Fook. Perhaps more charming but no less heartfelt. Ireland does set my soul on fire. And there’s just so much magical shit.

Blessings of Crone Wisdom,
Judith