The New Womans Broken Heart

THE NEW WOMANS BROKEN HEART

By A ndrea Dworkin

WOMAN HATING

OUR BLOOD: PROPHECIES AND DISCOURSES

ON SEXUAL POLITICS

THE NEW WOMANS BROKEN HEART

Short Stories

Andrea Dworkin

Frog In The Well

430 Oakdale Road

East Palo Alto, California 94303

1980

THE NEW WOMANS BROKEN HEART

Copyright © 1980 by Andrea Dworkin

Copyright © 1975, 1977, 1978, 1979 by Andrea Dworkin

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this

book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written

permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address Elaine Markson Literary Agency, 44 Greenwich Avenue, New York, New York 10011.

“the simple story of a lesbian girlhood” was first published in

Christopher Street, Vol. 2 No. 5, November 1977, in an earlier version

under the title “The Simple Story of a Lesbian Childhood. ”

Copyright ©

1977 by Andrea Dworkin.

“bertha schneiders existential edge” was first published in Bitches and

Sad Ladies,

edited by Pat Rotter, Harper’s Magazine Press, 1975.

Copyright © 1975 by Andrea Dworkin.

“the new womans broken heart” was first published in Heresies, Vol. 2

No. 3, Spring 1979. Copyright © 1978, 1979 by Andrea Dworkin.

This is a work of fiction and any resemblance between the characters in this

book and real persons living or dead is coincidental.

FIRST EDITION

ISBN: 0-9603628-0-0

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 79-055919

Printed at Up Press, 1944 University Ave.,

East Palo Alto, CA 94303. (415) 328-3944

Typeset by GJGraphics, 2336 Palo Verde St.,

East Palo Alto, CA 94303. (415) 322-7188

No, Claudine, I do not shudder. All that is life, time

flowing on, the hoped-for miracle that may lie round the

next bend of the road. It is because of my faith in that

miracle that I am escaping.

Colette, Claudine and Annie

Acknowledgments

I thank especially Elaine Markson, Jeannette Koszuth, Sheryl Dare,

Susan Hester, John Stoltenberg, Eleanor Johnson, and Judah Kata-

loni for their unwavering support and faith.

I also thank the many friends whose lives, opinions, values, and accomplishments encouraged and inspired me during the years in which these stories were written.

I

also thank the many individuals who helped me to survive with

loans and gifts of money over the same period.

Andrea Dworkin

Contents

1

the simple story of a lesbian girlhood

1

2

bertha schneiders existential edge

6

3

how seasons pass

11

4

some awful facts, recounted by bertha schneider

15

5

the new womans broken heart

6

the wild cherries of lust

7

bertha schneiders unrelenting sadness

8

the slit

the simple story of a lesbian girlhood

it began quite possibly with Nancy Drew.

there she was.

her father Carson was a lawyer and her boyfriend Ned always wore

a suit.

she solved mysteries.

in particular I remember The Secret in the Old A ttic. there she

was, her hands tied behind her back, her feet tied together, thrown

on the floor of a deserted attic in the middle of the night, that was

because she had singlehandedly and against all odds discovered the

murderous villain who had committed unspeakable crimes. I cant

remember what they were but Nancy never underestimated or

overestimated. he wanted to kill her so (it seemed absolutely logical

then) he locked her in a pitch black attic with a black widow spider.

there she was, on the floor, struggling and twisting, at any moment,

any wrong move, she would be bitten by the black widow spider and

die a slow, lingering, agonizing death. she wasnt even afraid.

me, I was terrified. I had learned to be terrified in the 2nd grade,

Mrs. (as we said then) Jones class, when we did a science project—

the boys did theirs on spiders, we did ours on seashells. every time

the boys discovered a new poisonous or even a very ugly non-

poisonous spider they made creepy sounds. for about 8 years I

always felt at the foot of my bed for spiders and wore socks. naturally

I was relieved when, on the last page, Carson and Ned flung open the

door to the attic, turned on the light, and stomped on the black

widow spider which was just inches from her brave, abused body, she

never even screamed or cried.

there were also, of course, Cherry Ames Student Nurse and Ginny

Gordon Detective and Flossie of the Bobbsey Twins and Nan who

was I think another Bobbsey Twin (there were 2 sets), they always

had adventures and went out at night and had boyfriends and were

rescued just in the nick of time, they werent much as heroes go but

they were all I had.

sometime about the 6th grade I got into the heavy stuff. Scarlett

O’Hara and Marjorie Momingstar. I read Gone with the Wind at

least 22 times. I had total visual recall of every page. I could open it

up at will to any episode and begin crying immediately. I would sit in

my room, door locked, and cry—tears streaming down my cheeks,

body racked in agony, but quietly so my mother wouldnt hear and

take the book away, when Rhett carried her up those stairs. “My

dear, I don’t give a dam n, ” he said when finally, at last, she begged,

when Ashley died, when Tara was burned to the ground, how

Scarlett suffered and how I suffered, we were the same really, both

women of greatness. I saw my grand white house in rubble, myself in

ashes and sackcloth, destitute, humiliated, my slaves loved me (here

I quivered, knowing even then I was a jerk) and were forced to leave.

Rhett. Rhett. I was her, and I was him, and I was her being cruel to

him, and him being cruel to her, and all of us, suffering, heroic,

driven, by History no less. Melanie, or Melody, or whatever her name

was, pale, dull, and well behaved under every circumstance, appalled me. I skipped all the parts she was in.

Marjorie, the thrill of eating bacon for the 1st time, of course I had

eaten bacon all my life. I just hadnt ever before known how

dangerous it really was. Noel Airman. An Actor, soon he would be

balding, thats how old and evil he was. danger, sex. I could feel his

creepy decadence. I looked for it everywhere. I couldnt find it in the

grammar school I went to. he would corrupt her. he would corrupt

me. somewhere in the world there was a Noel Airman waiting to do

some dirty thing to me—IT they called it—that would degrade me. I

would never be able to be with decent people again. I might even go

to Hell. I would be an artist. I would be able to feel. I would know

everything. I ignored the 2nd part of the book where she married

that jerk, none of that for me. keeping kosher indeed.

also that same year. A. F. fell in love with me. he gave me a wooden

snake. I was supposed to scream in horror so I did even though I

quite liked it and later named it Herman, he wouldnt let me play

with the other boys, he grabbed my arms and pulled me out of all the

games, also Joel Christian and Agnes, he was at least 19. they necked

all the time, everywhere, during recess, they expelled him but she got

pregnant anyway.

the next year I went to camp.

with my best friend S.

we were one year too young to be counselors-in-training. it was humiliating. we were above going on hikes and making beaded purses.

Barry Greenberg was a counselor-in-training. he was tall and thin

and had a crew cut that stood up. he wore a bright red shirt that said

SAM’S MEAT MARKET, he worked there after school in the

winter.

we tried to follow him everywhere.

finally we even went bowling to see him. he always hit the pins but

we didnt dare, we always missed and giggled, we wore tight sweaters,

he was pretty bored and above it all.

then we went back to school, desperate for Barry Greenberg, in

love, suffering. Rhett. Noel. Barry Greenberg.

a few months later I slept at her house or she slept at mine, we put

on our pajamas and giggled for hours, we talked about Barry

Greenberg.

then I said, 111 be Barry Greenberg and I climbed on top of her and

I was Barry Greenberg, then she said, 111 be Barry Greenberg and

she climbed on top of me and she was Barry Greenberg, then I was

Barry Greenberg, then she was Barry Greenberg, then I was Barry

Greenberg, then she was Barry Greenberg. I might have been twice

in a row when she got tired, then the light broke and we lay together

drenched in sweat and love of Barry Greenberg, then we went to

school and danced together during recess to “Chantilly Lace” and

invented a new step where I swung her over me and she swung me

over her and we both turned around,

then we met Mary and everything changed.

Mary wasnt like us. we were both brilliant. Mary wasnt. we were

both in fact, according to ourselves, prodigies. Mary wasnt. we were

both Jewish. Mary wasnt. we were both too smart to be popular.

Mary wasnt.

we loved Mary immediately.

Mary was a conservative, that meant that she wore only beige and

blue and certain shades of green and peter pan collars and a circle

pin on the correct side (one side meant virgin, the other meant

whore, typically I never could remember which was which). S. and I

both wore sweaters and dark red neither of which was conservative,

we each wanted Mary to be our best friend,

so S. told Mary lies about me and Mary stopped speaking to me. I

suffered. Rhett. Noel. Mary, then I told Mary lies about S. and Mary

stopped speaking to her.

there was a confrontation. I won. I won Mary, it was strictly

platonic and ethereal. S. had a nervous breakdown and her mother

sent her to school in another city, when she was 15 she had an affair

with a painter, he fucked her and she became a woman, then she

became a Bunny in a Playboy Club, then she disappeared. Once S.

left, Mary seemed kind of dull.

then my best friend was Rona. she was afraid of me because by

then I was angry as well as smart. I wore only black by then, she had

read in Dear Abby that if you had a close friend and she didnt pluck

her eyebrows and they were hairy you should take her aside and tell

her to pluck her eyebrows. Rona and I had never spoken but since

she wanted me to be her friend she took me aside anyway and told

me to pluck my eyebrows. I did. then she was my best friend.

because I wore black and we both emulated Holden Caulfield as

much as possible we went to Ronas house every Wednesday night to

drink her parents booze, they went bowling. Rona had a boyfriend

who had a boyfriend, her boyfriend was tall, handsome, blond,

broad shouldered, and had been in the Navy, she wasnt allowed to

see him because her parents thought he was a creep and too mature

for her. her boyfriends boyfriend was (as we said then) a fag. he said

mean malicious things about everyone we knew and we thought he

was very clever. Ronas boyfriend of course was not a fag since he was

Ronas boyfriend, had been in the Navy, and was tall, handsome,

blond, and broad shouldered, he had even, Rona whispered, made

some girl pregnant and fucked a real whore.

the 4 of us would drink whatever we thought Ronas parents

wouldnt miss (we drank mostly from heavily tinted bottles) and

make lewd remarks to the best of our combined abilities and talk

about the disgusting fact that Rona and I were virgins, it disgusted

all of us but not equally, it particularly disgusted Ronas boyfriend

and her boyfriends boyfriend. they after all did everything, whatever

that was.

the next morning I would go to school wasted, superior, and

dangerous, and shout in the hall: damn this damn school, an outlaw

I was.

then we met Johnny, he was a real outlaw, he had 7 brothers and

sisters and was Catholic and went to a Catholic school, he made his

tuition turning tricks in bars in Philadelphia, and he smoked grass,

and he used morphine, he was our hero.

he came to visit us in school, beer spilled out of his pockets and we

hid him in the girls room and he drank his beer while we smoked the

grass he had brought for us.

once he was in a car crash and went through the windshield and

they took him to the hospital and shot him up with morphine and he

loved it so much that he did it again.

he said that he turned tricks in the bars in Philadelphia to make

his tuition so that he could go to Catholic school even though his

family was poor, he said that in a Catholic school they couldnt touch

his mind or fuck him up. he was our image of purity.

the night we graduated from high school Rona gave a party and

one of our teachers fucked one of our friends and she had a nervous

breakdown when he never called her again, until 2 years later when

he called her. then it got worse because he made her suck his cock all

the time and then would tell her that if she ever did it to anyone else

she would be a disgusting slut,

he didnt call Rona until she got married.

he and I had an even stormier story, before graduation he threatened to turn me in to the FBI for smoking grass and to take me to a hospital to watch junkies scream and vomit and he made a list for

me, he explained everything that would happen throughout life—

THERES ORAL INTERCOURSE THATS WHEN THE

WOMAN SUCKS THE COCK OF THE MAN AND

THERES ANAL INTERCOURSE THATS WHEN THE

MAN FUCKS THE WOMAN IN THE ASS AND THEN

THERES REGULAR INTERCOURSE THATS WHEN

THE MAN FUCKS THE WOMAN IN THE VAGINA—

thats what sex is, he said, thats what happens, he drew pictures to illustrate his points,

he taught me everything I know.

