Sinister Wisdom 72

Winter 2007–2008$6 US

Utopia72
Sinister Wisdom

Publisher: Sinister Wisdom, Inc

Sinister Wisdom 72
Winter 2007-2008

Editor: Fran Day
Layout and Design: Jan Shade
Board of Directors: Judith K. Witherow, Rose Provenzano, Joan Nestle,
Susan Levinkind, Fran Day, Shaba Barnes
Coordinator: Susan Levinkind
Proofreaders: Fran Day and Sandy Tate
Web Design: Sue Lenaerts
Mailing Crew for #71: Fran Day, Carolyn DeTierra, Roxanna Fiamma,
Moire Martin, Senecarol Rising, Jan Shade, and Stacee Shade
Special thanks to: Shaba Barnes, Cathy Cade, jade deforest, Nann
Dunne, Arden Eversmeyer, Roxanna N. Fiamma, Kimba Fusch, Virginia Harris, Sonia Johnson, Lori Lake, Sherry Mills, Rose Provenzano, Ida
Red, Linda Strega, Sandy Tate, rainbow williams, and Susan Wiseheart
Front Cover Art: “In This Place” by Diane F. Germain
Back Cover Art: “Sisterhood is Blooming” by Chicago Women’s
Liberation Union
SINISTER WISDOM, founded 1976
Former editors and publishers:
Harriet Ellenberger (aka Desmoines)
and Catherine Nicholson (1976-1981)
Michelle Cliff and Adrienne Rich (1981-1983)
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Caryatis Cardea (1991-1994)
Akiba Onada-Sikwoia (1995-1997)
Margo Mercedes Rivera-Weiss (1997-2000)

Sinister Wisdom is a multicultural, multi-class, female-born lesbian
space. We seek to open, consider and advance the exploration of community issues. We recognize the power of language to reflect our diverse
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winter 2007–2008

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A Journal by and for LesbiansContents
Fran Day .......................................... Notes for a Magazine............................4
Gloria E. Anzaldúa Prize.......................6
Jae Haggard
The Wimmin of Our Dreams...............8
Jacqueline Elizabeth Letalien............. Every Possibility..................................20
Ellen Williams................................... The Womelia of Estasusa....................22
Tanager............................................. Dreams of a Lesbian
Feminist Utopia..............................26
Bea Lieberman...................................merciful time ....................................28
Susan Wiseheart & Jenna Weston..... The Mists of Aradia............................29
Marjorie Norris................................. The River of Dreams...........................33
Shaba Barnes..................................... Accepting the Dream or Is It Reality?.......34
Bea Lieberman ................................. even the laughing leaves . ...................40
Sunlight............................................ Prologue: Womonseed........................41
Susan Hawthorne.............................. Sense..................................................48
Sonia Johnson................................... Full Moon in the Park........................50
Billie Dee ......................................... How I Wish to Live............................52
Francine............................................ A Utopian Lesbian Universe...............53
Tanager............................................. Praise/Alabanza...................................54
Amy Winter...................................... From Euphoria to Despair..................55
Sharon Stewart.................................. Marble Canyon Meeting....................58
Shawn Helmen.................................. Visions of Love...................................59
jody jewdyke..................................... Remembering.....................................60
Mary Meriam.................................... May the Womenin Prison Dance..............................65
Mary Meriam.................................... Iris......................................................66
Lynn Brown...................................... How to Make a Legend......................67
Natasha Carthew............................... Home.................................................69
Betsy Rose......................................... Coming Into My Years........................70
Doreen Perrine.................................. Over the Rainbow..............................72
Margie Adam.................................... Avalon................................................77
Shevy Healey..................................... Just Suppose.......................................78
Bea Lieberman ................................. in these last days.................................81
Ida VSW Red.................................... The Mauvety.......................................82
Martha Courtot................................ When You Become the Rain...............85
Martha Courtot................................ These Bodies Inhabit Us.....................86
Chris Sitka........................................ Ancient Lesbian Culture.....................88
Jean Taylor........................................ Everyday Utopia.................................89
Sunlight............................................ Once Upon a Time.............................92
Pat Parker.......................................... Excerpt from “There is a
Woman in This Town”....................94sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

Kim Rivers........................................ The Search for Utopia.........................95
Alix Dobkin...................................... The Woman in Your Life....................98
Alix Dobkin...................................... Amazon ABC.....................................99
Chris Sitka........................................ The Labrys........................................100
Michelle Wing.................................. The Good Day..................................101
Ruth Mountaingrove......................... My Utopia........................................104
Bea Lieberman ................................. thanks to the sky...............................106
Jeane Orjas........................................ Circles of Women.............................107
Alix Greenwood................................ Let All Be Well.................................110
Alix Greenwood................................ On My 42nd Birthday`......................111
Andrea Nicki..................................... Circle................................................112
Nicole............................................... In Unison.........................................113
Mary Meriam . ................................. Girl Guide........................................120
Mary Meriam.................................... Something Good..............................121
Natasha Carthew............................... Home...............................................122
Natasha Carthew............................... Tide Turned Pebble...........................122
Natasha Carthew............................... Night Swimming..............................123
Pelican Lee........................................ Santa Fe in 2028...............................125
Bea Lieberman ................................. green waters......................................128
Cheryl J. Moore................................ Notes on a Momentous
Anti-Utopia, 2007.........................129
Mona Oikawa................................... Manitoba Winter..............................131
Batya Weinbaum............................... And the Women
Take Over Jerusalem......................133
Judith Rodriguez & Suzanne Bellamy....Review: The Butterfly Effect.............139
Julie R. Enszer................................... Reading Lesbian Poetry.....................141
Contributors’ Notes...................................................................................146
Books Received..........................................................................................156
Ads.............................................................................................................157
Correction..................................................................................................165
Back Issues.................................................................................................166
Subscription Information...........................................................................167
Upcoming Issues: Call for Material............................................................168
ART
Diane Germain................................. In This Place ....................... Front Cover
Roxanna N. Fiamma......................... Lesbians for Lesbians............................5
Chrystos............................................ Peace.....................................................7
Jae Haggard....................................... Village Center.......................................9
Jae Haggard....................................... Waterfall.............................................16
Sudie Rakusin................................... Untitled..............................................27
Sudie Rakusin................................... Hydromancer.....................................33
Sudie Rakusin................................... Creating a Glamour............................39

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Yvonne Pepin.................................... Womonseed Cover Art.......................43
Nancy Nau........................................ Brava..................................................47
Sudie Rakusin................................... Aeromancer........................................51
Francine............................................ Untitled..............................................53
Sudie Rakusin................................... Untitled..............................................58
Sudie Rakusin................................... X-ing..................................................59
Sudie Rakusin................................... Muse..................................................68
Sudie Rakusin................................... Dryad.................................................71
Dean Brittingham............................. Untitled..............................................77
Frances Lorraine................................ Old Dykes Gather..............................80
Sudie Rakusin................................... Grimalkin...........................................82
Sudie Rakusin................................... Oceanid..............................................87
Sudie Rakusin................................... Untitled..............................................93
Sudie Rakusin................................... Webster..............................................94
Tee A. Corinne.................................. Labrys...............................................100
Sudie Rakusin................................... Be-Spelling.......................................103
Nancy Nau........................................ Stumps.............................................109
Sudie Rakusin................................... Untitled............................................119
Francine............................................ Untitled............................................121
Sudie Rakusin................................... Untitled............................................124
Sudie Rakusin................................... Spinning...........................................132
Nancy Nau........................................ Twisted.............................................138
Sudie Rakusin................................... Augur...............................................145
Roxanna N. Fiamma......................... Cottontail.........................................155
CWLU.............................................. Sisterhood is Blooming......... Back Cover

Now Available on Tape
Sinister Wisdom #70 (30th Anniversary Celebration Issue)
Contact Fran Day at fran@sonic.net for more information. Appreciations
go to Feminist Audio Books for taping this issue. Feminist Audio Books(FAB) is a postal library service, producing and lending feminist, lesbian
and woman-focused books on audio tape. FAB also holds the stock from
Women’s Braille Press since it folded. FAB can act as a go-between for
women who wish to share their own audio books with other women. FAB
was set up in the 1980s by a group of visually impaired women who wanted
access to feminist texts on tape and was re-launched in 2000. By then more
feminist books were on tape so the emphasis moved to more (though notonly) lesbian and woman-focused novels. Web: www.feministaudiobooks.
org.uk. Email: books@feministaudiobooks.org.uk. FAB, c/o The Pankhurst
Centre, 60-62 Nelson Street, Manchester. M13 9WP U.K.
jody jewdyke taped Sinister Wisdom #62 several years ago and has plans totape additional issues. For updates, contact Fran Day at fran@sonic.net.

sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

Notes for a Magazine“The possible shapes of what has not been before exist only in that backplace, where we keep those unnamed, untamed longings for something
different and beyond what is now called possible, and to which ourunderstanding can only build roads.” Audre Lorde (“An Interview:
Audre Lorde and Adrienne Rich” Sister Outsider: Essays and Speeches by
Audre Lorde p. 101).
“Hopes for a Utopian Lesbian Universe. Dreams of an ideal world.
Yearnings for something ‘beyond what is now called possible.’” These were
the words we chose for our call for material for this issue of Sinister Wisdom.
The response? Once again, we found that we can count on our contributors
to inspire, excite, challenge, energize, and affirm. Their powerful words andimages will help us leap forward in our quest to, in Mary Daly’s words “Throw
off mindbindings/spiritbindings,” in order to “transform a necrophilic world”(Outercourse: The Be-Dazzling Journey, pp. xii, 414).
Many Lesbians have written about their hopes, dreams, and yearnings
for a better world. For example, in Gyn/Ecology (and her other books), Mary
Daly opens up “a deep and powerful sense of the possibility of our own andall women’s freedom” (p. xxxvii). She encourages us to “break through thesilence and the sounds of phallocentric babble” (p. xx) and live our “lives
as freely and furiously as possible” (p. xxxvii). In Wildfire, Sonia Johnson
encourages us to free ourselves and build a new world by “disengag(ing)
psychically, emotionally, materially, and economically from patriarchy
and all its institutions ” (p. i). Gloria Anzaldúa writes, “For positive socialchange to occur, we must imagine a reality that differs from what alreadyexists…. Activism is the courage to act consciously on our ideas….” (ThisBridge We Call Home, p. 5.) Merle Woo states “Those of us who have chosen
the path less traveled/Abandoning values of capitalism and patriarchy/Are
freedom fighters.” (Yellow Woman Speaks, p. 48). And from Chrystos: “Mybooks are shed snake skins of my fierce journey toward justice and safety
for the First Nations, called Indians.” (Resist: Essays Against a Homophobic
Culture, p. 227).

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Now in this issue of Sinister Wisdom we continue the journey: wereclaim our untamed minds, recover our inventive thoughts and actions,and build roads toward something “beyond what is now called possible.”
As Susan Hawthorne writes, “We drive into/ unknown places/ drive off themap of the known world/ into worlds we create for ourselves (The Butterfly
Effect, p. 71).
“May we possess the steadfastness of trees/ the quiet serenity of dawn/ thebrilliance of a flashing star//may the fires of compassion ignite our hands/ sending
energy out into the universe//may the love we share inspire others to act.”
Gloria Anzaldúa, This Bridge We Call Home, pp. 575-576.
Fran Day
Sebastopol, California

Lesbians for Lesbians Banner. Photo by Roxanna N. Fiamma. This banner was made by
SEPS (Separatists Enraged Proud and Strong) for the National March for Lesbian / Gay
Rights which was held on July 15, 1984 in San Francisco. The banner has been carried atmany other marches and displayed at numerous events.

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sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

Gloria E. Anzaldúa Book Prize
The National Women’s Studies Association is pleased to announce the
Gloria E. Anzaldúa Book Prize. The prize includes $1,000 and lifetime
membership in NWSA and recognizes groundbreaking scholarship in
women’s studies that makes significant multicultural feminist contributions
to women of color/transnational scholarship. The prize honors Gloria
Anzaldúa, a valued and long-active member of the National Women’s Studies
Association. For more information, go to www.nwsaconference.org.
Gloria E. Anzaldúa (1942 - 2004) was one of the first openly Lesbian
Chicana writers. She published essays, poetry, short stories, interviews,
anthologies and children’s books and was recognized as an innovative feminist
thinker and social activist. Her writing shaped the imagination and ethicsof our generation. Three ground-breaking anthologies — This Bridge Called
My Back: Writings by Radical Women of Color (1981, with Cherríe Moraga),
Making Face, Making Soul/Haciendo Caras: Creative and Critical Perspectives by
Feminists-of-Color (1990), and This Bridge We Call Home: Radical Visions forTransformation (2002, with AnaLouise Keating) — provided crucial space forwomen of color to develop theory and community. Borderlands/La Frontera:
The New Mestiza (1987) is a collection of poetry and prose that meshed thepersonal with the political in breathtaking depth. Borderlands/LaFrontera wasnamed one of the 100 Best Books of the Century by Hungry Mind Review
and Utne Reader.
Gloria played a major role in redefining contemporary Chicana andlesbian/queer identities and in developing an inclusionary feminist movement.
She was award ed a posthumous Ph.D. in literature from the University ofCalifornia, Santa Cruz. Gloria gave her loving support to numerous socialchange organizations; Sinister Wisdom was one of her many beneficiaries.
In 1984 she became a contributing editor and in 1987, participated in thefirst Sinister Wisdom West Coast benefit.

Appreciations: Thank you to the following supporters fortheir generous donations to Sinister Wisdom: Shaba Barnes,
Jemma Crae, Gail Dunlap, Marva Edwards, Roxanna
Fiamma, Marilyn Frye, Pat Gilmore, Pat H., Yvonne
Johnson, Cynthia Knight, Theodora Kramer, Joan L., Mary
Lewis, Laura M., Nicole M., Joan Margaret, Ann P., Rose
Provenzano, Ida Red, Cha Smith and Colleen Keller, Susan
Swope, and Denise Wallace.

winter 2007–2008

Painting by Chrystossinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

Jae Haggard

The Wimmin of Our Dreams
Being Authentic, Real, Big and Listening to ourSelves is, I believe, themost personal, political and spiritual choice we can make to tangibly andenergetically transform our lives and the world.
A single word that can describe all that is amiss and out-of-harmony
in mainstream culture is disconnected. Only in systemic disconnection canthat culture, that political system, those hierarchies survive. Whenever andin whatever ways people connect, we dis-empower patriarchal culture.
When we are Authentic, we can and do Connect with Earth, Selves,
others and Spirit. When we are connected we can cooperate, make choices tomeet the needs of all, can be freely caring and can love, truly and heartfully
care.
When we are loving we cannot at the same time fear. I believe fearis the source of our insecurity, competitiveness, scarcity, domination andevery kind of dis-ease / dis-harmony. It is also the single most essential tool
needed to control us.
To live in a world without fear is to live, thrive and expand in a paradigm
that simply is not conceivable when our perception of possibilities is definedby fear. Our most radical choice—define our context by choices based in
caring and love.
So, I say discard and refuse outside definitions and limits. We cannot
stop fear or any other unhelpful behavior or attitude by focusing on it. Wechange by glimpsing how we can be, how we want to live and relate and thensimply doing it. Not seem natural—still, just embrace how we glimpse wewant to be and then act as if. As we embrace the ‘new ways,’ the acculturated
behaviors and attitudes we no longer find helpful disappear for they justplain no longer have relevance.
By embracing and in whatever tiny steps living the Connecting glimpses,
we change ourselves and by extension the world.
Some years ago I read Marija Gimbutas describing a women’s culture she
discovered in her archeological searches. She uses oral tradition, intuition
and archaeological findings to recreate pre-patriarchal life in Europe—life
where the values of women are central, where villages are located on themost arable land rather than the most defensible position, where there are
no weapons and no killing.

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Reading her work, I wonder how life was for these Wimmin—a land
where for thousands of years there was no war or aggression and no impositionof other male values or violence. How boggling to consider lives not moldedby fear.
One trait that I love about many Lesbians and my community of
Landykes is our real conscious search for ways to live in balance with the
Earth and other wimin. One way I search is asking myself what a life among
women, in a Lesbian context and sprouting from Lesbian Spirit, might belike. I picture an ordinary this-world / time dyke unintentionally visiting
WimminsWorld. Her ourworld name is Patty. In the world of the Wimmin
she fittingly becomes Chrysalis. I put these explorations into a book titled,
The Wimmin of Our Dreams.
What does Patty / Chrysalis observe, learn and ask as she lives and createsa life with the Wimmin? The thoughts I come up with are certainly not new,
yet they help me find clarity, more questions, and expanded awareness inmy everyday life. I glimpse more possibilities of how I can be more who I
want to be and how women could live. Once glimpsed, I can live closer tomy ideal.
The following stories are excerpts from both Patty / Chrysalis’ Journaland her conversations with the Wimmin, especially Ocean, an old potter inthe village. The Journal includes musings and observations as well as lettersto her Lesbian friends and lover back home in the Otherworld— letters she
knows may never be read.

Drawing by Jae Haggard

10sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

Introducing The Wimmin
It isn’t so long ago, or so far away, not really. In that timespace there is
no word for fear. In villages and towns, on the land, in the woods, on the
shores, fear is unknown. On the plains, in the hills, along the rivers, fear does
not exist. On the roads and in the homes, there is no need for fear. Seasonsand temperatures make no difference, nor does the lightness of sunrise or
the dark of night. This is the world of the Wimmin.
The Wimmin know grief for there are partings,
disappointments, death.
The Wimmin know regret for in any time or place
hasty words can be spoken.
The Wimmin know disappointment for not always
does anyone get everything wanted or in the way expected.
The Wimmin understand hardship for the weather can be bitter andeven here the crops can fail and sickness can come into a body. Yet,they don’t call these things hardships as we would. To them these arecycles of life.
Anger is not unknown. There are momentary sparks quickly released
and aimed at no one and no thing.
There is no fear of hunger for grains are stored for the lean years. Neveramong the wimmin does one starve while others are sated.
Since all have what is needed, there is no fear of loss.
Since all are respected and treated with kindness, there is no fear ofrevenge.
In the Wimmin there is no word for fear—for there is nothing to fear,
no one to fear, to envy, to be jealous of, no one to distain or despise, no
one to outwit or defeat or even to defend against.
In a people who do not fear, giving and sharing bring the greatest joy.
Assisting each other and working together in good spirit, laughter andsong is a given.
For a people who do not fear, all that is done is creative, expansive.
Planting, building, celebrating, making clothing, crafting homes andearthware and baskets and adornments. Using colors, textures, rocks orshells, grasses or woods, fabrics or clays, fingers or knives. All is done in theease of there-is-always-plenty-of-time to make things beautiful, to makethem just right, to go with the maker’s imagination, to savor the making.

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11

The Wimmin labor for themselves and for each other, their work always ofthe essentials— shelter, food, satisfaction, laughter, creativity, connection.
Since all use according to need, there is no waste. Since each uses what
she needs, no more or less, there are no shortages.
Since all trust in each other, there is no hoarding. Profit is quite beyond
the comprehension of the Wimmin.

Among the Wimmin happiness is highly regarded. Although they would
be surprised we even note that, for what is there besides joy and appreciationof life, of each other, of the Earth. Joy is connection, the Wimmin live inconnection. They know no other way.
All is done from the heart, is given from the heart, is enjoyed from theheart. And the heart is a most creative place. When there is no fear, the heart
can be most open indeed.
To the Wimmin there is no question but to attend the tiniest first feelingsof imbalance or dis-ease whether in themselves or each other.
The Wimmin’s days are filled with appreciation, with the big and little,
alone and together celebrations—some quiet, some downright rowdy, in thelaughing and dancing sense, of course.
The Wimmin appreciate, and even more than that treasure and takedelight in themselves, each other, the Earth, every part of their lives. Although
they do not know the word, compassion fills the lives of the Wimmin—for
the joys and agonies of one are felt by all.
Another word the Wimmin do not know is Lesbian. Yet, these wimminlove other wimmin from the very depths of their being. The Wimmin knowLove.
Not so long ago there is no word for fear. Can we for a moment imagine
a world, a life, a society without fear? On the surface no and no again. Yet,look a little deeper— feel that sigh, feel the heart expand, feel the start-ofa-smile, feel the tears just behind the eyes. The Knowing of this Life is in us.
We can touch it, remember it. And, we can help to create it, live it again.
For I am of the Wimmin as are you.
Not so long ago, or so far away, not really, the Wimmin live on the land
and in villages, unable to imagine fear. Knowing only connection, creativity
and celebration. They call it life. Perhaps it is time for us also to once again
live. Shall we live, build our lives— together.

12sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

Journal— Disappear

Do you think I just disappeared and died? Or, can you feel my messages
to know that I’m here? Even in a sci-fi it would be almost clichéd. Girlfriends
take day off and pack picnic lunch for romantic outing. Go to inviting cavebehind waterfall of anyone’s dreams. Laugh, talk, make love, eat lots. One
walks deeper into the cave and disappears. For a moment the disappeared
one hazily sees her lover searching and faintly hears her calling. Then all isgone, as the Veil slips back into place. Gone. All the makings of a grade B
soap opera. Oh, Leaf, what could you think happened?
Early Letter to Leaf
Leaf—I want so much to be with you. Even more, I want you here withme, among these wimmin. You’d fit in here even better than you fit in thoselavender longjanes you wear all winter. I see you everywhere— laughing overeveningmeal in the gatherhouse, planting the corn, repairing the leaky roof,
holding a friend who is sad, talking endlessly about this plan or that. This is
your place. How can it possibly be that I’m the one here while you’re there
struggling and dreaming of a place like this? It’s more than ironic.
The Village. I’ve been here just a few days now. I’m learning my way
around the village and ways of the Wimmin. Well, village maybe makes issound bigger than it is. It’s a lot how I’d imagine a Lesbian land with a bunchof dykes of all ages living there. It’s really true, there are no men. None.
There never have been as far as I can tell. That alone makes this a world ofanyone’s dreams! I don’t understand it, but I’ll sure take it, thank you verymuch indeed. Do you know I haven’t had one single nightmare since I camehere. You who hold me night after night when I wake up screaming or crying
know that’s a capital M miracle.
There are about two dozen huts. Most hold one womn each, but othershouse several. Apparently they decide who wants to live alone and who inpairs or trios and who in groups and that’s how they do it. Everyone lives
where they want. Already in my stay, two wimmin have exchanged huts andone has moved to an empty dwelling further from the village ‘center.’Center just means there’s a kind of plaza area. The houses spreadloosely out from there without any obvious design. Near the center there’s
a well, several benches and a couple of big sure-look-like-piñon trees. The
community center is here. They call it the Gatherhouse. Big breakfasts calledfirstmeal and suppers are made here for everyone to eat together if they

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13

want. Suppers are predictably called lastmeals. They don’t have a preparedcommunity lunch but someone gets out leftovers and sandwich makings. I
guess some habits are similar in any culture.
During an early conversation with Ocean
my name is ocean. It is a name that flows from the heart of me. perhaps
your name, patty, has special meaning where you come from? for me it isquite enough to live my naming—to run deep like the waters, to find myunexplored depths.
the wimmin name ourselves. we are a people who take our names toheart.
Journal Musings
The world of the Wimmin is so different from home.
jjj Life is different because there is no resistance to change.
jjj Life is different because with no dis-ease to unbalance health, healthis the norm, what’s expected. Wholeness and well-being are accepted, no big
deal.
jjj This world is different because the Wimmin are aware of theirintegrity. They really know and believe how important they are in the wholescheme.
jjj This is a different world because the Wimmin are deeply aware of
their world and their connection to everything and every womn in it.
jjj I know this is a different world because the Wimmin love, everything,
all the time.
jjj This is a different world because every womn likes herself.
jjj This is a different world because work, laughter, joy and sorrow are
all equally accepted as part of life. None are denied.
jjj I know I’m in a different world because everyone gives and everyone
receives in a constant flow. No one goes without and no one has excess.
This is a different world because a stranger like me can walk in, bewelcomed, become a part of it, thrive and feel at home.
Every woman should live in a different world.
Journal Musings—Pain
The Wimmin experience pain. The temporary pain of a stubbed toe orscratched finger or broken arm. The pain of disappointment in themselves
and each other when they needlessly hurt another by action or word. The

14sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

pain of separation when one decides to leave to live in a distant village. The
pain of separation when one dies. These are the kinds of pains to be expected
in a womn’s life.
The Wimmin don’t experience the pain of betrayal, of physical violence,of intrusion, of violation. They don’t experience the pain of fear for themselves
or for others they love. They don’t experience the pain of disconnection,
discouragement, despair or other diseases. They don’t experience the painof dominance or submission. They don’t experience the pain of dreading or
not caring what the day will bring. They do not know these pains imposedand endured in man’s world.
Under no circumstances, ever, do the Wimmin play with pain. Neverdo the Wimmin think life’s learnings or creativity need to come out of pain.
Never do they wish any kind of pain on themselves or on another creature or
womn. And, never do they in any form create or glorify pain. They cannot
comprehend these practices of a man’s world.
In all these ways, I know I am in a different world. It is painfully clear.
Journal Musings—Movement
The Wimmin don’t retreat, don’t even need a retreat. Their very lives area retreat. There isn’t a moment that they aren’t involved with and downrightrelishing their lives. There is nothing the Wimmin wish to escape from or to.
Since there is nothing to escape, the Wimmin can embrace their lives, canfeel expansive, can recognize possibilities. In the drawing-in that accompanies
retreat, it’s difficult to consider change or movement. The Wimmin are apeople of movement.
Journal—Habits
In countless ways, every day I make choices that shape my life. Eachchoice is a brick. Mortared together, one by one, these bricks build my life.
From the life I choose to live, my possibilities sprout— for myself and withothers.
Societal systems may limit my choices. Socialized beliefs may inhibit mychoices. Circumstance may influence my choices. Yet, in every situation, inevery moment I have some measure of choice.
My choices may be active and conscious or passive and unthinking. I may
listen to my own deep Voice or move in the wake of habit, ways someone
else trained me to be or that I slipped into. I may move on my own path or
float along in someone else’s directions and expectations.
Conscious choice is being true to mySelf and knowing myself in bigger
Connection. I can be honest with others only when I am true to myself. I

winter 2007–200815

can be true to myself only when I live my connection to others.
I lay my bricks caringly in a thoughtful pattern. I handle each, deliberateover each. I practice until my brick-laying becomes habit. Today’s conscious
choices, practiced regularly, can become tomorrow’s conscious habit.
Among the Wimmin I’m getting a lot of practice. I want to take thishabit home with me.
Journal—BeFriend
The Wimmin talk to the trees. In their building and carving they use
the deadwoods. Would they chop down the life of a friend?
The Wimmin talk with the creatures. If they need leather or fur, thewimmin use that given by an animal who is already dead. Would they
intentionally shorten the life of a friend?
The Wimmin talk with the Earth. They tend the soil in the cycles of
the Earth, gently with their hands and their handtools. Would they gouge
the body of a friend?
The Wimmin talk with each other, and listen deeply. They tend eachother in their joy and sorrow. Would they abandon a friend?
Among the Wimmin, I learn how in countless ways, every day, I makechoices that shape my life and the lives of all around me.
Among the Wimmin, I have learned the meaning of BeFriend.
Conversation with Ocean— Pay
Ocean, are wimmin paid for all they do?
pay? what is that? you are as stuck on own and pay as the fresh pine
sap to fingers in the planting season. the wimmin live, each doing what isneeded for herself and all others to live with happiness, contentment andconnection. no one wants what another cannot have. what the wimmin
do, we do because it is fitting, because we want to, because it needs doing,
because it is part of the wholeness of everyone’s giving and receiving, because
it brings satisfaction.
the wimmin count on ourselves and each other. yet the wimmin do notcount. when you do not count all is valued. each womn has all we need. if
there is a shortage of something, the shortage is spread among all so none
suffer. there is nothing to barter, there certainly is nothing to sell, no one tobuy and nothing to pay with. we do not need your word ‘pay.’when each womn gives and receives, all putting forth effort for ourselves
and for each other, we are provided a bountiful satisfying life. the wimmin thriveon the energy that surrounds us, freely given and freely received.

