129. HEALED BY IMMERSION

From the Archives (July 2007)

RUMPELSTILTSKIN
by Olga Broumas

First night.
Mid-winter.
Frightened
with pleasure as I came.
Into your arms, salt
crusting the aureoles.
Our white breasts. Tears
and tears. You
saying
I don’t know
if I’m hurting or loving
you. I
didn’t either.
We went on
trusting. Your will to care
for me intense
as a laser. Slowly
my body’s cellblocks
yielding
beneath its beam.

I have to write of these things. We were grown
women, well
traveled in our time.

•

Did anyone
ever encourage you, you ask
me, casual
in afternoon light. You blaze
fierce with protective anger as I shake
my head, puzzled, remembering, no
no. You blaze

a beauty you won’t claim. To name
yourself beautiful makes you as vulnerable
as feeling
pleasure and claiming it
makes me. I call you lovely. Over

and over, cradling
your ugly memories as they burst
their banks, tears and tears, I call
you lovely. Your face
will come to trust that judgment, to bask
in its own clarity like sun. Grown women. Turning

heliotropes to our own, to our lovers’ eyes.

•

Laughter. New in my lungs still, awkward
on my face. Fingernails
growing back
over decades of scar and habit, bottles
of bitter quinine rubbed into them, and chewed
on just the same. We are not the same. Two

women, laughing
in the streets, loose-limbed
with other women. Such things are dangerous.
Nine million

have burned for less.

•

How to describe
what we didn’t know
exists: a mutant organ, its function to feel
intensely, to heal by immersion, a fluid
element, crucial
as amnion, sweet milk
in the suckling months.

Approximations.
The words we need are extinct.

Or if not extinct
badly damaged: the proud Columbia
stubbing
her bound-up feet on her damned-
up bed. Helpless with excrement. Daily

by accident, against
what has become our will through years
of deprivation, we spawn the fluid
that cradles us, grown
as we are, and at a loss
for words. Against all currents, upstream
we spawn
in each other’s blood.

•

Tongues
sleepwalking in caves. Pink shells. Sturdy
diggers. Archaeologists of the right
the speechless zones
of the brain.

Awake, we lie
if we try to use them, to salvage some part
of the loamy dig. It’s like
forgiving each other, you said
borrowing from your childhood priest.
Sister, to wipe clean

with a musty cloth
what is clean already
is not forgiveness, the clumsy housework
of a bachelor god. We both know, well
in our prime, which is cleaner: the cave-
dwelling womb, or the colonized
midwife:

the tongue.

•

READING: Hiss and Tell’s funny, funny entry about how sexy Kris Kristofferson is

LISTENING TO: Lou Reed and John Cale’s Songs for Drella CD

SANG IN SHOWER: curse the guy beside me at the stoplight for reminding me of this song that I would have been happy to forget: Jimmy Buffett’s “Cheeseburger in Paradise.” Must. Burn.Off.Ears.Now!

BEST SPAM SUBJECT LINES: synagogue amazon (uh huh)

100. THE EDICT OF WORMS

From the Archives

(26 May 2005) From today’s Writer’s Almanac:

It was on this day in 1521 that Martin Luther was declared an outlaw and his writings were banned by the Edict of Worms, which made him a hero even more than he already was in Germany—one big reason that Protestantism caught on so quickly.

He was a monk, professor of theology at Wittenberg, and he was disturbed by the way the Catholic Church made money from its people, charging admission to see holy relics, and selling indulgences.

On the eve of All Saints Day in 1517, he posted “95 Theses” attacking indulgences and other church practices, nailed it to the door of his church. The pamphlets caused a great sensation. At the time, they were translated from Latin into German. Hundreds of copies were printed up on a printing press.

In 1520, Luther published even more controversial writings attacking papal authority, and the whole structure of the church. He called the Roman church “the most licentious den of thieves, the most shameless of brothels, the kingdom of sin.”

And so in April of 1521, he was called before a legal assembly of the Holy Roman Empire in the city of Worms—a city where he was greeted by the common people as a hero. He was ordered by the emperor to recant. He said that his conscience was captive to the word of God, and he could not recant anything. Whereupon, he went into hiding, began translating the Bible into German, (a translation still in use today in Germany) which helped unify the many different German dialects into one common language.

Meanwhile, I finished Carol Guess's Switch last night and, man, I really like this book! I still need to re-read the sections I underlined to ponder more, but can report that I really like this writer's observations about class, souls, love, everyday connection, intimacy, chosen families, and the magical powers of everyday objects. I also like the way she strings words together.

48. FINE UPSTANDING WOMEN

From the Archives

(March 2005) Happy birthday GLORIA STEINEM and FLANNERY O’CONNOR, two fine women I admire.