I never believed a word he said.

he was, according to our unspoken mutual understanding, going

to be my first lover but he turned into such a jerk, traitor, and

villainous turncoat that I had to look elsewhere.

S. of course hadnt been.

now the thing about this story is that, like life, it just goes on and

on, or, like life as we know it, it did for about 8 years which was 250

or so men, women, and variations thereof later, then I thought it

time to reassess and perhaps invent,

at some point S. was.

at some point, in Amsterdam, or on Crete, in London, or maybe on

a boat somewhere S. was.

at some point whenever I lay on some floor or bed or the backseat

of some car drenched in sweat, watching the light break, it wasnt

Barry Greenberg, or Rhett, or Noel, or some rotten high school

teacher, it was S. pure and simple, who had a nervous breakdown,

got fucked by a painter, became a woman, then a Bunny, then disappeared. vanished into thin air, which is here, there, and everywhere.

bertha schneiders existential edge

first I gave up men.

it wasnt easy but it sure as hell was obvious, you may want to

know, woman to woman, what it was that made me decide, well, it

wasnt the times I was raped by strangers. I mean christ you do the

whole trip then, nightmares, cold sweats, fear and trembling and a

not inconsiderable amount of loathing as well—but one thing you

cant do is take it personally. I mean I always figured that, statistically at least, it had nothing to do with me, bertha schneider.

now the two I knew a little bit, that was different. I mean, I felt

there was something personal in it. the man from Rand, that well-

mannered smart ass, and some starving painter who limped for

christ sake. I mean, I figure I must have asked for it. I mean, Im

always reading that I must have asked for it, and in the movies

women always do, and theyre always glad. I wasnt glad goddam it

but whod believe it anyway, the painter told me that if I didnt want it

my cunt wouldve been locked and no man couldve penetrated it. I

told him I wasnt a yogi though I was seeing the value of all that

oriental shit for the first time. I figure thats why there arent too

many women yogis in India, they dont want them locking their cunts

which is obviously the first thing they would do.

it wasnt even being married for 3 years, it wasnt the time he kept

banging my head on the kitchen floor (hard wood) so that I would

say I really did like the movie after all. I mean, lets face it, I just dont

like Clint Eastwood and if thats a fatal flaw, well it just is. it wasnt

the time he beat me up in front of my mother either, it wasnt the

time he threw me out on the street in my nightgown and called the

police, it wasnt even the time he brought home 4 drunken friends,

one of whom kept calling me kike, and they tied me to the bed and

fucked me until I passed out and thank god I dont know what happened after that, after all, that was only 4 events in 3 years which is 1, 095 days, besides, I loved him. besides, I didnt have anywhere else

to go.

I never exactly made a grand exit. I mean, I could have, for instance, running away with another man wouldve been a grand exit, it also wouldve required presence of mind and a basically unbruised

body. I couldve changed the locks and gotten a court order, except,

frankly, and I know this for a fact, no one wouldve believed me. I

know that thats true from the time I went to a doctor after he bashed

my head against the kitchen floor. I was, I admit, hysterical, what I

kept trying to explain to the doctor was that if someone had bashed

his head against a hard wood kitchen floor because he didnt like

Clint Eastwood he would be hysterical too. my fatal flaw wasnt

regarded kindly by him either, he told me that they could have me

locked up or I could go home, then he gave me some valium. I considered it but I guess I was more afraid of the nuthouse than I was of being beaten to death.

anyway, finally 2 events led to my final departure, first I went

shopping and he tried to run me over with his car. the police came at

the point where he had gotten out of the car after backing me

against a wall and was strangling me and screaming obscenities simultaneously. I refused to press charges. I kept thinking that he was confused and had made a mistake. I thought that every time which,

for an educated woman, was quite an accomplishment, then I went

home and cried and told him I loved him and would do anything for

him and sucked his cock and made dinner, then the next day I got a

stomach virus and had terrible diarrhea and vomiting and when I

asked him to drive me to the doctor he kicked me in the leg midway

between the knee and ankle, the kick sent me flying across the room

whereupon I hit my shoulder against the wall, he went back to sleep,

and I shit in my pants. I lay there for a long time and when I did

finally get up, I limped, dripping shit, into the sunset.

I never did get revenge or anything like that, his new girlfriend

moved in with him right away. I had provoked him she said which,

for an educated woman, was quite an accomplishment, he got tearful whenever he saw me on the street and asked, bertha, why did you leave me. that is, until our day in court, on that day he beat me up,

called me a whore, and told me that he always finished what he

started.

oh, I fucked around for a while after I left, in fact I was one big

fuck around. I had that look men love, utterly used. I had that posture men lust after, flat on my back, also I was poor and usually hungry and fucking was the only way I knew to get a meal.

I didnt actually decide to give up men until almost a year and a

half later. I took a lot of acid and on those nights, or even on afternoons, looking into the void which was located precisely between my legs, I would simply shake and tremble, for 8 hours, or 12 hours, or

however long the acid lasted, I would shake and tremble.

I also had nightmares, somehow all the feelings I didnt feel when

each thing had actually happened to me I did feel when I slept. I

hated going to sleep because then I had to feel. I felt him hit me, and

I felt what it felt like, and christ it felt awful. I would sleep, sometimes with my eyes open, and I would feel it all over, and most of it for the first time. I didnt understand how I had not felt it when it was

happening, but I hadnt, I had felt something else. I had felt almost

nothing, which was something else, when I was sleeping each thing

would happen to me as it had happened and I would feel what I had

not felt.

then I began to feel it when I was awake.

then I decided that though I might never feel better, I didnt want

to feel worse, that was my decision to give up men.

women were the next to go. now that may sound a little nutty since

Im nuts about women, it all began when I was very young, 13 to be

exact, and I had many an amorous night well into adulthood and

even past it. sometimes when he beat me up I went to my next door

neighbor who comforted me kindly with orgasm after orgasm but I

couldnt stay there or think anything through because she was m arried to a man she hated and he was usually there, there didnt seem to be any rest or happiness anywhere in those troubled times.

to tell the truth I gave up women after some very bitter sweet love

affairs which got fucked up because I was still fucking men and was

still very fucked up by men. I was, to tell the truth, one running, festering sore, and I didnt do anyone much good, a lot of women were good to me and I fucked them over time and time again because I

couldnt seem to get anything straight, finally I figured that since I

couldnt do anyone any good I might at least stop doing monumental

harm.

little boys were the last to go. 18, 19, 20. not prepubescent, certainly not. all long and gangly and awkward and ignorant, they never beat me up but they didnt stay hard long either, soon I came to

appreciate that as some sort of good faith, finally though it hardly

seemed worth the effort.

now I was in what all those men writers call “an existential position. ” that, contrary to the lewd images that might be evoked because Im a woman, is when youve given up everything youve ever

tried, or havent tried but definitely had planned on. in my case, being quite taken with the arts, that included having mustard rubbed into whip wounds (Henry Miller), fucking Norman Mailer (Norman

Mailer), and being covered in chocolate and licked clean by a horde

of Soho painters (me).

now the problem with telling you what it means for me, bertha

schneider, to be in an existential position is that I dont have Sartres

credibility. I mean, theres just no emotional credibility that I can call

on. look at Jackie Kennedy for instance, there she was, John dead,

her very very rich, and she didnt have emotional credibility until she

married Onassis. I mean, we all knew right away that she had done

the only thing she could do. I mean, if De Beauvoir hadnt been Sartres mistress, do you think anyone would have believed her at all? or look at Oedipus as another example of emotional credibility, suppose he and his mother had fucked, and it had been terrific, and they had just kept fucking and ruling the kingdom together, whod

believe it, even if it was true, or look at Last Tango in Paris, when

Maria Schneider shot Brando most people didnt believe it at all. how

is it possible, they asked, why did she do that? me I believed it right

away.

so look at me. here I am, bertha schneider, someone not so special

as these things go, right with my heels on the existential edge and my

toes curling over the abyss, no men, no women, no boys, and what I

want to tell you, though you wont believe it at all, is that its better

here than its ever been before, bertha schneiders existential position

is that shes not going to be fucked around anymore, now maybe that

doesnt sound like much to all of you but I call it Day One. I figure

that when my mind and body heal its my mother Im going to get it

on with after all. I always did have a high regard for that woman

although it did get obscured by the necessities of daily life, when I

think of bliss, not to mention freedom, frankly its my ma and me

alone somewhere kissing and hugging and sucking like God intended. and despite the obvious pressures I will not have second thoughts, or be unfaithful, or gouge my eyes out. thats my promise to

posterity.

as for my ex-husband, well I didnt have Marias good sense. Im

told he suffered a lot when I left, oh I dont kid myself, it wasnt out of

love or regard or anything like that, whatever he called it. it was

more like when a limping person dripping shit leaves you, you figure

youre in real trouble and even a Clint Eastwood fan has to notice. I

mean, when the baseball tells the bat to fuck off, the games over and

I for one am never going to forget it.

for right now Im reading a book that says women can reproduce

parthenogenetically. its a biology book so I have reason to hope for

the best, frankly Im just going to curl up with that book in any existential position I can manage and concentrate on knocking myself up. I never did like that crap about the child being father to the

man.

how seasons pass

there was a woman, she was a big woman and she was a sad

woman, she had been in her life to the mountains and to the ocean,

she had seen the sand, she did not go to the desert.

she had never been sad before, she had felt everything else, she had

been very smart all the years she was growing up. she had had big

beautiful eyes, she had opened her legs a lot. she didnt remember

much of all that.

she had been very powerful, she had absorbed all the men she

knew into her, one by one, two by two, then, as time passed, three by

three and four by four, she remembered her husband, she

remembered her first love, she remembered the first 4 men even

when she forgot the rest.

sometimes she would walk down the street, then she would see a

face that remembered her. she walked faster then.

when she was married she had a dog and a cat. she did not think

much of people then, each day she thought less of people.

her friends liked her a lot. they thought that she was strong, they

were good to her. sometimes they touched her. sometimes they fed

her. sometimes they put on a record, sometimes they walked

with her.

her friends gave her money, because she was poor, her friends

always cared what happened to her. the more they cared, the less she

let them know, the more they cared, the sadder she became.

she never betrayed her friends, she never betrayed strangers, she

had a code, she wanted to be good, she wanted to be strong, she

wanted to feel everything all the time, and she wanted to feel so

much all at once that she would die young, and never have to grow

old and never have to live all those years, she wanted to pack everything into a short space of time, her first goal was 19. then she became 19, and she didnt die. it surprised her. nothing had ever surprised her like that.

