I’ll be reading and signing books at In Other Words in Portland on Saturday, August 23rd at 4 p.m.
In Other Words Women’s Books and Resources
8 NE Killingsworth St.
Portland, OR
Friday evening, September 5th, I’ll be reading and signing books at Fact and Fiction Bookstore in Missoula at 7 p.m.
Fact and Fiction Bookstore
220 North Higgins
Missoula, MT
I like my heroes dirty. Just imagine how insufferable Christ would have been if he hadn’t hung out with hookers and tax agents. Prometheus chained to a rock for sneaking fire to mortals. Lyra abandoning her daemon Pan at the riverbank in the underworld. Stephen Maturin doping himself with laudanum and cocaine. Sacrifice means less if it costs nothing. I am a sucker for imperfect salvation.
I get my definition of lesbianism from Jesus at the Last Supper: This body broken for you. Take, eat you all of it.
Hey man, whatever you say.
I keep thinking of Eve and the snake, and that first delicious bite of apple, tart and dark with knowledge.
How many fist fights have you had? I mean, real, honest, fist fights, not just pushing. The kind of fist fights where you realize that the human head is really hard. I have one of those Irish tempers so I’ve had some sprawling scraps. I’ve had adrenaline burn through my esophagus; I’ve been shaking and sick with it. I’ve been thrown into any number of potted plants.
One might ask what the point was? What did those fistfights ever get me? Were they productive?
Not strictly productive, no. No land grab, no score of resources or access rights. I’m not even sure they were a show of strength entirely. After all, I didn’t always win. So what was the point? I don’t think there was a point. I think they were an experience, each of them, like sexual conquests, daring and volatile. I think they were a proof that I was alive with wildness. Untamed, and sometimes, beyond my own or anyone else’s control.
Am I rationalizing violence? Of course. This skin is a costume I’m still adjusting to. Like any teenager, I was always seeking evidence of my own existence. Nothing quite as immediate and visceral as blood on your knuckles.