I also admire The Hell-Bound Femme who posted this reply to the WseekingW section of craigslist:

Reply to: anon-65355929@craigslist.org
Date: 2005-03-24, 7:45PM PST

To: the author of the post entitled "So what is fucking?"

Dear Friend,
First of all, I would like to thank you for coming into the W4W section of Craigslist and informing all of us of how wrong we are in life. Without people like you telling people like me that homosexuality is "dirty," I might never know the error of my ways. I blame my faults on the packaged meat and the Indigo Girls. The estrogen in the meat turned me gay, and the Indigo Girls made me think it was OK; they tood advantage of my lack of free will and sheep-like tendencies. Thank you so much for saving me from the sin of a womans kiss. Congratulations! Your mission is accomplished. Thanks to you, I now have a healthy and holy craving for a good, God abiding cock. In fact, if you are single, I would love to date you... but before I give you my phone number, I just have one question:

Who the fuck do you think you are?

Was that lovely little rant at the end of your post a fucking joke?

I pray that it was, and so should you, because the qualifications for being "dirty" aren't limited to homosexuality. In fact, if God really is as judgmental as you portray him to be, than you - being the hateful little troll that you are - will wind up in Hell too. Except, for you, it will be even worse, since you will be surrounded by all of us "dirty" queers.

Can women fuck other women? Is that what you want to know? The answer is yes. We can, and we do. We fuck. We make love. We kiss. We caress. In fact, minus the external genitalia that retracts when it's cold (you'll note that I am not feeling "left out" about that), we can do anything you can do. For the record, we also eat, drink, work, drive cars, wear shoes, sweat when it's hot, sleep when we're tired, and get pissed when we deal with stupid people. Is there anything else that you would like to question about our actions or abilities, or does that about cover it?

Oh, that's right, you also wanted to know HOW we fuck. Why don't you tell me? After all, you already seem to know so much about us (i.e. how we are dirty, a disgrace, etc...) Since you already have all the answers, I can probably just stop here.

Though, I should point out that there is something that we do differently than you - we use spell check. Disease is spelled with an "i," dip-shit.

People like you disgust me. Truthfully, I would rather be in Hell with all of the other dykes and fags than up in Heaven with people like you.


XOXO
- The Hell-bound Femme

P.s. Here is a little lesson in grammar:

"I THINK ELLEN AND ALL OF YOU
FUKING WHORES...........ARE GOING STRAIGHT TO HELL !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" - The "........" isn't necessary, and you are missing a "c" in the word "fucking."

"GOD HE WILL IGNORE YOU TO ALL OF YOU" - This is not a sentence.

"YOU WILL SUFFER THE CONCECUENCES OF YOU DESEASE" - This is not a sentence, either, and the word "consequences" is spelled with a "Q."

"GOD NEVER CREATE CRAZY HOMOSEXUALS" - If I ever have children, remind me not to send them to the same kindergarten you went to.

Don't worry, grammar and sentence structure are very difficult to learn, and I know that all this criticism must be getting to you. If it's any consolation, I thought that your choice of ending your closing sentence with the word "retard" was truly brilliant. Truly. Way to drive it all home, sport!

This reply is pretty fucking amusing, too:

Reply to: anon-65343526@craigslist.org
Date: 2005-03-24, 5:47PM PST

Yes. I am a hater. But I'm interested in being saved. Why don't ya on come over and speak to me about redemption while I pound ya with my strap-on...

47. KEEPING IT CASUAL

From the Archives

(March 2005) All right, this is too good not to include in toto. Diana Cage—one of several sexpert columnists in On Our Backs—wrote “Hook Up and Hang Up: Some Tips on Keeping It Casual.” Here’s the column:

There’s a myth in our community that dykes don’t have casual sex. We’ve heard the jokes about U-haul, and they aren’t exactly untrue. We’ve all had lovers suggest cohabitation after a few dates, we’ve probably even done it ourselves. But there’s a lot to be said for the single life, and casual sex can be lots of fun if you’re doing it right. Staying single for a period of time, whether it’s several months or several years, is a viable choice, and I for one highly recommend playing the field for a while as a way to get to know yourself and figure out what you want. Tell your coupled-up friends to back off with the hook-ups; you’re here to get laid and take names, but not necessarily settle down. Here are some tips to help you find that great trick, fling, fuck-buddy, or friend with benefits.

get ready, get set, go
Get yourself ready. Get over your ex, let go of your baggage, and love yourself! You’ll never get laid until you learn to love your body. I’m sorry, but that’s the facts, ma’am. We are all hot—it’s not about what size you are, or what you are wearing. The more you love yourself, the more everyone else will love you.