when she didnt die at 19 she became confused, so she got married,

when she got married she wanted to live to be 80. that was her goal,

so she dressed well then, and made a schedule, and fed her husband,

and talked politely to his friends, and was faithful, and kept the

house clean.

soon she was in great pain, soon she was so lonely, soon she woke

up, made the beds, cleaned the house, did the laundry, made the

dinner, did the dishes, watched television, and went to sleep, soon he

stopped coming home, and soon they stopped making love, and soon

she knew she would live to be 80, and she didnt want that anymore.

so she left her husband, and she was poor again, and this time she

thought 33.

she liked movies and books and music, it was harder to like

people.

she liked animals and she liked to talk to old people, she asked

them where they had been and how they had lived, she asked them

who they were and what had happened to them over the years.

she was poor, and she went to the city, she remembered the mountains and the ocean and she remembered that she had never seen the desert.

in the city there was great pain and suffering, in the city there were

poor people and hungry people and angry people and brutal people,

in the city she sat alone, in the city she was alone.

everything changed, all day long she was alone, everything was different. all day long she was alone, everything changed, she was big and she was sad.

now there were young boys, now they were young and soft and unsure. now they were children that she turned to, one by one, then two by two, and as the days passed, three by three and four by four.

there was a special one. he was short, and he smiled, he had 2

dogs, she didnt have any power anymore, she had given it all away,

she didnt have any power and she wanted young boys.

the special one lived near her. he hung out on the street, he liked

the violence of the street, he was very young, he would feel it in the

air and smile his smile and wait for it to happen, she liked him and

she was afraid.

he wanted her to come to him. he asked her many times, each time

she smiled sadly, she had something to do. she was tired, in the heat

of that summer she was dirty, her feet had blisters, her skin had

boils, her sadness was in her like a lump blocking her throat hurting

her breast choking inside her chest.

each day she passed him on the street, each day he smiled and

called to her. each day he asked her to come see him. each day she

wanted him more and more, each day she sat alone and walked her

dog and read from a book and listened to music, each day she was

busy, each day they smiled at each other and he asked her to come to

him and she said I will and she did not.

then one day she did. she remembered the mountains and the

ocean and the desert she had not seen and the power she had had.

she went to him and he smiled at her and he was her lover and because she was sad she became more sad. and because he was young and soft and unsure she became more sad.

they walked down the street sometimes, sometimes they were in his

room, sometimes they took his 2 dogs and her 1 dog to the park.

then the winter came and he was not very young anymore, she was

still sad and still he was her lover, sometimes they laughed together,

she did not go to him anymore,

when the spring came she left the city,

she went to the mountains,

she was alone there.

when the summer came she let a young boy who lived in the mountains make love to her. her sadness returned again and worse, when the fall came she began to wait for the snows,

when the snows came she took long walks.

she had her dog, and a wood stove, and she loved the trees and the

snow, she loved her solitude, and her sadness disappeared as the

snow melted.

when the spring came she wrote small fragile poems,

when the summer came she went into the city,

she was 27 now and the city was her mirror, she wore heavy boots

and she smoked cigarettes as she walked down the streets and she

gave quarters to the beggars, she drank tequila and four by four they

were her lovers again,

she was a famous writer by now.

in the winter many people wanted to talk to her. in the winter

many people took her to dinner, and touched her knee, and wanted

her to know them.

in the winter she was more and more on the streets, in the winter

she fled from the people who wanted to take her to dinner, and touch

her knee, and have her know them.

in the spring she left the city, she went to the ocean, she walked on

the sand, she walked up and down the oceans edge, over and over

again, she did not remember what it felt like to be sad. she remembered very little,

in the summer she wrote down everything she remembered,

in the summer people crowded onto the sand and at the oceans

edge so she went to the mountains,

in the fall a famous actor made love to her.

in the winter she forced him to leave, in the winter she called him

terrible names and felt great rage and forced him to leave,

then spring came and she went to the city.

in the summer she was tired, in the summer she became weary into

the marrow of her bones, in the summer she became so tired that her

physical vision diminished and a darkness began to close in on her.

in the summer she was so tired that the streets were blurred and she

could not see well enough to read.

in the fall she tried to remember her husband, and her first love,

and the first 4, and the four by fours and the three by threes, in the

fall she tried with all her might to remember.

in the winter the snows came, in the winter she stayed in the city

and she couldnt remember, in the winter she died, she was 29.

some awful facts, recounted by bertha schneider

(for J. S. )

bertha schneider, nearly 31, was too disturbed to have any friends,

she was like all the other schlubs running around out there, loss was

driving her crazy, loss was eating up her heart, loss was defeating her

cell by cell, corpuscle by corpuscle, loss was the desert in which she

was lost, life had finally forced her to shake hands with the great

democratizer—loss, bertha schneider, lost, was at last just like

everyone else—lost.

her cycles of loss traditionally divided into 3 year periods, a double

cycle was 6 years, there were no half cycles, she had had several double cycles sequentially, these she had put behind her. who could remember so much loss, even her loss was lost, except when she slept

and spectres of loss, all flaming and brazen, assailed her. but most

often even sleep was lost, beyond her immediate grasp, remembered

dimly, imagined badly.

it was this current cycle, only in its 2nd year, that had made her old

all over again, too soon, before her time, at 18 she had been 84.

Schneiders Cocktail—drugs, sex, radical politics mixed with a lot of

banana cream pie—had done that, at 25 she had been 100. m arriage, the good old fashioned kind—beatings and cleaning interspersed with the 3Vi minute fuck—had done that. 27, 28, and 29

were the golden years, she was just a normal age, regular, the past

sometimes welling up and breaking like blisters, one wipes up the

ooze and goes on, reading books, watching television, taking walks,

called cunt and pussy, followed home nights, but not once raped or

beaten, she had known she would have to pay for those golden years.

God exacted interest like a loanshark, you paid and kept paying and

still He broke all yr bones, one Yom Kippur, at the beginning of her

30th year, God had written her name once again in the book of loss,

bertha schneider, let her lose everything, God had written in that

pedestrian prose of His. rub it in, pile it on, and let her eat cake, the

kind wrapped in plastic, God had scratched in the margin.

so in her 30th year bertha had found herself bereft of milk, fish,

and eggs, and all she could afford was cake wrapped in plastic, her

teeth began to go. her friends had already left, all secularists, when it

was writ they obeyed.

bertha had never had any money to speak of but her friends had

been pure gold, the best of every generation, the ones who stopped

wars, the ones who wrote the poems of their time, the ones who held

hands and treasured single daffodils while decadence raged all

around, the ones who were not waxen and false, the ones all those

others could not destroy, the ones police could not police, corruption

could not corrupt, bitterness could not embitter, the ones on whose

hands dirt was clay, not mud. but in her 30th year, God had struck

again, and she had fallen from grace, which is something like doing

a somersault and missing the floor, she kept falling and falling and

falling until she lost even the memory of solid ground.

bertha had learned a few things in life, exactly 3. 1—every Up is

followed by a Down. 2—every Down is followed by an Up, but you

have to live long enough which, depending on how down the Down

is, can be tough and is not a foregone conclusion. 3—Disembodied

Wisdom is the only lover who doesnt get seasick on the curves and

take the easy way out.

bertha had courted Disembodied Wisdom assiduously. Disembodied Wisdom, not nearly as formidable as it is cracked up to be, had given in, lured perhaps by the rhythmic certainty of berthas

tragic sense of life, bertha had had, to be frank, carnal knowledge,

like light through a window pane, bertha, pregnant from the union,

had given birth in a profane world where dog shit and the urine of

drunks and junkies were the only available sacraments, now,

bloodied from delivering the divine fruits of her unique fuck to a

fairly indifferent world, bertha looked around for that one lover detached enough not to run. gone. Disembodied Wisdom had fled, just as Warren Beatty might have. lost, like light through a window pane.

lovers, friends, dust unto dust, dust clings, bertha sneezes, dust

doesnt take kindly to sneeze, dust scatters, bertha calls after it. dust,

what can it answer?

the others are dust and what is bertha? more dust, but bertha

doesnt trust dust, she knows herself, she knows the others, chaos,

craving, dust has its own laws, dust is inconstant, dust hurts the eyes,

dust can sweep up in huge gusts, suffocate, inside the nostrils, blinding the eyes, choking the throat, dust pretends it will cling forever, but bertha knows, it does or it doesnt. either way, once dust touches

dust, the spot is marked, loving, needing, or wanting dust is a waste

of time, especially for dust, even a legal purist like bertha resents it.

bertha understands dust but wishes she were not of it. she is tired of

dust clinging and she is tired of dust scattering and she is tired of

dust coming at her in terrible storms and she is tired of being made

of a substance so ultimately ridiculous, something so substantial and

so insubstantial at the same time, something that passes through

ones fingers* which are dust, like dust, bertha longs for the only lover

she has ever trusted, Disembodied Wisdom, but it is gone, strongly

reminding her of dust, maybe whatever dust touches turns to dust.

bertha had what was, from her point of view, a reliable com-

monsense perspective, all loss was measured against atrocity, she

was poor but bones she was not. her gums were getting soft and

squooshy from malnutrition but live she would, she had no chair to

sit in which led to constant backache and she slept on the floor

which led to constant colds in her bladder, but she wasnt pressed up

straight shitting in her pants in a cattle car on the way to Dachau,

she had been raped and was still haunted by fear and humiliation

but she had not also had cholera at the same time, she had fucked

for money, been destitute on street comers underdressed in freezing

winter, but hunger had not reduced her to eating rats, she had endured and continued to endure real hardship but she would probably live long enough— 1 more month—to turn 31.

this was not stupid of bertha, in Amerika such measuring was

called paranoia or, by liberal psychiatrists, survivors guilt, but bertha, with her european sensibility, knew that she was a realist with a very cogent understanding of history, she didnt imagine that she

could survive atrocity but she prepared for it by constant concentration on what it would require of her. unlike her contemporaries, she believed that normalcy differed from atrocity in degree, not in kind,

it was possible, bertha knew, that she might not survive normalcy

either, harassed as she was by its unambiguous cruelty, every day of

loss and more loss encouraged bertha to wonder: will I live longer

than this terrible time which is, on the grand scale, not terrible

enough to justify capitulation, tired, she measured her fatigue

against the unspeakable exhaustion of her own relatives who had

survived the Nazi death camps, they had not dropped dead of their

own accord, a fact that provided an eloquent rule of thumb, bertha

saw loss, all loss, from this unyielding perspective, this method of

measurement was the discipline by which she maintained an optimistic belief in the likelihood that she too might endure, for this reason, when despair gnawed, she did not welcome it or romanticize

it or enjoy it. self-pity made her sicker than deprivation, and for this

reason, when lovers left her all the while hurling foul epithets or

when friends fell away like diseased flies, she did not cry. she might

well feel sorrow, but tears had to be reserved for disasters that made

tears run dry. her attitude was unfashionable in a world in which

acne occasioned more sympathy than starvation, her own pimples

and the pimples of others did not move bertha and so others, comfortable in excessive emotional upheaval, saw her as cold and rigid, and she saw them as silly and vain, bertha did not share the common

emotional preoccupations of her time, then this new cycle of loss

came, overabundant, overwhelming, and leveled her out flat, she

could not bear it no matter what comparisons she made, at first she

held on. at first she would have settled for fish and eggs and milk, a

chair to sit on, some money in the bank, and sleep every night in

which loss left her alone, she bartered with God the loanshark, time

went on and bertha was dragged out flatter and flatter until the

nerve that was pure greed was stretched out onto the surface of her

skin, exposed, raw, naked, jagged, ragingly sore, detachment was

lost, discipline was lost, bertha cursed Disembodied Wisdom as the

seducer and abandoner who had passed her on to a terrible new

master, Pure Greed, herself turned inside out. she wanted purple

velvet curtains, a red velvet couch in which she would be happy to lie

forever and die, fresh crab and vulgar lobster, and women, the

bodies of women, pure taste and touch and fingers reaching in and

bellies rubbing wildly against, sweat and goo and no tomorrows, not

like the men, not to prove or to have, but each sensation for its own

sake, each sensation the whole of life, so that greed would wipe out

deprivation, erase it and the memory of it, each time, the impossible,

forever, her heart had become hungry, ravenous, but, cursed with

the love of meaning which she could not lose no matter how hard she

tried, lust made her sad, and her own lust struck her dumb with

grief, because if dust always reduced to lust, loss had triumphed,

bertha was lost, the crime was the punishment, lust was dust, still,

nothing worth a tear.