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sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

Conversation with Ocean— Waterfall
Ocean, what do you do when a womn does not like another womn? Does thisever happen?

Drawing by Jae Haggard

does it happen? our connection sings to us louder than the largest flockof piñon jays. mostly we make pests of ourselves appreciating each other. ithink we have discovered every way there could possibly be to thank eachother, touch, stroke, kiss, say how important each is and on and on likethe waves from the great seas. yet it is only my imagination that is limited
for the wimmin continue to find ways to express appreciation. to stop the
movement of our appreciation is like trying to stop the birds’ move withthe seasons.
every now and then two wimmin grate on each other like tumbling rocks
under a waterfall. these rocks are whole and magnificent. the waterfall createsa beautiful liveplace for the rocks and enlivens the very airs. the waters singin profound chorus. the rocks share a life in this amazing place. yet the rocks,
moved by the water, bounce and rub against each other. they are worn, feelbruised, are irritated with each other and the closeness.
when two wimmin find themselves butting against each other, they
search in themselves for what is happening. they listen to their Voices.
they meet in mendcircle. they gather friends around to assist in easing thetension. at each step comes more understanding, more resolution. on a rareoccasion understanding comes but resolution fleets by like the first whiff ofspring in the air.

winter 2007–200817

at this point it is helpful to encourage physical distance between the
two. we are a small village yet there is a variety of huts. there are several times
to mealgather. there are many wimmin to work with, to play or talk with.
in gathercircle rhythm, each womn present speaks to all rather than to justone and in gathercircle it is always possible to set aside the irritations daily
maneuvering with each other can bring. so the wimmin move to more distanthuts, choose tasks that take them to different places, meet with different
friends so they do not have to bump into each other.
is this a matter of one womn not liking another? i do not know. that
does not feel the right phrase. it is moreso not wanting to be so close toeach other.
when the stones move from the turbulent water under the falls to live
quietly around the pool, they no longer bump. instead they find they have
many experiences and views in common. they crave someone with the same
experiences to talk with, to laugh and commiserate. they find their voices
rise together singing appreciation for the waterfall. they admire the many
animals that come to drink, the many wimmin who come to bathe and play.
such stories they have to tell each other.
now that they are no longer bumping into each other the rocks findthey rather like chatting together. there is a feeling of closeness and sharedexperience. the friendship grows in the peace of the quiet waters. now when
the rocks butt into each other in the turbulent waters, it is in play. the bumps
no longer feel like clashings. as they bounce and dance around the pool thestones feel the many smoothnesses of the water and of each other.
so it is with the wimmin as they enter the dance of the rocks, eventually
to be rocked in each others arms.
Journal— Random Thoughts
I’m constantly sparked by the ideas and ideals of the Wimmin. I forgetmost of the thoughts before I get to my Journal, but do have a few scraps with
notes on them. Fortunately, I suspect the ideas keep percolating wherever
they are!
jjj The Wimmin are so incredibly generous about everything. They
have true generosity of heart. That kind of heartfelt giving makes somuch else possible. So very much about life here is a given.
jjj Many of the foods the Wimmin cook are served in large communal
bowls. Everyone just scoops or spoons right out of it. I’m thinking
that if this was more common in the Otherworld people would havemuch more concern for the health of everyone else.

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sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

jjj I’m learning that telling time is a lot about careful observation—
which insects are out, which birds are calling, which plants areblooming. Is the four o’clock beginning to close? Where does the sun
rise and set? Which way does the young sunflower point? Where are
the familiar star clusters? In all the countless details, the Wimmin
know the time of day and the time of year. I am learning.
jjj Everything among the Wimmin is done in no-time.
jjj There is so much space in the lives of the Wimmin. They don’t
clutter their yards or their living spaces or their hearts. I think of
how much stuff most of us collect in the Otherworld. We fill ourrooms, our shelves, our cars, our backpacks, even our pockets. We
fill our appointment (and what really is the point?) books, fill ourevenings, fill our weekends. We fill our bodies with junk foods, junkideas. We fill our hearts with junk feelings. We carry more clutter
than a porcupine has quills. What, I wonder, are we trying to keep
out? What possibilities would open up if there was more room in
our homes and hearts? Let’s space-out!
jjj Living in Wimminsworld sometimes I can hardly believe howcontented I am when my life has so much content.
jjj The Wimmin do not, in any world’s imagination, close themselves.
No wonder I feel so close to them.
jjj This seems to be a world where there are no rewards or punishments,
yet we all live with the repercussions of what we do. Consequences
are not a threat but a movement of life’s cycles.
jjj In life among the Wimmin, there are no edges to walk, no cuttingedge to live on, no edges to get on anyone. There are no limits topush. Oh, what a life!
Conversation with Ocean—Huts
Ocean, do wimmin own their houses?
another day you ask who owns the food. we do not know this ‘own’
whether of the food or the friend or the shelter. we use what we need. when

winter 2007–2008

19

we no longer treasure or need one of our gifts, we pass it on.
every womn needs food of some kind. every womn requires shelter. weknow our own needs. we care about each other’s needs. the wimmin meet
our own needs and we assist each other, providing for the needs of each andall. together we build huts so there is space for each womn. we each takecare that the hut in which we live is attended and kept in good repair. when
we wish a change, we exchange spaces or move into an unused hut or cometogether and build a new one. we build our lives as we build our houses.
why would I own a hut? the snake lives in her skin until she outgrows
it. does the snake wish to carry her sheds with her? such effort and to what
purpose? carrying with us all the gifts we are done with turns them into
burdens.
in the other world you have much to learn about sheds.
Journal Musings—Embrace
jjj To embrace is to choose, to move, to act.
jjj To embrace is to be our own agents, responsible for our own
choices.
jjj To embrace is to release ways we have learned to be passive, self-less,even victims.
jjj To embrace is to welcome, look forward to, celebrate.
jjj To embrace is to be present, be real, be clear.
jjj To embrace is to be alive.
The Wimmin embrace themselves, each other, their lives. My life
with the Wimmin is a warm embrace.
NOTE: Jae’s 148-page land-published book The Wimmin of Our Dreams will
be available again summer 2007 to any womon who wants a copy. Donation
to help pay duplication and shipping costs most helpful. Jae Haggard, PO
Box 130, Serafina, New Mexico 87569. JaeHaggard@gmail.com

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sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

Jacqueline Elizabeth Letalien

Every Possibility
every possibility
creatively
moves to more
endless
space fills
with the flowing
movements of power________________
breath flows
rhythmicallyfor her self
no thoughts or plansno rule to obey
exceptto breatheand be________________
gentle wills
bring usaway from fearand despair
into calm being
gentle nights
bring usaway from dread
and trembling
into wise presence________________

winter 2007–2008

the magik moves
to manifest in the invisible links
the heart calls up
the presence of unseen influencesfrom the hidden dreamings
into empowerment
the magik moves
to live with courage without dread
the chant restoresthe origin of the crystal temple
from the scattered shards
into wholeness________________
feel the pulse
the drumming heart
across time and eonstracings of loves birthing
for thousands of years
sense wing beats
the humming soundfrom wills of bird flightsoarings of majesty
from spirits of light

21

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sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

Ellen Williams

The Womelia of Estesusa
The veil lifted many years ago. A time and space almost unfamiliar tome now as smoky cities and murky rivers, and the busy bodies in early morn
preparing for their congested day. Even the echo of screeching rubber wheels
on hot asphalt have long been silenced. These images and sounds only visit
me when I concentrate to develop them in my mind. Then and then only,
do they come to me. It is quiet now, all is peaceful and at agreement. I sit on
top of Valarsheus, one of the many tall lavender mountains on Estesusa.
From here I can see the cobalt blue ocean from all sides of Estesusa. The
mist from her is comforting to my skin. The chartreuse colored grass is full,and bearing fuchsia lilies. They too, give love to the heels of my feet. I only
attempt to describe the beauty of Estesusa, but it only seems to diminish
its glory.
I am Ursheria, the warrior, and the record keeper. For here in Estesusa,
there is no time, yet for the record, I must go back in time within me, todocument where we came from and where we are now. At present, on planet
earth, the year is 2020. Thirteen years ago, I remember when the veil began
to lift, and planet earth began to weave into other dimensions, turning on
its axis, creating extreme temperatures and chaotic weather patterns. But
mostly, the imbalance settled within each human soul. This disturbanceonly occurred within humans who were unwilling to acknowledge that theworld was changing and smothered from hatred and pollution.
I was 43 years old at the time when the shift subtly began to take place.
Like few, or many, I had been born with “the gift.” Here, in Estesusa theycall it the inner-self actualizing. Like a woman in labor, my dreams andvisions began to heighten within me. Ever intense, ever immediate. All ofthese insights showed the new coming world approaching, and all to takeplace in 2012.
I was often visited by beings from other worlds. The Arcturians inparticular. The beings of love and light from Arcturus, the brightest star in
the Bootes Constellation. I wrote all these things down and pondered themin my heart. I shared them with my partner Iddian, and A’baha, a woman
whom the universe placed into our lives. We loved her deeply. Iddian andA’baha also had gifts. Iddian hands were often very warm and electricity
flowed through them. She healed many. A’baha also had the gift to heal.
They both taught and had a wealth of wisdom. They still have these gifts.

winter 2007–2008

23

With their help and guidance, I stepped into the self I was destined to be,
the warrior and record keeper I am now. At that time, I was afraid of myown powers. Seeing future events, stepping into other dimensions, andviewing Akashic records. These were but a few. Surely as sun and moongrace the heavens, I became non-afraid. With the suffering of the humanrace, especially the lesbian human race, I embraced my powers to assist otherlesbian leaders to ready our departure to this present utopia.
Many were predicting that 2012 would mark the end of the world.
Yet, Earth still remains, only in another dimension. The end came only inthe shifting of the minds and form of the body. I was told by another lightbody, an Ascended Divine Mother, that in 2010, suddenly humans who
studied peace and love would began to disappear into the 5th dimension,and the Headline news would declare these bodies missing from abduction
or unexplained murders. The first signs of the veil being lifted would bedisharmony and uncomfortable-ness within the self. Humans would be moreagitated, angrier, more selfish, and have a deep feeling that something was
missing from their lives. All would search desperately to find some peace,
unfortunately, seeking synthetic joy and peace with substances not good forthe body or mind. When all along peace and joy resided within “the self ”
or higher mind. There were no real religions, but, each body inhabited
its own religion according to its DNA, and what caused that “body” full
empowerment, peace, and joy. And when this discovery was tapped into, allgood became of it. Sadly, only a few humans took the time to embrace or
listen to what their higher self really wanted, thus, creating a world of chaos
within themselves and spreading to a world of chaos outside themselves.
The Ascended evolved being also informed me that crime would becomecommonplace throughout the world, as it already had become, only more.
And because few had any real concerns about polluting Mother Earth, shewould throw-up her waters upon the shores, and earthquakes would shakethe ground, causing the soil of the U.S. to separate, and the waters would
flow through those separations, creating a huge river to flow from the top of
Canada to the end of Mexico. All these things happened…and more.
It is difficult to imagine all these events now as I sit atop Valarsheus. For
women love freely here, there is no discord, no laws to inhibit our love forthe other. The trees bear us bountiful fruit from their wombs and there isplenty for everyone. As I sit here, I sense Oyishya calling me. She has cometo see how far I have gotten with my recording. For I do not record like we
did on Earth on paper, or computers. Our minds are our recorders. Thereis nothing we forget, and yet, if we choose, we place the things we wish

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sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

not to think of on the higher shelf within our thoughts. We communicate
with our minds and hearts, and although our skin shade is different fromthe other, there is no race in the sense that the Earth declares. For we are
all called Womelia. In this way, we are all one.
Oyishya comes and sits down beside me. Thought form, “Hello, Usheria
my sister. How is your recording coming along?”“Very well. I was just about to take a break and go eat at the Chalet.
“Well, let us go. I am getting hungry also.” She smiles and kisses mycheek.
We climb down from Valarsheus and take the shortest route along theriver Jamaya, named after another woman warrior, as myself. I can see theRainbow fish scurrying between the indigo grass blades and crystals in theclear water. I glance up at the stars that can be seen in the daytime here in
Estesusa.
Oyishaya looks at me and sends a vibration. “Yes, it is beautiful here,
isn’t it?”I send one back to her. “I can never get used to its beauty.” I smile.
“Are you attending the ceremony for our new sisters who just arrived?”
She asks.
“Indeed. I would not miss it for anything.” A bluebird swoops down
and sits upon my shoulder. I rub her gently and send her love. She returns
the love as we continue walking.
Oyishaya stops and looks intense—a result of fighting for Gay andLesbian Rights during her purpose on planet Earth. “I want to travel throughthe veil to get the rest of our sisters on Earth.”“You will one day. One day you will get your turn to do just that. But
remember, our sisters on Earth chose to stay there, whether consciously or
unconsciously. I believe one day they will find the courage, through their
dreams, to step through the dimensions and be with us. And remember mysister Oyishaya, us warriors do go back every ten years to compel our sisters
to come. We cross through the veil and attempt to contact them throughdreams and visions, like the Arcturians did us. But if they aren’t ready toaccept the things they cannot see, they will not accept us. They must believein themselves and the power that is stored within them. How I wish we
could travel there more often, but the veil is sometimes very difficult for us
to pass through. We are Light Bodies. Now, and often the lower vibrationsof Earth weakens us, and sometimes holds us to Earth if we aren’t attuned
to the higher vibrations.”“Sa-sa’ia,” She sends to my solar plexus. It is an emotion of deep love.
I am still getting used to this passionate orgasmic feeling.

winter 2007–2008

25“Sa-sa’ia.” I smile and send it back to her.
Oyishya is what would be considered Caucasian on earth, and I African
American. When we arrived on Estesusa, we were made soul sisters. Eachwoman is given a soul sister. Much like a sibling on earth, but closer. Although
I have thick black hair and chestnut skin, and she blond hair and ivory, we
have an essence of the other given to us by the transforming of light, color,and DNA. To explain it would take days. All I know is that it is.
I can tell we are getting close to our village by the stronger vibrations I
feel. “Have you seen Iddian and A’baha this day?” I ask Oyishya.
“When I went to commune with the sisters this morning, I saw Iddain
in the temple. She was sending healing vibes to some one on Earth. Later,
I saw A’baha sitting on the side of the Golden Bath in the Center, teaching
the Womelia. Both asked if I’d seen you.”
I smiled from the information.
“It is wonderful that the three of you knew and loved each other onplanet Earth, and now share a home together here on Estesusa, still carrying
on this great work for Mother Goddess.”“Oyishya,” I say, “We all have gifts here on Estesusa. All Womelia arevery special. Before we are born in human form, we are called to do a great
work, even if we did not know it on Earth it was encoded in our ethereal
body. You were a powerful fighter for Lesbian Rights on earth, and you still
are powerful. You must go to the data bank of your higher mind and bringit forth to your conscious mind and keep it there.”“Yes, my sister. I must. Thank you.” She kisses my cheek.
“Thank you, for this time of love and sharing,” I reply.
The smell of fresh bananas and berries reach my senses as we enter thevillage. A large group of women greet us, sending their loving vibes tous. I give my loving goodbye to Oyisha and embrace Junipher, a Womelia
Warrior as myself.
Junipher greets me with a loving hug and strength. I become stronger
and powerful by her vibrations. I look over to the full table of plenteous
fresh fruits and see Iddain and A’baha sitting together. They see me and smileand I feel their healing power and wisdom flood my gates of womanhood.
Soon, we will go home and share what each of us has been given this day,and what we gave. Soon, and very soon, we will cross through the veiland make another mission to planet Earth to rescue our other sisters. We
will bring them into our loving fold of everlasting peace, good health andharmony. Our journey will be dangerous and many will not listen to ourmessage at first, but we will reach them with love. Our mission is to leavenone behind—for to leave any behind, we leave ourselves behind.

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sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

Tanager

Dreams of a Lesbian Feminist Utopia
I’m dreaming of a Lesbian Feminist Utopia. I dream of a peaceful placeof love, equality, abundance, freedom, safety, and harmony. No crime, rape,
murder, overpopulation, or poverty. A planet without misogyny, sexual
harassment, violence, female infanticide, pornography, genital mutilation,
gender selection, deforestation, or global warming.
My dreams are filled with images of living on a planet where we canleave our doors unlocked. Where we can leave our windows open on hot
summer nights. I want to live in a place where we are safe to go everywherealone or hand in hand, dressed or not, at any hour, day or night.
I’m yearning for a testosterone-free universe. No wars, genocide,appropriation, torture, sado-masochism, forced prostitution, corporations,pollution or toxic chemicals. I think about how the quality of our lives would
be different without hierarchies, competition, abuse, genetic engineering,or stress-related illnesses.
I want to live in a world without greed, hunger, scarcity, money, themilitary, electric shock treatments, exploitation, animal experimentation orenvironmental illnesses.
I dream of living in a galaxy without fat and size oppression, girdles,
anorexia, bulimia, stomach stapling, or gastric partitioning, I want toknow what it would feel like to have never been subjected to patriarchal
brainwashing, rhetoric, or conditioning.
I think about how the past might have been different. No phallocracy,colonization, imperialism, slavery, gynocide, Holocaust, foot bindings,
witch burnings, clitoridectomies, or ozone depletion. I wonder what ourlives would be like if we had never experienced or witnessed sexism, racism,classism, elitism, looksism, ageism, anti-Semitism, ableism, Lesbophobia,
heterosexism, sadism, or masochism.
I’m dreaming of living on a planet without beauty contests, the fashionindustry, perfume, cosmetics, electrolysis, liposuction, plastic surgery,winter 2007–2008

27

corsets, high heels, insecticides, pesticides, capitalism, napalm, acid rain,
or lobotomies. I’m yearning for a life with no fears, worries, anxieties,
pressure, stress, snobbery, cruelty, or humiliation. No guns, killing, or
homelessness.
I want to live in a place of abundance. Plenty of food, love, shelter, timeand energy for all of us. A peaceful world filled with fun, relaxation, laughter,music, art, dance, and Lesbian literature. I want to go there now with myLesbian sisters and all our animal relatives.

“Untitled” by Sudie Rakusin ©

28sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

Beatrice Ilana Lieberman
merciful time
the green hills
are spreadyellow mustard
narcissus
and quince
i no longer
can covermy longing
for sunnor keep the rainfrom falling down
merciful time
do not returnto mewith memory
merciful time
return to me
onlywith your handholding springwinter 2007–2008

29

Susan Wiseheart and Jenna Weston

The Mists of Aradia“Someone, I say, will remember us in the future” -Sappho
Back in the mists of time, before word processors, cell phones and ipods, there
existed a secret tribe of strong, creative, wild women. These women lived, not ina deep forest, or on a remote island, but in the midst of a largish city filled withchurches, malls and freeways. Known to each other as “Aradians”, these womenbuilt a complex culture that was embedded in the surrounding Flatlands, while
being invisible to all but those to whom the women chose to reveal themselves.
Aradians called their hidden world Aradia, after the goddess Diana’s daughter,
who was sent to Earth to promote self –sufficiency in women’s lives.
This all began in an era known as “The Seventies.” At that point in time andin that particular place, conditions were just right for all the necessary elements
to come together. The Women’s Movement was still fresh and full of idealistic
naivety. Lesbians were bursting from their closets and finding each other. The
Flatlander’s City was large enough to supply a good number of Feminist andLesbian women. Technology then was at a relatively low level of development;so many women were needed to accomplish tasks that in later eras would require
only one or two women and their electronic machines.
The socio-political context of their surroundings was repressive and boringenough to drive the women to create their own separate society. And the dominant
mainstream culture was so ethnocentric that it literally could not recognize
anything that was not itself. Thus, the women were free to go about their business
unhindered by the strictures that kept the Flatlanders’ lives in check.
Both an organization and a community, Aradia was constructed with asemi permeable membrane which allowed the women to move freely in and out
at will, but prevented unwanted entrance from the outside
The women spent some time (as little as they could get away with) on theoutside, disguised as Flatlanders. This is where they obtained what few goods andservices they could not provide for themselves within Aradia. Unbeknownst to
the real Flatlanders, many of their resources were brought back and “donated”
to help keep the Aradian way of life going.
Although Aradian women and their children did not all live in the same
house-- there were far too many of them for that-- their lives were intertwinedin ways that made a kind of movable collective homeplace. Nearly every aspect ofcommunity life was provided for, from entertainment, socializing and assistance30

sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

with physical- plane concerns to emotional support, creative expression andspiritual development.
Aradia was a self-created alternative culture. It was inspired by utopian
tales and myths the women had read and heard about. In their research theylearned that the term” utopia” was defined as “imaginary” and “perfect.” The
women knew that Aradia was not imaginary. For that matter, neither was it
perfect. But it was the closest thing to a Lesbian Utopia any of its inhabitants
had ever actually experienced.
In the late seventies, after quite a few women from the Grand Rapids,
Michigan area attended the first Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival, the dreamof creating an organization that would help us remove ourselves as much as
possible from the patriarchy became real. “Let’s form an organization,” wesaid, “Let’s call a meeting. Let’s try to start working for ourselves instead offor ‘the man’.”We just forged ahead, doing all we could to be what we wanted to be,
a Lesbian Utopia existing simultaneously with the patriarchy, using thepatriarchy for our own purposes. We gathered regularly to give each othersupport and a sense of family and community, doing our best to create analternative to the present mainstream culture, one that celebrated us as thewomen-loving-women we were. Though not every one of us was a dyke,
each of us loved women and most of us called ourselves Lesbians.
There was a pervasive feeling of magic and excitement for about a decade,as we held parties, played softball, wrote and produced plays and photographyshows, opened a gallery for women’s art, held concerts and celebrations,
made slide shows of ourselves, gave workshops, worked hard for theongoing presence of the Michigan Womyn’s Music Festival, produced several
publications (Innerviews, Otherviews, Practicing Antiracism, Wimmin ofEarth Bonding), connected with other Lesbians across the Earth, valued ourown work, and, most of all made for ourselves a sense of belonging.
We claimed that everything we did-- from mothering to auto mechanics
to construction, house-painting, teaching, working on the line, being partof the Dyke Patrol, the Domestic Crisis Center, the Rape Crisis Team, theTake Back the Night coordinating group, writing, taking photos, all of it,
was Aradia work.
Though we set up a system of task forces* and sub-task forces covering
every possible thing we could come up with, we did not try to think up workfor each area; we simply categorized what we already were doing, for pay ornot, as Aradian work under one or more of those task forces.