what do you want, anyway?
How can you find satisfaction if you have no idea what you find satisfying? I’m not suggesting you rule out entire groups of the sapphically inclined, just set some parameters. If you really like to party, you probably won’t click with a clean and sober babe. If you want a one-night stand, then a woman with marriage on her mind is going to frustrate you. Once you know what you are looking for, it will be easier to find.

learn how to talk about sex
This might just be the most important tip of all. You’ll never have a truly satisfying sex life or a partner that understands you, if you can’t discuss sex openly and honestly. Take the plunge and state your needs, both in terms of desired relationship and sexual desires. Even casual hook-ups deserve to know what you’re thinking, and how can the hot butch you picked up know you want her hard cock if you don’t tell her?

be a girl scout
And by that I mean, be prepared. My friend Odessa never leaves the house without a safe sex pack in her purse. Stuff gloves, lube, and condoms into your coin purse. Feeling ready for sex makes you feel sexy, and you’ll be ready when inspiration strikes.

check out the internet
Community bulletin boards like craigslist.org, and friend networking sites like friendster.com and myspace.com are an unintimidating way to meet girls. They feel like a community, so it’s less daunting than making a move on a complete stranger. Click through friends of friends of friends until someone strikes your fancy, or ask a friend for an introduction.

leave the house
Girls are everywhere. Turn on your gaydar. Make eye contact with the cashier at the health food store. Ask her leading questions and listen for a “we” to ascertain whether or not she’s partnered. Then move in for the kill.

be aggressive
We’re all shy. We all fear rejection. Get over it. My friend Ana moved to San Francisco from Boston and didn’t know a soul. I took her out dancing a few times and she decided she’d go ahead and put the moves on ladies she liked. Next thing you know she’s got girls fighting over her on the dance floor. She’s a chick magnet. All because she figured out that girls really want you to make the first move.

keep it casual
If you’re set on staying single, don’t spend the night with your lover. This isn’t about settling it, it’s about getting it on. Resist the urge for a romantic brunch in bed. Don’t send sweet emails during the day and whisper sweet nothings into the phone in the evening. Make a sex date and stick to it.

deliver the perfect kiss
Want to get a girl in bed? Learn to deliver the perfect kiss. You’ll never get a chance to debut your rug-munching, cock-swinging, smut-talking skill set until you’ve sucked her in with that first cunt-soaking kiss. A great kiss is slow and hard, with lots of tongue and soft lips. Make eye contact, lean in, and start slowly. Your lips should meet before they part. Start with a lot of soft lip action. Then slip your tongue over and between her lips. Pull back every so often and switch back to soft lip kissing. Nibble, bite a little bit, but don’t bite hard until you know she wants it. Use your hands. Grab her hair, touch her face. Master the kiss, and the ladies will be lining up.

LISTENING TO: “Come All You Fair and Tender Ladies,” performed by Maybelle Carter

READING: pulp

SINGING IN THE SHOWER: I guess, if you get sent to enough Sunday School classes, then it doesn’t matter if you don’t believe in a physical God at a conscious level. All I know is, I hear the word lamb and there my brain goes associating the word and making it real in some way. And all that serves to introduce the fact that I guess my conversation with my mom about her Easter service was percolating in my brain because, this morning, before I even realized it, I was singing “Jesus Walked This Lonesome Valley” in the shower.

16. THE WOMEN I HAVE FISTED

From the Archives

(March 2005) Watched Oprah Winfrey’s production of Their Eyes Were Watching God last night. Don’t remember the book well enough to compare the film to Zora’s work, but it was a good production and the cinematography was especially well done and LawdHaveMercy that Hallie Berry is one sexy woman!

I guess it’s hard not to be sexy in a role about a repressed woman coming into her own sexually but I gotta say that I would eat those strawberries with her anytime.

Unfortunately, the down side of watching that movie is that I woke up at 3:19 AM in a repetitive memory/PTSD moment, frozen to the bed, clammy, and absolutely drenched in sweat.

Took me a few seconds to figure out where I was and then another 20 minutes or so until it no longer felt as if someone had put 1,000 pounds of weights on me while I was sleeping.

I haven’t had one of those familiar dreams or memories or flashbacks or whatever they are in a while, but suspect that the gunshot at close range from the movie was enough to put me right back in the room where my mother shot herself once I closed my eyes.

It’s weird. After all this time I know where practically every spatter of blood was on the ceiling and walls and floor, just as vivid as that day ... and I still wake up as shell-shocked.

Thanks brain, but I thought you understood repression. Ugh! Hope I don’t have another one of those for a very long time.