time passed, seasons changed, lilacs came and went, roses were

bom and died, the leaves turned burgundy and orange, then fell

burying the cement and earth, then froze under the first snow,

bertha stared, bertha stirred, bertha walked, bertha sat. bertha

turned restlessly night after night, bertha buried herself in dust, and

dust herself she covered dust, she sneezed it and snorted it and spit it

out. and dust spit right back, and dust flew by, looking the other

way. sweat made dust sticky, turned it salty or sweet or bitter, the

wind blew it away and the rain washed it away and the snow froze it

into slicing slivers, dust she was and dust she always would be, phi-

losophy aside, sad dust, greedy dust, slightly silly dust, dust enchanted by dust, dust cast into air by a sigh, landing or not landing, depending on weather or whether.

the new womans broken heart

(for E. and L. )

morning broke. I mean, fell right on its goddam ass and broke, no

walking barefoot if you care about yr feet, kid.

I waited and waited, no call came. I cant say, the call didnt come

because it wasnt a question of one really, it was a question of any

one. it was a question of one goddam person calling to say I like this

or that or I want to buy this or that or you moved my heart, my spirit,

or I like yr ass. to clarify, not a man calling to say I like yr ass but one

of those shining new women, luminous, tough, lighting right up from

inside, one of them, or some of the wrecked old women I know, too

late not to be wrecked, too many children tom right out of them, but

still, I like the wrinkles, I like the toughness of the heart, one of

them, not one of those new new new girl children playing soccer on

the boys team for the first time, young is dumb, at least it was when I

was young. I have no patience with the untom, anyone who hasnt

weathered rough weather, fallen apart, been ripped to pieces, put

herself back together, big stitches, jagged cuts, nothing nice, then

something shines out. but these ones all shined up on the outside,

the ass wigglers. I’ll be honest, I dont like them, not at all. the

smilers. the soft voices, eyes on the ground or scanning outer space,

its not that I wouldnt give my life for them, I just dont want them to

call me on the telephone.

still, business is business. I needed one of them, the ass wigglers, to

call me on the phone, editors, shits, smiling, cleaned up shits, plasticized turds, everything is too long or too short or too angry or too rude, one even said too urban. Im living on goddam east 5 street, dog

shit, I mean, buried in dog shit, police precinct across the street

sirens blazing day and night, hells angels 2 streets down, toilet in the

hall and of course I have colitis constant diarrhea, and some asshole

smiler says too urban. Id like to be gods editor. I have a few revisions

Id like to make.

so I wait, not quietly, I might add. I sigh and grunt and groan. I

make noise, what can I say. my cat runs to answer and then demands

attention, absolutely demands, not a side glance either but total rapt

absolute attention, my whole body in fact, not a hand, or a touch, or

a little condescending pat on the head. I hiss, why not, I mean I

speak the language so to speak.

which brings me to the heart of the matter, ladies, for instance, a

lady would pretend she did not know exactly what to say to a cat that

demanded her whole life on the spot, she would not hiss, she would

make polite muted gestures, even if she were alone, she would act as

if someone was watching her. or try to. she would push the cat aside

with one hand, pretending gentle, but it would be a goddam rude

push you had better believe it, and she would smile, at the window,

at the wall, at the goddam cat if you can imagine that, me, I hiss,

thus, all my problems in life, the ladies dare not respect hissers. they

wiggle their goddam asses but hissers are pariahs, fem ale hissers.

male hissers are another story altogether.

for example, one morning I go to cover a story. I go 1500 miles to

cover this particular story, now, I need the money, people are very

coy about money, and the ladies arent just coy, they are sci fi about

money, me, Im a hisser. I hate it but I need it. only I dont want to

find it under the pillow the next morning if you know what I mean. I

dont wear stockings and I want to buy my own hershey bars, or steal

them myself at least. Id really like to give them up altogether, but I

wouldnt really and its the only social lie I tell, anyway I pick my own

health hazards and on my list sperm in situ comes somewhere below

being eaten slowly by a gourmet shark and being spit out half way

through because you dont quite measure up. its an attitude, what

can I say. except to remind the public at large that the Constitution

is supposed to protect it.

so I go to cover the story and the ass wigglers are out in large

numbers. I mean they are fucking hanging from the chandeliers,

and there are chandeliers, ritzy hotel, lots of male journalists,

whither they goest go the ass wigglers.

so its a conference of women, and the point is that this particular

event occurred because a lot of tough shining new women have demanded this and that, like men not going inside them at will, either naked or with instruments, to tear them up, knock them up, beat

them up, fuck them up, etc. and suddenly, the ladies have crawled

out of the woodwork, so I go to pee in the classy lounge where the

toilets are, and one of the ass wigglers doesnt talk to me. I mean, Im

peeing, shes peeing, so who the fuck does she think she is. so the line

is drawn, but its been drawn before, in fact its been drawn right

across my own goddam flesh, its been drawn in high heeled ladies

boots trampling over me to get into print. I mean, I cant make a living. the boys like the ass wigglers.

so I work you know. I mean, I fucking work, but theres work I

wont take on, like certain kinds of ass wiggling at certain specific

moments, the crucial moments, like when the male editor wants that

ass to move back and forth this way and that, as a result, I am what

is euphemistically referred to as a poor person. I am ass breaking

poor and no person either, a woman is what I am, a hisser, a goddam

fucking poor woman who stays goddam fucking poor because she

doesnt fuck various jerks around town.

its the white glove syndrome, the queen must be naked except for

the white gloves, while hes fucking her raw she has to pretend shes

sitting with her legs closed proper and upright and while hes sitting

with his legs closed handing out work assignments she has to pretend shes fucking him until she drops dead from it. yeah its tough on her. its tougher on me.

I dont mean for this to be bitter. I dont know from bitter, its true

that morning fell flat on its ass and when morning breaks its shit to

clean it up. and I dont much like sleeping either because I have technicolor dreams in which strangers try to kill me in very resourceful ways, and its true that since the ass wiggler snubbed me in the toilet

of the ritzy hotel I get especially upset when I go to pee in my own

house (house here being a euphemism for apartment, room, or

hovel—as in her own shithole which she does not in any sense own,

in other words, where she hangs her nonexistent hat) and remember

that the food stamps ran out and I have $11. 14 in the bank, bleak,

Arctic in fact, but not bitter, because I do still notice some things I

particularly like, the sun, for instance, or the sky even when the sun

isnt in it. I mean, I like it. I like trees. I like them all year long, no

matter what. I like cold air. Im not one of those complainers about

winter which should be noted since so many people who pretend to

love life hate winter. I like the color red a lot and purple drives me

crazy with pleasure. I chum inside with excitement and delight every

time a dog or cat smiles at me. when I see a graveyard and the moon

is full and everything is covered with snow I wonder about vampires,

you cant say I dont like life.

people ask, well, dont sweet things happen? yes, indeed, many

sweet things, but sweet doesnt keep you from dying, making love

doesnt keep you from dying unless you get paid, writing doesnt keep

you from dying unless you get paid, being wise doesnt keep you from

dying unless you get paid, facts are facts, being poor makes you face

facts which also does not keep you from dying,

people ask, well, why dont you tell a story the right way, you woke

up then what happened and who said what to whom. I say thats shit

because when you are ass fucking poor every day is the same, you

worry, ok. she had brown hair and brown eyes and she worried,

theres a story for you. she worried when she peed and she worried

when she sat down to figure out how far the SI 1. 14 would go and

what would happen when it was gone and she worried when she took

her walk and saw the pretty tree, she worried day and night, she

choked on worry, she ate worry and she vomited worry and no matter

how much she shitted and vomited the worry didnt come out, it just

stayed inside and festered and grew, she was pregnant with worry,

hows that? so how come the bitch doesnt just sell that ass if shes in

this goddam situation and its as bad as she says, well, the bitch did,

not just once but over and over, long ago, but not so long ago that

she doesnt remember it. she sold it for a corned beef sandwich and

for steak when she could get it. she sold it for a bed to sleep in and it

didnt have to be her own either, she ate speed because it was cheaper

than food and she got fucked raw in exchange for small change day

after day and night after night, she did it in ones twos threes and

fours with onlookers and without, so she figures shes wiggled her ass

enough for one lifetime and the truth is she would rather be dead if

only the dying wasnt so fucking slow and awful and she didnt love

life goddam it so much, the truth is once you stop you stop, its not

something you can go back to once its broken you in half and you

know what it means. I mean, as long as youre alive and you know

what trading in ass means and you stop, thats it. its not negotiable,

and the woman for whom it is not negotiable is anathema.

for example, heres a typical vignette, not overdrawn, underdrawn,

youre done yr days work, fucking, youre home, so some asshole man

thinks thats his time, so he comes with a knife and since hes neighborhood trade you try to calm him down, most whores are pacifists of the first order, so he takes over yr room, takes off his shirt, lays

down his knife, thats yr triumph, the fuck isnt anything once the

knife is laid down, only the fuck is always something, you have to

pretend that you won. then you got to get him to go but hes all comfy

isnt he. so another man comes to the door and you say in an undertone, this fuckers taken over my house, so it turns out man 2 is a hero, he comes in and says what you doing with my woman, and it

turns out man 2 is a big drug dealer and man 1 is a fucking junkie,

so you listen to man 1 apologize to man 2 for fucking his woman, so

man 1 leaves, guess who doesnt leave? right, man 2 is there to stay,

so he figures hes got you and he does, and he fucking tries to bite you

to death and you lie still and groan because you owe him and he

fucking bites you near to death, between yr legs, yr clitoris, he fucking bites and bites, then he wants breakfast, so once you been through it enough, enough is enough.

ah, you say, so this explains it, whores hate men because whores

see the worst, what would a whore be doing with the best, but the

truth is that a whore does the worst with the best, the best undress

and reduce to worse than the rest, besides, all women are whores and

thats a fact, at least all women with more than $11. 14 in the bank,

me too. shit, I should tell you what I did to get the $11. 14. nothing

wrong with being a whore, nothing wrong with working in a sweatshop. nothing wrong with picking cotton, nothing wrong with nothing.

