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You have no doubt noticed that spiritual and religious writing is
almost without exception Highly Serious. The standard-brand monotheistic
holy books, mainstream metaphysics, Eastern wisdom, channeled "wisdom,"
books on philosophy and meditation—hardly a smile in any of it, never a
giggle. "This is Deep Thought," the earnest and learned ones seem to be
telling us. "Our Religion Is Nothing To Laugh At."
Why not? What on earth (or in the various heavens and hells) is so holy that we can't make fun of it?
That's why I started Finding new goddesses. What are Found goddesses? They're made-up deities, goddesses who cope with issues not even dreamed of in ancient Greece or India or the northern lands. Please note that I did not invent Found goddesses. Morgan Grey and Julia Penelope coined the idea in 1988 for their wonderful little book, Found Goddesses. Their first Found goddess was Asphalta: "Hail, Asphalta, full of grace:/ Help me find a parking space."
The Found goddesses are the new ones, the ones we make up to help us deal with modern life. The ancient and classical goddesses can help us with love and abundance and revenge, but whom do you ask for a good haircut or a good used car? To find a decent apartment to rent? What goddess is responsible for air conditioning? Which goddess do you go shopping with? The first goddess I found was Caloria, the triple goddess of potluck. I also Found three Crone goddesses (Auntie Gravity, Hormonia, and Naustalgica) and twenty-odd computer divinities (goddesses, their consorts, a brother, and a power animal named Mouse).
My intention in writing Finding New Goddesses was to bring playfulness to our spiritual lives. The book is full of parody, puns, awful verse, and some really strange literary and cinematic allusions. Don't take it too seriously. Just have a laugh or two.
I Found Agenda when the First Officer of the Covenant of the Goddess chapter
I belong to said to me, “You better come to this meeting.” That sounded,
as they say, like an invitation I couldn’t refuse. So I went to another
meeting.
Presiding at every possible meeting and wearing Her red suit and power
heels, Agenda stands eternally at ease behind Her Golden Lectern. Her high
priestess is Miss Manners, Her high priest is Dilbert. Working the room
are Her johns—the vestryman John T. (
Dress for Success) Malloy and John (
Megatrends) Naisbitt. Among Her worshippers we will always find,
on one side, Mary Kay and her beautiful friends and, on the other side,
Bill and his thirsty friends.
Attend! She is calling us to order. “Greetings,” She says. “My name is
Agenda and I’m a Goddess.” “Hi, Agenda,” Her worshippers reply. And another
meeting is officially under way.
We go to so many meetings. Board meetings that last for all eternity,
council meetings that will put the most unregenerate insomniac to sleep,
committee meetings more partisan than any civil war. Meetings of service
clubs and unions and hobbyists and professional organizations. Networking
meetings and PTA meetings. Assemblies, convocations, conventions, expos,
reunions, gatherings, and get-togethers. In any given meeting, it happens
that some attendees have something they feel compelled to express and that
most of the other attendees would rather be somewhere else. Here’s a heartfelt
invocation for those of us who have something better to do than listen
to idiots:
Hail, Agenda, social rover,
Help us get this meeting over.
[
Note: I wrote this in 2002, when I was still going to a lot of meetings.
I no longer belong to COG, which is an excellent organization, and have
belonged to numerous networking organizations. My friend Angelo, with whom
I frequently go to the theater, keeps saying I need a twelve-step program
for theater tickets.]
Blandonia is the only Goddess I know Who can take advantage of the Beings
With Disabilities Act. First, Her vision is profoundly skewed. She can
see only in black and white. She sees no shades of gray, no colors at all,
and probably has tunnel vision. Second, although Her heart is often in
the right place, it is sometimes a bleeding heart. And, third, Her funny
bone (humerus) is broken. There is nothing humorous about Her. Her sense
of humor totally atrophied. This is a Highly Serious Goddess.
We cannot fault Her for trying, however. She’s got the right idea, that
we should not insult or defame other people. She just doesn’t know what
to call anyone, and so She hyphenates everybody: African-American, Chinese-American,
English-American, German-American, Native-American. And although men are
forever boys, women are never girls. Short people are vertically-challenged,
thin people are calorically-challenged, fat people are sveltely-challenged.
