Finding a Female Language for Power
Prelude
Back then: This is me a last chance story writing itself born in 1940 a war roaring incantations of Jews calculatingly being incinerated yet five overheard. There is no chronology I move through time as recollections come to me elliptical time torque time twisting time hold me in sway irreverent reckless dissonant counter voices made mute. I am here full blown stills moments in time projected on a vast wall nothing censored expurgated death scans the stills as I think back reclaiming resurrecting rallying desirous of being fully visible in the moment of last breathes. Taking the inevitable long look back having recently arrived at the advanced age of seventy-two aware fully as Mark Twain once said of himself, the older he got, the more clearly he remembered things that had never happened. It is in the spirit of Mark Twain that I recount from the beginning how I found a female language for power. Warning of time sequencing now scattering and bunching up tides tugged this way and that by the cycles of the sun. My heart has been full of weeping for as long as I can remember tucked into my young life feelings of isolation and dislocation. Consciousness often exceeds vocabulary and I was from the first at odds with what lived external to me the only Jewish child in a public school of six hundred felt always an oddity. Stripped down to nerve and desire to drifting fingers in little ant mounds of sand driven to find something deep in archetypical space. A place in my mind and heart beating through fingers heated by the sun little solar panels early on throbbing with grief for a world without an end to sadness the sand inscribing the overspill of my bursting heart. Too soon my innocence was overwhelmed by a mother who had run to the sanctity of a pathological Bipolar Narcissism bereft unable to recognize the child she had born as separate and distinct but rather a vessel way to recoup the childhood she had lost in the garbled Yiddishkeit of new immigrants. Faces stuck in an Edvard Munch Scream the scent of those left behind incinerated flesh never leaving their nostrils.