I like the books these jerko boys write. I mean, and get paid for. its

interesting, capital, labor, exploitation, tomes, volumes, journals,

essays, analyses, all they fucking have to do is stop trading in female

ass. apparently its easier to write books, it gives someone like me a

choice, laugh to death or starve to death. Ive always been pro choice,

the ladies are very impressed with those books, its a question of

physical coordination, some people can read and wiggle ass simultaneously. ambidextrous.

so now Im waiting and thinking. Anne Frank and Sylvia Plath leap

to mind, they both knew Nazis when they saw them, at some point,

there were a lot of ass wigglers in the general population around

them wiggling ass while ovens filled and emptied, wiggling ass while

heroes goosestepped or wrote poetry, wiggling ass while women,

those old fashioned women who did nothing but hope or despair,

died, this new woman is dying too, of poverty and a broken heart, the

heart broken like fine china in an earthquake, the earth rocking and

shaking under the impact of all that goddam ass wiggling going off

like a million time bombs, an army of whores cannot fail—to die one

by one so that no one has to notice, meanwhile one sad old whore

who stopped liking it has a heart first cracked then broken by the

ladies who wiggle while they work.

the wild cherries of lust

(for Orisis)

bertha schneider had once been a woman and was now an androgyne. as a woman she had lain for 8 years on her back with her legs open as the multitudes passed by leaving gifts of sperm and spit,

now as an androgyne her legs were still open but at the same time

they ran, jumped, swam, stood up, skipped, and squatted, her

mouth was also open and what nestled there with restless fervor also

found its way to her armpits, under and between her breasts, to the

creases in her neck, to the small of her back as well as the bend of

her elbow, not to mention where the bend of her elbow often found

itself.

bertha had passed 2 years of celibacy before becoming an androgyne. she had fucked during that time in much the way vegetarians eat hamburgers—sometimes and not proudly, yes, she

had been fucked and gutted and ransacked occasionally by sweet

young boys who lived on street comers, yes, she had sucked the cunts

of brilliant, strong, and worthy women with abandon and no small

measure of delight, but all the while she had dreamed herself celibate and had even imagined that she was a virgin again as she once had been—only this time in spirit as well as in body, on purpose instead of by accident.

bertha had changed much in her one short life, as a woman she

had often been whipped and had lusted for that agonizing, exquisite

humiliation, those who had whipped her were not yr vulgar wife

beaters but velvet coated actors and curly haired painters as well as

revolutionaries and workers, the whips had been real leather and

when her back and ass were shredded and blood began to form puddles on the floor, the whip handle had often as not been stuffed up her cunt or ass. now as an androgyne she had renounced all that, she

was proud of the fact that in her soul whips did not speak to her. oh

yes, there were occasional fleeting seconds—moments even—of

desire that verged on need, yes, sometimes the muscles in the pit of

her stomach did tighten and she did lust for the lash of the whip, not

to mention the whip handle, but she was secure in her conviction

that she who was now an androgyne would not regress to being a

mere woman, it would take, she knew, more than one man could

offer to make her into a woman again, it would take, she knew, a

concert hall filled with thousands of people, her bare-assed naked on

stage shackled in wicked chains, being whipped by, dare she say it,

Jean-Louis Trintignant, before she would even be tempted in a

serious way.

bertha had changed physically as well, as a woman she seemed to

be all breasts and ass. indeed, if other parts of her body existed, they

went unremarked by the world at large, now as an androgyne her

breasts had diminished while her belly had grown, her belly was now

a giant luminous mound, glowing, exquisitely sensitive to every

touch, even to every thought of touch, a finger on her belly was the

instrument of ecstasy and a tongue brought on multiple orgasms

that were as vast and as deep as the universe, stars quaked and comets exploded when her belly came into contact with an electric vibrator.

her nose, of course, had grown, it had grown and grown and

grown, sometimes it hung, weak, limp, sweet, beautiful, sometimes

upon the passing of a gentle wind, a grazing cow, or a wood nymph,

her nose would stiffen and enlarge and become engorged with blood,

it was not very pleasant when this happened in the company of ordinary men and women with their hidden private parts and endless sources of shame, but when it happened in the presence of other androgynes, she herself would touch and fondle it. limp or stiff, her nose would roll over arms and into armpits, explore ears that opened

up like flowers, juicy and moist and yielding, find its way between

toes and rub itself against calloused heels, seek out with gentle insistence the backs of knees, immerse itself in puddles of saliva under the tongue and the rich resonances of slick assholes, vibrate and

heave, and finally come to rest on a nipple, touching it just barely,

then, as bertha lay exhausted, her lover would touch her belly and so

they would begin again and continue and replenish and deplete and

invent, and then begin again.

berthas hair of course had changed too. as a woman she had violated it without conscience—cut it, lacquered it, straightened it, curled it, even shaved it from her legs and armpits and pulled it out

from between her eyes, now as an androgyne her hair rose and fell

with the light, the wind, it danced between her legs, it reached

toward the sun in rich profusion from every part of her. each hair

was an antenna, sensitive, alert, one hair, like a new filling, could

send an icy thrilling chill through her whole body or warm her like

whiskey and Ben-Gay. her pubic hair flowed, billowing, curling,

lustrous, slightly rough and coarse so that when touched by her fingertips elecric impulses would tickle her knuckles and cause her palms to swell and sweat, her hair grew on her legs and reached out

and touched the wind and met the water and when touched by other

flesh sent thrills into the marrow of her bones and turned her almost

inside-out with pleasure.

her hands too had changed, her fingers looked now much like her

nose, and her fingertips resembled vulvas, her Mount of Venus had

thickened and the lines in her hand were deep, almost cavernous,

and her ass, which as a woman had been mostly for shitting and occasional rape, had become an interior tunnel into which flesh sometimes flowed, or honey it seemed, or ice cream, in fact, the whole space between her ass and mouth had become a winding energy

passage so that any touch or breath in either place caused sweet

chills and exquisite tremors.

bertha schneider, once a woman, then a celibate, had become an

androgyne—and when I tell you that she lived happily ever after, I

hope you will know what I mean.

bertha schneiders unrelenting sadness

as she kissed his neck, bertha schneider remembered her unrelenting sadness, this was her hidden part, all covered in the luxuriant twine of personality, learned facts, sardonic humor.

“oh, what a life our bertha has led, ” said the ignorant, as she held

forth on her research into remote jungle tribes where hymens were

impaled on wooden spikes and urethras were split wide open to

resemble precious cuntlike flowers, it was almost as if she had been

there, heard the tribal drums, drunk the sweet or nauseating brews

of livers and brains of deceased enemy warriors, danced the raucous

gyrating dances of birth, death, and rebirth, but bertha, truth to tell,

had in fact been to the New York City Public Library at 42nd and

5th, especially on snowy storming days, there she had sat under that

pale and dreadful light (which, she believed, was part of the very

design of that building, calculated by those who wanted no one

civilian to know too much), books opened up like leaves fallen on the

earth in late October, her giantesque thighs pulsating on the stiff

wooden chairs to the beat of the cold hum around her.

bertha schneider had unrelenting sadness flowing through her very

veins, and this had been a fact all of her long lived life, it was her

heritage, in fact—a sadness so large, so soft, so sweet, so resonant,

that it interjected itself right into other peoples sentences and punctuated her own. the dead of bertha schneiders russian past churned in her, whole dead bodies of sadness never buried deep enough, this

sadness had passed, first in mother russia itself, from mother to

daughter and from mother to daughter and from mother to

daughter, in those dark grim russian urban alleys where her

forefathers had lived and studied Torah and died, the unrelenting

sadness had been bom, on those narrow dirt and stone streets, amid

shops and pogroms, amid hard benches and mountains of laundry to

do and meals to prepare and yes candles to light and heads to be

covered, that sadness had been bom. amid the hard screaming births and the quiet obedient deaths, amid the bone poor hunger and the melancholy prayers, amid the vile hatred of her kind, the sadness

had been bom.

bertha had her own idea, in fact, as to how the sadness had been

bom. she had long ago learned that the memories of men, in

whatever form, were not to be trusted, generations of men had

passed as scribes, rabbis, and storytellers and yet, bertha knew, the

real story had never been told, this was not mysterious to bertha,

since she knew that men avoided life, not respecting it, never daring

to look it squarely in the face, treasuring only their sons and their

own self-importance, this bertha might lament but she could not

change it. for those generations of scribes and rabbis and storytellers

life had been an abstract canvas full of abstract ideas—they had

obscured the actual shape of things and the actual facts of the case,

they had passed their avoidance of lines and proportions and direct

commitment on to each other over so many generations that now it

had soaked into the very marrow of their bones, and so they had invented Law and W ar and Philosophical Arguments and with all their arsenals of Culture and Learning and Civilization they had

stopped all dissent, even as their children were starving they could

ignore life and argue the philosophical ramifications of death, in

particular the men of whom bertha was thinking had worshiped

their dreadful god, Mighty Jehovah, they had argued with hard

hearts and stony arrogance His Laws to the nth degree as others who

cared only for life had washed and cooked and sewn and cleaned

and given birth and served and scrubbed and died around them, this

especially they would not look in the face.

these others, the mothers and the daughters and the mothers of

the mothers and the sisters and the aunts, had never written a word,

their arguments had no capital letters or commentaries, these others

had worked with their hands and hearts scrubbing and cooking and

enduring and though each separate life was due to them and

depended on them still they were required to be silent, not invited to

argue on the nature of existence about which they knew very much,

even as their legs were spread open in blood and pain, muscles

stretched as the head or feet came through, flesh tom from this, the

very mud of life, 8 times, 9 times, 13 times before they died, still their

views were not solicited, there the sadness was bom, over and over

again, as each new bloody head emerged and with it their insides

dislodged and gone from them and still no one asked their opinion,

this was no genteel sadness, small, pitiful, indulgent, weak, this was

a howl into the bowels of the earth, urgent, bellowing, expressed only

in the eye that cut like a knife, the mouth tangled trying to escape

the face.

this sadness grew as they saw these children flesh of their flesh live

and grow and die. this sadness grew as their children became sick,

hungry, afraid, this sadness grew during pogroms and on regular

days when there was just the family life, this sadness especially grew

as they saw their sons go off to the hard wooden benches where the

rabbis would teach them, the sons, how to read and write and

discourse on the Law and Life itself, this sadness especially grew as

their sons forgot them, disdained the gift of life given in blood and

pain, preferring instead to putter in stony arrogance in the world of

men. this sadness especially grew as they saw their daughters fight

against the unyielding silence of scrubbing and cleaning and each

month bleeding, and finally in the end or long before the end becoming servants at first smiling to those who would argue about this or that in the world of men. this, bertha suspected, was the actual story

of the sadness that came over her, handed down from mother to

daughter and from mother to daughter and from mother to

daughter, first in mother russia, that birthing, heaving, bloodsoaked

mother, then transported step by step on foot and by horse across

the vast land called Europe, then come to be bom and grow anew

here in the sweatshops of Philadelphia, New York, and Pittsburgh,

those other houses of strained female compliance.

