Rural Wi-Fi connection still down. The thunderstorm responsible for my involuntary disconnection from the cut-throat world of internet feminism also took out my cistern pump. This means, my young urbanites, that there is nothing to impel the flow of water from the well to the bunkhouse. I discovered this yesterday in the most brutal manner imaginable, when, in the middle of the nice hot shower meant to rinse away the crusty residue of the previous evening’s debauch (the wood-nymphs again; they’re a raunchy bunch), the water left in the pressure tank just ran out. And there I was, a half-soaped aunt, with an appointment in town in less than an hour.
Country life is a continuous adventure, often unrinsed. It is also an antidote to patriarchy poisoning. A lot of readers complain when I wax poetical about the charms of some obscure grasshopper instead of spraying the aerosol whupass on Saudi Arabian misogyny or condemning the actions of lunatics who murder abortion providers, but I tell you: the perceivement of grasshoppers is at least as important as those other things. And not just from some la-la-la eccentric amateur naturalist perspective, either. Grasshoppers — and every other non-human being — once appreciated, are more easily identified as members of the casualty class of human domination culture.
Once I have the internet back, I will enlarge on this connection between feminism and grasshopper appreciation, but probably you already get where I’m going with this.