winter 2007–2008

31

Aradia seemed to us revolutionary, in fact evolutionary and many of us
felt what one of us later described, “as if we were all in love with each other”.
We were a huge girl gang that spread out from our geographic center to join
up with Lesbians wherever we found us. We were a family, a community, alegal entity, and an amorphous group, some of whom “joined” as members
and some of whom attended events or simply read our publications.
While we were doing all this, we were aware that many other womenacross the globe were also getting together to create and celebrate women’sculture. We felt allied with and inspired by their efforts. We would hearthat somewhere a women’s bookstore was founded. Somewhere else lesbians
started a restaurant. In yet another location women began an all-female rockband. Those endeavors encouraged us and added to the feeling that, if we sodesired, Aradia could constitute a daily way of life-- and for many of us it did.
We created an entity that encompassed every aspect of women’s culture within
one community, one organization, one name. Aradia: a Lesbian Utopia.
Back then, something like Lesbian Utopia was not only possible, it was
actual. But in today’s world, would something akin to Aradia be “beyond
what is now called possible?” We identified some of the elements that madeit utopian and possible.
First, we were essentially separatists. Aradia was for women who loved
women. We began with and maintained a Lesbian consciousness and any
straight women who were part of it loved being involved with women.
Woman-only space was the prevailing norm.
Second, we did it as a group—a large group. It was not an individual
undertaking. We had many regular events and a flock of one-time ones.
We noted and celebrated each other’s birthdays, helped each other withtasks, loaned money, gave support during break-ups, illnesses and deaths.
We developed rituals and told stories of the community events over andover. Even if we didn’t like someone, we still saw her as a vital part of thecommunity. We had common understandings of what was expected of us.
Our publications, phone trees and day-to-day meetings plus the many places
where we met kept us constantly in touch. We found out things through thegrapevine almost as fast as if we had been using email to spread news. We
did our best to include any woman who wanted to join us, to call herself
an Aradian.
The third element that made Aradia a kind of Utopia was that wewere profoundly conscious of all our actions. We realized early on thatwhat we were doing was important. We felt compelled to name ourselves,both collectively and individually. We were dedicated to documenting our32

sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

experience so that it would not be lost, as so much of our foremothers’ had
been. Our records would show what changes we made in the world. We
deliberately attempted to shed our victim identities and strove to relate witheach other authentically. All this consciousness made for some intense times.
We were aware that what we were doing required courage, but we carriedeach other with the synergistic energy that we created together.
Fourth, we were a very creative bunch. An overarching value of fun andplay permeated everything we did. Music, theater, art, dance, and writing
were ever-present. Sports, cards, scrabble, bowling and other fun-filled
activities kept us laughing and engaged.
Yes, we had some hard times. Two of us were murdered during those
years, one by her sister’s estranged husband and one by an unstable employee.
We fought, cried, lost custody of children, experienced illnesses and upsets,
but we could count on each other in a most profound way and that, we
think, is the essence of Lesbian Utopia.
We existed in this way for over eleven years, and then bunches of us
moved on or moved away, while others stayed put. The organization ceased
to exist legally, but the legacy continued in the Grand Rapids area and in
all of the places to which we scattered. Some of us see Aradia as ongoing, in
new form. Some of us look back with nostalgia. But all of us recognize thatin Aradia we found our voices. And we are still speaking.
In the middle of the era known as “The Eighties,” the Aradian women began
to disperse. It was time. One by one, two by two, and in small clusters they broke
away, like seeds coming loose from a single flower head. They floated to new places
and planted themselves. Wherever they landed, the women couldn’t help but sow
Aradian ideas. Though still invisible to most of the outside world, they knew that
their presence altered the environments of their adopted surroundings.
Even today, when their paths cross, Aradians of old immediately re-ignite ineach other the passion and exuberance of their once-shared Utopian lives. And thisis a true tale: The myths of Aradia, the midst of Aradia, the mists of Aradia.
_________________________________________________________*The nine task forces dealt with: The Arts, Spirituality & Natural Healing, Education& Research, Self-Sufficiency, Finance, Structure & Process, New Age Relationships,
Environment & Energy and Mediawinter 2007–2008

33

Marjorie Norris

The River of Dreams
I yearn for what is beyond. As the universe and our world warms,
I hope hearts do as well. I am for a nation of women’s hearts,
exploding each upon the other, the generosity of giving, the sweet
hail of harmony, the sharing of the trees and wind. I want to knowwhat the whales feel and the dolphins. I want us all to be sacredelephants, grounded and lurching through well-worn paths to findthat new millennium, a new celebration, one strictly our own, ourchildren’s and our grandchildren’s. The world they say now is fullof indigo and crystal children, like none other than the earth has
known. But perhaps we were indigo and crystal at one time, before
we forgot our main purpose, the rope we shuttled to earth from.
The Iroquois say that earth was born on Turtle’s Back, and I say
Yes, this is the place where all blooms variegated, many-hued, curly
and wild, willing, brave, rambunctious, loud and robust, but also
burgeons into the peace of listening, the softness of taking in eachother. Who are we if not poor and abundant all at once? Who are
we if not weak and strong? Who are we if not the most delightfulgivers of power, food, and artistry? Who are we if not the players ofdrums? Who if not the diviners of water, the sailors on air, the firekeepers who repair to sleep on our cots on the verdant coast just at
the river of dreams?

© 1985 Sudie Rakusin: Hydromancer: Diviner
by means of signs derived from water.
First published in Wickedary by Mary Daly

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sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

Shaba Barnes

Accepting the DreamOr
Is it the Reality?
I had been studying the Mayan Calendar since 1993, becoming more
and more aware of its importance and purpose in this present time, while
practicing its principles off and on. It was easier when I was around believers
with whom I could meet and share ideas, stories and practices. It was when
I moved from that supportive environment and once again got caught up
in the Georgian Calendar, the calendar that is used worldwide today, that
I all but ignored the energy, the rhythms and the colors that the Mayan
Calendar represents.
During a special celebration recently, a reunion of the Feminist, I
recommitted my life to live by the 13 Moon Calendar, the calendar that
resonates to the female cycle with 28 days in each month.
I was sitting in a darkened auditorium among over 200 women and wewere all recognizing and declaring each other’s wisdom, artistry and manyother gifts. As I was witnessing and participating with sisters, all renewing
and giving birth and dedication once more to our commitment in freeing
our sisters and ourselves from the yoke of discord, separation and lack, I saw
It. With my eyes wide open, there across the room about three feet higher
than the seated audience, was a vision. It appeared to be a waterfall because
it was moving and shimmering and I could see thru it. It was approximately
five feet round in diameter and was drawing me to it. It was a portal or vortex
of some kind. I was startled. Before I could say anything to my companion
I felt myself lifted and flying into it.
In an instant I knew that I was in another dimension, another world,
another place. I shook my head, I blinked, I even slapped myself but nothingchanged.
My body was suddenly filled with such joy and love. This was also anauditorium with approximately the same number of women celebrating
their lives but this was clearly different. In the previous experience, I had adifficult time hearing because of a hearing loss to my right ear. Now I heard
everything. There was also a continuous soft chant behind the words spoken
from the speaker. The stage was full of women of all complexions, sizes andages, playing instruments; each woman was dressed in fabrics that eluded
light and various moving patterns, a true spectrum of beautiful colors.

winter 2007–2008

35

The room was much lighter, but I could not find the source of the light. I
could not see any windows or lights. I sensed a fresh air fragrance, helping
me to remember to enjoy taking deep breaths. With each breath, I noticed
something different. Terra, with whom I was speaking prior to seeing thevision, has always walked with a cane and was now having problems breathing
due to the high altitude, she was complaining of not feeling well; she was
now walking without a cane, smiling and talking with friends. When I looked
around at others, they too were more animated, happy, and full of life. I
remember what was going on in my mind just prior to seeing the portal.
I was communing with my higher self, giving thanks for these moments,and for the opportunity to be a part of such an event. I was experiencing
joy beyond measure and feeling so appreciative; yet I was sad that we still
had to fight for our human rights as females, as women, as nurturers of ourbeautiful planet. After so many years of petitioning, marching, letter writing,campaigning for politicians who promised to make a difference yet still we
waited, we kept hope alive and believed that a deliverance was near. We werestill trying to find ways to bring all of our sisters together, and heal all thepain that has kept us separated for so long. I was asking for answers when I
saw the opening, the doorway to my heaven on earth, another dimension,or did I simply fall asleep and dream the rest?
So much was happening in such a short time, in almost a wink of aneye. I realized that I was missing the present; by thinking of the immediate
past and wishing that this was reality. I was getting caught up in thought
instead of living the new now. I was again pulled into the moment withthe sound of drums, many drums and many women beating the drums,
ringing bells, singing and dancing. Oh such a moment, I shall never forget.
Women were saying their goodbyes for a while and promising to meet more
frequently and visit each other often. I joined them with love, good wishes,
hugs, kisses and promises to stay in touch. I recognized these women; thisis the woman with whom I was speaking prior to the vision, and there are
the same friends that I had for so many years, yet they were different. Had
they all come thru the portal also?
What happened? Life before going thru the portal was fast becoming
not even a memory. After another deep breath and another, I felt high withlove, excitement and was enthused with my surrounding. My discriminating
mind wanted to know the date, to validate the location, to see if my car was
the same, to call home, to speak with my loved ones. While I searched for mycell phone my granddaughter’s voice spoke to me loud and clear, “Mother,
are you on your way home?” Yes, “I replied. “Did your friends come by?”36

sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

Mental telepathy, I was using mental telepathy. I was ecstatic. I was turning
around in circles, trying to take in everything at once. I ran up to womenwhom I recognized, hugging them and thanking them for being there. Manyof them were expressing the same excitement that I was experiencing. Tearsof happiness were running down my cheeks.
I had planned to go to the convenience store when the Conference wasover to get some eye drops. The store was there but there was no pharmacy,
just a list of supplements for homeopathic treatments. I asked a clerk who wasstocking items on a shelf to direct me to the nearest pharmacy. She looked
at me quizzically and told me that there was no such place in this world; noone used pharmaceuticals to improve their health. I got up the nerve to ask
a few more questions, she seemed happy to talk with me. I learned from herthat there is no need for healthcare as we have experienced it because we aretaught from childhood how to eat to live and treat our bodies to be free from
disease, that emergency healthcare is free, for those who have accidents, otheremergencies and unusual circumstances. Everyone receives the same level ofservice. Good positive thoughts go a long way to create optimum health.
It is also taught from early childhood the art of breathing properly and theuse and power of visualization in all areas of our lives.
I wanted to buy a gift for a friend and stopped to admire some artwork
displayed on the street corner. The woman who was selling her work said
money was not accepted as a means of exchange. She said that she would
exchange a piece of her work for a piece of mine. I felt that I had nothing tooffer until she saw a bracelet that I had enjoyed making in my spare time. I
learned that in this world, time is not money but as the Mayans say, Time isArt. It was also interesting to learn that the 28-day Women’s Moon Mayan
Calendar was also the only calendar used on this planet and the planet
name is Cella. It is the sister planet to Earth but is in the 5th Dimension,
The Dimension of love and harmony. The name of the leader is Goddess
Cella who rules with representatives from various areas of the planet. A new
Goddess is expected when the previous Goddess life in her present body hascome to an end. The heavenly stars and Planets announce the birth of the new
Goddess Cella when they are in certain alignment. The Steering Committee
is the name of the body of leaders who come together whenever there is an
issue, question or problem that calls for their attention. They use consensus
in all of their decision-making.
I found out that there were 10% men whose sperm was used to father
children to 10% of the women once a year. When male children were born
into a family, they were loved, nurtured and taught until puberty by specificwinter 2007–2008

37

women. Then they were sent to something similar to a boarding school
where they continued to prepare for adulthood, giving to the communityand being selected to donate their seed to previously selected women formotherhood.
It was interesting to discover that poverty is unknown in this new world.
Women had more or less possessions according to her consciousness. Somewere more talented that others, some worked more than others; there were
women who filled the need that the society/community or society created.
I did not see any industry or construction or large commercial
enterprises. People shared what they had with those who may need a portionof something without being asked. There were always homes for families
and singles to stay at no cost. There was work for everyone and food wasfor the growing and picking. There was abundance everywhere and love foreach other was the norm. Another norm on Cella is the practice of thoughtprocesses manifesting the effect or action, or bringing the thought into being
as action follows thought.
Creating art played a major part in the lives of the population on thePlanet Cella, one of the most beautiful Planets in the Galaxy. Be it music,
sculpture, drama, dance, the spoken word, magic, all forms of creative
entertainment was desired. Teaching was among the highest respected
professions as well as other support systems. Caring, doing and being there
for others and being cared for in return worked well in this society. Children
were lovingly nurtured and had the birth parent for the first six weeks only
who were fully responsible for them. After that time different women took
part in her training and teaching, similar to our school system. Only in thisworld of Cella, a specific teacher had the student for longer periods of time
including nights, weekends and holidays. The birth mother remained in
the child’s life until adulthood and often after. Among the subjects taught
is communicating with the animals and inanimate objects. In this world,
the women in the village were responsible for the children in it. Each person
continued to learn, study and teach for her entire life. The intelligence of
these inhabitants is phenomenal. They knew how to contact beings in othergalaxies and traveled to distant Planets; they also knew the language on
many of them. They taught the Herstory of the Planet Earth, the various
dimensions and how the Planet Cella came into being.
Life is simpler, people were not judged by possessions they have, but by
the opposite, by being fulfilled and happy with less. Crime, war, violence areunheard of. No one is trying to become richer because everyone feels richwith all their wants and desires met; concerns and issues are thought out and38

sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

discussed. If no conclusion is reached, another person or persons are brought
into the discussion until a consensus that everyone can accept is reached.
There is no such thing as rape. Women are honored, matriarchy rules.
The earth and all of the animals are treated as friends. There is no hunting
or fishing except for food and most of the people are vegetarians. There is
no word for war because war does not exist. Mass transportation does notpresent problems because the sun energizes the vehicles. Another methodof transportation is something similar to the bicycle or for those who study
long and practice diligently, mental teleportation.
I later learned that this way of living was not limited to the east or thewestern hemispheres, or to the north or south. It was an entire world of femaleenergy ruling with love and patience and support, creating abundance andlife-sustaining health-healing beauty everywhere. I discovered that we each
could tap into the others thoughts without dishonoring them. I noticed somany colors in this world, some translucent. I even saw colors that I had
never seen before, therefore indescribable. They were close to a shade of blue
or purple but not exactly and some that did not fit the spectrum at all.
I was ready to go home to my family, yet a bit hesitant for not knowing
what to expect. I found my car where I had parked it and was not surprised
to see that it was more compact, had less accessories and learned that it wasrecharging while it was parked. It would only travel twenty miles per hour
until it reached what I have known as the Freeway/now called the Ribbon.
Then we were permitted to fly the vehicle. Yes, actually fly above ground
until we came off the Ribbon closest to our destination. The corridor or how
high it was off the ground designated the speed we could travel. I also foundout that I did not have to steer my vehicle, it was programmed to where I
wanted to go. I just had to push a button and it took me home.
My home was made of a strong fabric in the shape of a tent. It had clear
areas that acted as windows and controlled temperature from the floor. It had
all the amenities of a modern home in 21st Century U.S. and more. We did
not use phones of any type. There was an entertainment center to listen tomusic and play games. The table was filled with all types of fruits, vegetables,
breads and fish when I arrived. I thought perhaps we were expecting company,
but no, it was set only with our small family in mind. My granddaughter,her partner and I sat down on comfortable soft chairs that were almost
invisible when not in use. We thanked the Goddess for our wonderful life
and opportunities to be of service to others, we ate, shared the day’s activities
and read some poetry. I prepared for sleeptime and dreamtime.
Is this a Dream or is it a reality? Did this story come out of my study

winter 2007–2008

39of the Mayan Calendar? Could it happen? Is it happening in another
Dimension? You be the judge.
I realize now that for me, it was not a portal that I entered. Nor was ita vortex. It was a bridge. It was a bridge to a better life, a wholesome life ofPeace, Prosperity, Love, Wisdom and Light. The message I received frommy higher self is to build bridges for us to visit each other, here and now,in the physical and in our dreamtime. Now is the time to build bridges oflove, acceptance, understanding and happiness. Build positive bridges of all
kinds and it will happen. My name is White World Bridger. I am anotheryourself. I am guided by the power of timelessness. You are each invited toattend the opening ceremony.

“Creating a Glamour” (magic spell) by Sudie Rakusin ©1985
First published in Wickedary by Mary Daly

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sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

Beatrice Ilana Liebermaneven
the laughing leaves
speak
your nameand green armsof treeshold you.
even
the sad dovesings youits winggrayagainsta gray sky.
eventhese orange loquatsthat fallupon the groundcolor
the cracked cementwith youwinter 2007–2008

41

Sunlight

Prologue to WomonseedHigh in a mountain valley, not far from the sea, there is a land of womenand they call it Womonseed. Their lives are governed by the earth, the moon,
the stars, the sun, and by the quiet voices deep inside themselves. And bylistening that understands the animals, the wind, rustling leaves, and eachsingle raindrop as it falls or flows along in the water of the creek.
They have come back to themselves again, after thousands of years in aforeign land where they were held in bondage. They were kept away fromcontact with each other and from their closeness with the earth who was their
Mother and who had given them strength and taught them how to live.
Long ago their captors decreed that all must think and act alike.
They forced the women to change their ancient, magic ways. Some strong
women continued to practice their beliefs, but they were tortured cruelly,burned at the stake or drowned or hanged. Other women found devious
means to protect themselves or try to have their own way, but this caused
them to become even more alienated from their true, forgotten nature.
Most of them capitulated, being a gentle race. They served their captors
and did as they were told, and raised their daughters to do the same.
The fate of each woman was determined by her master—she was his
possession and subject to his rule. She had to be ready to fulfill his every
wish, for that was her means of livelihood. Imprisoned in his house and in
his world, she suffered isolation, indignity, silence, abuse of her body andher spirit, loss of self, despair. But the worst of all was the loneliness.
Outwardly, the women forgot their origins as they lived longer andlonger as slaves in an alien world. For they were led to believe that this wastheir natural state. Inside, however, most of them knew that something hadgone wrong. Inside, they had a deep memory, like an old dream, of anothertime when they were free and their children were free, and so were the many
plants and animals who shared that space—when they all understood, andcared for, and respected one another.
In the morning when they woke up from these dreams, or sometimes
when, unguarded, they glanced into each other’s eyes, they saw that theirlives were not their own and that there must be something more. But theyfelt powerless, and had been taught by their masters to be suspicious of eachother. So they pushed back the intruding thought and decided that something
was wrong with them for having entertained it.

42sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

Throughout the ages, some of the strong women declared themselves
free, and lived the lives and did the work they chose. Some went against thelaws of the land and allowed the deep love that women feel for women tocome forth. Some gave birth to music or art or literature as well as, or insteadof, children. Sometimes their masters claimed the work as their own andpresented it to the world. Sometimes it was destroyed or lost. More often,these works rotted away in secret closets or died in the creator’s mind because
there seemed no way that she could ever share them. The repression wascomplete because the captors believed, as captors must, that the slaves werelesser creatures, not worthy of being heard. But also, they sensed the hidden
power of the women, and they were both envious and afraid.
In spite of the danger, however, women’s voices kept emerging from thesilence in every time and place. They spoke to their sisters who could hear.
They called to the part of them that remained alive with the knowledge of
their own rich past, their present underlying strength, and a future not yet
conceived of in their waking thoughts. The voices became louder and bolder
and more numerous. They were heard by more of the sleeping women, whostirred in their dreams and woke up, remembering.
The women began to look each other in the eye, sharing a deep knowledge
they could not even name. They began to gather in circles and tell each otherof their lives and thoughts and feelings. Then they could see that they knew
each other because they came from a common place. They recognized theirstate of captivity, and were never the same again. They began to touch eachother, feeling the warmth and strength and nurturance of woman’s touch thatthey hadn’t felt since childhood. Only now, it moved both ways and began togrow and reach out to welcome others, because that is the nature of a loving
touch. The energy it created filled them with hope and resolution, and gavethem the means to break out. Of course, their masters tried to hold them,but they had no power over those who declared themselves free.
As the women awoke from this world of bondage, they saw paths that led
away, and they set out to follow them. It was painful because the bonds had sotightened around them as to become a part of their flesh. It was hard to leave
what they had always known—except for glimpses deep within, where theyknew so much more. It was hard to go because they hadn’t traveled, except
in the journeys of their dreams. It is hard to follow a path to an unknown
place. But once a woman’s numbness has worn off and she feels the sharp
pain of her oppression, once a woman has awakened and sees that a path isthere, even though the end is not in sight, she cannot stay. She has to moveout and along that path. With the first step she gains courage. The earth
feels that step and, responding, sends her energy for the next.

winter 2007–2008

Cover art by Yvonne Pepin

43

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sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

Each woman had to find her way; to free herself as she was able, andgo from there to where she had to go. But not one of them was ever alone
again because she knew that her sisters, scattered everywhere, were doing
this too, and they would come if she cried out for help. The energy of thattouch was there. It added to her inner strength, which began to flow froma well inside that had seemed like an empty pit before. At first it came as atrickle, only to run dry again. But with care and time, removing the dams
that had blocked it, she uncovered that spring where she could go for courage
to overcome her fear, peace to heal her pain, love to replace her loneliness,and power to create her own life.
Thus, women learned to free themselves. They breathed deeply of thenew, fresh air that takes them to the source where they know that they are
Goddess. Doors began to open where there were only unscalable walls before.
One by one, two by two, circle by circle, the women began searching fortheir home. Dreams pointed the way, and always there was love and joy andsisterhood at the end of that long road.
Their journeys led them through forests of dense shade, over mountains
deep in snow, across deserts shimmering in the sun. Sometimes the path was
hidden in weeds, obscured by tangled underbrush or covered with windblown dust. Then they held each other’s hands, listened to their inner guides,
and found their way again. When the women were hungry, the plants along
the road offered themselves as food. When they were tired, the earth held
them gently in her strength. When they felt sad or afraid, the women tookeach other into their hearts and arms until their courage was restored.
And so for many cycles of the sun the women traveled, searching. Someof them came to a beautiful valley—long and sweet, like the long, sweet
valley between a woman’s thighs. They touched the earth and knew that thiswas home. They celebrated. Singing and dancing day and night, while thehills echoed with their joy. This was a land full of promise, like their hearts.
They felt free, for at last they had escaped from their captors. They felt hope
because they saw the moon and the sun and rainbows shining with beauty,
lighting their new world. They felt safe as the valley embraced them. The
celebrations went on and on until the first winter rain began to fall.
Some of the women built shelters and gathered wood for fire. Others
just huddled under dripping trees, crying like the rain. Some were too tired
or sick to even try. For all of them this was new and they were new and there
was much to learn. All needed healing from the captors’ world they’d lived infor so long. All of them carried fear in their hearts because they’d had reason
to be afraid. They wore the doubts they had learned from the ages of teachingwinter 2007–2008

45

that women are worthless and weak. Sometimes these feelings overshadowed
their hope and love. Then the women wept and screamed their pain andfeelings of helplessness, and it turned into anger against each other. Theirvisions seemed to come crashing down around them And without visions,where is there to go? Despair, then, was worse than the anger, because it leftthem motionless unable to go on.
But after the times of anguish, one of the women would get up andbathe her wounds in the clear water of reflection. She refreshed herself andher sisters with herbs from the nurturing earth. For the Mother was always
there, strong underneath their feet, feeding their bodies and spirits with her
infinite energy. Then the women would feel her love again, and their love forher, and each other. They began to listen more carefully to her voice, and totheir own voices within. They looked at one another and saw themselves ineach other’s eyes. They saw the passion and the gentleness. They saw the pain
and the joy. They saw fear, courage, uncertainty, wisdom, helplessness, power,
anger, love. They saw the mother and the daughter and the grandmother.
And they knew that they could go on together toward their dream.
Then came renewed rejoicing, but of a deeper kind, born of a deeper
knowledge. Their lives would continue—discovering, sharing, creating,expanding, touching each other with beauty. The storms would come again
to the women and the earth. And again, when those storms are over, theenergy is transformed. The cycles grow into a spiral, and with each turn,each lesson, the women also grow into a higher place.
In this way, women gather everywhere: islands in lakes or in the sea,
forests, meadows, deserts enclosed by purple mountains, plains that stretchout endlessly under the open sky. They come to wash their wounds and heal
the scars from their years in bondage. They come, open to learn new ways
and to rediscover the ancient ones. Their teacher is all of nature surrounding
them and the nature within themselves, which is the same.
One of these lands is Womonseed. Life is simple there because it flows
simply out of being. The women and children get up with the rising sun,their dreams mixing slowly with the light. They plant the fields and gather
from the woods. They bathe in the creek and dry on its banks. They build
shelters from the rain. They make pots from the red clay soil, weave baskets
from reeds that grow by the river’s edge. They make love in the soft, clean
air. Together, they eat simply from the bounty of the earth. Then they gather
by the fire to sing their songs and tell their stories.
They meet in a magic circle in a meadow ringed with stones. In thecenter, a large rock is set—like the megaliths ancient women used to raise