Figured I wouldn’t wake up at 5 for my made-up karate cata rotine but didn’t. I did manage to escape for a nice long walk on this absolutely gorgeous day though.

Spring is here!

Hmmm. Just thought about this line from Bob Dylan’s “Advice to Geraldine on Her Miscellaneous Birthday” (which I painted on a room divider): "When asked what you do for a living, say that you laugh for a living." ... and either I have some serious ADD today or I have spring fever or this here blog is determined to become a picaresque narrative despite my best intentions.

Had a fun thought when I was walking today too: thought about writing a piece about various models from my anatomical drawing classes called “The Women I Have Studied” (alluding to art piece), then my mind went downhill and I thought oh but wouldn’t it be more fun to write “The Women I Have Fucked” instead? Or why not go whole hog and write “The Women I Have Fisted”?

La la la

15. BODY HOLLOWS

From the Archives

(March 2005) Sunday night. I pulled out clay yesterday but never got around to sculpting anything. Have been wanting to shape something with my hands, which is a very different creative process than painting or drawing, less cerebral.

There’s something very satisfying about digging your hands down into your medium, getting them dirty, something very sensuous about molding a human form accurately out of clay.

Shaping it with your hands really makes you think about the hollows and curves of the human body, makes you pay attention. Tactile.

Or maybe this is just sexual frustration....

Guess I won’t get to experience this sensuous pleasure for a couple more weeks though, since I’m off to the lowlands soon and the process is really not very satisfying if you can’t complete at least the basic form in your initial sitting.

A sculpture is like a poem that way. I fine-tune poems to the nth degree after writing them and am always walking around with them in my head, trying to find a more precise word or phrase or image that will make them a little cleaner, a little tighter, that might scan a little better while providing deeper meaning, better music, nuance. Whatever.

I edit them on an ongoing basis, but really have to get the whole poem down on paper in my initial sitting or it’s lost.

Got up at 6 this morning and worked for nearly 7 hours on the second edition of my completely subjective compilation of poems that I think are good. The book is 200+ pages long and there’s at least one beautiful photograph on every spread.

I got the idea for the compilation a couple of Christmases ago after several friends said they would like to read more poetry, but wished I would give them some idea of where to start.

So I pulled poems together quickly, typeset the pages, made 20 or so funky leather covers, and handed the first, homemade books out as holiday gifts.

Like all rush projects, though, my initial edition contains errors (gasp!). I’ve promised books to other pals and some have reminded me that I haven’t yet delivered though, so it is high time that I finish a new edition.

This collection works very well sequentially, although the only real themes I used when compiling it were the moon at the beginning and rain at the end. I do cringe every time I discover another typo though.

Thought I could proof the whole thing and complete the rest of the updates yesterday morning, but I included some of my own poems in the collection and an unexpected result of proofreading was that I stopped proofing and instead reworked three of my own poems.

The changes are minor—just two words in one poem, a new stanza in another, and several new lines and phrases in the third—but improvements nonetheless, and two are already published in their earlier form, but at least I know they’re better now.

Have pondered one of the poems for a long while but couldn’t quite put my finger on what to do to make the meaning so clear that even an editor on the Sinister Wisdom collective would comprehend my meaning.

Now that’s not a very nice thing to say, I know, but the editorial collective of that fine journal rejected the poem and actually returned it to me with a condescending lecture along the lines of um, you probably don’t know this, living in the South as you do, but the word "nigger" is considered offensive in most circles and MLK and other activists worked and died in your region to make you people aware of how offensive you are when you use that term.

Guess it was clearly time they raised my consciousness about these facts since, excuse me, I’ve been living in a holler with all my barefoot and pregnant sisters and rapist brothers drinking moonshine these last forty-some years.

Let me back up here and say that a one-time colleague of mine actually founded Sinister Wisdom (the first lesbian journal in the US) many, many moons ago and she’s the one who suggested that I send this poem there.

The journal is run by a collective these days though, and I suppose those nice urban lesbians saw my southern address, saw that word, and didn’t even bother to determine what the actual poem said.

That’s the only explanation I have for their condescension, since over twenty readers commented on earlier drafts and not one of them had any trouble grasping that the poem actually comments on the damaging pervasiveness of racism and religious bias and poverty in the south.

The poem’s been published elsewhere now, but I guess it’s obvious that their letter still goads me and I pondered long and hard how to beat people over the head with my message without compromising the poetry.

Seemed obvious, once I figured it out.

Derogatory comments about Southerners (or poverty) rarely surprise me anymore, but they do offend me. You can practically watch a non-Southerner register your accent then drop their perception of your IQ score by 30 points.