she remembered her dog. yes, her dog. let others, those abstract

painters, laugh but bertha knew the details and intricacies of life, no

single line or fact was hidden from her view, for life was life, each

day of it and every living thing of it, one after the other, and she had

loved her dog heart and soul, this dog had been her friend in straits

where people fled and no one could convince her that in any canvas

her dog did not figure.

bertha had given this dog away, with her own hands led it to a

huge dark building, left it abandoned like a child wrapped in swaddling clothes, its mother wants it to live but cannot feed it, there is a light, a stranger, a promise that is implicitly a threat, there is the

darkness of midnight, the despair of the next morning without food,

there are the tears that never no matter how many come wash away

the sorrow, there is the wretched agony of the heart, the dog not yet a

skeleton but too thin its bones showing while she had turned to fat,

the dog that would follow her anywhere, lick the tears of its own

abandonment from her face, the dog that had cowered beaten by the

same hand that had beaten her, and together, after, when he had

gone they had huddled together, both cowering in dread, insides

bruised beyond all knowing, this dog that had her eyes, the eyes of a

beaten woman, her eyes looking at her now as she led it trusting

perhaps to be gassed or mistreated she would never know.

dogs too, bertha knew, were conceived in suffering, this dog had

been bred, bred they call it, those cold calculators of markets and

worth, this dog had wailed out as a huge penis had plowed into it, a

wail that could have shattered bones, a wail that could have made

the dead rise and march, her husband had sat laughing drinking a

beer while the huge german shepherd a stranger off the street found

by her husband loved by him right away because its penis was so big

because its shoulders were so broad because its teeth were so sharp

because it sniffed and salivated from the smell of female blood had

come into the living room where the females were, she and her dog,

and her husband had held her back while the huge penis had plowed

into the swollen sore vulva of her bitch he called it and the wail had

come from this beast he called it, a wail that had shaken her bones

and reminded her of the screams of Dachau as she had always heard

them inside her. then the hour afterward when the dogs were locked

together, the females vagina clamped iron tight in rage and in fear,

and the husband had laughed as the bitch he called it cried and

whimpered and was paralyzed and impaled, bertha had known to

kill him then, instead she cried twisted her body around her dog

chained locked into the satisfied monster saw the skeletons of a

million dead and raped in the anguished eyes of her dog, its eyes

her own.

having had his fun he, the husband, had wanted to put out her dog

and keep the huge penis, the large fanged mirror of himself, she had

used everything to keep her dog, begging, tears, threats, her legs

opened on the very same floor that had seen her dogs stabbing

wounding rape, her eyes lowered, her mouth sucking his penis, her

breasts tom into by his teeth, her back ripped open by his teeth, her

ass tom into, with no wail, no screams, only sighs and moans

enacted, timed, disgust disguised, her own blood oozing from her ass

his price, an ad in the paper, the owner, another stud who needed

the huge penis not his own, money into her husbands hands, reward,

an understanding between them, 2 of a kind, sorry he had missed

the fun.

then, feeding her those next weeks to feed the young inside her, her

whole bottom hanging down, ready to drop out from under her, hard

to walk, harder still to run, the days of chasing balls over, her eyes

glazed and worried, she wanted them all to die inside her.

her time came, she refused, no contractions, she wouldnt let them

out, she wanted them dead, so the vet cut her open and squeezed

them out of her tubes, wet ratty things, she was tied down, her belly

facing upwards, awake, her belly cut open, her tubes hanging outside her body, he squeezed out 10, sewed her up.

she wanted them dead, hated them, tried to eat them, to kill them,

she was wretched with fever and being sliced open, the husband who

had done this to her held her down, all sentimentality and maternal

concern, bertha, sick with powerless suffering, forced her to eat,

kept her teeth from ripping apart the terrible ratty things that

crawled all over her. finally, broken, she gave in, let them feed, indifferent. the biting started after that, children, she hated them, let the abstract painters say she couldnt know, she knew.

bertha, hating the anguish of her silent foremothers who had not

studied Torah, had married a Christian, apostate, bertha had

thought a Christian would let her talk, was it a secular fist then that

smashed her when her opinions, in rebellion against that sad past,

would not be silenced? was it a secular penis that argued Law and

War and Supremacy in her mouth, in her vagina, in her ass? was it a

secular beer drinker who spent all night also on hard wooden

benches gambling away all their money, spent a thousand midnights

screwing the Christian women while the Jew waited at home? was it a

secular vanity that had demanded a dog—she, Jew, was afraid of

dogs—a german shepherd—she, Jew, was afraid of german

shepherds—taking her after threats to buy this dog, female because

all the males had been taken, this female dog left, assured by the pet

store owner that this dog would grow and become fierce and powerful, but it stayed delicate and weak and afraid like her, the Jew. was his hatred of this cowardly dog a secular hatred? or was a Christian

always a Christian, was it a Christian fist, a Christian penis, a Christian beer-drinking-gambler-stud, a Christian vanity, a Christian hater of the weak, and all the weak were Jews, and all the Jews were

female, and the smell of Jewish fear and female fear were the same,

dizzying, exciting, so that vengeance was sex and the wail that shattered bones was the payoff? bertha and her dog cowering in silence having been beaten the dog shivered its skin quaked on its bones

bertha too silent and quaking no wail could shatter the Christians

bones but any wail shattering enough could bring the Christian to

orgasm, was it a lust for Jewish blood that had made him marry her

and did her dog, german, betray him by reminding him of her and so

he had had it raped and had had to beat them both?

allies, they had run away together, the cold pavements, the

downpouring rain, the ice of winter, nothing could make them abandon each other, they had each others eyes and the same trembling day and night.

for months, on nothing, they had lived until in the dead of a clear

night bertha had had to choose, there were no more shelters to find,

no more dollars to be conjured up out of menial work or thin air, no

more friends to take them both in, no more nerves in her body not

raw and sick from worry and hunger, no more hope of a tomorrow

with enough money to feed them both, is it ever possible to choose

another life above ones own? human even, is it ever possible? bertha

smelled the russian alleys, the german showers, the gas coming up

enveloping choking smothering, bertha delivered her dog, her own

eyes, into the ovens, years later, walking on the Lower East Side, the

relentless sadness alone moving through her, she thought she saw

her dog in the back of an open truck with 2 other german

shepherds—expressionless, still small and thin, in chains.

as she kissed his neck, nausea rose up in her. was it a Christian neck

or a secular neck? steak broiling, wine half emptied from beautifully

formed glasses, even now did he smell her blood flowing anticipate

the moment of opening every vein with his penis, was it a Christian

penis or a secular penis, wanting to take back everything that had

been taken from her she tried ripping off his penis with her bare

hands, he lay twisted up in agony at her feet, was it a Christian agony

or a secular agony, pulling him by his neck the flesh nearly crumbling in her hands she dragged his body into the hall, spit on him, looked at her hands, empty, knowing she had gotten nothing back at

all. it wasnt Jewish nothing because those boys had the Law. it was

female nothing, secular, aged pure grief, raging nothing, murderous

nothing, unrelentingly sad.

8

the slit

In these delicate vessels is borne onward through

the ages the treasure of human affections.

George Eliot, Daniel Deronda

she was slit in the middle, a knife into the abdomen, his head rose up

from the bloody mess, indistinguishable from her own inner slime,

this was his birth, success at last, her 40th birthday came and went.

at first she had been sick, like the last time but not so bad. nausea,

food welling up, dizzy, weak, embarrassed, annoyed, ashamed, no

cramps, like when she wasnt pregnant, thank God for that, 9 months

of freedom, it didnt seem mythic, she was fat and she would get fatter, well, that was ok. her blood, sharing it. some glob of mucous membrane eating it up. remember, egg and sperm, egg and sperm,

not a glob, egg and sperm, not like the last time, this wont be like the

last time.

she taught voice, how to use it and what it was, to young actors,

how to stand, how to breathe, how to pretend, how to convince, be an

ocean, she would say as she pressed in on the bellies of ripe young actors, be an ocean, she would say. presumably a person who could be an ocean could be anything.

she had become pregnant this last time on the Continent, his

name, she would not say it, who he was, she would not say it, why or

where or how, she would not say it, who he was, no, she would not

say it. short and sordid, she seemed to say. unimportant, she wanted

to believe, bitter, was the truth, contempt, abrupt and brutal, was

the truth, the one she loved had not been the father of that child.

her own father was dead, she had killed him herself, her only gift

to her mother, killed him and left her Scottish home, a small cold

house on the wet Scottish earth, taken the pills and put them in his

whiskey, at the behest of her mother who would never again look her

in the eye. at the behest of her mother who would spit out, look how

hes suffering, as she cleaned up his slop and excretion, this mother

of hers who was hard and shriveled, this mother of hers who was big

and fleshy, this mother of hers who had lost son after son in miscarriage and who had succeeded with her at last.

this mother of hers, what was her life, what had it been, laundry, it

had been laundry, rough clothes soaked in a tub, then rubbed and

rubbed by those driedout muscular hands, food it had been food,

always made in one large pot, everything thrown in together,

potatoes and greens, sometimes with a little lard or meat, cooked on

a small flame from morning until evening when he came home, wash

and scrub and clean, it had been that.

her life before she had married him, blank, she had been a

schoolgirl once, but not for long, had her mother ever played a game,

or laughed at a joke, she tried to remember, she remembered

nothing, only that bitter grimace, only that mouth full of criticism

and orders, do this do that be quiet fetch and carry and clean and

comb sit still, there must have been something else, was it possible

that a woman could be bom, only for this, she remembered only one

kindness, the penny for candy, for candy not meat, it must have been

more complicated of course, she must have done it for a reason, m arried him. there must have been some hope or promise of hope, there must have been some light or promise of light, but the poverty had

worn her mother down, year after year, until there was no outer sign

of inner life, by the time she was old enough to know or notice her

mother as someone separate from herself, there had been only that

bitter, quiet, hard woman who scrubbed and cleaned and cooked

and gave orders, leam to fetch and carry be quiet be good do whats

expected.

after her father died, her mother left that house, she went to the city

and got work, first cleaning and scrubbing, then as a saleslady in a

department store, her mother bought a new dress, wore lipstick,

bought a hat. after a few years, her bed-sitting-room had plastic

flowers and a sofa, a table for eating, an old television set. this is a

better life, she seemed to say, quiet and neat, but still her mother

would not look her in the eye.

she had killed her father for her mothers sake, he had been sick for

so long, his lungs weak and scarred, his digestion wrecked, for over a

year he had lain on that bed vomiting, shitting, drinking, always

drinking, look how hes suffering, her mother would say.

the doctor would come once a week, hes got to stop drinking, the

doctor would say. her mother would say nothing, just look at the

man on the bed in a stony silence, give him these pills, the doctor

would say.

after the doctor left, this man who was too weak to rise from his

bed to shit would suddenly bolt up and stumble out the door,

whiskey, he was strong enough for whiskey.

she thought that her mother agreed, she put the pills in his

whiskey, drink this, dad, she said, here, drink this, he had fallen

asleep and then he had died, mercy killing they called it. mercy for

the living.

her mothers expression did not change, did not soften, did not

harden, there was no grief, there was no relief, there was nothing, except that her mother would not look her in the eye.