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sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

by the power of their thoughts. From that, in six directions, stones radiateout to mark the passage of the sun.
The stones that indicate the rising sun of the longest day point to thenortheastern slopes of the hills. The summer sun illuminates the chaparralthat thrives in the heat and dryness, making a home for rabbits, rattlesnakes,
and birds that nest low in the prickly brush.
The line for equinox dawn extends toward the creek that runs through theland and the blackberries along its banks. In autumn, the rose hips are bright
red, and the leaves of the alder bright yellow. With squirrels, the women andchildren gather the nuts and acorns; with birds, they harvest the grain.
Winter solstice sun. If it rises through the rain, it moves low across thesouthern sky to set early behind the hills. The oaks are barren now, except foran occasional leaf tattered by the wind. Their branches make lacy silhouettes
against the sky. Madrones, still green, stand out beside them in an eternityof their own. Burrowing creatures are fast asleep in the damp, deep earth;snakes, in crevices in the rocks. And the women and children, who learn
from the same Mother, rest now too, as the earth is resting. They go early
to their nests, make love or snuggle with friends, sleep and dream, enteringother worlds to rediscover the wisdom of the night.
The rocks for the setting spring and autumn sun lead to a lovely meadow
where the deer like to graze. In spring a progression of wildflowers covers itwith yellow, purple, white—changing with the moons. A dozen streams ofclear, cold water run through the smaller valleys. The whole earth explodes
with life and joy.
Summer stones show the path to the pond, the women and children
splashing with laughter. They rest and cool in the shade of trees from workin the gardens and fields. Afternoon stretches into evening, a supper of fresh
vegetables and sprouted grains. The sun goes down at its northernmost point.
The end of a day. The end of a year in this circle and spiral of time. The
fire is lighted. The women and children join hands surrounding it. They sit
down, and the stories begin.
Reprinted from Womonseed by Sunlight (Tough Dove Books, 1987) withpermission from the author. Prologue in a different form was published inCommon Lives, Lesbian Lives (Winter 1982).

winter 2007–2008

47“Brava” by Nancy Nau © 2007

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sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

Susan Hawthorne

Sense
I am sense
I exist in the most completeway I can I walk with joy
using every muscle in my bodyto express vitality
in China I am so numerous
that we have begun to waltz
daily on the Bund in Shanghai
I teach the young where sheshould put her hand
how to find the rhythmin the bones of her feet
I speak of my self breathingwords into her ear while
walking down the street
my genealogy is recorded
and we visit the place of
our ancestors weaving silk
making rituals of hairlicking the juice of sweet mango
I climb the family tree andsit firmly in the Y of the trunksome go this way others thatthe deserts when you look

winter 2007–2008

when you really feelare already so full of life
the dictatorships? the young
ask for the meaning of such words
for they have vanished ascompletely as those they once
disappeared I take flightat times of my choosing
parachuting into lovethe sea’s arms a caress
my art is my own drawn
from the heart the hand
our worlds flourish not
because of some reward
but because we are humanin these worlds our histories
and archaeologies
are celebrated for therichness they provethat lies in each of us

49

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sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

Sonia Johnson

Full Moon in the Park
You asked where I’ve been tonight. If you’ll go back with me to midnight, I’ll give you the long answer . . .
The night is too beautiful to waste in sleep, so I wander toward the bendin the river and the big cottonwood. Soon I feel a furry body brush my leg
and reach down to scratch a coyote’s head, stroke her muzzle. A barn owl
gliding overhead stops to watch us walking together then drops gently to myshoulder, folding her great wings around her. When I put my cheek against
her, she gives the end of my eyebrow a delicate nibble.  A nighthawk anda magpie look down on the pageant we make—coyote, bear, deer, mountainlion, horse, woman, rabbits, skunk, badger, snakes—touching with heads
and hands and tongues and tails, as we walk effortlessly together up throughthe air toward the top of the tree.
And soon there we are, at ease together in the starry air above the cottonwood. As her wonderful energy surges up around us from the tips of her
branches, we caress one anothers’ feathers, fur, scales, and skin, murmuring
and purring.
Then the stars begin to dim, alerting us to turn toward the east
where the sky glows with growing intensity. As we watch, a bold orange
arc rises above the mountains and suddenly the whole body of themoon swims up before us as huge as a world. We gasp one big collective
gasp. Then shouting, barking, howling, roaring, and neighing, we leap up
to join her in the night sky, where at once we are her and she is us, all of us
one consciousness, one great love.
I look beyond the moon and to my joy I see in the vast space between
the stars other women and animals from many planets. We are delighted
to meet, the women no longer speaking the dead languages of linear timeand space but connecting as females do, directly, immediately and wholefrom heart to heart. And not just with one another but with the whales
and ravens of Earth who are communicating with the women and fishand spiders from other worlds in exactly the same way and as effortlessly
and fully as we.   
Nor is there any separation among us as we sing and dance and laugh;
all of us—the animals, fish, insects, birds—touching and holding one
another, knowing and loving one another as we know and love ourselves.
Later, as I sit in the air “talking” with a circle of these female beings from awinter 2007–2008

51

dozen different planets, I lean against the shoulder of an elephant lounging
beside me, she and I as comfortable with each other and our new friends as
if we have met here like this for centuries—as certainly we once had.  With
one hand I stroke her warm rough hide while my other hand plays gently
with the hair of a little girl from Cassiopeia who has fallen asleep with herhead in my lap. I am profoundly peaceful. “This is what I’ve longed for,” I
think. “This intimacy is my home.”  Our hearts now beating in one anothers’breasts, we promise to come together again soon in this park, uniting ourworlds.
Already looking forward to that meeting, we part, and instantly I amback by the bend of the river above the old cottonwood, watching the otheranimals disperse silently down the air into the moonlit hills and fields.
You asked where I’ve been tonight, what I did. The short answer is, tonight I’ve been at large in the female universe, finally being female again.

Aeromancer: one who Divines from the state of the Airor from Other atmospheric substances. First
published in Wickedary by Mary Daly

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sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

Billie Dee

How I Wish to LiveAs if I stood in the long blond wild oatsof twilight, singing to the crickets;
as if by pounding a night drum in the forest
I held the stars in their sockets;
as if I gathered dew from orb webs
and fed the last sequoia; as though by afternoon
my shallow curve of life stretched to form
the perfect arc — echoing the passageof the moon.

winter 2007–2008

Francine

A Utopian Lesbian Universe
A utopian Lesbian universe, an ideal world would be filled with
understanding and solidarity, freedom to exist as we wish it with ourdifferences. No forced isolation in an often oppressive het world, when
you are disabled, aged, or very young and so on.
Bridges and wings over deserts.
Pulling out the roots of oppression without destroying each other,avoiding what could feed patriarchy.
As a dewdrop on the corner of a leaf, the taste of hope.

“Untitled” by Francine

53

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sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

Tanager

Praise                     	Alabanza

Sunrise                       Birdsong                      Trees                      	Clouds                        Rain                          Rainbows                      Flowers                       Animals                       Snowflakes                    Waterfalls                    Meadows                       Mountains                     Canyons                       Oceans                        Lakes                         Rivers                        Butterflies                   Rocks                         Glaciers                      Sand Dunes                    Geysers                       Caves                         Volcanoes                     Laughter                      Harmony                       Sunsets                       Moonbeams                     Stars                         Constellations                Amanezer
Canto de aveÁrbolesNuves
LluviaArco Iris
FloresAnimalesCopos de Nieve
CascadasPradosMontañas
Gargantas
Océanos
Lagos
Ríos
Mariposas
Rocas
Glaciares
Dunas de Arena
Géisers
CuevasVolcánes
Reir
Harmonía
Puestas del Sol
Luzes de la Luna
Estrellas
Constelaciónes

Spanish translations by Corina Abouaf

winter 2007–2008

55

Amy E. WinterFrom Euphoria to Despair, and Everything in Between:
Lesbian Utopia in the Real World
What would a world based on lesbian-feminist values look like? That’s
a question I’ve asked myself for years. But you know, when it comes toutopia, we’re not lacking for vision. Women writers have dedicated themselves to imagining, if not always specifically lesbian utopias, at least feminist
utopias—as just a few examples, see Charlotte Perkins Gilman’s Herland,
Katharine Burdekin’s The End of This Day’s Business, Sally Miller Gearhart’s The
Wanderground, Joanna Russ’ The Female Man, Katherine V. Forrest’s Daughters of a Coral Dawn, Ursula LeGuin’s The Dispossessed, Sheri Tepper’s The
Gate to Women’s Country, and Marge Piercy’s Woman on the Edge of Time.
I was seven years old when Woman on the Edge of Time was publishedin 1976. Of all the works named above, Piercy’s book had the most profound influence on me—I read it as a sophomore at a women’s college in
1988, a place and a time of my life when radical change seemed possible,
indeed likely. The best and brightest of my classmates, those in leadership
positions or doing creative, innovative, unusual things, were lesbians. Ourpolitics mattered to us, and we mattered to each other, passionately. Thattime is as close as I’ve come to the heady expectation of impending revolution I’ve heard talked about by feminists old enough to be politically activein the early 1970s. And as my lesbian life subsequently unfolded before
me, I discovered that I was not alone in being transfixed into inspiration byradical lesbian feminist utopian visions—internationally, other women were
working to make the imagining real, from the too-brief bliss of the annual
week-long Michigan festival to lesbian intentional communities scatteredacross north america and europe.
I spent May to October of 2006 as a provisional member of a women’sland community. From my very first contacts—because of my wholehearted
embrace of the visions and values of feminist (science) fiction—lesbian land
has felt familiar to me in so many ways. Lesbian lands value what the peopleof Piercy’s village of the future, Mattapoisett, valued; our communities are
based on what I used to think all lesbians were striving for. We value selfgovernance, decisions being made at the local level by the people they willaffect. We value participatory democracy, the hearing of any woman who
cares to speak. We value a balance between autonomy and connectedness,
what Dianne Post has called “interindependence”(1) and Sara Hoagland56

sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia“autokoenony” or “self in community.”(2) We value sustainability and ecological conservation, including the right to undisturbed existence of the animals,
plants, insects and geology of the world we share. We value cooperation overcompetition. We value power-to, not power-over. We value relationships
structured by the needs and desires of friends and lovers over the demands
and constraints of the heterosexual nuclear family. We value introspection,
self-awareness, and politico-personal growth. We value inclusiveness and the
productive working out of interpersonal conflicts. Because we understandthat the basis of any successful community is acknowledgement of inequalities
and a commitment to eradicate them, we value the undermining of white
supremacy, capitalist classism, consumerism, and other habits and ideologies
that contribute to the subjugation of the women we love.
Visions of lesbian utopia are not what we lack. In spite of my commitment to the values expressed above, my provisional women’s land membershipdid not result in joining the community. It’s come painfully clear to me
that there’s a huge gap between our undeniably lovely visions, our gossamer
dreams of togetherness, justice, and sustainability, and the reality of what
actually happens in our communities. The problems and difficulties that
plague lesbian land are not much different than those any group of humanbeings organized for any length of time struggle with—but they are ourproblems, and to love something deeply is to feel deep pain when that thingis less than what you believe it could be.
So I’m starting to wonder if utopia means not, as I imagined in my collegiate naivete, the place where there are no problems, but instead the place
where problems are faced with integrity, responsibility, and acceptance ofcomplexity. Now that I’m older, perhaps not wiser but more experienced, Ireread the feminist utopias, and I notice that none of them are perfect. In
every book mentioned in the first paragraph, there is some central concern,challenge, or struggle that the members of the society face. Its source may be
within the community, or the community may be responding to an outside
threat; sometimes it is both. In Piercy’s book, the people of Mattapoisettargue among themselves about the application of genetic technology tohuman beings; and they fight a war against a competing society where thesexual exploitation of women and the economic exploitation of the planet
have been taken to vicious extremes.
And what of the problems of women’s land, our collective attempt tobring lesbian-feminist utopia alive? Well, we’ve learned that communities
that start with one or two women owning the land struggle with eradicatingthat power structure, even if the original owners give up ownership willingly.

winter 2007–2008

57

We’ve learned that many women can’t afford to join communities locatedat great distances from available jobs. The reality of economic inequality
must be addressed fairly and without manipulation within communities.
We’ve learned that if life on the land is too physically challenging, some older
women and women with disabilities can’t live there. We’ve learned that landcommunities started by white women, and/or located in the middle of rural
white amerika, are not appealing options for many women of color. We’ve
learned that the back-to-the-land movement, whether the lesbian or heterosexual manifestation, is in opposition to demographic trends of the last 30
years which show people moving away from rural areas and to cities.
We’ve learned that groups need to have very clear values in common
as well as a clearly articulated idea of group mission and purpose. Group
members have to care about each other—as a good friend of mine said,“Find the women first.” Some groups, unfortunately, wanted rural landcommunity so much that they decided to work with women they didn’t like.
Not liking someone makes it really hard to care about her perspective overtime. We’ve learned that group norms and expectations have to be createdwithin the community, not decided up front by one or two women, andthey have to be open to change as group makeup changes. Creating a lotof rules in advance and expecting women to abide by them forever does notmake a community appealing to newcomers. And as for newcomers, groups
have to find ways to both make room for new people to create change while
simultaneously discouraging the disempowered impulse towards “You all
should do X!”
And at some point, both as individuals and communities, it becomestime to realize that health does not mean perfection, it means living well withproblems. Honestly, how interesting is it to read a story in which everythingis perfect? It probably wouldn’t be very interesting to live in such a placeeither. Problems and challenges, when faced with courage and integrity,
provide opportunities to change and expand who we are and what we can do.
If perchance a problem does get solved—a difficult person leaves, unfriendly
neighbors move away, a drought ends, there’s finally enough money—anotherproblem will arise to be dealt with. And there will always be problems whose
solution eludes us; learning to tolerate them with grace and good humor isa utopian skill we ought to incorporate into our dreaming.
____________
1 ”Interindependence: A New Concept in Relationships” by Dianne Post, Lesbian Ethics
Vol 4 No 1 Spring 1990 (http://www.feminist-reprise.org/docs/interindependence.htm)
2 Lesbian Ethics by Sara Lucia Hoagland (Institute of Lesbian Studies, Palo Alto,
1988)

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Sharon Stewart

Marble Canyon Meeting
Wings traversing the turquoise sky, she rises from the dry, cracked earthof the mesa. She swoops, dives and cavorts against the laminated sediment
baking in the relentless Arizona sun.
At the place where the aquamarine river thundering from the northmeets the muddy wash from the Vermillion Cliffs, two ribbons of water,
one blue, one brown, run side by side. The confluence of the Colorado
and the Paria. The land allows this singular launch site for rafting into theGrand Canyon.
A solitary hiker wades among the rocks, taking respite from the hot
limestone trail. From the canyon walls above, the hiker feels a rush of air, feels
the flurry of feathers, and suddenly in front of her lands a most magnificent
bird. Strong graceful lines delineate a bright rainbow plumage. Her song is alight, lilting melody as she hops from rock to rock. They recognize each otherimmediately and together enjoy the cool ecstasy of the merging rivers.

“Untitled” by Sudie Rakusin ©

winter 2007–2008

59

Shawn Helmen

Visions of Love
In a world where there is no fear,
And everyone cares for each others’ tears,
For each others’ concerns,
Taking the time to learn
From one another.
And everyone is our sister or brother,
No one is above any other,
Where things like deceit and dishonesty do not exist,
Truth and trust are the only prerequisite.
Where we are no longer undercover,
Walking side by side, proudly with our lover,Fighting the cause, breaking stereotypes of woman and man,
Separating ourselves as Lesbians.
And where there’s a roadblock,
And the door not only closed but locked,
You can lean on me,
I can lean on you,With lots of love!

© Sudie Rakusin: X-ing: Contrariwise Qualitative Leaping of Questing
Women. First published in Wickedary by Mary Daly

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jody jewdyke

Remembering
You asked me to tell the Story again. It still fills me with such joy toRemember when our Lives Began Again. All right, I have my cup of tea andam nestled close to the fire to keep these long lived bones of mine warm.
All right. So begins the telling.
One morning, so very long ago, not sure how long exactly, for I am
ripe with long livedness, my face deeply etched with many fine lines, myhair silver, my voice as strong as ever, my hands sinewy from many cycles
of tending our food and shaping my beloved clays. One day, so very long
ago, I awoke and something had happened. I heard the birds outside mywindow and for the first time Heard them. In my Mind. I Heard themlaughing and cheering and saying, it’s Ok Now. The Earth is Ours again.
I wasn’t sure if I was quite awake, though I Knew this was Real. As I lay in
my soft bed, Listening, an Excitement welling up inside of me, the Felinecompanion who had been sharing her Life with me, and was curled in asoft ball by my head, also Awoke. She Looked at me, slowly stretched andSmiled. She too laughed and said It’s Ok Now, Oh Purrrrrr, Finally the
Earth is Ours again. They are gone and will never return. We will neverknow fear again. Oh Purrrrrr.
I was filled with an overwhelming sense of Joy, as tears ran down myface and could not move as I tried to take it all In. I Looked into her eyesand Listened. I Heard more. I heard the trees laughing. I heard the plants
laughing. I heard the seeds and the worms and the tiny flying ones, the water,
the rocks, the soil, all cheering. The excitement flooded into me and I leapt
up to run outside and could Feel it. I Knew it had finally happened.
The males were gone. And so was every harmful thing they had broughtwith them. They and their destructiveness were gone. Completely, without
a trace.
I thought of my Friends and immediately Heard them cheering, saying,
Yes, I Know, How Amazing! OH YES, We are Free. It’s Over. No, it’s justBegun. Yes, YES. And then All those I Knew and those I as yet, did notknow, in All the many languages started coming through. And we were alllaughing and crying and shouting with glee and dancing and hugging andkissing and rolling in the grasses, and frolicking in the snow, and caressing
the flowers and hugging the trees and splashing in the waters. We were All
Connected and we All Knew.
And so it Began.

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61

It took so much less time than you would think to Become Fully OurSelves again. We Knew it would take some time. Yet, it was remarkable how
quickly we moved past and healed the pain and damage. It was amazing how
quickly we shed the fear and mistrust. It was wonderful how quickly ourbodies, minds and spirits healed and renewed and opened. The Knowingof our Connectedness, the Hearing of All just catapulted us into this fineWorld as we Know it Now.
Faster than we could sing “ding dong heteropatriarchy’s gone”, we were
All living in the world of Our Dreams.
Some of us took longer than others to assimilate all that we suddenly
Knew, that Day/Night that the Earth purged HerSelf. Suddenly, we all Remembered. Remembered Everything. Well, of course there was the Mind
Hearing. Which though delightful and powerful at first, soon required
Learning to Shield and Choose. So first we Remembered how to Mind Hear.
Then we Remembered how to Shield our minds, so we could Choose how
and when to Connect. We Learned to remain Open to degrees of Hearing
and could choose to Hear some or All. It took some practice and mostly
lots of Laughter as many of us rolled on the ground holding our heads andnodding to the Others and laughing so hard the tears were rolling down
our cheeks.
And there was the Being Together. We Remembered How to Be. Together. And as we were Remembering, sometimes it took time to Connect
Fully and Deeply and Openly. Many of us had already been rememberingand practicing this Connection for much time. Many of us, especially those
who had already been living gently and quietly, lovingly together in the wilder
places of the Earth, already Knew how to do that well, and would Lovingly
share with those of us who needed more Learning. All would Share andTeach until we all Knew how to do it Well. It took some time, but less than
you would think, to work through the differences and misunderstandings
and unintentional hurts. Then, as we do now, We would sit alone, together,with others outside the situation if need be and stay present and listen andshare until we have shifted into where we need to be.
Dear one, you smile and your eyes sparkle, and your brow creases withpuzzlement imagining what it would be like for One to not Know thesethings. But, many of us were separated from OurSelves and each other for solong and the disconnect was so deep, that Our Ways had been forgotten.
So We All Remembered and Knew. And Learned and Practiced andmore quickly than I ever could have hoped, came together in chosen Circles
and shaped our lives and built and grew and laughed and cried and loved

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and healed and blossomed. Oh how we Blossomed. Like flowers wilting
in the dry cracked earth, we had been thirsty for so long and suddenly, with
the Love and Knowing and Connection, we burst forth into such Vibrant,
Excited, Enthusiastic, Loving and Thriving Beings who could not Create as
fast as the Ideas and Desires came to us. It was a time of such Excitement
and Creativity.
Yes, dear one, our lives are Exciting and Creative Now too, it was just a
different way then. As Delightful as Now, only the newness and relief andsheer Thrill of it all made it sweeter. Like the taste of something that makes
your mouth sing. Though your mouth may sing each time it fills with such
tastes, the first time brings its own Joy.
So, quite quickly, we All Remembered and Learned to live Simply andGently, with the Earth, and all Her Creatures and Beings. For some it took
longer than others. Yet All Remembered and many of us would Lovingly
Hold and Be With another while she struggled to Know and shed the waysof before.
We All Remembered to Give and Receive. To Share. In fact, at first,
almost all we did was Give to those we Loved. We would make or findsomething and immediately think of One to Share it with. Sometimes, she
lived close by. Sometimes she lived Far. When she lived Far, we would Openand Reach and she would Welcome us and we would Shift to her side andLovingly Embrace and Visit and Gift.
Oh Yes, the Shifting to and from. Once we Learned to Shift, many of
Us spent much time visiting our Friends of Far away. And it took much time
for many of us to choose where to Be. Some chose easily, especially those
who had already been living in the Wilds of the Earth with small circles ofFriends. Others, who had more Learning before they could Fully Connect
with the Earth, with themSelves and with Others, took more time. To Shiftand Visit and Explore until they found where they wanted to Be. Some
decided they wanted to Live as Travellers. Simply visiting and Shifting andStaying until they choose to Shift again somewhere else, to be among different Ones in different places.
And then the circles we chose. Some from the beginning chose to bein circles among Others most similar in appearance or culture or ways ofthinking or a lived experience. Some from the beginning chose to be incircles among many different Ones. And as we Learned and Remembered
how Precious all our many differences are, we Learned and Remembered
how to Celebrate these Differences and Share of our ways. We learned to
Enjoy Togetherness among us All. As our fears and past pain fell away,
Connections became easier, more open and free.

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With time, our Circles settled and Now, as you know, our circles are everchanging. We are all each exactly where we want to be. In that moment.
We Live where and how we Choose and Desire, with shared Heartstrong
Connections with those both near and far. In our Circles, we are All Here.
Those from every way of Being, every way of Knowing, every culture, every
part of the Earth, those of every age, size, every shape, and every shade ofskin.
Some of us Live in small villages among the trees, forests and deserts, by
the rivers and lakes, down in the valleys and high in the mountains. Someof us live in the prairies, with the snows and the winds. Some of us live by
the sea, and some deep in the earth in her moist caves. There are as many
ways we Live as there are shades of browns in our skin.
We Remembered and Learned Everything.
We Learned and Remembered to Do what needs to be done Joyfully.
We Learned to Choose what to do, how and when, Freely and Fully. We
learned to tend Lovingly to Our Selves, our Bodies, our Connections, ourHomes, our Circles, our Food and our Ways. We now tend tenderly andfully. All we do is Full.
We used to call it Abundance. There is Fullness in Everything. Our lives
are Full with Food, Companionship, Affection, Intimacy, Peace, Stillness,
Celebration, Encouragement, Resources. Everything.
Now, and for so long, this is How we Live. We Live with Harmonyand Ease and Certainty. With Fullness of Heart, with solid Knowing of Self,
feeling Love and Openness and Joy. We speak from our Hearts, Thoughtfully, Openly, Lovingly. There is Deep belly Laughter everyday. There ismusic and Loving and Sharing and Giving every day. There are fire circles
where we Celebrate and tell stories and sing and dance with the moon andstars and night beings.
We Learned we can Do All that we Desire, like Flying with the birds
and Swimming with the fishes. I still Remember the first time I Flew. It wasquite soon after the purge and Every one of my senses was newly heightened.
I remember feeling my arms wrapped around my body and a smile so big
on my face and a peace so deep inside of me as I lay in the soft grass withthe warm sunlight streaming through the trees. I could smell the fragrant
blossoms and hear the creek nearby, with the water flowing over the smoothrocks into the pool below. I remember looking up to see a Goose gliding
high in the bright blue sky. And I Reached to Her. And she smiled andinvited me to Join Her. And I threw my arms open wide and slowly floatedup into the air. And as I rode higher I could see the tops of the trees and thevillages in the distance and Feel the warmth of the air. And Goose swooped

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over and Showed me. She Showed me How to find the currents and ridethem. She Showed me how to Spiral up and up and to glide and glide with
the Wind. Such Bliss I had yet to Know.
And Now, Here, Today, I have known such Bliss and more. So much
More. In all the many years of living in Our World. With such Love andConnection and Knowing and Joy.
So come dear one. Let us hold one another. I am tired from the telling,
though it is a Joy Full tired. I will rest now. I once again offer my Love
and Appreciation for Our World, where we All Live with the Fullness andBeauty and Stillness and Joy of Knowing All is as it should be.