Once, in the city, I was at a karate party with the great-whatever-granddaughter of—O hell, I’ll just say his name: David Hume—and little Maggie was so condescending to me that, after she said who her great-whatever-grandfather was for about the third time, that I said “O, who’s that?” in a smart-ass voice (to mostly amuse my friends and myself).

She replied “Where did you go to school?” and I told her the name of the southern state university where I completed undergraduate work—one that ranks consistently ranks among the top ten state universities, mind you, but she walked off shaking her Yalie head, satisfied that she’d just verified how backwards the deep South is and I didn’t even bother correcting her.

Now if she’d wanted to discuss the education I received in public schools prior to going to college, then that would have been another story....

14. BITTERNESS

From the Archives (March 2005)

BITTERNESS
by Olga Broumas

She who loves roses must be patient
and not cry out when she is pierced by thorns.
—Sappho

In parody
of a grade-B film, our private
self-conscious soapie, as we fall
into the common, suspended
disbelief of love, you ask
will I still be
here tomorrow, next week, tonight
you ask me am I really
here. My passion delights

and surprises you, comfortable
as you’ve been without it. Lulled,
comfortable as a float myself in your real
and rounded arms, I can only smile
back, indulgently
at such questions. In the second reel—

a season of weeks, two
flights across the glamorous Atlantic, one
orgy and the predictable divorce
scenes later—I’m fading out
in the final close-up
alone. As one

heroine in this
two-bit production to the other, how long
did you, did we both know
the script
meant you to wake up doubting
in those first nights, not me, my daytime
serial solvency, but yours.

12. BEGIN BY THE TOUCH

From the Archives (March 2005)

IO
by Olga Broumas

One would know nothing.
One would begin by the touch
return to her body,
One would forget
even the three
soft cages
where summer lasts.
One would regret nothing.
One would first touch the mouth
then the warm
pulsing places that wait
that wait
and the last song around them
a shed of light.
A crumpled apron, a headcloth, a veil.
One would keep nothing.
By the still mouths of fear
one would listen. Desire
would spill past each lip
and caution. That which is light
would remain.
That which is
still would grow fertile.

11. BEGINNING WITH O

From the Archives

(March 2005) Listening to Marilyn Hacker, a dyke master of formal verse and sonnet sequences, describe her writing process made me hyperaware of meter (even though I only occasionally write formalist poetry).

So here’s a brief poetry lesson to introduce a couple of excellent dactyls by Olga Broumas:

To write metrically is to measure and you can measure 4 different kinds of meter: accentual, syllabic, accentual-syllabic, and quantitative.

Dactyls fall into the accentual-syllabic category, the most common type of meter in English.

Poets measure the number of accents and the number of syllables using the basic unit of a foot, or, a rhythmical pattern that generally contains one accented syllable and one or more unaccented syllables.

A dactyl is one of 4 feet mostly widely used in accentual-syllabic meter—iamb, trochee, anapest, and dactyl.

Poets also use substitute feet—spondee or pyrrhic—to vary rhythm.

Note the following diacritical marks: ‘ , or the acute accent, represents an accented syllable, and X represents an unaccented syllable.

A dactyl is ‘XX, as in “faithfully.”

That’s all very technical and distancing, but let’s go for the stomach now and read two of Olga Broumas from Beginning with O.

LINE OF THE HEART

Up the long hill, the earth rut steamed in the strange sun.
We, walking between its labia, loverlike, palm to palm.

•

LINE OF THE MIND

The branch splits in two: I will eat both the male
and the female fruit. Gnaw back the fork to its simple crotch.

10. CRAWLING WITH POETRY

From the Archives

(March 2005) I found a Baby’s First Memories book that my mother kept about me. It’s strange and more than a little sad to think about her scribbling this stuff down way back when.

She married my father when he was 26 and she was only 18 and they started having babies right away.

They had my sister just 10 months after their wedding and had me just 15 months after that.

I’m never sure exactly when adult-onset paranoid schizophrenia took over my mother’s (and our) world, but most of my memories of her are colored by this illness.

This book makes me think about her as a nineteen-year-old mother, jotting down notes about her new babies while she and my father build the house that I would grow up in.

Basic stats > born @ 9:30 PM weighing 6 pounds 8.5 oz. • 19.25 inches height • round head • allergic to evaporated milk

Milestones > coos @ 1.5 months • reacts to emotions (fright/anger) @ 1.5 months • reacts to music @ 1.5 months • laughs out loud @ 3.5 months • crawls @ 6.5 months • understands no @ 7 months • 1st step @ 13 months

And here’s an entry I couldn’t resist:

Baby enjoys singing and is seldom quiet. Her attention is rarely held by toys but occasionally she gets very busy, usually with boy’s toys. She enjoys climbing trees and rides her tricycle very daringly. She is seldom cooperative at play and usually just wants her own way. And what a temper! She really lets us know when she’s not satisfied.

