…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.
LAS: In an essay on Meg Pokrass’s work I wrote for Bloom/The Millions, I suggest the possibility that the internet has opened up…
Lillian founded the “BEDLAM: New Work by Women Writers” reading series in New York.
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.
A raw look at what motivates 21st century authors. CREDO is a triad of creative writing manifestos, essays on the craft of writing, and creative writing exercises. These manifestos interrogate and harken back to the modernist manifestos of the early 20th century.
Kathy didn’t seem sick then. I thought she was plugged in to a higher realm.
Oliver Sacks describes his first migraine aura as “an enormous shimmering semicircle stretching from the ground to the sky, with sharp zigzagging borders and brilliant blue and orange colors.” I saw a clear geometric shape, or pattern. It looked like a crystal, like a geode with the same jagged edges. It got bigger and bigger, and the edges began to shimmer.
She arrives after a twenty-five-year absence in our brother’s life; a seeker, a philosopher, convinced she can carry the weight of his impending death, that she could, in fact, be his angel of death. Like Charon, she has the gold piece for passage in her teeth at all times. She is both midwife and doula for the dying. Our first night together, at the all-night grocery store, Mark wears flannel pajama bottoms, white socks, flip-flops. His eye sockets are purple under the canopy of fluorescent lights. She’s Martha Stewart on crack.
On Groundhog Day, I read that the movie, Groundhog Day, is considered a Buddhist meditation. My brother talked about it in the weeks before he died. He liked watching it, and liked comparing himself to the hero.