for a while the fetching and carrying continued, nothing had

changed, the pot cooked all day long over the small flame, the laundry soaked in the tub. her mother scrubbed and scrubbed, as if there was some sense in that.

she left finally, after a few weeks or months, soon after, her mother

left too, went to the city and found work.

first she had gone to London.

there were men there who would pay her way, she was sure of that,

she had a look that they liked, like broken glass, she thought, a

frame filled with broken glass, it made her hard and soft at once,

shiny and dense, easy and dangerous.

she wanted to be an actress, she thought that would be best, to pretend, to pretend to be someone else, to look a certain way, this way or that, to be powerful yet hidden, someone but not herself.

she knew about men. she had seen her mother please her father,

anticipate his every wish, his every intention, her mother had done it

gracelessly, stupidly, never getting anything in return, a cold, hard

life full of senseless work, she had other ambitions, not to be her

mother, that was her ambition, never to be her mother.

she was in London, a warrior on a mission, never to be her mother. -

she watched other women, she saw how they dressed and how they

talked and how they kept silent, she watched them advance and

retreat, like dancers with measured, predetermined steps, this was

her first acting exercise, how to be this one or that one.

she watched men, what they liked, what pleased them, how they

smiled, what made them smile, how they drank, how they danced,

how their arms moved to claim a womans whole life, every breath

within her.

she learned to judge men without sentiment or desire, she learned

to see them as they would want to be seen, never herself being deceived. she learned what to do to claim the highest price, sometimes in money, sometimes in services, just as other nomads learned to live

off berries and weeds, find water holes, protect themselves from rain,

she learned to pick a meal out of a crowded room, to find a warm

bed in the faces on the street, to milk that male cow without mercy,

shame, or regret.

the first one had been a shopkeeper, nice dress in the window,

never show need, a quiet dress, modest, a dress that would let them

see whatever they wanted to see. a dress that would make no particular statement, set up no particular expectation, I am whatever you want me to be, the dress seemed to say.

she learned to empty her face of its intelligence, she learned to

empty her face of its past, poverty, grim, grueling poverty, drudgery,

murder, she learned to empty her face so that the man himself could

fill it in.

soon she had several dresses, a small, quiet room, and enough

money to take an acting class.

time passed in this way, man after man, year after year, man after

man, never for nothing, always for something, in this way she advanced herself, slowly, bit by bit.

it was true, the first time it did hurt, the shopkeeper had been

delighted at the blood, he had taken her again, biting and pum-

meling, more blood, he seemed to say, more blood.

his apartment was small and filled with things, she remembered

that it was filled with things as he entered her. her scream delighted

him. she was graceless, awkward, her body tough and tight, she

twisted and turned, her twisting and turning delighted him.

as soon as he was finished, he seemed to forget her. she felt lonely

and cold then, her body as if dead, covered with a cold white sheet,

she turned towards a window and watched the light coming up. this

was the saddest moment of her life.

she learned to use her vagina, to contract the muscles, to envelop

and squeeze the cock, she learned to whimper and to moan, she

learned to sweat and to cling, she learned to cry out. this was her second acting exercise,

she learned to kneel in front of the man and take his cock in her

mouth, she learned the postures of wantonness and abandon, she

learned the postures of fear and submission.

she learned to stay on her stomach as the man entered her ass. she

learned not to scream unless he expected it. she learned to bite his

arms or to bite her tongue, she learned never to ask for anything.

she became pregnant twice, the first time a nameless doctor had

stuffed her vagina with gauze and injected her with chemicals, he

had told her to go home and wait, not to drink, not to take pills, not

to call anyone for help.

she had waited for 2 days, thinking it would not happen, also

thinking she would die.

then the pain started, cramps in her gut, dreadful cramps, like being kicked in the belly over and over, she drank to ease the pain, the pain got worse and worse, feet kicking her in the belly, over and over,

endless, constant.

there was no one to call, would she die there, and still there was no

one to call, she tried to call the doctor, she dialed the number she

had been given, no answer, nothing, just feet kicking her in the belly,

her back almost broken from the pain.

contractions in her gut, she went to the bathroom, tried to get it

out, whatever it was, out, straining and straining, feet marching over

her and in her, Nazis, an army of Nazis, marching over her gut.

sweating, screaming, silent, standing or sitting or lying, straining

over the toilet, then it came out, in the toilet, a small, not human, not

anything, mass of membranes, like a lima bean, but all bloody, it

was something but what was it, nothing, nothing human, she looked

at it for a moment, repulsed, and then flushed the toilet.

the second time the doctor had come to her. an arranged signal, a

light bulb on and off 3 times in the window, he was very big, sloppy,

wore a hat. what would he do to her.

he spread newspaper on her bed. she lay, her back on the

newsprint, her legs hanging spread wide open over the edge of

the bed.

then, he began to scrape inside her. then, the pain, then, the searing, scaring, screeching pain, she must not yell, neighbors, police, she must not scream, no pills, no shot, scraping inside her, scraping

her inside out and outside in.

then, he took her legs, closed them, and lifted them onto the bed.

for a moment he stared at her, her face contorted in agony, her body

wanting to curl but not daring to move, would he, was he going to,

no, he turned to leave, then he was gone, what did he do to her,

would she die, and the pain, would it ever stop, and the bleeding,

would it ever stop, an army of Nazis inside her tramping tramping

goosestepping inside of her and all she could think of was, would

she die.

she had advanced herself, she had her own room now, filled with

things, quiet and dark, she had a closet full of dresses, enough for

any occasion a man would provide, she took more classes, in acting,

in voice, in movement,

the men were not nameless now, not shopkeepers either,

she had a good eye.

they were a different sort now, actors, writers, directors,

she knew how to move in, just enough,

she knew how to be there and to disappear at the same time,

when to disappear.

her smile, always ready, a mask, enigmatic or reassuring, whatever

was necessary,

her ambition began to enlarge.

she had read books, enough of them, still, one was always open on

her night table, she was conversant with acting theory, she

discovered that she had an intelligence and a tongue, she could

speak clearly and strongly, but not too often, never at the wrong

time, never the wrong thing.

she began to develop her own persona, no longer a shapeless piece

of putty where each man could make his own mark, she began to

have a definite form, some opinions, a consistent though flexible

posture, a strong woman, they said, independent, they said, a

woman who didnt hang on.

her third acting exercise, never let her insides show,

it was a calculated strength, designed to appeal to a certain kind of

man. she had determined who needed what.

the one she loved was not the father of this child.

the one she loved, how did she see him, not as she saw and had

always seen the others, she didnt see him as he wanted to be seen,

never believing it herself, she believed it, anything he wanted her to

believe.

she saw a great man.

the one she loved was a consummate actor, a pretender, a

charlatan, a liar, and a cheat.

sensitive, she thought, a genius, delicate, not like other men. kind

and deep and searching, not like other men.

here it converged, her ambition and her longing, he had touched

her, deep, inside, forever.

she had come to New York wanting to meet this man or someone

just like him, someone with precisely those eyes, that stare, that intense focus, someone with that fame.

she had met him one winter when she was teaching voice, his climb

to the top had been ruthless and clever but not in the obvious way. he

was a deceiver, a manipulator, good at keeping things hidden, someone who always covered his tracks, a certain kind of animal, smelling what he needed and taking it, then covering up his tracks, not like

other men with a brutal sweep of the hand, no, not like that, instead

gently, quietly, effectively, finally,

he was a homosexual, or so he said.

their discussions were long and deep, about work in the theatre,

about the human voice, about pain, about suffering, about death.

they would sit in his almost empty apartment on straightbacked

chairs, hands just touching, he would pour wine and stare at her and

into her.

she did not forget everything, she remembered what she wanted,

she wanted this man to love her.

this was no ordinary man. he liked smart women, strong women,

women who could work and talk and think and earn money, he was

a collector of such women but that she did not know. I am the only

one, she thought, different from the rest, this man respects me, she

believed.

her heart went out to him. whatever she could do for him she did.

her work in voice became connected to his work in the theatre, she

taught his actors what he wanted them to know, those he did not

like, she eliminated from classes, those he was interested in, she

cultivated like flowers.

when he was sad or lonely, she would sit with him or lie with him.

when he was hungry, she would feed him or he would feed her.

nothing about this man was like other men. he would cook and

read poetry and speak only in the softest voice. I am the only one, she

thought, I am different, there is a place for me here,

and so she began to sleep with him and never made demands.

always, what he wanted, not what the others wanted, he did not tear

into her or delight in making her bleed.

sometimes they would eat together, and then she would go home,

sometimes he would read poetry, and then she would go home,

sometimes he would talk about his hard life of poverty and grief, and

how his mother had hated and betrayed him, and then she would go

home.

she did not notice that her life remained hidden from him. she did

not notice his cold indifference to her need to stay, or to talk about

her own grief and poverty, she told him nothing of her own mother,

or her murdered father, or the years of man after man and year after

year, she noticed only that he was different from the others and that

she was different from the others when she was with him.

then, he asked her to move in with him.

he took her hand tenderly and said that all his life he had wanted a

womans love and devotion, he said that they would be friends and

lovers, workers together on this project and that, he said that she was

not like other women, weak and dependent, and that he was not like

other men, arrogant and aggressive, he said that he would have his

own life and she would have hers, he said that he hoped she

understood that he was a homosexual and so he would continue to

have male lovers and of course they would each be free anyway to do

whatever they wanted, he said that he was a difficult person who had

had a hard life but that now he wanted to share his life, some of it,

with her. he warned her, over her protests, that he was a selfish person. he said that nothing much had worked out in his life with women and that he hoped this would be different now. he said that

he was willing to try if she was and on that heroic note, he stopped.

she moved in early the next morning, 3 suitcases of clothes and

assorted odds and ends, they had agreed that she would keep her

own apartment for a while, just in case her actual physical presence

did not really suit him. he said that they would not tell anyone quite

yet, in case it didnt work out.

the 3 suitcases seemed too final to him, so he sent her home again

and suggested that she return with just a few dresses that would not

cause much bother.

from the beginning she was determined to succeed, she made him

tea and coffee and tried to stay out of his way. to have no expectations, to make no demands, she smiled when she thought a smile would not be an intrusion and the rest of the time she practiced being self-sufficient, strong, independent, and marginally visible.

for 2 weeks they lived this way. in the day she taught and he had

appointments, she did not know who he saw or what they did. be an

ocean, she would tell her students, hands on their bellies as they

breathed in and out in waves, she would teach them how to breathe,

all the while unable to breathe herself, thoughts of where he was and

who he was with stuck in her chest.

she would arrive at his home at 6, in time for coffee or a drink,

then, he would go out. she did not know where, or with whom,

sometime after midnight he would return. I need to be alone, he

would say as he turned away from her on the bed or shut himself up

for hours in the bathroom, then, sometimes, he would roll on top of

her and bang away, then, he would sleep,

she had been asked not to answer the phone,

at the end of 2 weeks, he could not look at her anymore* his eyes

sought the floor, the walls, the plants, he had scheduled a meeting

with several theatre people for that afternoon, she was not invited, he

suggested to her that she take her clothes and leave, they had accumulated into a sloppy pile.

that night as she lay again in her own bed the tarantula was right by

her left shoulder, it seemed to rear itself up on one side and lunge

out at her, its hairy legs just brushing her shoulder, nothing was

there, she looked, she checked, she looked again, nothing was next

to her. but still it was there, right next to her, just beyond the edge of

her eye.