I spent the day at the LGBTQ leadership summit and met some particularly interesting folks from the LGBT lawyers association and from P-FLAG. Was especially impressed by all the work being done in rural communities, and I’m glad we’re building these coalitions.

Now I’m sipping a cup of hot tea and reading a collection of Olga Broumas’s poems.

Here are a few sections from another sexy Broumas poem:

CARITAS

I.
Erik Satie, accused
once of formlessness, composed
a sonata titled: Composition in the Form
of a Pear. When I tell you
that it would take
more brilliance than Mozart
more melancholy precision than Brahms
to compose a sonata in the form of
your breasts, you
don’t believe me. I lie
next to your infidel sleep, all night
in pain
and lonely with my silenced
pleasure. Your breasts
in their moonlit pallor
invade me, lightly, like minor
fugues. I lie
between your sapling thighs, tongue
flat on your double lips, giving
voice, giving
voice. Opulent
as a continent in the rising light, you sleep
on, indifferent
to my gushing praises. It is
as it should be, Atlantis,
Cyprus, Crete, the encircled
civilizations, serene
in their tidal basins, dolphin-
loved, didn’t heed to the faint, the
riotous
praise
of the lapping sea.

2.
Your knees, those pinnacles
competing with the finest
dimpled, five-
year-old chins, are
dancing. Ecstatic as nuns
in their delirious habit, like
runaway needles on a multiple graph,
the first organic model of
seismographs, charting
the crest I keep you on
and on till all
the sensitive numbers on the
Richter scale ring out at
once, but
silently: a choir
of sundial alarums. You reach that place,
levitated by pleasure, the first
glimpse the melting
glacier must
have had, rounding the precipice,
of what came to be known as
Niagara Falls. After all this time,
every time,
like a finger inside
the tight-gummed,
spittle-bright, atavistic
suckle of
a newborn’s fragile-lipped
mouth, I
embrace you, my heart
a four-celled embryo, swimming
a pulse, a bloodstream that becomes, month
to month, less
of a stranger’s, more
intimate, her
own.

3.
There are people who do not explore the in-
sides of flowers—Sandra Hochman

With the clear
plastic speculum, transparent
and, when inserted, pink like the convex
carapace of a prawn, flashlight in hand, I
guide you
inside the small
cathedral of my cun+. The unexpected
light dazzles you. This flesh, my darling, always
invisible like the wet
sides of stones, the hidden
hemisphere of the moon, startles you
with its brilliance, the little
dome a spitting
miniature of the Haghia Sophia
with its circlet of openings
to the Mediterranean sun.
A woman-made language would
have as many synonyms for pink/light-filled/holy as
the Eskimo does
for snow: Speechless, you
shift the flashlight from
hand to hand, flickering. An orgy
of candles. Lourdes in mid-August. A flurry of
audible breaths, a seething
of holiness, and
behold
a tear
forms in the single eye, carmine
and catholic. You too, my darling, are
folded, clean
round, a light-filled temple, complete
with miraculous icon, shedding
her perfect tears, in touch
with the hidden hemispheres,
the dome
of our cyclops moon.

LISTENING TO: Lazy Afternoon, performed by Patti Austin

READING: Olga Broumas’s Rave: Poems 1975–1999

9. WELL SAVE MY SOUL!

From the Archives

(March 2005) I’m a contributing writer to our local independent newspaper and wrote an article about how strange it was to return to my grandmother’s tiny farming community and her Southern Baptist church for her funeral.

Most of my family still lives in one of the most conservative states in the south and that was where I returned with my manly haircut and nose ring and urban garb for this funeral. And I waxed poetic about this experience in the paper—delved into how strange it is, when you think about it, that otherwise sociable people in a community with little variation are stopped dead in their tracks by difference, that those same women who get up early to cook food for a wake, who hug strangers who visit their church, who grew up pampering you and doting on you and calling you sugar are leery of you now because you deviated from their norm.

Now I don’t know if it’s this way in other rural communities but, in Southern Baptist ones, difference is dangerous, is wrong, is something to be suspicious of, cured. And conversion drives the Baptist faithful (whose newest plan, incidentally and according to my mother’s mission magazines, is to convert the Mormons).

And try to convert me they did. My grandmother’s preacher—who stared at me with contempt when I stuck out my hand for a handshake—knew immediately that I was the granddaughter who had long worried my grandmother, the queer one, the one who left town as soon as I scraped together the resources to do so and rarely returned. He told me that my grandmother died worried for my soul because she knew I’d burn in Hell.