Appreciations

When I think of my ideas and desires for Lesbian Utopia, I knowmuch has been inspired and remembered and called forth by many
Fine Dykes before me. Deep Heartfull appreciation for You All.
The Words written, the Spaces created, the Music made, all bring us
closer to this Loving Connected way of life together. Books/Stories
such as Sally Miller Gearhart’s The Wanderground (79), Sunlight’s
Womonseed (86) and Jae Haggard’s The Wimmin of Our Dreams (95)have so lovingly described Lesbian Ways of Being and Doing and
Loving. Festivals and Gatherings and Lesbian Land Communities
have created and continue to lovingly maintain Times and Spaces
where we can Live and Practice our ideal ways of Being Together.
Like most of us, I have had Moments over the years, of deep
Connection, Presence, Wholeness, Love and Community. Just
recently, this past June, during the fabulous Feminist Hullaballoo,
both in Santa Fe, and with the Amazing Lesbian Land Outland, I
had many Precious Magical Utopic Moments. How beautiful to Be,
Feel, Breathe, Experience, Contribute to and Participate in such Connections. Deep Heartfull Appreciation for all the Dykes who werepart of This. And for all the Dykes both known and unknown, pastand present, who inspire and encourage and love and learn together.
The Passion and Courage and Strength of those of Us who Dream,
and Try and Keep Trying just bring us ever Closer to It Happening
for us All. Here and Now. See you There. Soon.

winter 2007–2008

Mary Meriam

May the Women in Prison Dance
may the women in prison dance
women dance, your dresses of purple linen
swaying, dance on flowering grasses, sunlightdancing too on brown skin and silver bracelets
you are invited
ice cold water, clean and refreshing, drink itlunch is ready, feast on the grapes you gathered,ripe and juicy, sunflower seeds and almonds,
roasted and crunchy
lovely island, dreaming of lesbos, scented
seaside song, her laughter is pleasure, shadowslead the way to late afternoon and making
love with your lover

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sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

Mary Meriam

Iris

					

What’s the matter,That this distemper’d messenger of wet,
The many-colour’d Iris, rounds thine eye?
~ All’s Well That Ends Well

No one regards me with much awe. My red
would like to talk with you. Or orange, close byin hue and cry, could sing to you instead.
If yellow doesn’t satisfy, I’ll try
my green, in hymn, perhaps Amazing Grace.
You say that you prefer to hear the blues,and can’t I see the teardrops on your face?
That’s why I’m many-hued, so you can choose!
But listen, indigo just wrote a tune.
You still say no? Your ears are shut for good?
Then violet, the loveliest, la lunein June, should turn the tide, and so she would
if she could bring you rainbows from aboveand multiply your chances for sweet love.

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67

Lynn Brown

How to Make a Legend
Yearning yearning and then more yearning. Not to manifest romantic
illusions but the actual ticking of a handmade quilt done over years of working with other women who love women and enjoy the efforts of collaborationand co-creation. To have the time to spin out our fantasies and employ ourminds and bodies in the co-creation of these ideas. To make our dreams andvisions a reality. That would mean opportunity for pleasure and learning toknow each other through t he work we are capable of and the time we arewilling to devote to our own and each other’s endeavors. It might mean atheatrical scenario where each woman is employed by the demands of herheart and hands and allowed to learn at her own pace, helping to achieve theimagined and manifested beauty of her thoughts and dreams. To want community where each woman is able to give and take what they need without
demands beyond their means. A place where we support ourselves without
devoting a lifetime to accruing finances for our dying days.   It happens now,
all around us, in pieces and parts.
     What I want is to see women’s visions manifested and fulfilled, sustained by a web of support for that which cannot be contained and shouldbe created. We all have something to offer. Every one of us has a yearning
to devote something to make our lives richer and to leave beauty for the
future. Every woman I know wants a world of peace and equality andthe lesbians I identify with take their aging bodies to the street or to their
computers to give time and energy to what supports the creation of thesedesires. In-between these same women might be helping each other throughpersonal crises with healing words, deeds or prayers. It’s always a stretch
and when we reach out past our own envelopes to share the wealth there iscontact and the possibility of completion. Every woman is gifted with lovein her creations and her children might come first. There are those whosebirthings were books, sculpture, breads, massage, gardens, buildings, paintings, medicine, ideas, shepherding, theater, dance (and who doesn’t have adance!), communication, healing, poetry and language, design, midwifery,plumbing, welding, sailing, quilting, knitting, nursing, teaching. The dreamwould be to live in community around the world knowing that our skills
could be shared and compensated by each other, that our resources would
only be limited by our imaginations, that our strengths would be enough togive us a reality that we could cherish and embellish with care and growth.

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sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

That would be a heyday to celebrate. When a group of women would betraveling through our communities with power plays sharing what they havelearned from different spheres, different cultures where ritual and celebration cross over.
I don’t see interrelationships propelled by money even though I live inthis society which lauds the god of capitalism above all else. I envision bothcountry and cities where women will celebrate their universal gifts in giving
to life what is necessary and desired in their own hearts. I believe that theresources for creating comfort and beauty are within our tribal skills andthat this comfort and hearth can be shared with other skilled artisans andcraftswomen, homemakers and lovers of children, individuals who will growtogether to materialize what is valuable and needed to create safety, beauty,
comfort and delight for anyone interested in sharing the wealth. We alreadyhave the poetry and politics in our language. We just need the space to begin
and to reward ourselves with our own dreams and accomplishments as we seethem and be willing to trust our own creativity to bring them forth. It has
happened sparingly in many places all over the earth, places where womenand matriarchy have the support and respect to exercise their innate andlearned power with love for the world around them. I see a world where thepower of women is exercised with the same care and restraint that is used
to raise a loved one who will in turn love and be loved. This is at the heartof adventure into the unknown and a place to lean forward with possibility
shining towards our openness.

©1985 Sudie Rakusin: Muse: A Woman in touchwith her creative spirit, herself. First publishedin Wickedary by Mary Daly.

winter 2007–2008

Natasha Carthew

Home
I will give you a homebuilt of wood and stone
with these hands
digging
food and flowers for the table
home grown.
I will sit you a porch
swinging on the tropical breeze
barefoot and tipsy
kicking sandsinging songs that only you have heard.
I will kiss you a second at a timefrom the sunset to the sunrise
chasing you into the sea
confident with the swim you taught me.
I will hold you a million years
to be like thisas native to the sun as to the stars
time to bury the watchesdrown the clocks
now all the world’s time is ours.

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sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

Betsy Rose

Coming Into My Years
I’m a gray haired woman and
I’m coming into my years
I’m a weathered woman and
I’m coming into my years
No more holding back,no more trying to please
I got the will and the power
to get off my knees
I’m an aging woman and
I’m coming into my years

I’m a big boned woman and
I’m coming into my size
I’m a take space woman and
I’m coming into my size
Now some of it’s muscle,
Some of it’s not
But all of it’s me andIt’s the best I got
I’m a boundless woman and
I’m coming into my size

I’m a street wise woman and
I’m coming into my pride
I’m a fight back woman and
I’m coming into my pride
No more shrinking with fear
when they whistle and jeer
I got a fist that’s hard,
A mind that’s clear
I’m a night walking woman and
I’m coming into my pride

I’m a light hearted woman and
I’m coming into my Joy
I’m a fun loving woman and
I’m coming into my Joy
The weight of the world
Is off my shoulders
I’m getting lighter
As I’m getting older
I’m a laugh aloud woman and
I’m coming into my Joy

I’m a loud mouth woman and
I’m coming into my voice
I’m a talk back woman and
I’m coming into my voice
There’s an ocean of words
That got caught in my throat
Gonna let loose the waters,
Gonna learn how to float
I’m a sing out woman and
I’m coming into my voice

I’m a loving woman and
I’m coming into my own
I’m a heartbeat woman and
I’m coming into my own
I’m gonna go for passion, go for strength
Go for the moment gonna go for the length
I’m a hot blooded woman and
I’m coming into my own

winter 2007–2008©1985 Sudie Rakusin: Dryad: Tree Spirit who listens,
teaches, inspires, and encourages. First published in
Wickedary by Mary Daly.

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Doreen Perrine

Over the Rainbow
The eight a.m. ferry crept across the gray harbor toward the looming, steel giants of the Manhattan skyline. Sprawled behind, the limbs ofBayonne’s waterfront factories seemed to yawn and stretch into the overhead
flatness. A mute silhouette, the Statue of Liberty appeared as much in needof coffee as Eve felt that early autumn day. Opposite the immense Lady, theBrooklyn-Queens Expressway stirred with the frenetic motion of jammedpacked vehicles.
In defiance of the uninspiring scene, Eve lifted her eyes to the eastern sky.
A shimmering array of purples and pinks splashed over the unseen horizon
like a fireworks display. An emerald streak backlit this New York version of
Costa Rican skies on the painting retreat of Eve’s last spring break. Above
the vanishing splendor, ominous clouds threatened to consume the last of
this aerial bravura.
At eight-twenty, the “Alice Austen” ferry approached the gaping mouthof the colossal arch of Whitehall Terminal. Inside, the boat buzzed with
non-stop voices competing for listeners. Business people outfitted for theirworkday routine, discussed weather, their jobs, or more excitedly, weekend
plans. Fused with the roar of the rumbling engine, the crowd’s din slowed toa blur of sound. The boat glided between the creaking piers, then slammed
against the dock. The crew raised its rusty gates and passengers clunked down
the terminal’s metal steps and through the exit doors.
As people continued to herd off the vessel, Eve remained slumped inher window seat. Bored with the daily hustle, she’d wait for the throng tothin before relinquishing her warm seat. Instead, she feigned interest in the
copy of Art Views on her lap.
Eve’s thoughts drifted from the magazine to her dream the night before.
She was flying, just barely above a crowd like that plodding past her. Flying in dreams, she’d heard, symbolized ‘rising above a situation.’ It was a
predictable interpretation, but apt.
She then recalled a similar childhood dream of flying over her parents’heads. They’d hopped up and down like rabbits in the living room as she
evaded their frantic grasp. The memory of her early home came back to
Eve with excruciating detail. Everything, the plush carpet, the wide TV, theslick, marble coffee table, and a plastic-covered, throne-like couch, spelled
out their drab lifestyle.

winter 2007–200873

Eve was seven at the time she’d had that dream and, now, she had justturned twenty. Too sleepy to delve into cryptic meaning at that ungodly hour,she dismissed the connection between both dreams. Like surreal sci-fi, it was
the unchartered stuff of subconscious memory; one she could always explore
on some future star date.
Rising from her seat, Eve stood fairly tall, her hazel eyes less round indrowsiness. Average weight for her five-six height, her olive complexion
hinted at her Italian heritage. A sixty-word-per-minute word processing andoffice clerk for an insurance firm and aspiring artist, she was on the lowest
rung of the business and art worlds. Her job, as Eve saw it, only supported
what she’d sarcastically dubbed “the eating and rent thing,” and precious
tuition—the barest necessities.
Ambling with a handful of stragglers down the ferry ramp, Eve turned
to take in the lingering sunrise. Nothing remained but a wash of flat clouds,
dead as a blank ceiling. Underneath the scene, the downtown race was on
as subways, buses, cabs, and cars poured into the waiting city. Everywhere
commuters pushed their way up Broadway, down Water Street, and overthe myriad back streets like a charging army.
With a heavy stride atypical of her laid-back pace, Eve made her way
toward her office. Her milky blue work shoes, though worn to softness,
pinched in their severity. The light beige, preppy plaid jacket she’d picked
up at a thrift store was unsuited to the chilly morning. She much preferred
her well-worn, white-tipped sneakers and jeans to the severe uniform shedonned each weekday.
Her ash-brown pony tail swung across her nape as Eve headed to John
Street. Hunched, her eyes were bent to watch her mechanical steps like
disembodied feet. The rush hour madness was contained by the straight andnarrow streets where she felt caged in by a maze of buildings.
Pausing, Eve examined a silver music box that caught her eye in an obscure boutique she’d never noticed before. The fine filigree of its ornamental
twirls were especially artful. To have money to splurge! The if only thoughtthat she might buy the costly gift for her new sweetheart melted to oblivion
as she was prodded along with the pressing traffic.
Once in her building, an older construct of sixteen floors, she squeezedin the cramped elevator. People stared like mute zombies as Eve straightened
the twists in her skirt. A bright blue-green with red stripes, its folds had
swirled in her brisk stride around her thighs.
Like the rainbow flag of her first pride parade that summer, Eve’s skirt
was like a multi-hued flag flying in the face of what she should wear—and be.

74sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

In stark contrast to the bullying crowd she’d just escaped, the streets, she’dfelt happily that June day, had been freely animated. Despite her antipathy
for stifling events, the lively parade had lifted her spirits like a mighty windembracing her newfound identity.
Arriving on her floor, Eve doled out the usual “good mornings,” thenheaded for the straight jacket of her rigid desk. Between paperwork, she stolea glimpse at the magazine crammed in her overstuffed bag. Sipping her coffee, she leafed through its pages, drawn to bolder paintings that boasted thedominant force in her own art—color, brilliant and pulsating with a rhythm
that blazed Kandinsky’s path.
Nothing could move her so dramatically as color in her one-sided partiality. It was a partiality that harkened to the miraculous moment she’d first
lifted a paintbrush in kindergarten. More than technical inclination, color
stirred her painter’s soul.
Working as late as she dared on a weeknight, Eve had painted in her
kitchen studio the night before. Her girlfriend of a record six months, Maggie,
who’d made the radical confession that she “didn’t get art,” had been asleep
for hours. What did it matter if they had so little in common? Their sex life
was good, the best Eve had ever known. And didn’t Maggie’s physical passion
more than compensate for her lack of artistic interest? Despite her youth,
passion, Eve understood, was living each day as a unique endeavor—never
to be stamped like a manufactured product for mass consumption.
To Eve’s immense relief, Maggie, just twenty herself, hadn’t broached thesubject of steady commitment. Newly emerged from the “prison” of highschool replete with requisite boyfriends and with one year of independence
under her belt, Eve wasn’t into getting deep. Deep, like sci-fi or the exploration of her evolving lesbian identity, was reserved for the kind of intensitywith which she approached painting. One day, Eve figured, she’d pursue
a serious relationship and career. For now, she instinctively got that, likecreative venture, growing up was about getting in-sync with who she wasmeant to be.
Eve saw her world encapsulated in the fluctuating settings of her job,dating, and her circle of student friends with their similarly fantastic dreams.
In her new life, she was barely fazed by the indifference of her increasingly
distant family. If they couldn’t accept the on-and-off girlfriends she’d brought
on infrequent visits, why did Eve need to accept them? Where she’d always
seen herself outside her parents’ materialism—or what she‘d secretly dubbed,
their “competitive lawn mowing”—her coming out was one more sign ofher alien status in their stuffy world.

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75

Their tacit disapproval of Eve’s love for women was on a par with their
response to her decision to pursue an artist’s life. Where they’d offered to
pay for her secretarial training, the “luxury” of art school had been out of
the question. Despite her dominating father’s vehement protests, Eve had
packed her things and, with a day’s notice, abruptly moved out.
Their suburban cure-all of a husband, kids, and house with a trim garden
had always eluded Eve. Just as in her dream of flying blissfully over theirheads, she’d renounced their just-add-water-and-stir version of her future.
Shouldn’t the future, like science-fiction or painting, be unpredictable andfull of unknown surprise?
But Eve had been frustrated with painting lately—a recent still life ofbottles and shells, simply wasn’t as crisp as she’d wanted. As far as the painterly
standards of her professors and classmates went, it was passable. Armand,
her artist neighbor, who’d stopped by to drain a bottle of red wine, had goneso far as to call the viscous brushwork “juicy.”
Somehow, for Eve, it fell drastically short within the confined frameworkof its too-rectangular canvas. Like her dream reflections, she’d set the painting
between her easel and refrigerator for a more inspired day.
Experimenting with a hybrid of styles and genres, Eve tried her hand withever-changing approaches. These were culled from her budding understanding of art and the world around her. She searched or, more so, yearned, in
her painting, like her life, to create something beyond ordinary vision.
Antithetical to the restrictive Catholic school background which had
pegged her bland destiny, Eve sought a sublime, if impossible, goal. In thefreedom of painting, she wanted to mix hues not found in any spectrum,
dripping color that didn’t exist to breathe life into her canvas. Was that so
odd—or so impossible? Heaven, she’d heard somewhere, was what no eye
has seen or ear heard or could, she supposed, be imagined. These colors
were there.
Her thoughts full of this fanciful reverie, Eve worked until lunch. A
vegetarian, she took her cheese sandwich and soda can from the company
fridge and munched beside her co-workers in the lunchroom. After a brief
exchange of small talk about the “fickle weather,” she went outside.
The morning rush had been transformed into the lunch crush and,again, the streets were flooded. Eve wished people would stay inside theirbuildings and let her enjoy her walk in peace. Chuckling at the whimsicalnotion, she strove like Thoreau’s courageous drummer to maintain her easy
pace. It seemed she battled the more predominant boom of a war-drum towhich this ceaseless multitude marched.

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sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

Claustrophobic in the milling crowd, Eve swerved back toward her office. Rounding the corner below John Street she stopped short as her eyes
met a small, feathery body on the hard ground. Wedged into a niche in thecorner building was a tiny, no bigger than fist-sized, bird.
She lay so rigidly stiff Eve wondered if the bird was dead. She couldn’t
have been long dead in what looked to be still-vibrant wings. Streaked white,
her radiant blue, purple and gold feathers furled in curving tips. Mesmerized
by the exotic image, Eve gazed at the dainty form lying unceremoniouslyon the unfitting concrete. Here was no ordinary creature. She was delicate,like a finch her grandmother had once owned, yet unlike any bird Eve had
ever seen.
“Unreal!” she exclaimed in girlish wonder as she glanced around fora pet store. Seeing none, she thought incredulously, What’s she doing here?
What news had this silent messenger brought from what unknown land orplanet even?
Just then, the bird’s feathers fluffed up and she rolled to her clawed feet.
Eve met her round eyes, blinking in the hazy afternoon. Then she squatted
and whispered as if to encourage the stunned bird, “Flying’s easy, once you’ve
tried it a couple of times.” Like riding a bike, she figured birds never forgot
their ingrained flight instinct.
As if taking Eve’s words to heart, the creature hobbled, then sprung to
the curb like a jumping point. Spreading her wings, she pushed upwards. Evetilted her head to watch her soar like a tiny rocket in the air. Her keen eyes
followed as the bird faded to a colorful speck, then vanished overhead.
Laughing with joy, Eve mused on her recurring dream. Did this bird‘sabrupt appearance have something to do with celebrating color and a lifeof flying transcendence? Could her flight, like Eve’s dreams, have predicted
more promising days? Eve might not always feel enslaved to her dead-end
job; she might someday awaken to a happily-ever-after reality in the arms of
the love of her life. She might just make it as a struggling artist in this fiercelycompetitive city. Who could say? Maybe she would even create vibrant color,the like of which has never been seen. Although her parents, teachers, andher past had told her she’d never rise above prescribed convention, maybe
she would.
Eve had only stopped a moment in her perplexity over the fantastic
flight. All around her the whole world seemed to swell in the enveloping
throng and she was caught up in its flow.

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77

Margie Adam

“Avalon”

Words and Music by Margie Adam
Avalon - from the mist you call to me
Avalon - just beyond where I can see
Looking out my window can this be a visitation
In my deepest longing such a tender revelation
AvalonAvalon - every seeker will be shown
Avalon - as you make your presence known
In an ancient rhythm I can hear an earthbeat drumming
In my deepest longing I can hear my heartbeat thrumming
AvalonIn the darkest shadows a memory of this place
Stands in utter stillness whispering your grace
Here is the stubborn flower growing up through stone
Here is the power within us calling…
Calling us home
Avalon - may we find our way to you
Avalon - there’s a winding path in view
In this sacred circle I can hear our heartbeats talking
In our deepest longing the labyrinth is where we’re walking
Avalon... Avalon.

© Dean Brittingham Photography 2005

© 2001 Labyris Music Co. ASCAP: From “Avalon” on Pleiades Records:
www.margieadam.com

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sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

Shevy Healey

Just Suppose: An Imagining Exercise
Get as comfortable as you can in your seat. Close your eyes. Take a
deep breath, letting all the air go out. And another … And another… And
now just let your imagination go…. Imagine that we live in a society thatis non-sexist, non-racist, non-ableist, and non-homophobic. The Presidentof our country is a woman. Half of the law and policy makers are women.
Wages are truly based on ability, not sex. Lesbians, who are women identified
women, are held in high esteem.
Now imagine that our society is non-ageist as well. This will not be easy,
but imagine life — not just the opposite of the way it is now, but the way
we would like it to be.
Let’s let our imaginations go into as many details as possible. Imagine,for example, that there is simply no question about the right of old women
to have a decent income — that social security is never put on the block to
be whittled away, but is automatically increased. To provide less than comfort
for old women would be unthinkable.
Imagine that employers vie for the part time or full time services of old
women — whatever they can get, since everyone knows what richness ofexperience and dedication old women bring to their jobs. Imagine that the
choice to work or not to work is simply made by each individual woman,with no social stigma attached to either choice.
In keeping with the special status we now have in mainstream society,
we are naturally a part of any social circle we choose — young, old, mixed,
for we live in a non-segregated society. We partake of all the things that areavailable at community centers, along with our sisters of all ages. Seniorcenters are long extinct, as is the term itself. We are attended to in large andsmall ways. Clothes are designed for the full figure — clothes that are beautiful, comfortable, and colorful. When someone really wants to give a special
compliment, they might say, “You look almost good enough to be old!”
Old women are seen in the media all the time – as newscasters, political figures, women of action, as the beloved, or the lovers. No one would
dream of leaving old women out of any important project, and we ourselves
decide what we choose to participate in, what we choose to turn down. No
one dares tell us what we are capable of doing or not doing. In fact, no one
would presume to speak for us about anything.

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79

And since everyone knows that old women — like vintage wine — arethe best lovers, we are considered quite desirable. We never lack for lovers,
or affectionate friends, or comrades.
Some of us are, as we have always been, sedentary, studious, and contemplative, while others of us continue to climb mountains and enjoy great
physical activity. Some of us are in poorer health, or just feeling the twingesof our bodies growing old … a bit of difficulty hearing, or seeing, or remembering, a twinge of arthritis – all just small signs of the wear and tear of
our years — the badges of a long and hearty life. Some of us might become
quite disabled, and need help from the rest of us — and since everyone ishonored to help, the load doesn’t fall on just a few. There is, of course, noquestion about our right to full and complete medical care — and by doctors who LISTEN to what we have to say — REALLY LISTEN — without
dismissing us, who, just because our bodies are old, treat us with special
attention and care!
Being old or sick will never mean that we do not make decisions about
our own care. And if our capacities become diminished, we still are in chargeof making decisions for ourselves to the fullest extent of whatever those capacities are. It is unthinkable that any member of the “helping” professions
would dare to presume to speak for what old women want and need. We
speak for ourselves!
And because asking for help would not diminish us, we feel free to ask— as we need to — not feeling “less than” because of our need. Whatever
our ailments, they are only as noteworthy as the color of our eyes or our hair
– no more, no less — certainly having nothing to do with our capacities ashuman beings.
And finally, in such as world, imagine that we would truly be in chargeof our dying. We would plan our death to suit our needs – whatever they
are, instead of having to submit to the indignities of being kept alive when
we’re ready to go, or being killed off through neglect and inattention before
our time.
Quite a world that would be! Think about it for a minute in most personal terms. How would your world be different? …
And when you’re ready, come back to this space. Open your eyes. Lookaround you. Take the hand of the person on either side of you. For a minutepretend that there are a thousand spaces just like this one all over our country— all over the world — filled with old women looking at each other, smiling, and saying — loudly, powerfully:

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sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia“We’ve had enough. We won’t put up with unjust and unequal treatment any more. No more. It is our time now. This is our beginning. We arestrong. We are powerful. We are united. We will be HEARD!”
This imagining exercise was written by Shevy Healey and presented at theclosure of the First West Coast Conference and Celebration, Southern California
in 1987. Reprinted from The Facilitators’ Handbook, p. 85. Appreciations torainbow williams for sending this information to Sinister Wisdom and to Arden
Eversmeyer for researching and writing Shevy’s biographical statement.

“Old
Dyk

e
rrain
es Gather” by Frances Lowinter 2007–2008

Beatrice Ilana Liebermanin these last days
before dying
let usbreak breadand brave
the narrow lane.
let us lift the curtain
to morning lightraise the wooden window
each dayto clean sky
and running wind.
let us work
the good work
our breaking backand aching arms
embrace each otherat evening
when we rest.

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sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia©1985 Sudie Rakusin: Grimalkin: Name given to a cat, especially a Wise Old She-Cat,honorifically applied to a generous, powerful Old Woman. First published in Wickedaryby Mary Daly.

Ida VSW Red

The Mauvety
Three old womyn wind their way up the coast, staying on the edge — theedge of the water wherever they can, otherwise on the edge of the cliffs. Always,
they cling to the edge of possibility. They have been traveling for weeks looking for the famed Womyn’s Landing. All reports lead them to believe they
will recognize it when they see it, so their task is merely to move on.
Some days Nettie proceeds with vigor, urging the others forward — especially George, who tends to explore every tide pool and curl up in every
cave they pass, clearly preferring passage to destination. During other periods,
George and Natalie encourage Nettie to keep her spirits up. Natalie’s cycles
are headspinning, the blahs replacing bursts of creative energy, and confidencechasing despair all in an hour as surely as one step follows another.

