I don’t need a doctor. I need a shaman, or a physicist – somebody who can talk to me about zero gravity, the golden ratio, someone who will trace the Fibonacci curve along my spine and down the length of my limbs.
In quantum field theory, in my imperfect understanding of it, gleaned from YouTube, a physicist can make an atom vibrate on one level, like a violin string, as well as a neutrino on another level, and so forth and so on. But apparently, Higgs Boson, a subatomic particle with no mass whatsoever, moves everywhere, on all levels; fluid, like a body of water, like a river, appearing and disappearing. This is why it’s called the God particle. It’s omniscient and omnipresent. It doesn’t move through time, it is time itself.
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…female sexuality has been, with a few notable exceptions (Anais Nin, Colette), written through the male gaze. That just has to change, and it is changing–erotica written by women has exploded, some of it is badly written, some of it is really well written, Angela Carter comes to mind. But good or bad, it’s good to see it out there in the world. I think that means that eventually women can reclaim their own sexual identity. Right now, we don’t own it, we haven’t written that definition, or told that story yet. Even as the fourth wave of feminism rises up, female sexuality is still primarily a male trope. And that informs everything. It informs Anna Karenina, it informs Blanche DuBois, Eve, Lilith, Mary Magdalene, Cinderella. Images of women in even the most stable of texts are informed by this trope.
But in a parallel universe, at your memorial breakfast, we all cavort on Stevie’s front lawn– overlooking the lake. Brother Johnny brings out the speakers and sets them in the driveway; Exile on Main Street, full blast. Stevie sets up a card table with a fifth of Smirnoff, and we pass a joint back and forth. Some of the cousins are dancing.
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