Radical books - Feminist writings - Socialist theory - Race liberation - Queer activism
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Radical books - Feminist writings - Socialist theory - Race liberation - Queer activism |
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home socialism 101 feminism 101 browse titles order form contact us search links |
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Fireweed I'm in a rowboat. I reach the shore of an island, walk toward a fire, quick and bright. Take woodshingles, hold them flat over the fire, warming my palms. As the wood flames, I realize I'm dreaming about teaching. Teaching this class is convincing people they have a right to speak their minds. It is saying write like lightning then judge. I see each new group caught in terror of form as if that were the only question. I ask what holds you back from writing and an older man says, "Verbs, verbs, the past tense grips me." A woman says, "It is too easy, didn't take hours, so it must be nothing." Who taught us our images don't live and breathe? Added to all this, that images are the livewire sparks between opposites, a bridge that smokes between people. And that those most pushed down have the most to say, in images, shouts, actions, all just under the smooth velour of the manufactured stories. Images leap out of contradiction, blasting the true story into breath. I'm in a field my father gardened. The garden is wild. Deep in berries and long grass. Four people from my class are here. We set up a table and chairs. We play cards with a translucent deck. The cards, slips of plastic, rest on our palms like windows. I draw a picture, though I don't know how. The sketch outlines a fierce, strong woman. Her short hair is dark and shining. Her face is lined and spare. I try to fill in the cropped edge of her hair where it meets her neck. I try again and again to charcoal in the lines of her high cheekbones. When I turn back toward the class, my arms overflow with purple-red flowers from the Cascades called Fireweed. |