she did not remember when she had first seen it. her eyes had been

open, that was certain, they were open and still she saw it. it was in

front of her eyes, superimposed on everything she saw, or it was just

behind her and she seemed to see it out of the back of her head, if

she closed her eyes it would disappear for a moment then appear

again, vivid, clear, magnified a hundred times, sometimes it would

be on the edge of her vision, almost out of view, but not quite, as if its

shadow was falling over her face.

she would be in a room, she would see everything in the room as

surely it was, chairs, walls, radio, clock, television, books, all truly as

they were, but the tarantula would be there too, just behind her or

just to her side.

now, in bed, in grief, in her sorrow and shame, having been thrown

out, having failed, he did not love her, banished in shame, cut out,

told to leave, his eyes cold and indifferent, he could not look at her

anymore, he could not stand the sight of her, it was there again, over

her left shoulder, a chill went through her. she blinked, she stared,

she closed her eyes, still it was there.

the next months were cold and sweaty, filled with nightmares,

desperation, phone calls in the middle of the night just to hear his

cold cold voice.

she had known now for a while about his other women, women just

like her. how had God made so many women just like her. smart,

strong, killers every one. this one and that one. she hated them all,

all of them, she hated them and she hated anyone like them, anyone

who reminded her of them, any woman with ambition, she hated,

any woman with strength, she hated, his woman if he ever finds her.

get rid of her now.

she curled up in bed for days, for weeks, sometimes it was there,

just around the comer behind her ear, sometimes it was on her,

somewhere, crawling, hanging as if in midair, just as she went to

sleep it would brush past her.

she wanted to be dead.

that summer she went to Europe and there she had become pregnant

for the third time,

who he was, she would not say.

what it had been like, she would not say.

bitter, was the truth,

short and sordid, was the truth,

unimportant, she wanted to believe.

the one she loved had talked with her often about having a child,

he wanted one, a son. it would be his. it would be nice to have a little

Che Guevara, he would say, I want a little Che.

she had seen herself as the mother of this little Che, honored,

special, different, that holy one honored through the ages, not

touched, not soiled, useful at last, the one who could give what was

wanted, they together would have this little Che and he would be different from all the others.

now this little Che was inside of her, not his, hers, she would have

this little Che. she would have this little Che and that would make

her different from all the others.

together, even though they were not together, for him, even though

he could not stand to look at her. for him, no matter what.

a woman who has killed her father can do anything, she thought. I

am such a woman, she thought, holding on to that, he doesnt know,

none of them know, wobbly inside, teetering inside, shrill and

screaming inside, festering, silent, lonely inside. I will have this

child, inside. I will make him sorry, inside. I will make him love me,

inside, this little Che will be mine, inside.

then, the bleeding started and the pain in her gut. each day,

nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, a running stream of diluted blood, runny, watery, whose blood, she wondered, mine or his. what is mine and what is his. his blood, his blood is seeping out of me, flowing

out. I will bleed him to death.

she continued working, growing weak, bleeding, then, like a leaking faucet, sometimes the blood sputtering out.

she went south to a university to teach a special class, alone in a

rooming house, blood, cramps, her whole midpart a solid aching

heaving mass, would she die, here alone, would she die. a woman

who has killed her father can do anything, she thought. I can do

anything.

who would be with her, someone, she must have someone with her.

his friends, this one and that one. one by one. she tried them out.

seduction, on her knees in front of this one and that one, smiling

prettily, smiling her seductive smile. I want you, she would smile,

you are different, she would smile.

I am a woman, she would seem to say. then, she would get down on

her knees and smile up at him, whichever one it was. I will be yours,

she seemed to promise, then, he, whoever, this one or that one,

would be on top of her. afterward she would whisper just barely, I

am pregnant but you are the one I love, no, they would say. each one

would say no.

alone now in her room down south, refused over and over again,

her insides seeping blood, her insides coming out slowly, bit by bit.

then, she called him. I am pregnant, she said. I am in trouble, she

said, oh, he said. I am going to have this little Che, she said, trying to

tease, maybe I will die, she said. I am bleeding, she said, no, he said

coldly, you will not die. please let me call you, she asked in a whisper,

all right, he said.

she would work in the day, distracted, sick, bleeding, at night she

would hide away in her room, bleeding, nauseous, her heart dark

and sad, the taste in her mouth bitter without end.

she would call him at 7, before he went out for the evening, she

would call him after midnight when he returned, she could hear the

man or woman he had brought home with him mulling around,

touching his neck, holding his hand, he kept his voice low and their

conversations short. I have found a way into his life, she thought,

now I am back in his life.

then it stopped, she did not call him. she did not answer the phone,

she did not go to classes, she did not go to the doctor. I will die here

alone, she thought.

she sat in her room, not sleeping at all. she bled, then, it was over,

she had vomited and bled and gagged and then it was over, she was

weak and alone, her insides cast out. no more little Che.

now she was pregnant again, her cup runneth over.

this time she would come to term, this time there would be a man

beside her. this time she would have a baby and a man and a place.

she was almost 40, no longer young, her face was taut and bitter,

now there were deep wrinkles around her eyes, her mother had died

the year before, sad, bitter mother, I have not become you.

she had died alone in her bed-sitting-room, she had died, her hat

on the sofa, she had died never looking her daughter in the eye. who

had that woman been, they had not seen each other in nearly 15

years, there was nothing between them, nothing, tons of food cooked

in a pot, tons of laundry washed in a tub, nothing, pennies for candy,

nothing, had she too come out of a mothers body, who was that

mother, her mothers daughter.

her mothers daughter, that was her anguish, her curse, the foul

smell in the middle of her life, the bad memory in each and every

dream.

she saw her mothers face in her own, no, dont look there, she

stilled her mothers voice every time it entered her own, what was her

mothers voice, why did she know it so well, the voice of a woman who

had lived in silence, who was this mother, there was a memory like

an old movie, frayed, a woman, bent over from work, bent over the

tub of laundry, bent over scrubbing the floor, that bitter grimace,

stony, silent, that penny for candy, nothing of her in this newer life,

almost 40 and she had found her place.

her man was rich and famous, thank God for that, a writer,

nothing of her mother in that, her man was distinguished and handsome. nothing of her mother there.

he was the closest friend of the man she had loved and would

always love, he was the lover of the man she had loved and would

always love, nothing of her mother in that.

and now she was by this famous mans side, now she went to the

theatre with him, to parties, took long walks, now she was carrying

his child, his little Che.

she touched herself, she was real, this, this was real, she would

have this little Che and she would continue to be real, now she would

never be her mother.

their agreement had been simple, he was getting older, he was rich

and famous, he had no son. she would have his son. he would pay for

it and for her. each year she would have a certain amount of. money

for herself, he would supervise the upbringing and education of his

son. he would make the decisions for his son. she would take care of

his son in his home, if she wanted to leave, she would not take his son

with her.

if a daughter were bom, he would give her a large lump sum of

money and she would raise the girl on her own. perhaps he would

continue to be generous.

for the 9 months of pregnancy he took care of her. he told her what

to eat and where to walk, he told her when to sleep and what to wear,

she vacationed on his farm, and in the city they were constant companions. he had many male lovers but she was the mother of his son.

this was her pride, this swelling in her gut. this was her safety, her

freedom, this swelling had bought her a place.

he was arrogant and self-centered, sometimes she recoiled just

from the memory of him. no, calm, smile, remember, no mistakes.

they did not sleep together now. they had been together only to impregnate her. it had been difficult, that time of coupling, at first her body had been a curiosity to him and he would touch it and feel it as

if it were a strange fruit or vegetable, he would force his way in only

to ejaculate, only to empty himself into her like target shooting.

and then, finally—there was a God—he had made his mark, he

had hit the target.

she had tried at first to interest him in their coupling, she had

stroked his face and his body, he had liked that, to lie there, a king

tended to by his consort.

he had wanted to see her do it with a woman, he had liked that, she

had done it in the manner of putting down a deposit on an item she

wanted very much, for him. to acquire him. as if she had saved up

the pennies to make the deposit on the coat that would save her from

winters cold.

it had been strange and bitter, so this is what we are like, she

thought, as her mouth tasted the salty sweet taste of the other

womans cunt, no, too painful, too strange, too close to something

buried too long ago.

she had refused a second time, squirming, looking embarrassed

and humiliated, he had liked that.

then one night he had spread her out naked on his bed. he spread

her legs as far apart as they could go. he tied her wrists to the bedposts. another man entered and sat on a chair at the foot of the bed.

whatever this was had been planned, choreographed, between them,

she did not know.

the second man was big, his arms laden with muscles, a square

face, athletic, all loincloth and sweat.

her lover fingered her cunt slowly, dispassionately, he was grinning. surprise, Ive taken you by surprise, the second man watched, she was red with shame, they both liked that.

then her lover mounted her and the second man mounted him

from behind, then her lover fucked her and the second man fucked

him. this double man on top of her, heaving, the weight of that cock

inside her driven by this double weight, this two headed, two assed

man on top of her, like a mountain, volcanic, erupting, on and on,

fucking and fucking, the sweat and the weight, drowning her in lava

and ash.

then, she began to swell, then, he did not want her anymore, only the

inside of that swelling, only if it were a son.

she had made her peace with this humiliation, not then, years

before, so long ago that she could not remember, so long ago that it

did not matter anymore.

still, sometimes it was hard to breathe, and saliva choked in her

throat, sometimes a kind of redhot shame swelled with the swelling,

then she would remember, this is life, remember, this is life, dont go

down, dont go under.

she would go with this man who had impregnated her to see the

man they both loved, she was in his life now. for that she would have

done anything, even this.

around her 6th month, this man whose son she was carrying began

to find her repulsive, he could not look at her or touch her hand or

see her naked without repulsion, at the theatre, at parties, at dinner,

he would look through her, call her parasite or whore, his pride was

in her size, he had done that, those were his fruits she would bear, he

encouraged his male lovers to touch the swelling.

sometime during the 8th month, early on, she was slit in the middle, a knife to the abdomen.

his head rose up from the bloody mess, indistinguishable from her

own inner slime, this was his birth, she was the vessel, success at last,

her 40th birthday came and went.

he was named after the writers father but they called him Che. she

was a queen, the mother of this boy, rich, safe, her place secure.

drugged insensible, shaved, cleaned, she had been slit down the

middle to remove this prize from her innards where he was tangled,

excruciating, you will forget, they said.

slit down the middle, her abdomen and pubis shaved, her gut

painted red with antiseptic.

slit down the middle, her blood pouring out of her right from her

gut.

slit down the middle, then sewn up again,

a tumor, no, no, a son.

slit down the middle, this queen, this mother of a boy.

his birth.

the tarantula was just behind her, as they slit her down the middle,

as her blood spouted out. what had become of her blood, mopped

up. mopped up the buckets of it. her blood, not seeping out but

flooding up from her middle,

her middle had been slit open and her blood had flooded out.

slit down the middle, her pubis shaved clean, and her blood

flooding out all over,

until there wasnt any left,

not enough for her brain or her heart,

never replaced, never given back,

just flooded out and gone, never enough left in her again,

she did not want to see the thing that had been untangled from her

innards.