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83

So it has been throughout Natalie’s careers in the theater, in international underground nuclear disarmament politics, in the new style of kibbutz
she established at the Presidio for creative children, and in the pet projectof her old age — teaching an improvisational psychodrama technique she
developed for suicide prevention. Friends just laugh at Natalie when she
complains that she’s hardly gotten started on her lifeswork at age 85. It istrue, though, that she is still a hotbed of ideas and will probably continue
to leave one lover after another to pursue her projects.
George, on the other hand, has stayed with her lover Venus throughthe years. They were together while George established the back-to-theland-and-nudity-and-natural-music movement. Music performed with all
body parts, functions, and combinations is artistically edited and amplified
through the soft technology she discovered in her early career in computeraccounting.
Later George surprised everyone by retreating to Nepal to study puremath for fifteen years — until she found the solution the physicists had
needed for so long. Turns out it isn’t a formula at all, but a different approach involving a meditational state produced by rubbing the lanolin fromblack sheep’s wool on the temple and on a corresponding ankle spot before
approaching the problem. Returning to the city, George got busy inventing
new musical instruments, which Nettie builds and Natalie markets — all in
their spare time — to benefit the International Feminist Coalition.
The three old friends weave in and out of one another’s lives, always
meeting at the Universal Ovular each thirteen years to report on their evolving
research, philosophies, politics, experiments, and unique perceptions. Now
that they are all octogenarians — George, then Natalie, and at last Nettie
reaching the Age of Mauvety — they are beginning the time of life for theenactment of personal dreams in a universal amphitheater from which they
will be reflected to and interconnected with all womyn’s colors in a cosmic
aura that will pulsate their individual hues throughout the endless circles ofwomonkind. Each womon’s enactment will affect the general aura and thus
influence every living thing by casting it in a new light — an ever-changing
light reflecting all old womyn’s Mauvest dreams.
Passage to the theater is said to be by ferry from the Womyn’s Landing.
Strangely, the enactment can be staged only by certain young womyn at theAge of Alizarinity. The three oldsters wonder what these young ones will
have to offer them.
Meanwhile, the chosen youths — Miriam, Friel, and Lisa — are decorating the ferry with calligraphy, Sanskrit, leaf prints, Rorschachs, ancientsymbols and languages from every culture. As the wind moves, waves of

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sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

meanings, knowings, and sensations float to the sky like clouds from thekaleidoscopic sails. The young ones work with the kind of concentrationand innovation common to the creation of sandcastles, soapbox racers,
mother’s day pincushions, tree houses, and matchstick pigpens. The threenovices simply intuit how to accomplish what is necessary. They move as if
on a schedule set by the natural order of things. The ferry ready, they touchup each other’s bodies with wode and pictographs of their quest cycles. As
soon as their images are clarified, they hop on the ferry and head for the
Womyn’s Landing. As they sail, they hum forth the new technology andancient wisdom that will allow them to usher the Old Ones through their
Mauvety Ceremony into a New Age.
Sooner than expected, the Womyn’s Landing looms ahead and thethree old womyn can be seen approaching from the South. For their part,the Mauve Ones recognize the Alizarin Ones immediately. It is clear thatthe young ones are quite competent to take on the burdens the old ones areready to lay down. Both groups reach the Landing and without a single
word begin the ritual with a communal hug. Instantly, all nature rings forth
as the Alizarinity and Mauvety Ceremonies blend, each womon taking hertime to become and to be herself in radiant age and sisterhood. The world
reverberates with joy.
©1983, 2007
(With thanks to my Lesbian Blocked Writers Group for the charactersin this utopian fantasy)

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Martha Courtot

When You Become the Rainwhen you become the rain
things get easier
your hands grow more able to touch
the dusky earthof course your name changes
you choose you insist on your choice
you move across the day
and light follows
having transformed dissolved alchemized
you have said good-bye
to the whine of timeto the clicks and snaps
of fate, clothing, ironies
good-bye to the teeth of dawns
and mid-night caverns
to politics, children, and the sadnessof old movies
as you fall from a great height
you are finally yourself
soaking into leaves
lingering in the fine edges of thingsentering at last into the earth
your voice broken as it falls
in pieces down the glass of the day
lingers
your voice roots itself
and new flowers grow everywhere
1979 Reprinted from The Bird Escapes by Martha Courtot (Earthy Mama Press,
2001, pp. 15-16) with permission from her daughter, Cynthia McCabe.

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Martha Courtot

These Bodies Inhabit Us
an ocean where life throbs and hums
maintaining itself
through billions of fish mouths
hiding the colorless and eyeless things deeppushing to the surface the dramatic and colorful
we are striped wanderers who one day reach shoreand never returnthese bodies of oceanic longing
lust and rage and a watery embracing love
there was a day on a Florida beach, 1944
I chased a jelly fish
it was a liquid eye that saw everything
through a thin invisible membrane“Come back,” my parents called so I wouldn’t get stungbut I had already been poisoned in some other lifetime
even on that day it swirled through my body
toes that were sand harbors
torso a map spreading itself wide to the sun
millions of fish were swarming inside me
breathing out Atlantean melodies
my body hiding a pearl I had not yet discovered
I ran toward this eye of the worldthese bodies, I write, on a rainy day amid trees
while snails crawl out of nowhereto chew on anything green
these bodies inhabit us, I writeand because I want to tell the truth
these bodies which inhabit us
but what I really want is not to write
or sit at my window
watching the rain etch loss into the glass

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but flinging all warnings away from me
I want to run as fast as I once did
toward that relentless fish eye
who knows my real name1998 Reprinted from The Bird Escapes by Martha Courtot (Earthy
Mama Press, 2001, pp. 21-22) with permission from her daughter,
Cynthia McCabe.

Oceanid: Salt Water Nymph who inhabits oceans and seas by Sudie Rakusin ©1985.
First published in Wickedary by Mary Daly.

88sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

Chris Sitka

Ancient Lesbian Culture
I want to convince you that we lesbians are not an aberration. Being
lesbian is no accident. We are the survivors of an ancient culture. A culture
with a heritage, a language, a tradition. A tradition of resistance. We haveancestors. It is time to give this reality the recognition which it is due. It istime for a revival of lesbian culture.
There is a lesbian spirit or paradigm which has influenced the body ofwomen from time immemorial. This ancient memory transcends all limitations. Like the fiery life blood of the earth it bubbles in great lava rivers
beneath the body of woman and whenever it finds a vent it explodes out
into existence. Thus we are breathed into existence by the earth Herself.
Lesbianism is dormant in all women.
For thousands of generations lesbians have written their passion into
the psychic realm of the earth’s spiritual sphere. It vibrates, it trills, it moans,it calls out, it resonates. We, oh modern lesbians, though seemingly lost ina heterosexual jungle, hear this call. It resonates in our bodies. It vibrates
in our wombs. It is for us to act out this ancient pattern. Woman touching
woman, as intensely, as inevitably, as the wave touches the shore.
Knowing this: dare to feel great feelings, ancient knowings. Dare toenvision lesbian visions. Energise each other with meeting and song anddance and loving. Dare to put your ear to the shell that whispers our ancientlesbian beingness. Dare to let your body sing in the thrilling crescendos thatre-enact the lesbianly organsmic creation of the universe.
So know that as a lesbian you have come to celebrate an ancient Mystery. Each passionate look, touch, feeling, vibrates in the psychic aura of theearth. It resonates through place and time. Each time one of us women loves
another with this intensity, we create the precondition for another and yet
another lesbian to be born and reborn into the quality of Lesbianism.
We are born with a gut memory of our common language; the symbolic
language of emotion, of feeling, of touch. It is spoken whenever a woman
touches a woman’s deepest touch. It burns on our tongues in a flickering clitoral brogue. We gasp it in orgasm. It is never forgotten because it is embedded
in our genes and in our psyche. Whenever like meets like a fire of recognition
leaps. This touch, this tonguing, resonates throughout the world.
So remember; we are the proud survivors of an ancient lesbian culture.

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Jean Taylor

Everyday Utopia
Utopia, according to the dictionaries I consulted, was the name of apolitical satire written by Sir Thomas More in 1516 which described an
imaginary island that had developed socially and politically into a visionary paradise. The word Utopian has gone into our language to describe theimpossible dream or the yearning for a perfect society that can’t exist in any
practical sense.
Google ‘Utopia Australia’, and on Aboriginal Art Online there is a
description of a remote region of approximately 1800 square kilometresin the outback of the Northern territory and about 240 kms north east of
Alice Springs called Utopia. It’s a dry dusty desert place and home to about
2000 people who live in twenty-five communities called ‘Homelands’. The
website goes on to explain how in 1978, in order to establish that they were
financially self-sufficient and culturally connected to Utopia as the traditional
owners of the land for their pending land claim case, the Aboriginal womyn
created and produced vibrantly coloured batik designs on long pieces ofsilk. As a result, the community gained permanent legal title to their lands
in 1981. The womyn of Utopia continued to exhibit their batiks but by thelate 1980s, they began using acrylic paint on canvas as a more economically
viable way to produce and sell their art work.
Like many Indigenous womyn round the world, what the Aboriginal
womyn are doing in Utopia, as well as in other Aboriginal and Torres Strait
Islander communities round the country to help maintain their communities
is inspiring. They demonstrate that despite living in a country with some of
the most racist government policies in the world which deny them accessto the kind of living conditions, housing, education, health, that the rest ofAustralia takes for granted, they have continued not only to survive underharsh conditions in a remote area but have been able to creatively express
themselves in ways that are an example to the rest of us.
Now, I’m as enthusiastic as the next lesbian in terms of having a safe,
friendly, supportive and harmonious society in which to live. One that nourishes me completely, encourages my creativity, celebrates my lifestyle andgives me everything I need for my complete well-being without having tofight, beg or lie for it. But I’m far too practical or I’ve been around too longto expect that it’s actually and seriously going to come from patriarchy.

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I think one of the mistakes we feminist activists made back in the
1970s was to expect the patriarchy not only to embrace feminist politics,
and thereby change its attitude towards the oppression of womyn, but tofollow through on this radical world-view and collude in its own destruction. We now realise this was not going to happen in the short-term and it
is nowhere near happening forty years on. In fact, the patriarchy has grownin its destructive tendencies (the arms trade and pornography alone are billion-dollar industries). We can’t afford not to take all this into account as wego about our daily lesbian feminist activist business to do our bit to makethe world a more liveable place for all of us.
This is not say that lesbians are any worse at building sustainable communities than anyone else. On the contrary, despite the oppression we
continue to experience we’ve achieved a great deal. For example, there’s nodoubt that we lesbians over the past forty years in particular have developed
and nurtured lesbian communities that have inspired and supported many of
us to be ourselves. As lesbians we have contributed something to the worldthat is vibrantly distinctive and at the same time has nourished us and helped
us to build a way of life that has also inspired others.
So, taking my inspiration from the Indigenous womyn, (who have far
more to contend with than I do as they express their creativity in supportof their self-sustaining communities), as well as my own lesbian feminist
community, it seems to me that what we have been doing is establishing a
way of life for ourselves that is as close to a Utopian ideal as anyone could
possibly get under these brutally oppressive patriarchal circumstances.
For example, and despite the pollution, I choose to live with my lesbian
partner in an inner urban environment close to where my great grandmother
who immigrated from Scotland with her family back in 1882 used to live,with a great number of lesbians living not all that far away. I enjoy living ina big city because not only do I have access to any number of lesbian plays,
just this week I went to the opening of Lou Bennett’s musical Show Us Ya
Tiddas, and enough lesbian events to keep me amused and satisfied, justrecently a friend had her 60th birthday pirate party down by the beach, but
I’m able to live in a way that gives me joy and fulfillment.
I do volunteer work at the Victorian Women’s Liberation and Lesbian
Feminist Archives and am on a collective which is writing a book about what
we lesbians need to know about the legalities and emotional challenges ofdeath and dying. I paint and knit and exhibit my occasional art work. Like
many lesbians my age I am busy writing my memoirs in between writing
the herstory of our lesbian feminist activities here in Victoria.

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And there are many ways of going about promoting this best case scenario, from recycling to planting trees to cutting down on the use of fossil
fuels to raising and educating children not to be sexist or racist or classist
to showing respect for and acknowledging the Indigenous people who areusually the ones bearing the worse aspects of a capitalist patriarchal warmongering system. And many more instances of sustainable living to makethis planet a safer and healthier place for everyone.
None of this is what you’d call the Utopian ideal exactly. But if it’s achoice between a Utopian ideal or something less idealistic, I’d rather go forthe practical and achievable myself. Because if we’re being honest, we only
have to look into our own hearts and minds to appreciate just how far we’reremoved from the basis of a Utopian ideal. What it amounts to is, if we whowant a Utopian society are unable within our own selves to manifest it inour own lives and with and for each other in the way we would very much
like to experience, then it’s unlikely to happen.
Taking the world-view, there are still countries where lesbians are tortured and killed for their sexual identity. Here in Australia, and I suspectin most of the westernised so-called developed countries, we lesbians still
do not have all of the most basic human rights, lesbians are still closeted atwork for fear of repercussions and lesbians still commit suicide. With all ofthat to contend with, it’s difficult to see how we can even begin to imagine
any kind of lesbian Utopia.
And yet we do. Or try to. If this life is all we have, and I believe it is,
we need to just get on with living this very moment in all its difficulties andjoyfulness and challenges and satisfactions. It won’t be Utopian in the patriarchal sense but it certainly will be a lesbian life well lived in the practical
down to earth and every day sense where many of us prefer to live anyway.
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Sunlight

Once Upon a Time
Once upon a time (and not so very long ago)
There was a community of women
Who yearned for a just and peaceful world.
For they saw in the lives around them,
the greed and the sadness, the anger and fear,		and the destruction all that wrought.
So the women gathered,
They sang and changed,
Prayed and visioned,
And worked politically,
trying to create the world they imagined,
But it seemed that little changed outside.
		Then, simply by living from their hearts
Daily in their community
With gifts of time and money,
Prayer and hope to those in need of it,
There came a shift in energy,
A shift toward more and greater love.
And this love grew,
expanded,		
dissolving the negative.
Thus gentle, loving communities arose
here and there,
And eventually began to coalesce and growuntil one day they reached a critical mass.
Then the whole world changed, became(and not so very long from now)that world of love and kindness		the women had envisioned
and tried to create by other means.

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Thank you so very very much for your love and kindness
and the beginning of that world.
Reprinted from Women of Mendocino Bay (WOMB) With a View
Newsletter (Spring/Summer 2006, p. 11) with permission from
Sunlight.

“Untitled” by Sudie Rakusin ©

94sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

Pat Parker

Excerpt from “There is a Woman in This Town”
Once upon a time there was a dream, a dream of womenturning the world all over, and it still lives. It lives for those
who would be sisters.
It lives for those who need a sister.
It lives for those who once upon a time had a dream.
Excerpt from “There is a Woman in This Town” in An Expanded
Edition of Movement in Black by Pat Parker. Reprinted withpermission from Firebrand Books, 1999, p. 186.

Webster: Unwinding the bindings of mummified/numbified words
by Sudie Rakusin ©1985. First published in Wickedary by Mary Daly.

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Kim Rivers

The Search for Utopia
I’ve been searching for Utopia for a long time. It has always felt elusive, as
if like so many other fabled places it was to remain hidden only to be revealed
to those who by some extraordinary measure on their part made themselves
worthy to its revelation. As I emerged into my lesbian self the search for
Utopia came with me. The desire for a place free from heteropatriarchy’s
influence where I and others could be completely outrageous courageous
dykes has lived in me from my first naming myself as a lesbian to now where
I call myself a dyke separatist. I have had the good fortune to have in mylife many wonderful dyke separatists and radical lesbian feminists who havehelped nurture me along this journey and continue to do so. I have talked
with dykes struggling in cities and those living more freely on lesbian lands.
Almost always there is both the spoken and unspoken dream among us for
Utopia. The more I feel the possibility and presence of it now with my sisters
the more I am beginning to know it is not so much a place, but rather a stateof being that is both individually and collectively made.
It seems pretty cliché to say that Utopia is more a state of mind andheart than of a place. I even wince a little at how trite it must come acrossto read it, but I’m beginning to feel there is some truth to this. I am findingthat whenever I come together with other like-minded lesbians, if even fora short time we strive to create for that instant the Utopia we are all longing
for. Every day any one of us chooses to venture out our doors fully present
and obvious dykes, facing heteropatriarchy head on and not letting it steal
from us our amazon power then too we have furthered our revolutionary
emergence into Utopia. It is the continuing everyday and lifelong creationof our lesbian culture that I now believe is the Utopia I have been searching for.
I know I know, this smacks of that fluffy, new-age, positive thinking
thing. Many of us have experienced intense isolation as lesbians, throw in all
the heteropatriarchy has to offer and it’s a wonder so many of us do indeed
thrive. I can recall times of such pain, isolation, heartache, and hopelessness.
In those moments death feels like an option. Damn hard to find Utopia
in those moments. Living as lesbians, especially radical lesbians who don’t
wish to “be accepted” by the status quo has us traversing an edge that canleave us feeling lost and drained. So it is essential that we find ways to keep
going, to create the world that we wish to truly LIVE in. Doing whatever

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we can by very small acts and grand commotions that further affirms ourlesbian-loving, gynocentric culture. We find ourselves strengthened whenever
we can do this. Our strength is what allows us to let loose when we are in
the company of our sisters and what sustains us when we must travel ourways alone. The times when we are together with friends or at large eventsor festivals are glorious. Any daily act we do, listening to womyn’s music,
reading lesbian journals/publications, writing, speaking, or even just be-ing
is precious and self-affirming. Isn’t that the promise that we hope Utopia
holds for us?
I have just returned from an extraordinary event in New Mexico called
A Feminist Hullaballoo. Here over 200 lesbians gathered in the city of
Santa Fe to re-member our tremendous world-changing, life-affirming,
womon-loving powers. We linked to our past by recalling the multitudeof accomplishments of lesbians and feminists during the Second Wave of
Feminism. We presided fully in our present by sensing around us how many
then and now were still doing the work they had started. We dreamed andplanned for our future by being willing to carry our commitments sharedin that space back to our communities. I came away feeling like I had been
fully centered in the place of Utopia. I’m sure it helped having such notable
presenters like Sonia Johnson, Mary Daly, Cherríe Moraga, Shaba Barnes,
and Hye Sook Hwang (to name only a few) spurring us on with words andideas. It uplifted us to sing with Alix Dobkin, Margie Adams, Evelyn Green,and Afia Walking Tree music that reflected our values as lesbians and feminists. But it was even more that made this event feel for me like entering
Utopia. It was knowing that I was with others who were there for so manyof the same reasons I was, who wanted and believed in the values beyond
heteropatriarchy’s limited little world.
So this event was special yes, but although it occupied a place and time
it was more about what we brought to it that made it Utopia than the place
itself. It was the willingness and gynergy that we put into it. I came with an
openness and excitement that allowed me to connect deeply with not justthose who were presenting, but with so many others. I reconnected to longtime friends and came away with new ones. My knowledge of lesbian positiveenergy in the world has expanded multifold. I am aware that not just myself,
but many radical lesbian feminists and dyke separatists are out everywhere
living, loving, and working for a better existence. Each one of us a micro
Utopia unto ourselves, strengthened by each other when we come together
for shared experiences in a common place. This is one of those remarkable
experiences reminding me I am creating Utopia everyday.

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Sure we have disagreements, sure we don’t get along with everyone, andsome dykes just don’t plain like each other. Certainly for any feeling of Utopia
to endure there must be some commonalities among those who consciously
choose to live together in a more communal creation of Utopia. Even themost like-minded radical dykes are not always going to get on splendidly.
That’s when we have to really be committed to ourselves, each other, andthe dream of Utopia, for we all know there is going to be some work andprocess involved. This is true any time folks share space. I am drawn to those
who I can connect the most with and keep hanging out with them. The rest
I try to let go of and not feed the drama, giving room for them to find theirown connections. It definitely helps when I am inwardly centered and thus
existing in an internalized Utopia. Each feeds the other. I feel more centeredwhen I spend lots of time with other dykes and seek out other dykes when
I feel more centered.
So here I am back at home. This is where all the dyke positive gynergy
gets put to use. I am in the thick of the stupefying male-centric world, but
still I am a dyke, so that’s a good start. What’s more, I am not willing unlesspurely for immediate safety to try to be invisible as such. Nearby within anhour or so are some other radical dykes whom I adore as friends. We talk ofways to bring some radical feminist, gynocentric vibrations outward into theworld, to create what nurtures us and hopefully the whole planet. As I said,
it can be the smallest things. Helping them move to a new place, writing fortheir publication, Rain and Thunder, writing here for Sinister Wisdom. All
this makes Utopia NOW. It is not some far off distant place, nor is it even
the Feminist Hullaballoo, which was Utopia, but it is the now of my own
lesbian heart and mind. I think for us to truly be the change we want to see
we have to live as much as possible by whatever means we can as if Utopia
were upon our own doorstep.
So let it be cliché, let it be fluffy, new-age thinking. I know it feels rightwhen we are together as small groups of friends or in the biggest waves of
lesbians. I know I feel saner when I stop listening to the news and play somemusic with words that speak to me. I was once asked by a very conscious
and radical dyke separatist about my lamenting on wishing to create lesbiancommunity, wanting to feel a part of something that was lesbian affirming.
“What are you waiting for?” At the time I had no inkling of an answer. It
was a question I have since asked myself and offered to other sisters as well.
It is at the heart of the desire to create/find Utopia and I finally think I have
happened upon an answer so simple, yet so daunting. We are the ones we’vebeen waiting for. Our Utopia is in our own hands, voices, minds, hearts,
bodies, and spirits.

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Alix Dobkin

The Woman in Your Life Is You                    Words & music by Alix Dobkin    ©1973          The woman in your life will do what she must do
To comfort you and calm you down
And let you rest, now
The woman in your life she can rest so easily
She knows everything you do because
The woman in your life is you
The woman in your life knows simply what is true
She knows the simple way to touch
To make you whole, now
The woman in your life she can touch so easily
She knows everything you do because
The woman in your life is you
And who knows more about your story
About your struggles in the world
And who cares more to bless  your weary shoulders, than
The woman in your life is trying to come throughA woman’s voice with messages
Of woman’s feelings
The woman in your life she can feel so easily
She knows everything you do because
The woman in your life is you
And who is sure to give you courage
And who will surely make you strong
And who will bear all the joy  that is comin’ to you, than
The woman in your life she’s someone to pursue
She’s patient and she’s waiting andwinter 2007–2008

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She’ll take you home, now
The woman in your life she can wait so easily
She knows everything you do because
The woman in your life is you

Amazon ABC          lyrics by Alix Dobkin, ©1974

A you’re an Amazon
B coming brave and strong
C-learly and Consciously you see
D you’re so Dykey
E how you Excite me and
F is For Female Faculty, oh
G I Guess it’s Good for me
H omosexuality
I never knew how “butchy” I could be
J for sweet Justice
K for sweet Kisses
L-E-S-B-I-A-N for Letting go ofM- eNO pression is no longer Over me, Oh
P is Political, Power to the Personal
Q for the Queer you fear you
R Remember you gotta Respect yourS sential Sensibility (Sexuality). Be
T ween us is a Tie, and it’s
U terine empathy
V is for Vagina, the Virgin (your Vulva’s vibration)
U can double your (U a Universe until you get through to)
X perience until you can do justX actly what(where) you want to X ist
Y let them drive you cra- (not Y se up, but it’s not eee-)Z!
Now I know my “ABC”’s
Next time won’t you sing with me100sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

Chris Sitka

The Labrys
The labrys is a very ancient symbol. It became popular as a lesbian symbolin the 1970s because it was associated with the Amazons of pre-history. It isbelieved they carried, and perhaps fought with, labrys shaped double axes. The
symbol appears frequently on the ceramics of the Minoan Culture of Cretebetween 1000 & 3000 BC. The renowned archaeologist Marija Gimbutas
wrote several books (“The Language of the Goddess,” “The Civilization of
the Goddess,” etc.) in which she details the deeper spiritual meanings of thelabrys in the Old European Goddess Civilization which thrived throughout
Europe from 9000 BC till 1000 BC when it was overwhelmed by patriarchal
cultures. Indeed there are goddess symbols 25,000 yrs old. The labrys wasboth double axe and butterfly; symbolising rebirth and regeneration from thecocoon of death. An apt symbol for the emergence of lesbianism from thedeathly cocoon of the closet. I am happy to email lesbians a copy of articles
I have written on the matriarchal, lesbian friendly cultures of European prehistory. It is a great way to expand your concept of who we are, and how long
we have been thriving, on this mother earth. (Note: I have researched andwritten about my own white ancestral roots, but matriarchy was a worldwide
reality in pre-patriarchal times.) sitka@jeack.com.au

Labrys: Photo by Tee. A. Corinne. Tee A. Corinne Papers, Special Collections
and University Archives, University of Oregon Libraries.