I drove home thinking about how odd the accident of family is—how strange it is that I give leeway to people I would otherwise never endure simply because I’m tied to them by blood and know we’ll circle into and out of each others' lives for as long as we breathe.

And I thought about the fact that our family tree includes all these details about my grandmother’s five children, her sixteen grandchildren, and her eighteen great-grandchildren, but not a word about the woman I’d been partnered with for, at that point, six years—the person I most considered family.

And I thought about the power of naming something, of just choosing not to record or acknowledge a reality. And I wrote about this whole strange experience in a public forum.

I don’t feel that I was disrespectful of my family, but I did write about how strange it felt to always be Other: to notice the silence that always follows even the most casual declaration about my life if it includes a reference to my partner; to know that, in my nieces' and nephews' eyes, I am not the whole and interesting person that I am but am, instead, their queer old-maid aunt, a stranger they define by my love—about how strange it is to not belong with the people you’re bound to by blood, and to have to, instead, form your own chosen family with people who never even knew you as a child.

The newspaper is just getting around to posting their archives online and this is one of a few of my articles they’ve posted so far. Unfortunately, my grandmother’s little farming community has an unusual name and I used it, so a parishioner in her church discovered my article only a few months after the funeral. He shared it with the church and my family and it apparently caused a big scandal and definitely prompted fury within my family of origin.

(OMG What will they do when the, um, novel comes out?!)

Now no one would accuse my aunt Betty of being a kind woman. She’s never been able to sustain a relationship for more than a year and is, really, just a bitter and bigoted person.

My most enduring memory of her is this: every Christmas Eve of my childhood, she passed out purple mimeographed pages of revised carols (that smelled good) for us to sing. Then she very carefully gathered these pages back up (which means that I never managed to snag a copy of her songs, although I’d love to have one).

The Christmas carols in the old Baptist hymnal are just not Baptist enough for Aunt Betty, so she reworded them for the benefit of her family's souls.

Here’s the first verse of the only one I can remember with certainty:

On the first day of Christmas my true lord came for me, but I was not re-e-eady....

Then, yes indeedy, we go on a merry, instructive holiday journey through Hell.

Aunt Betty sent me the following letter after reading my article, along with two heavily highlighted paperback books about the sin of homosexuality:

Dear Niece,
I didn’t get a chance to talk with you alone at Christmas and don’t know if your mother told you or not, but a church member read your newspaper article and gave me a copy.

I was hurt, to say the least, that you would do this to us and to Mother’s memory.

It was briefly discussed at Sunday evening’s service (the last one I attended) that Mother’s gay granddaughter had written an article.

I am sorry that you feel the way you do, but I happen to love our community, our church, and our people.

I have become a Christian, and was librarian and on the flower committee. I placed many books in the library in Mother’s memory, as she taught a class there for many years.

I’m not one to argue with anyone about religion—however, it is every Christian’s duty to attempt to witness and save the souls of those they love.

There are some people I hope to never see in Heaven, but you are not one of them. It grieves me and breaks my heart to think that those I love will not get there.

I’m even tempted to tear a page from my Bible and send it to you—please read 2 Timothy, chapters 2 and 3.

In Christian love,
Aunt Betty

Sigh.

LISTENING TO: Toad the Wet Sprocket's "Before You Were Born" (Before you were born someone kicked in the door. You are not wanted here; get back where you belong...)

READING: Paradise Garden: A Trip Through Howard Finster’s Visionary World by Robert Peacock with Annibel Jenkins

3. WAS JESUS AN LGBTQ-FRIENDLY CAPRICORN?

From the Archives

(March 2005) People are funny today and I suspect it’s because this vacillation between gorgeous spring weather and cold-ass winter days is getting to us all.

First, an editor whispered to me in the local java joint “Ever seen the same student here twice? Me either. I think they’re all really aliens.”

Then, as I was waiting to pay for my coffee, someone behind me said “Excuse me” and someone else replied, “Excuse you? I can’t even explain you.”

And all this before noon!

I’ve also been making carpooling arrangements for an upcoming statewide LGBTQ leadership planning session.

One thing I learned at the last session is that local progressive religious leaders have formed a religious coalition for marriage equality. The MCC pastor who was describing their work said that the coalition came about because local leaders understand that effective movements in the south require religious, political, and legal components.

This group currently includes 250+ pastors and other church leaders, many of whom are straight and all of whom believe that “the most fundamental human right, after the necessities of food, clothing and shelter, is the right to affection and the supportive love of other human beings.”

They oppose “the use of sacred texts and religious traditions to deny legal equity to same-gender couples.” They also strategically place straight white preachers in their media spots.

