Ruderal Spaces

I pray to the patron saint of barren women, St. Anthony of Padua. He is also the patron saint of lost things and amputees. What can he provide? I should be paying homage to the patron saint of the fecund, whoever she may be. Barren women, whether by choice, circumstance, or biology (his or hers), are an anomaly. Giving birth is, understandably, the default. “Why don’t you have children?” is a question somewhat dangerous, fairly personal, but mostly reasonable to ask someone with whom there is any bit of a close connection, maybe even without it if the setting is right. “Why do you have children?” is unequivocally gauche. Societally, we all understand that is an obnoxious, gasp inducing, scorn deserving question to which the only dignified reply is a gracious sip of your cocktail and a discreet cast of your gaze at some vague fixture across the room. “Why don’t you have children?” Better hope the answer is biological, or better yet, “Oh, I hope to!” Biological works if it is clearl

Sticker on the back of a suburban Chevy Suburban: “I Wanna Be Barbie. That Bitch Has Everything” Except for nipples and a complete set of parts “down there.” Apart from her popping knees and swinging arms and hips, she’s also missing articulated joints. And there’s that sadly lacking ability to stand flat footed, change her facial features, or close her eyes. She does have lots of accessories, clothes, cars, and houses. And she has Ken, whose anatomy is also wanting some key components. But, yeah, she has everything that really matters in this world, other than a heart and soul.