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Michelle Wing

The Good Day
Your alarm sounds first. I hear shower water,doze, then feel your soft lips on my cheek,saying good-bye just for now, as you head off
for another round of belabored union talks.
In morning’s filtered light, I make coffee,
scoop earth-dark grounds, add water,
fill the kitchen with aromas of two worlds,
home and a distant Guatemalan plantation.
Sipping from my cup, I gather three bowls,
serve breakfast to the other early risers in the house,
my knees bumped by wagging tails as dogs
circle, always famished, always fed.
I peel damp sheets off the bed
after summer night’s heat, float new linens
softly through the air, smooth coolness
into each crisp corner, tuck and straighten.
Picking up pen and notepad, I sit downwith yesterday’s perfect metaphor. It falls flat.
Scratch it out, roll new sounds aroundon my tongue, picture the polished poem.
A blue belly lizard skitters under the couchand across my toes, its tail sacrificed to the cat.
I can save this one, scoop the wriggling body up in warm hands
and release it to the relative safety of the rosemary bush.
The garden needs water. I pace between verdant rows,
touch thigh high corn, spy new potatoes poking
through rich soil, brush bugs off jalapeño plants,
watch the leaves unfurl as moisture seeps into the ground.

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The dogs bark at the mail truck. We trot together
to the box at the end of the driveway.
I finger through bills, down to the surprise of a postcard
from Puerto Vallarta, friends on vacation, hola.
Back in the cool of my office, I escape to India,
taste chutney in the kitchen of a novel,
prepare for a Hindu wedding while parsing
each paragraph with the eyes of a poet.
The phone rings. A friend struggles with her marriage’s end,
asking for answers. I make my words a mirrorof her own wisdom, know I cannot predict
what will grow in someone else’s garden.
The mercury keeps rising. I fill the wading poolwith fresh water, call the dogs, take off my shoes and splash,dodge and play, adding the outline of my feetto the damp paw prints scattered across the deck.
Hungry, I open the crisper and pull out freshbroccoli, asparagus, heirloom tomatoes.
I rinse soft tofu, slice and toss the medley into an iron skillet,
ready to sauté as you come in the door.
You say the union may strike. With good foodand love, I try to soothe the day’s tensions,listen to the details of conflict with management,
provide a haven from the stress of the world.
We wash the dishes by hand, and move to separate cornersof the house. You unwind with a book about dragons,
and I open up the past in my journal, look for healing,remind myself I am now safe and almost whole.
At day’s end, you and I savor one more cup of coffee,
watch the full moon spotlight nearby vineyards,
bittersweet sphere that shone on my father’s last night
two years ago, his hand in mine, my other hand in yours.

winter 2007–2008

I turn back fresh sheets, snuggle in close to you.
Touch turns to passion, and we merge our two histories,
create a third that is ours, both bound and free.
When I cry out in my sleep, you will be right here.
dedicated to Sabrina, with thanks to Anne Morrow Lindbergh

Be-Speilling: Dis-covering and releasing the Archimagical powers of words
by Sudie Rakusin ©1985. First published in Wickedary by Mary Daly.

103

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Ruth Mountaingrove

My Utopia
Well, to begin with my Utopia would not have men. Consider Herland,by Charlotte Perkins Gilman or The Female Man by Joanna Russ, the latter
absence of men due to a disease only affecting men. While in Herland all iswell until some men spot it from a plane and drop in. Then there is Sally
Gearhart’s Wonderland and her Kanshou series, where men are controlledin camps.
Sally Gearhart noticed long ago that testosterone was what caused war.
The old men starting the war and sending the young men off to do thefighting. She suggested that if we had men just for procreation we would
not need that many.
Of course men could learn to control their sex drives, that isn’t inevitable. They just haven’t seen any reason except in monasteries. When they
are fighting, they harm civilians, read women and children and the old.
They rape and pillage as other means to destroy a country as we can see in
Iraq and Afghanistan.
So in my Utopia, no men in this fantasy world. Women in charge,
responsible for every thing. I had a taste of that when I was in the Women’s
Movement in 1968-70 in Philadelphia, city of sisterly love. We had a house
where we had no men. We were feminist separatists.
We did everything. I learned if it takes two men to move a refrigerator,
four women cooperating can move one just as well. Women ran the office,as well as a store, kept the books, ordered supplies, counseled women about
leaving abusive marriages.
In my Utopia women would have a decent income and work at a job
they loved. In my Utopia money which has caused so much trouble would
not exist nor would owning property—a European concept brought to thiscountry when they first invaded the land. Instead there would be barter.
In my Utopia there would be no such thing as unwed mothers, illegitimate children. Nor would there be abortion—all children would be welcome.
Women would choose to be pregnant or not. Some women might choose
to never have children. That would be accepted too. Women could create inmany ways as poets, artists, musicians, songwriters, sculptors,
In my Utopia menstruation would be honored for the sacred experience
it is and time would be set aside for fully living those days. From this could
come wisdom and direction for the woman and the group.

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Birth by parthenogenesis, without male interference for women who
desire pregnancy would be celebrated by all the women as the miracle it is.
The child welcomed into the new life by loving women.
In my Utopia there would be peace, harmony with a council of wise
old women deciding small disagreements among the young. There would
be no such thing as only one way of living as in now in patriarchal society.
There would be no military, no need for it. No hierarchical system. No
guns, no police.
There would be no hunger, Food would be shared. No religion. Nothingthat would maim or kill. Not that women would not die but they would die
at a wise old age. Not at the hands of men. Not of man caused diseases.
What about sex? There would be women loving women, celibate women,
women in couples, in trios or more combinations. There would be lots of
cuddling and massages. Nobody no matter what her age would be left outof tenderness and caring.
Some women say that Utopia would be nine lesbians on the Supreme
Court but in my Utopia there would be no lawyers or judges. That’s a maleconcept, a patriarchal one.
There would be no doctors. There would be women healers like thosewise women witches who understood the use of herbs for healing, andmidwives for those women who choose to be pregnant.
The children would belong to every one since procreation would not bea casual event. The whole group of women would decide. The woman who
requested pregnancy would need the agreement of the group since all would
be responsible for the child’s education and the raising of her.
In my Utopia you would be able to go for a walk at midnight if you
wished. You would be safe at any time, day or night. Since there would be
no guns and no police, no military, then the only things to fear would be
hurricanes, tornadoes, fires started by lightning, droughts, floods all provided
by nature.
No oil in my Utopia, so no electricity, cars, computers, radio, TV, phones.
None of this last twentieth century. We would live like our grandmothers
and great grandmothers lived. Raising our own food, as they did. Going to
bed with the chickens. Electricity has done our bodies a lot of damage. We
were not meant to stay up past sunset with artificial light.
Religion, as it is understood now, the binding (religio) of person todogma would not be part of my Utopia. Women would create their own
spirituality with a beneficent goddess or not as they wished.
In Sally Gearhart’s world Earthkeep there is still the need for police

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though they are women, because in her fantasy men still exist and are dangerous. They must be kept in compounds so they don’t harm the earth.
In my Utopia there wouldn’t be an eight hour structured day. There
would be time for naps. Work would be shared between women. We would
all be vegans, getting our protein from plants rather than animals.
Interestingly enough as I was getting ready to key-in the end of thisarticle an event happened—a live wire down on the street spitting fire andtaking down our electricity. I discovered this as I turned on my computerand nothing happened. So in my Utopia no computers, no internet. We
will develop our own intuition, our own telepathy as Mary Daly suggests
in Quintessence.
So this is my fantasy of what it would be like to live in my Utopia.
What’s yours?					Beatrice Ilana Lieberman
thanks to the sky
who weeps tonightfor me.
to a thousand birds
who sleep the bay
and to the gulls
who waiton the long green grass.
thanks to the black sky
who comforts my mouthand eye.
and thanks to the wild wet wind
who carries my heart
to heaven.

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Jeane Orjas

Circles of Women
Knowing love, feeling love, loved deeply by friends and alover, loving
Experiencing compassion, empathy, kindness, care, support,
nurturingContentment, security, safety, trust, happiness, joy, ecstasy
are mine
Being a member of a circle of women, a group of close womenfriends,
belonging, included
Living, working, creating together in cooperative partnerships
Knowing, feeling, believing that I am wanted, cared about
Freely, unconditionally, without judgment, criticism, nor
analysis,validated
Accepted exactly as I am, being who I am, I am who I am
Expressing myself no matter what, my energy flowing throughand out of me
My words move along unbroken pathways in my brain, out
my hands
onto the paper, the keyboard, out my mouth in screams,
shouts, crying,laughter, my voice foundMaaa kaaa laaa hiii aaa! Wake Up!
My body and self, healed and strong, I spin, dance in joy,
my arms flung out
Talking with women, taking my space, unselfconsciously,
spontaneously,
naturally
Looking into eyes looking into mine, seeing, being seen
Being listened to, heard, listening, hearing, with
understanding
Feeling comfortable, confident, calm

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Telling our truths, our stories of suffering, grief, fear, anger,
happiness
Sharing our experiences, thoughts, opinions, small talk,meaningful conversations
Walking in each others shoes
Calling on the phone, being called, asking, being asked
How are you? Would you like to get together? Can I helpyou?
Going out to sip a chai latte, take a walk, in the park, by thebay,
on the beach, sitting on a bench watching life, together
Going home to my apartment, clean, sparely furnished,splashed with warm sunlight
Decorated with my play art, spiritual symbols andmeaningful images
A cat and women roommates wait for me
Sitting at table together, eating meals of healthy foodTalking, laughing, being angry, crying, nourishing each other
Surrendering to sleep, healing, restful, refreshing sleep,knowing that I am not alone
Dreaming the light and shadow memories of my herstory
Feeling relaxed, at peace, knowing friends are asleep in thenext room
In my bed, beside me, a warm body touches me
My right arm reaches out to lightly touch, tenderly caress
my lover’s shoulder
Gathering her close to me, embracing her, being embraced byherFeeling every inch of her body lined up with my body
Holding each other gently, tightly, stroking each other’sbacks, slowly
Our fingertips dancing in the palms of each others’ hand
Kissing her closed lips lightly, sucking on them
Until our breaths catch, hardly move, hearts pound, bloodraces,
nerves light up on fireWinter 2007-2008

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Tasting, exploring, kneading, stroking our ripe abundant soft
bodiesJuices drip down our chins and flow out our vaginas
Forgetting the world outside, rivulets of rain running down
the window
Low sepia light from one candle flame fills the room
Being present with each other in a cozy warm bed coveredwithflannel sheets
Plumbing the depths of passion, ecstasy, together
Exquisite physical sensations felt in my body, roaring
emotional feelings
no longer contained
My nerves and skin burn exquisitely from the fire in mybones
Life’s pulse throbs, energy radiates in waves, whirlwinds
spiral in and out“Stumps” by Nancy Nau © 2007

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Alix Greenwood

Let All Be Well
By the soft lucidity of equinox light,
Summer’s colors transposed to a minor key,
By the red-limbed manzanita and the bee on the buckwheat,
The blush on the trees, the new moon in the deep blue sky,
Let all be well, however that may be.
By my sweetheart’s courage as she prepares for her dying,
By the undocumented workers who dare to unionize,
By the unjustly imprisoned who campaign and agitate,
By every act of dignity in the worst of circumstances,
Let all be well, however that may be.
By every female who desires another,Who says, I choose you, the unchosen,
Who gives her love where she is taught to betray
And daily chances contempt, hatred and death,Let all be well, however that may be.
By everything that no one had to do –Each penny given, each casual kindness,
Each tree planted, each bag re-used,
Each pound of tea fair-traded –Let all be well, however that may be.
By everyone who’s risked or lost their life –Put their body before a bulldozer or rose in the Ghetto,
Ran into a burning tower, died for socialism in Chile –Suffragettes on hunger strikes, civil rights workers lynched,
Let all be well, however that may be.
By the honesty of anyone who listens
To someone else’s story, and holds it in their heart
Just as it is; who is present to the pain,
To the bitter and the sweet, and faces their own part,Let all be well, however that may be.

Winter 2007-2008

By the power of life that tingles through me,
By every agony I feel for all that is so wrong,
By my wrenching love for this earth, my only home,
By my searing need for justice for all beings,
Let all be well, however that may be.
By all this beauty, by all this that is true,
By the terrible luminous wonder of love,
By the flower of peace that waits to burst from the bud,
By water, by fire, by what is below and what is above,
Let all be well, however that may be.
October 2003

Alix Greenwood

On My 42nd Birthday
The long slow pull of early evening,
Like a boat rowed out on the westward sea—
I would go too, where it goes.
The wave fingers that scroll the waters—
I would so perfectly inscribe the world,
With my words, my love, my actions.
The red cliffs, wind-patterned,
Like the weave on cypress trunks;
I would be so steadfast, and so eroded.
April 2005

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Andrea Nicki

CircleIf women were in charge
we would make sureeveryone learned Native
languages
We would form a healing circle
that stretched through every single
building, church, prison
hospital, clinic, farm, store
library, house, schoolthat stretched for milesof every single personin the city
And every link would
be firm and strong
and no human or animal
would be left outWinter 2007-2008

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Nicole M.

In UnisonCommunity is the order of the day, and communal living is thefoundation.
It is extremely common for many lesbians to live together in any of avariety of configurations: A group of lesbians in one large house. A collection of households sharing a common space such as a park or a recreation
center. A daily front porch or front stoop society. An apartment buildingthat’s more like a college dormitory, with lesbians constantly visiting eachother and enjoying common space in a yard or a comfortably furnishedbasement.
Public spaces are also fundamental. Neighborhood meeting places suchas parks, recreation centers, libraries, playgrounds, and coffee shops act as
local government spaces. Everybody has access to them. They are where
people get to know each other over time, and where they decide what theircollective needs are and how those needs will be met.
Most neighborhoods are blended, but communities who want to live
separately are respected. No one is invaded by uninvited outsiders demanding entrance. Lesbian households, enclaves, villages, and cities preserve theirsovereignty. However, each community maintains many ties with othercommunities. No group is completely outside of the larger social network.
Country, rural, and other physically distant lesbians maintain ties with eachother and with city lesbians. Pen pal relationships are very common.
Each public space is made comfortable and unique by the women who
frequent it: A lesbian who likes a certain type of music, food, or newsletter will likely bring some to share. A woman who is fascinated by a certain
subject might start a discussion, study group, or workshop. A lesbian who
likes to dance or sing can schedule a performance, teach a class, or hold afriendly contest.
Lesbians of widely different ages spend a lot of time with each other.
Disabled lesbians, disfigured lesbians, chronically ill lesbians are not separated from others. All are mingled together, helping each other, hanging out.
Old, sick, and disabled lesbians teach young, healthy, able-bodied lesbians
delicious things about dance and intimacy and sex.
Lesbian companionship and love are easy to find, easy to get, easy togive. Girls and women of all ages are embraced and listened to. Some desire
solitude and that desire is always respected... but no one is excluded. There114

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is no such thing as a woman in a prison, mental institution, or juvenile detention. There is no judicial system, and anyway, a lesbian’s emotional upset
is always addressed long before she does anything that might hurt herself
or anyone else. All of our physical and social needs are met, and feelings ofemotional desperation are dealt with by talking to others or by spendingtime alone. No lesbian ever wonders whether she is “good enough.” No lesbian is dominated by her personality flaws. We try to understand and learn
from the negative feelings that pass through us. When we freak out, it’s not
destructive. It’s healing. We grow.
Certain lesbians are the very spirit of the community. They are the community hearts—women of extraordinary personal connection. They see andhear and love the lesbians who surround them. By instinct, they are always
socially active, always involved. These women are advisors, peacekeepers,
adept in conflict resolution. These are the lesbians who help guide others
through growing pains, disputes, and other emotional trauma. It is common
practice to take a painful, difficult problem to such a community heart, who,
perhaps in conjunction with several other lesbians in the group, will aid indetermining how the situation might best be handled. It is also typically acommunity heart who will represent her people during the occasional intercommunity disagreement.
The lesbian social net is well-woven. When you don’t feel good, you
can go to a healing woman. There are a lot of them, and they know what
to do. When you need to talk, you can go to your preferred public space.
Someone will be there to listen and provide support and counsel. When
you need skills, you can supplement your self-education with guidance orapprenticeship from one or more mentors. When you need information,
you can go to a griot or an archivist or a strange, watchful lesbian who tends
not to talk much. These women know things.
Lesbians help each other, work together, do chores together, advise andencourage each other. Lesbians share time, resources, labor, recreation, andourselves. Information, skills, and abilities—such as food production, gardening, and construction work—are shared. Objects such as tools, books,
and vehicles are also shared. Silliness and laughter are shared. Emotions areshared.
There is very, very little pollution. We live so cleanly that the lesbianwith multiple chemical sensitivities can live anywhere she pleases. All foodis comfort food and there are no chemicals in it. Any technology that does
not suit us is discarded. There are parks, bicycle paths, clean and extremely
accessible public transportation and public bathrooms, comfortable chairs

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and benches, and community gardens all over the place. The concrete has
been pulled up to reveal the streams and rivers that flow beneath every city.
Our paths are wide and clear. We live so broadly, so smoothly, that the disabled lesbian can travel (or rest) anywhere she wants.
When a girl in a heterosexual family discovers her lesbianism, she will beembraced and warmly socialized by a lesbian household. While maintaining
friendly ties with her family, she will likely settle into her lesbian community
when she becomes independent.
The girls among us are raised and educated collectively by the lesbian
household. Education has little to do with school; it’s a part of every day. No
one is overwhelmed or mystified by the challenges of raising and educating
children. There is always someone around who knows what to do and who
has the energy to do it.
Each girl is named according to a quality she exhibits or the personality
she manifests when very small. She might be named collectively by her community. She might be re-named more than once as she grows and changes.
Each woman is encouraged to re-name herself in a self-naming ceremony(either community-based or private) whenever she feels the need. She alsodecides what her relationship to her previous names will be. She may be called
by a former name under certain circumstances. A lesbian is not summed up
in a few adjectives. It is not assumed that you will continue to be the same
type of person all of your life. Your sense of self may shift over time. You canchange and still be accepted by the ones who love you.
In order to name ourselves well and describe the world around us truthfully, we have developed multiple lesbian languages. They are constantly being
influenced and shaped by lesbians to conform to the needs and circumstancesof all types of lesbians. Lesbian languages are warmer, more detailed, andmore fluid than heterosexual languages.
Although the concepts are taken extremely seriously, words such as“friends” or “marriage” are not used in lesbian languages because they are toovague. Instead, each member of a relationship defines that relationship in
her own way. There is no specific template to follow (such as “best friends,”
or a “white wedding”). Each relationship is instead personalized in this way:
it is described with a unique, compound “created word,” which is made up
by the participants of the relationship in order to describe that relationshipprecisely. These “created words” are composed of any of a huge number ofwell-known prefixes, roots, and suffixes. Each prefix, root, and suffix has its
own subtle meaning. When strung together (like words in a sentence), they
form a richly descriptive word.

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These “created words” also help to emphasize that the participants of a
relationship are engaged in a dynamic process. A relationship is not simply
something someone is “in.” It is something that the participants actively
do. The “created word” used to describe a relationship is noun and adjective
and verb and it will change over time as the relationship changes. It can alsochange according to who a lesbian is talking to and what she wants to reveal
or keep private. Each of these “created words” is a poetry. Some “createdwords” might mean:“we share a nonsexual relationship with mutual hobbies and a foundation of laughter”“we are no longer lovers but maintain strong emotional ties based on
our shared history”“we live far apart and see each other rarely, but have been developing a
spiritual bond over the years”“we love each other’s intellect and philosophy”“we’ve been arguing lately, we’re in pain, and we need some time toregain our equilibrium”“we are new to each other, fascinated with each other, and consumed
with discovering each other, sexually and otherwise”“we are multiple generations apart in chronological age, we have overlapping interests, and we love learning from each other”
Work—all work—makes sense. There are no military jobs, no telemarketers, no administrative assistants. No bathroom attendants, store greeters,
or sex workers. No priests, no lawyers, no politicians. All work produces
something that is needed or desired by women. All working conditions
are safe and dignified. Women routinely enjoy the products of their own
work.
Work cooperatives are extremely common. Work and responsibility are
distributed such that everyone gets plenty of leisure time. Unpleasant jobs
are handled by everyone during a period of their youth. For example, you
may get recycling or sewage system duty for a year or so when you’re in yourlate teens. This is not a class issue. There are no classes. Everyone has to dotheir share of that kind of thing.
Social organization is kept small and low to the ground. There’s no suchthing as welfare, politics, banking, religion, police, a judicial system, or the
military. There is no national, federal, state, or city government anywherein the world. There’s no capitalism. There’s not much barter, either. If youWinter 2007-2008

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know that whenever you need or crave something, you can get it, what’s thepoint in demanding compensation for the things you do?
Paper is no longer used as a trap. Money, birth certificates, adoption
papers, identification cards, bills, personal checks, government checks,
paychecks, insurance, licenses, tax forms, deeds, money orders, executive
orders, court orders, police records, liens, warrants, tickets, diplomas, wills,social security paperwork, working papers, passports, visas, registrations,warranties, treaties, promissory notes, bonds, stocks, mutual funds, notarized
documents... no longer exist.
People accept each other. There’s no such thing as unwanted isolation,homelessness, pornography, professional therapy, prescription sedatives, or
weight-loss programs and products. There are no jails, no courtrooms, norehab, no juvenile detention, no mental institutions, no nursing homes, noorphanages, no maternity wards, and no hospice. There are no crisis hotlines.
No 911. We take care of each other.
There are still men—what can I tell you?—but they are castrated assoon as they are old enough to provide a semen sample (in case children aredesired later), so they’re not violent, predatory, domineering, or competitive
anymore.
There are no weapons, crime, or violence. No slapping, beating, or neglect of children—ever. No abuse of women—ever. No one is raped. Thereis no humiliation, intimidation, or contempt. No one is alienated, trapped,or broken. And although it took a few generations to wash out, sex is nolonger associated with degradation and terror. Sex is never used as a tactic,
weapon, or shield. Some lesbians are more sexual, some less so, but sex isbeautiful and we are fearless.
Clothes, hairstyles, and body language mean what we intend for them tomean. No one makes negative judgments about what kind of people we arebased on what we look like. The way a lesbian dresses or talks or laughs orwalks or dances is never a target for attack. Big or small breasts or backsides
or hips or thighs or stomachs or lips or hair or muscles don’t mean anythingin particular, and although many lesbians make a point of remembering andcelebrating their racial and cultural heritage, no one really attends to skincolor anymore. It’s kind of incidental by now.
Holidays are not celebrated on a standardized schedule. Holidays float.
They are celebrated anytime, as often as desired, whenever a community,
household, or individual feels the craving or need. Celebration periods are
not limited to:

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Festival in Memory of the Dead
Old Woman Day
Relationship Ceremonies
Conflict Resolution Rituals
Self-naming or Re-naming Ceremonies
Coming of Age/Change of Life Commemorations (celebrating
milestones such as menstruation, first lesbian love, menopause,and gray hair)
Appreciation Day
Help Parties (helping a neighbor with a large task such as building
a house)Nature Festivals
Culture Festivals
Sex Day
Carnival (during which each lesbian makes an effort to meet at least
one lesbian she didn’t previously know)
Sound Day (we listen to everything, not just human voices and music)
Maturity Day (we reflect on the growth and goals of our community,
our loved ones, and ourselves)
Ridiculous Day (we are encouraged to behave like fools)

An individual may choose not to participate in a certain celebration
period being enjoyed by her community, but no woman or girl is ever excluded under any circumstances.
We generate most of our own entertainment with drawings, music, andpoetry that we create, as well as conversation, storytelling, dance, games,
romance, sex, and the sports that we have invented. We sculpt clay andwe carve wood. We play tag and jump rope. We cook for fun. Nature also
provides entertainment for us to observe or participate in. We try to noticesomething new every time we go outside.
What “intellectualism” there is left these days is never conducted in thinktanks or universities, but at home or in public spaces, engaging all interested
members of the household and community. Old lesbians are listened to andseriously considered, and so are mentally disabled lesbians. So are young
girls. Everyone contributes to discourse and philosophy. New ideas are seen
as fascinating, not threatening. “Small” ideas are heard and valued as muchas “big” ones. Oral traditions are taken seriously.
Learning is valued, but it is rarely done in schools. Healing women,
farmers, archivists, construction women, conflict resolution specialists, andwinter 2007–2008

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craftswomen learn not in school but by observation and apprenticeship.
Books and periodicals are widely and eagerly read, but information is notthought to be stored exclusively in texts. Knowledge, history, and culture
belong to women.

“Untitled” by Sudie Rakusin ©

120sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

Mary MeriamGirl Guide
Eat the Soup of Courage
Learn to Pray
Love the Lonely
Accept Nourishment
Let Your Natural Feelings Fly
Linger Less in Wonderland
Ask Yourself
Picture Outing 1968
Bite This
Reject Your Self Bigot
Love Your Most Faithful Lover
Love Your Own Lesbian Body
Answer Yes
Say a Slow Hello
Let Your Deep Feelings Breathe
Use Fruit and Moon to SeduceWinter 2007-2008

Mary Meriam

Something GoodI waltz with Julie Andrews in her blue
desire dress one summer night, and weare floating from the castle garden throughthe edelweiss and falling dreamily
in love in the gazebo. “Nothing comesfrom nothing. Nothing ever will,” she singsto me alone, while silky darkness hums
along in harmony with lovely things.
For here you are, you’re standing there, in truth
you’re loving me and touching me with yoursoft womanhood. So somewhere in my youth
inside of Julie’s sound of music, pureconfusion slowly melts, and any doubt
dissolves as Julie guides my coming out.