I grew up way down south in the land of cotton and still have trouble fathoming the fact that many southern metropolitan areas now feature at least a few LGBTQ-friendly Baptist churches. I mean, just ponder that reality for a minute.

The Southern Baptist church I was raised in was so rabid that conservative Christianists can still give me eye tics when they begin talking about their god. In fact, I’ve told more than one such person that I am allergic to their god but the fact of the matter is that I’m allergic to their narrow monochromatic version of god and I get really annoyed when they presume to have the right to tell me what I am supposed to believe.

My father is an enigma to me in many, many ways, but one blessing is that he was a free-thinker in a community that was nearly devoid of philosophical variation and I was the child born with my father’s philosophical bent.

He spent much of his free time reading philosophy and talking about it with me so, even as a child, I believed that the Christians got it all wrong.

God is a verb, not a noun, in my book and she always has been.

Discovering personification only cemented this view in my mind. Jesus is an idea, an ideal, a whispered message reminding us of the importance of recognizing and maintaining a common vibe, a world community, connection. No more high or low, babycakes; we’re all in this stew together—including us LGBTQ folks who frighten the straight-and-narrow Christianists so.

Jesus’s message, to me, is about nurturing these connections and respecting each other and tearing down those artificial walls that divide our common family. This makes much more sense to me than some white-bearded old patriarch sitting up on a cloud somewhere just waiting to punish people for masturbating.

LISTENING TO: Lucernarium: Paravi lucernam Christo meo, performed by Chants De L’Eglises Milanaise
READING: Rodale’s Successful Organic Gardening (springs a’coming!) and re-reading Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart and Muriel Rukeyser’s Meaning of Poetry

1. SUSTENANCE

From the Archives

(February 2005) The only intimate relationships I have ever been able to sustain for very long are ones with brilliant, headstrong women who are comfortable enough with who they are to not be threatened by my independence. I seek these women out, am drawn to them across rooms and crowds, am entranced by them.

I love brilliant minds, but know myself well enough to know that I am headstrong and incapable of remaining in a relationship if it compromises my ability to be my whole self.

I need space—lots and lots of space. I need hours of sitting alone—sometimes while the grass I know that I should mow grows taller—and a partner who understands that, while I may appear to be doing nothing, I am actually pondering the mysteries of my peculiar universe.

I need to do this in order to write, to thrive.

My big questions. The ones I ask repeatedly when I write or read or stare at the ceiling or consider pedestrians at the stoplight never vary much. They are

What does it mean to be human, to exist in a world where so many people brush up against you and color your life, then vanish?

What does it take to sustain some kind of faith in a world where mind-numbing atrocities are commonplace and the quest for the newest consumer product is offered as the stuff that will sustain people?

What does it mean to live in a world where God isn’t a profound concept, a verb, but is instead an angry weapon of social control hurled at nonconformists?

What makes some people cling to such narrow worldviews, swallow themselves and their longings?

How can one love authentically and on a long-term basis in such a world and sustain that love without losing herself?

How can one live as authentically as she can, taking in as much as she can and giving out as much as she can, and still manage to go to work every day and be productive?

What does compartmentalizing oneself for a job do to one’s soul?

What would it take for me to let go of my worries about financial stability and trust that following my path as honestly as I know how will provide enough sustenance for my existence? (I have mostly taken this route and am not debt-free, but am at least doing what I want to be doing—most of the time.)

And those other hard questions:

What do I do with my treasure chest of violent memories?

Is it possible to do something useful with them, to sift through them until they cease to control me?

How do I transform the terror that my body remembers as vividly as my brain into useful words, insight?

How do I let go of the anger that helped me to survive when I needed it and move beyond it to a place where I control it instead of it controlling me?

How do I learn how to take care of me?

How do I manage to trust people? And

How do I extrapolate a sustainable world from this jumbled mix of images, insight, scents, and random couplings—find the poetry?

Ferron already asked my constant questions: “Where can the quiet be? Where do I live in me?”

I have been fortunate enough to be loved by independent women who are not threatened when I go off wandering in my head. We are tethered at a common center but move away as individuals staked together by the magic of love. And we return to that center to ask deep questions and cook noodles and fuck and gasp and love each other. And, even after all this time, I remain amazed that two bodies can live in that sacred space that surrounds you when you love someone and lean into her precious body while doing anything together—washing the dishes or taking a walk or reading the newspaper in bed, or, and especially, making love—and there you are in that sacred center where you know each other at so many different levels, yet are still discovering new ways to love each other there.

That, to me, is what Heaven must be— that sacred place where the insights you gain from the world are balanced by that hard-to-find, loving space you share with someone else.