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.

pulp

Im currently writing a paper about lesbian pulp fiction in the 50's. and I've grown quite obsessed with and amused by the covers. There's some real winners out there. (and look! only 95 cents! what a thrill)

Looks like I'll have a new reading hobby this summer.

..And then I found Hope

jubilee in the park

Today my heart walks

Outside the confines of a chest

and into the world.

reckless

I didn't realize I was scared until someone called me courageous.

I hadn't even considered fear- i plowed a head, confident and with an unyielding sense of optimism. I assumed my vision and my passions were legit simply because i felt it-- i breathed it-- i knew it as it pulsated through my veins.

I knew my vision because it was my heart.

I saw no reason to fear it. To question it. to hide from it. It made sense to me, so I assumed it' make sense to everyone. I assumed that because it mattered to me, it'd matter to others. I shared my vision with the anti-capitalists, the Queer feminists, the anarchists, the jewish reconstructionists, the nuns, the homeless, the suburbans, the students, the intellects, the abused, the misused, the vegans, the freegans, the musicians, the hoarders, the artists, the farmers, the addicts, the neo-monastics, the Jesus Freaks and the atheists. I told them my vision. I invited them out. I showed them my heart and I waited. Waited for the afternoon where they'dall come together. All these contradicting identities in one space at one time-- for one reason-- a hunger for social change.
I did not see this act of sharing or invitation as a daring act of bravery, nor did I see it as a risk.

But then he said it.

he told me I was courageous.
He told me he didn't have the guts to dream what I dreamt and plan what i was planning.
and then it happened,
I felt fear for the first time throughout this whole thing. I felt a fear so deep and so real that it paralyzed me. it stompt on my breath until exhales became brief and painful. It swarmed through my mind, like venom, poisoning my thoughts and words. It found the home of my optimism and pillaged it. leaving me empty and without much hope or ambition. This fear became a heavy and oversized stifling jacket, I unwillingly wore in the hottest of weather.
Suddenly I began to question everything: my dreams, my politics, my voice-- this entire afternoon.
Suddenly I saw the cracks in my vision and from these cracks emerged a creeping darkness. A darkness that told me to give up/ To side with apathy. That I wasn't strong enough. A voice that reminded me daily that no one really gave a shit and that i was a fool for thinking they ever did. And that''s when the shame leaked through-when I thought of all the people I had opened up to, invited, craved to collide with, it occurred to me that not all of them shared my vision--would ever share my vision. or even cared about it.
I realized that my dreams had likely offended, angered and irritated many.
This daunting threat of judgment turned a simple act of dreaming into a dangerous act of vulnerability and risk.
I felt that risk and then I felt for the first time a need , a desperate need, to be brave.
A need to dream fearlessly and speak recklessly with passion untainted.
I never knew what courage was until I felt my own fears take hold.
I didn't realize I was scared, until my entire body and spirit ached to own the courage he said he saw in me.

time capsule

Beneath the soil

this soil

is us.
A vision,

a passion

a heart

a life.

Lives.

ten lives in one box.

Beneath the soil

is a story

many that bleed into memory

memories

bound by laughter and heart-ache

prayers, both spoken and silent

Beneath this soil is a box

is you, is me, is us.

Here

both connected yet unfinished

here in the earth

for another ten years.