People who can’t dance are Astairily-challenged, people who think they
can’t drum are Richly-challenged, people who don’t like to read are bookwormily-challenged,
people who don’t like vegetables are broccoli-challenged. Blandonia even
corrects our job titles. Bus drivers are Large-Transportation-Multi-Passenger-Vehicle
Motorpeople. Fairy Goodmothers are Ethereal-Material-Wish-Fulfillment-Manifestory
Agents. Writers are Conceptual-Semantical-Syntactical-Manipulatative Scribalists.
How did poor Blandonia become so vilely afflicted? One story has it that
when She was young and innocent She was attacked by a liberal parasite.
If true, this might account for Her occasional knee-jerk and the bleeding
heart. I believe, however, that She suffered a schoolyard injury. After
a hard day’s study of the Saga of Dick and Jane, She and Her little friends
were preparing to walk home when they were stopped at the gate by a militant
Political Theological Animosity (PTA) Ogre. This villainous Being laid
a serious curse on poor Blandonia, the result of which was that ever since
She has refused to eat anything but Spam sandwiches on white bread with
mayonnaise, canned string beans, and generic vanilla ice cream. Receiving
no nourishment, Her humorous atrophied. The dishumor soon spread throughout
Her body, and She was never seen to have any fun again.
To this day, in fact, She has never tasted parody or irony. She tried
nibbling at a pun once, but spat it out immediately, and the only limerick
She ever tried made Her sick to her stomach. The one time She was persuaded
to suck upon a fresh, sweet double-entendre, the taste left Her dyspeptic
for forty days and forty nights. Poor Blandonia has never been able to
digest any kind of Comic Relief. I am, alas, unable to provide an invocation
to Blandonia. She just wouldn’t get it.
Most people do not realize how truly fortunate we are to have so many
daily opportunities to practice the disciplines of the firm but gentle
goddess Queuemulus. Her bounty is indeed unmatched, for it is with unstinting
generosity that She leads us through the Dreadful Alphabetical Valleys
of the Shadows of the USPS, the DMV, the EDD, the GPS, the ISP, and even
the ATM. With altruistic forethought, She whispers to us, “Wear comfortable
shoes,” and “Bring a paperback novel to read,” and “Don’t forget your bottled
water.” She guides us in drive-thrus and cineplexes and stands beside us
as we try to communicate with cashiers and receptionists. She defends us
against bureaucrats and uncivil nonservants and all HR officials, who are
neither humane nor resourceful.
If it were not for the wisdom of Queuemulus, we might go mad. But madness
may be averted! For in every opportunity we receive to worship Queuemulus,
we are also gifted with unending opportunities to practice Her spiritual
disciplines.
We may begin with Standinginline Yoga, which is somewhere beyond the outer
reaches of hatha, raja, and bhakti, and wherein we stretch eternally to
learn the Asana of Comfort and relieve our flattening feet.
Our next discipline may be Inline Zen, wherein we seek to understand the
paradox that “you’re next in line” actually means “you’ve got at least
another hour” and listen to the endless tales of the Ancient Bearded One,
he who stoppeth one of three and fixeth us with his glittering eye. “When
I first came into this line,” he croaks, “it was full daylight and there
was Hope.” Because we have an eternity to wait here, we may also ponder
the koan, how many clerks does it take to make the line move faster? [Three:
two to stand around and one to actually get any work done.]
Our third discipline is Waiting Room Meditation, wherein we contemplate
the Sliding Glass Window of Maya and watch the mysteries of “Live with
Regis and Girl,” or perhaps listen to the hemi-demi-semi mantras of talkradio,
wherein selected species of
homo insapiens sound off. On some stations, of course, the only sound
is the Empty Rushing Wind, which is actually the top of the meditation
pyramid: we can’t do anything but sit there and listen to pure nonthought.
And our fourth discipline is Takea Numerology, wherein we hold and study
the little pointed number to learn our appointed place in a complex and
chaotic universe.
Eventually, Queuemulus willing, we may arrive at the blessed state of
Queueuemonimbleness, wherein we are able to shower the people with love
(or at least common courtesy) and meet Missmanners, the sweet yogini of
pleaseandthankyou. Missmanners is not, however, all sweetness and light.
She will also take up arms in Her eight hands to help us battle the demons
and ogres that butt in line, wave large bills and rush up to the window,
or claim to have bought their tickets yesterday.
Blessed Queuemulus, stand beside us now and at the hour when we faint
from hunger and exhaustion, amen.