Is it weird that while I was showering this morning, I caught myself drawing in the steam on the shower doors, a chart that compared the pros and cons of Marxist and Existentialist feminist theories?

Nah...it's gotta to be normal.

P a t

My friend Pat has schizophrenia,

though he'll tell you he's just

crazy.

My friend Pat likes orange juice

without pulp,

and carries all his belongings

on his back

in a pack sack

my mom bought me

in 10th grade.

My friend Pat

has more bruises

than teeth

more cigarette butts in his pocket

than money.

He told me the angels don't talk to him

as much as they use to

anymore

and I believed him,

that they use to.

My friend Pat sleeps under a tree,

at Skeleton Park.

Sometimes I see people step over him,

as if he's just an inconveniently placed

pile of dog shit

and I wonder sometimes,

if that's how he feels

crawled up in his sleeping bag,

waiting for the angels

to speak to him again.

He came to church once,

but left early

because he was having a bad hair day.

He came to dinner

drunk

and read us poetry,

he unfolded from his back pocket

he found it

but there weren't really any words,

he read anyway

and I believed him

I believed the words were real

because he said they were.

My friend Pat,

he'd often speak of Marie

his old lover,

he hasn't seen in years.

I wait for Marie to come home,

wherever home may be,

and though some say she

isn't real,

I pray anyway

for her to come

quickly.

to prove them wrong.

My friend Pat,

he'd come by for a red-rose tea bag,

once a day,

and then another

just to wash his hands.

He'd tell us stories,

about his childhood

and leave abruptly,

after filling us in

on the latest conspiracy theory.

He'd keep his shoes on,

cause he claimed his shoes

were cleaner than his feet were.

He'd fall asleep in our couch,

in the middle of the afternoon,

and hide his books

under our barbie-Q.

My friend Pat,

once said he loved us

and I believed him

because I felt it

even though everyone just says he's crazy.

lesbian nation.

I've spent the last 2 and 1/2 days, locked in the dark isolation of my room, writing about lesbian-feminist separatism of the '60s. Eating easter chocolate and drinking two-day old tea for every meal, and neglecting to shower for the past weekend, i no doubt by now smell and look like the inside of someone's spread butt-cheeks. Though i'm disheveled and hungry now, I'm really going to miss moments and days like these, once I'm not a student anymore. I realized today, that this 30 page paper of goodness was my very last essay that I'd ever write about sexuality for school. Much like the dwindling down of the sixties, I too am dwindling down, and edging towards the turn of a new decade. It makes me already miss weekends like these. Weekends where I have to pull down the blinds in my room, so I won't be teased by the flirtatious sunshine seeping through. Weekends where I leave my desk only to pee. Weekends where the whole world disappeares, pauses even, and all that matters is words on a screen. Words that somehow end up making sense, creating meaning and in the end changing me.
They show up in weird places. like when I'm riding my bicycle for instance- i noticed there was a man on his bike who was going to pass me on the street, and for some reason, i instantly caught myself sizing him up and thinking there will be no revolution, if this man cuts me off. So i sped a head full force, passed him, and for the moment, felt as if i myself had secretly just conquered patriarchy.
the lesbians cheered.
Even though I'm fully aware of the pitfalls of the lofty ideals of lesbian-feminist-separatism, I'm nonetheless deeply entranced by it. There's a big part of me that feels sad for them. Sad that their Utopian never came. Sad that they are always so quickly dismissed as the "wacko crazies" of the women's movement: The demonized man hating dykes. Even though I don't agree with all of their politics, they stood for something. I'm a reckless sucker for idealists, no matter how radical they are, that risk everything to stand for something. I guess a small part of me identified with their desire to separate. Part of me desperately wanted to see it work out-- wanted to see the world they'd re-create. A world they envisioned would be "non-hierarchical", and non-exploitative, both sexually and economically. A world where capitalism would not work, and sexism would not be possible. A world of healing, and interdependency and community. Connection. I guess i see myself fighting for the same type of world. and so, that's why i cried a little, when I had to write about how the lesbian-separatist communes crumbled.
I felt strangely connected to the frustration and jadedness they must have felt. I felt oddly connected to their warrior calls for change. In a weird way, pouring over their manifestos, and journals, minutes and memoirs, I felt as if I was tapping into the history of my own. and in a way i was. My identity as a feminist now, is so deeply bound to and implicated by these women from the past. In understanding them, I somehow began to understand more about myself, despite how different we are. I am not suggesting that I'm going to run off into the rural landscapes of Ontario and start a lesbian commune, but I'm saying, we can learn alot from the "crazies" who did. I wish more people lived boldly and radically for what they believed in, even at the cost of a sane social reputation. I wish more people lived with same reckless and wild passion.