“Untitled” by Francine

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Natasha Carthew

Home
I will give you a homebuilt of wood and stone
with these hands
digging
food and flowers for the table
home grown.
I will sit you a porch
swinging on the tropical breeze
barefoot and tipsy
kicking sandsinging songs that only you have heard.
I will kiss you a second at a timefrom the sunset to the sunrise
chasing you into the sea
confident with the swim you taught me.
I will hold you a million years
to be like thisas native to the sun as to the stars
time to bury the watchesdrown the clocks
now all the world’s time is ours.

Tide Turned Pebble
My lovefrom the sea
a gift for you from mea stone’s throw
chanced down around the worldtide turned pebble
in handto let you knowWinter 2007-2008

that I will love youfrom the breaking horizon
down deep into the silver lining
the beautiful blue belly
and the shoreline risinga gift from me
my loveand all the beauty of a wave to greet you
from the sea
the world for you
my lovea tide turned pebble.

Night Swimming
She is one head bobbing
perhaps smilinglaughing over fields of green
she is the stars in a halo
the moon in a trance
hanging on to the dear dark skynight swimming.
She is two feet splashing
perhaps dancing
about the silver darts of fish
she is the horizon closing
the cliff face risingfollowing
further than a stone throw from the shore.
She is two arms moving
perhaps wavingdrawing me in by a thread
she is the warm salt water
the cold night air
gathering me about her
turning me undernight swimming.

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n1
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998

©

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Pelican Lee

Santa Fe in 2028
The fairy appeared in front of me as I was walking through the New
Mexico woods, all depressed about the state of the world. The fairies, aswell as elves, trolls and leprechauns, had come along with the Europeans
wherever they went. The fairy told me that she had something to show me.
She took my hand, and suddenly I was walking down my street in Santa Fe
on a sunny afternoon.
The newspaper in my driveway caught my eye. Since the next person
who drove in would run over it, I picked it up to throw it to the side. I
noticed the date was July 17, 2028. Ah… the fairy wanted me to see into
the future. OK, let’s see.
The biggest headline was WORLD PEACE DAY CELEBRATED. The
article mentioned that when the Middle East blew up in the summer of
2008, people worldwide finally became so disgusted with war and violence
and religious conflict, that there was a huge momentum to create peace andjustice. Militaristic governments fell everywhere. Now twenty years of world
peace and cooperation was being celebrated.
Something looked different, and when I looked up, I saw that the highfence that separated my apartment complex from the neighbors was gone.
In fact all of the “privacy fences” in the neighborhood were gone. People
were in their yards and on the sidewalk, talking with each other, all up anddown the street.
It was then that I noticed my next-door neighbor Antonia, but she was
all grown up now, in her yard weeding the flowers. She was excited to seeme, came over to talk. She told me that when the Great Peace had begun,a young organizer had gathered together all the folks in the neighborhood
at a potluck. People were so desiring an end to conflict at that time, thatthey came, even though many didn’t know each other, and there were yearsof mistrust between some families who had lived in the neighborhood forgenerations. At that potluck, they agreed to participate in the program thatthe young organizer outlined, of weekly sessions in which they learned andexperienced many new things that would lead to neighborhood peace. They
were so grateful that there was something concrete that they could do, to createconnection and understanding and trust among the neighborhood folks.
Antonia said that she learned a lot about not only her own culture andheritage as a New Mexico Chicana from the community elders, she also

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learned about the cultures and heritage of everyone else in the neighborhood,including the white newcomers like me. And I saw there were lots of new
folks in the neighborhood now—a couple of black kids were riding theirbikes in circles in the street with some Asian kids. She said that everyone
appreciated others’ cultures and they wanted more different kinds of folks
in the neighborhood because they were excited by the possibilities. Now,
everyone attends the quinceañeras, the Pow Wows, the Kwanzaa celebrations,
the Bat Mitzvahs, the Beltane May Poles, the Chinese New Year parades,
the feast that ends Ramadan. Life is so much more fun, she said, with somuch more to celebrate!
She said it wasn’t easy at first, because they all had a lot of emotional
work to do, to heal the traumas of growing up and living in a violent racist
sexist world. But once the government changed and withdrew funding fromthe military, there was funding for all sorts of programs to help the people.
Everyone got as much help as they needed, both individually and in groups,
and bodywork too. She laughed and said that they didn’t call it therapy, but
that’s what it was, though therapists got a lot of new training for how to better
deal with the issues folks had. And they learned all sorts of new skills such as
how to communicate better and resolve conflicts. There are mediators andconflict-resolution specialists available to help folks when they need it, evennow. She said that conflicts still happen, that it’s a natural part of life, butthat it’s no big deal, they get worked out and everyone grows as a result.
There was lots of new education too. Men attended classes to learn
about institutionalized sexism and male dominance and how to better deal
with emotions and let go of ego, among other things. White folks had a
lot of work to do in their classes, to learn about white privilege and thehistory of racism, and to become aware of and how to let go of entitlement
and arrogance, among other things. Everyone learned about compulsory
heterosexuality.
Folks learned how to change generations of patterns of thinking. She
said that when folks started softening and opening to each other, many more
became open to same-sex relationships. She said that life was so much easier
now for the women on the male end of the female spectrum, like her, andthe men on the female end of male spectrum. Social ideas of what is male
and what is female had expanded to include those on the extreme ends, sothey no longer felt like they had been born in the wrong body. She said she
had been feeling that before the Great Change.
Antonia took me into her house to meet her woman partner, Pema, who
is a Tibetan Buddhist. They were married several years ago, and have all theWinter 2007-2008

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same legal rights as heterosexual couples. They showed me pictures of theirwedding, which was a lovely combination of Tibetan Buddhist and Spanish
Catholic ceremony. Pema said that although gay and lesbian marriages are
now normal and legal, that single people have the same privileges that marriedpeople have, too. And that being single is as easy and as honored as being
in a couple. In fact, more people were single now because of that.
When the governments changed worldwide to serve the people rather
than the greed of the wealthy, poverty disappeared. That changed everything. Re-education that ended racism was essential to eliminating poverty,
too, they said. People no longer got addicted to alcohol and drugs, because
they no longer lived in such despair, and the cartels and governments thatpushed the drugs were also gone. Drugs disappeared from the streets, andfolks went into treatment programs that were expanded to have enoughspace for everyone.
The corporations were broken up and small businesses were nurtured.
Antonia said that she could now walk to neighborhood stores that had justabout everything that she needed. Advertising had disappeared from themedia, so people no longer felt that they needed so much. Free health care
was available for everyone, not only medical, but herbal and acupuncture
and many other traditions that I had never heard of. The neighborhood
health clinic was just a few blocks away.
Antonia and Pema told me that the scientists finally were listened to andheeded, when their funding changed and they were freed from the wishesof corporations and corrupt governments. Research about how Native
Americans lived densely in the landscape by working with it inspired people
to look into those ways. Pema told me that a book, “Tending the Wild,”about how California Indians had tended the land for food, had become abest-seller. People were learning how to grow and eat local foods, so that
there wasn’t the need for world-wide transportation of food.
Antonia showed me the solar panels and the solar water heaters on theroof, and told me that everyone had them. Their house, which had been
her great grandmother’s, had been remodeled so that there were large windows on the south side for the warmth of solar gain in the winter. There
were more trees in the neighborhood now, positioned just right for coolingshade in the summer, but not to block the sunlight in winter. Pema told
me how, as a child, she had been so afraid that the world would end becauseof global warming. But that had been turned around when the oil-based
economy was phased out. It had to happen fast, and it did. She said that
all the knowledge about how to have a sustainable economy already existed
by 2006, and it got implemented quickly when everything changed.

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Antonia and Pema had to get ready to go to a lesbian party. They said
that even though all different kinds of people now knew each other and didlots of things together, everyone still honored their roots and ethnicities andcultures. Lesbians still enjoyed getting together, as well as everyone else in
their own groups, from time to time. They invited me to come along, but
the fairy was sitting on my shoulder whispering in my ear that it was timeto go back. I guess that Antonia and Pema couldn’t see the fairy, because
they didn’t say anything. So we hugged good-bye and I left and suddenly
I was back in the woods, so happy that I’d seen such a good future for myneighborhood and my planet.

Beatrice Ilana Lieberman
green waters
have brought me hereplaced me uponthis pebbled shoremy bodya brown branch
tossedin the brilliant
and terrible tidesof timean ancient vesseli amwood and stone
carved roughand smoothby the cold handsof daysor warm
as some bright glassburiedand brought again
to lightbeneath my broken bark
the golden grape ripens
inside my soula rare delicious wine
is waiting

Winter 2007-2008

Cheryl J. Moore

Notes on a Momentous Anti-Utopia, 2007
Prologue
Damn the conformist shrinks
And established medication,
Masking my loins’ wildfire libido.
If mine is a fantasy
Let me imagine love in peace.
Doctors don’t know what they do
To the many sexes, not straight.
I’m recovering from the system.
I
What is this coldness flaming,
Yes, at my center,
Making me want to cry?
So many are wrong about me.
Lord, spare me from myself —Spare me from need.
When I need one thing
I need everything. Perversely,
I need understanding
And I know when
I do not have it.
Need makes me want to kill
And I can’t pretend
I don’t need others anymore.
I’m dying; we all are,Everyday,
As my real feelings
Aren’t “acceptable” —I cannot do this anymore.
I can’t. I cannot
Wait for beauty and kindness.
I have pretended self-possession

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sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

In my heart,
While my poor mind screams,
I want your love, woman.
I’m particular, and love my-other
Just so; I love femininity’s
Blush and svelte scent.
I want a woman’s woman, andHer tender tug on my shirt.
I dress for her, my best
For her.
I want to give her roses,
Three at least, to please her.
II
Now a woman is so true, I say.
Heterosexual mores and folkways
Exhaust me.
I don’t want to marry anyone —I don’t want a family.
I’m the utopian lesbian.
(Even my doctors are women).
I no longer read male poets —Dylan Thomas was the lastSensitive for me.
Lord, let me protect a woman
So I won’t lose my way.
Mary told me I was strong
And I nearly passed out
With happiness.
Dear, dear Janice — I loved her
Even when twice she said,“Get away from me.”She was my worst vine of pain.
She slayed me,
Soft in her pretty hairstyle
And she just —Left me swinging in the wind.

Winter 2007-2008

I’ve been long alone —No one but I would do this.
I had to think,
Or remember
To trust my heart.
Love has become a careful risk
Of any courage tempered in me.
I fall with my soul
Like an intricate hybrid of heat
And consciousness, of love that dares
To say again,“We sat and talked for hours.”

Correction: In Sinister Wisdom #71 Open Issue, we omitted
the word “the” from the last line. Our apologies.

Mona Oikawa

Manitoba WinterWishful desire for a woman’s breath returns.
Weekly rendezvous, 10 p.m., beyond the perimeter.
Yearning fulfilled forestalled until light disappears.
The cold clear Manitoba night cannot come too soon.
Lust cuts across the flatline of past retreats.
Somewhere in a prairie town where an ever crimson sky
outlasts the wavering sun.

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132“Spinning Beyond the Compass --Widdershins” by Sudie Rakusin 1985. First published in Wickedary by Mary Daly.

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Batya Weinbaum

Novel Excerpt: And the Women Take Over Jerusalem
After Haya turned in, Sasha took advantage of the moonlight and walked
all around the outskirts of the Old City on the wall, something one could
never even think one could do before the women took over. She wanderedbetween the statuettes of goddesses the women artists had erected in the firstthroes of liberation. She walked past Hecate, Ishtar, Inanna, the long row
of goddesses between Jaffo and Damascus Gate. The short crooked streetscomposed of ancient houses with reconstructed facades suggested the layersof dwellers these streets had sheltered over centuries: the laborers, vendors,
Bedouins, families and tradesmen. In the moonlight she reflected how theshops were not very prosperous now; the cafes were few and far between.
Sasha remembered how the need for polarization with Sabrita, her pet namefor the folk singer, had been met. Sabrita on one pole had been the knowledgeable and world-wise Israeli, the Sabra, and she, Sasha, on the other, theeager learner, the Americanit, the listener. With Haya because of the language,
because of the common intellectual history they shared as Jews with roots inthe more recent European tradition, parts began to emerge that were moreauthentically her, Sasha felt. She found she could resist, fight, speak up, be
herself. The parts of herself that were lost in the process of being drawn to
Sabrita who reflected something much deeper back to herself had come up
again. Sasha realized she was fully reemerging. She came full circle, winding
up the stone white steps. Her steps traced the shadow cast on the old stone
walk by the dramatic statue of Zenobia. She made herself quite comfortable
sitting for a bit in the shrine erected to Arabian queens such as Hatshepsut,
replete with her false assumed beard; Sobekneferu, the female pharoah of
the Twelfth Dynasty; and sultanas whom she hadn’t recognized at first when
they first began to appear. Her eyes cast around under the stars and over thedetails of the brass columns with complicated entwined decorations. The
romantic landscape and the three upside-down women’s symbols representing
the beauties of Sobek represented how she felt. Inside, Sasha was stormingwith a flash of lightening, illuminating the ruins both of the city and of her
hope she had once harbored that she would be able to remain permanently
in love with Haya. Her mind was like a deep trench which water carved on
the shore when she felt like this. Beyond the channels and dikes, the ocean
released its hissing whirlpool of monsters ticked off. Resigned, she re-entered
the quarters that she shared with Haya off to the left. The kitchen shutters

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were closed tight, but she could see a faint light still filtering through theslats behind her as she closed the door after walking through with calculated
movements so as not to waken the woman who was still her partner. Over her
ambivalence, Sasha slipped back to sleep under the peacock, their ancestralbird, along side Haya. After the long walk, she took with her the discarded
Amazon shield in order not to get hurt.
Sasha lay this shield like a protective barrier between them, under thepeacock, shimmering above them on the ceiling, thinking how things took
their course, how good it was the Greek women learned to make such things.
Thinking, as Haya half-asleep reached out for her, and turned over, that it
wasn’t totally fair to accuse the Jews of bringing their loves with them from
Europe. Sasha sighed, imagining the two of them arguing again, as she knew
they inevitably would. After all, Eichmann had paid for all the shipments,
wanting to purify Germany and Austria before the final solution in which
the Nazis had already planned to murder all of them. This couldn’t be an
excuse for violence, but she couldn’t be quite so blasé about these minor factsof history. She lost the clearing of starlight and her mind became cloudy
again. Sasha pushed Haya’s arm off, still brooding. She found herself wishing
they had at least gotten a design to reconstruct one of the Egyptian instruments they had seen in the professor’s office, so she could go to the roof andplay after getting a woman in the wood shop to rebuild one of them. Sasha
missed her harp. She almost wanted to go back to Isaac’s, find Ofra who
would always take comfort in listening, and play for her.
Sasha didn’t know what to do. At times she felt she still loved Haya,
she really did. Even when she did not, since both their heads rested on such
beautiful shoulders, physical temptation was always enough to spin them off
together for awhile again. Before the women had taken over the Old City,
Haya’s leather-bound volumes of Mao, Marx, Heidigger, Bergson, and Freud
had lined her bookshelves. Haya had gone along with the ban on all books onor by men (the mid twentieth century American Lionel Tiger’s scholarship on
collective male belligerence was only referred to, third, fourth or fifth hand).
From other parts of the world, Sasha had never met a woman with intellectualinterests such as Haya’s. Sasha had taken an interest not only in her books, butalso in the mind and body and heart and soul behind the great books Haya
had over her lifetime so avidly collected. Haya had activated a hunger which
had inhabited Sasha’s entire being, which had thickened her blood, transfusedthroughout her bones, setting off ripples which separated the roots of her hair,giving a charged sensitivity to her skin which never entirely disappeared again.
This synaesthetic seizure had marked Sasha’s whole being, her sensibilities, andWinter 2007-2008

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her eyes with an indelible movement, changing her life and fulfilling every
desire within her irrevocably. She discovered that the hunger would linger
and return again. It was as if her being had received no sun, no food, no air,no warmth, no excitement, no real exposure to life until Haya came along.
In this relationship Sasha had only too eagerly discovered that her very being
housed open pores of yearning, misty spongy cells of absorption, something
glowing, something mysterious, between her longings and the hunger of hereyes, skin, body, entire spirit. Whatever she felt had been missing, she thenbecame. She became the nourishment and communication with which they
replenished each other. Sasha remembered she had fallen in love with Haya theday Haya had had her grand piano from Haifa delivered, right to the heart ofthe city. Haya had given instructions for this miniature grand to be installed
on a large public balcony, so any woman could play whenever she wanted,
whatever she wanted, to her singular heart’s content. And Haya in the same
moment had left her light blue Porsche outside the walls of the reclaimed
city for any woman who wanted to drive anywhere, keys left in the ignition,
reducing herself to the use of a bright pink motorcycle. Sasha turned over toreach for the woman whose arm she had just pushed off, remembering why
she loved Haya so much.
All along, even before the liberation, Haya had been talking aboutorganizing a parliament of women alongside the state. Haya used to paceup and down her long shady street in Haifa, down the center of a double
row of fir trees closing in a circle at the end of her block with a view of thesea. Actually when she and Sasha became lovers, Haya came thoroughlyout to Sasha, not just half. In Israel, that means more than just admitting
one’s sexual orientation, it also means open and total confession of one’s
relation to world history. Originally Clara Zetkin had sent Haya’s mother,
the daughter of Rosa Luxembourg, that German socialist heroine, in a boatthat looked like a basket down the Elba—or was it the Danube? Just before
the Weimar Republic fell. An Egyptian princess raised Haya’s mother. Haya
herself was raised to be a slave, but a German philosophy student came to
Cairo researching the concept of time in Egyptian culture and spotted her.
Haya also, Sasha believed, even then, had had a job as some kind of tourist
officer. Haya and the student fell in love and married, neither one confessing the true identity to the other (they were both Jewish). At the formative
meeting of the Red Alliance in Haifa, Haya’s husband had left her on Carmel
to organize recognition of invisible Arabic districts while he went back toGermany to teach (it was difficult for young academics in Israel). At thatmeeting, Sasha had suggested the Women in Black wear red and orange, to136

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stimulate love and passion and birth rather than to honor the dead. Theireyes had met; their souls had sparked; they became connected. Haya hadlaughed. Sasha had laughed with her. This was the first time either had truly
felt that power of absorption, this sponge of receptivity that Haya also felt.
Then when Sasha announced that she had decided the name of her daughterto-be would be Erva, feminine force, Cous Cous Nasheet, Haya made up her
mind. Right there and then she decided inside, that she and Sasha, who had
already been several months pregnant at that first meeting, should become
officially committed to each other no matter what it would take. Haya had
felt herself increasingly attracted to Sasha’s passionate streak, Haya explainedlater. Usually she just fantasized about lovers, rather than approaching any
woman that she actually dreamed of, resigning herself to the feeling that thewhole business was less painful that way. But here was Sasha, whom Haya
had begun to visit in the hospital in her time of labor, as a way of courting
her. Haya became enamoured of the way they laughed together, making eye
contact across the room at meetings and then at her bedside in the middleof the rush of the hospital. She secretly had brought the baby grand down
to the Old City at her ex-husband’s expense expressly for Sasha’s enjoyment,
after Sasha and her baby got out. Yet this Haya never told Sasha, or anyone.
One meeting that first spring, the women in the take-over were trying tofigure out and plan what holiday they were in, having the opportunity tocreate new ones, if they felt like it. Haya pointed out that the seasonal holiday
of March 8th—International Women’s Day—was actually a celebration of
Isis. Sasha asked her how she knew this delectable fact. Haya confessed as tohow her mother had gotten down the river and out of Europe in the basket
with the help of Isis’s white wings, so her whole family had become rather
intimate with such details of Egyptian existence.
Once when Haya and Sasha were walking hand in hand in the deepest
contact and communication with themselves by the site of the Western Wall,now a children’s finger-painting spot together they had heard the spirit ofHenry Kissinger talking. Either that or they shared the same gift of wild
imagination. Kissinger was making a fist, and yelling that the Soviets would
never make a victory in the Middle East. Before Kissinger realized that theDome of the Rock as had been re-established as an Arabic women’s center,
he went in, dressed in turquoise turban and robe dress. Since he thought thisis what one wore in Jerusalem, Kissinger had been willing to come wearing
what was necessary in order to get in. Believe me, Kissinger said to Haya
and Sasha whom he passed at the door on his way out, for the first time inyears we are in dialogue now with the Arab world.

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To this Haya and Sasha responded in a manner that one might havecalled cold. First they laughed. Then they warned the other women that theirhold on Jerusalem might not last, and that they all better do something tosolidify themselves quickly. Airplanes were circling around threateningly,
backed by helicopters. “Typical male behavior,” Haya said walking away,
unmoved by Kissinger’s obsequiousness to power once having sensed thatpower had changed, and they grasped hands again recognizing their deepneed for each other.
Sasha rolled over, closer to Haya, away from the night table, not wanting
to upset the woman whom at least a part of her still dearly loved any further.
On the one hand, she didn’t want to divulge secrets about the folksinger
with whom she had been intimately involved; on the other, she didn’t wantto jeopardize her important relationship with Haya either. Some of her own
lightening and anger and rebellion had surfaced at her lover having placed
her in this position of split loyalties, not having been 100% behind the
movement in the first place. She had missed a lot during the women’s takeover because her waters had broken and some women had taken her to a hospital. Sasha hadn’t realized she was actually giving birth, thinking she would
regain consciousness pretty soon again. Instead she found herself coming
to in a room hollering and screaming in Bikur Cholem, the Jewish charity
hospital down the street from Isaac’s hotel. The first thing Sasha remembered
was a sore throat from all the tubular breathing. And then the unexpected
tear between her legs, or was it a cut? Just a gaping pain down there and
50 stitches. As her baby was laid on her stomach to rest, Sasha cooed, andlicked her. Haya who had come to visit her in the hospital—they were justfriends then—told her of the women from New York bringing manufactured
Astarte relics. They brought these to sell to religious pilgrims as soon as theinternational media had reported the women won their take over of the Old
City of Jerusalem. And Haya had reported how the new pilgrims had begun
descending, creating a new kind of tourism. The women were attacked withso much sexual energy on the way that Jerusalem advised the pilgrims to the
newly declared Women’s City to come over the borders dressed as Arab men,in long traditional dress. Apparently while Sasha was screaming, thinking
her baby was killing her as her contractions got closer and closer, Aphrodite,
Goddess of Desire, had arisen naked from the foam of the sea in front of
the Ramada Hotel in Tel Aviv. Aphrodite had gotten out of the way of six
boats of so-called terrorists that were landing, and rode on a scalloped shell
into the midst of Israeli folk dancing around a fountain and hotfooted it toJerusalem. The soldiers, still trying to protect the Old City while Sasha was

138sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

in labor, stopped the goddess at the gate and asked Aphrodite for a passport.
“Why,” Aphrodite said, “I have a right—I was worshipped here as Ishtar
and in Syria too.”“ But are you Jewish?” brandishing an Uzi one of themasked her. “That doesn’t matter anymore,” Aphrodite endeavored to explain
to the rather dense Israeli soldiers, “don’t you get it? Jerusalem belongs to
the women.” Or so went the new folklore, as Haya opening the trap door to
her limitless imagination related the incident to Sasha still swathed securely
in her Bikur Cholem maternity bedding and blankets.

“Twisted” by Nancy Nau © 2007

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Judith Rodriguez and Suzanne Bellamy

Review of The Butterfly Effect by Susan Hawthorne.
Spinifex Press, 2005.
www.spinifexpress.com.au
There is poetry that seizes life, and poetry that merely inspects life.
Susan Hawthorne’s muse asked which road she will take, answers: all roads.
In The Butterfly Effect, Hawthorne presents an open world richly peopledfrom legend, literature, family and travels, but it is the forthright voice andthe singular free play of energy and will, memory and perception that holdthe reader. — Judith Rodriguez
I already loved Susan Hawthorne’s poetry, her critical theory works,
her experimental aerials, her lesbian energy in the world. But you could
have knocked me over with a butterfly when I read this book. Here she
has opened up the mosaic form to all levels of lived experience with new
confidence and fragility, moving in all ways to the heart of the matter, theedge of experience and the breath of tomorrow. This intense new collection gathers the accelerating parts and shoots through. More love coming.
— Suzanne Bellamy
HIGHLY RECOMMENDED!
— Fran Day

140sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

Julie R. Enszer

Reading Lesbian Poetry: Contemporary and Collected
Books Reviewed:
Becker, Robin. Domain of Perfect Affection. Pittsburgh, PA: University ofPittsburgh Press, 2006. ISBN 0-8229-5931-3 Paperback, $14, 88 pp.
Clarke, Cheryl. The Days of Good Looks: The Prose and Poetry of Cheryl
Clarke, 1980 to 2005. New York, NY: Carroll & Graf, 2006. ISBN 0-78671675-4 Paperback, $16.95, 419 pp.
Healy, Eloise Klein. The Islands Project: Poems for Sappho. Los Angeles,
CA: Red Hen Press, 2007. ISBN 978-1-59709-085-8 Paperback, $17.95,
115 pp.
Larkin, Joan. My Body: New and Selected Poems. Brooklyn, NY: Hanging
Loose Press, 2007. ISBN 978-1-931236-74-4 Paperback, $16.00, 150 pp.
Patterson, Juliet. The Truant Lover. Beacon, NY: Nightboat Books, 2006.
ISBN 0-9767185-2-9 Paperback, $14.95, 74 pp.
Queyras, Sina. Lemon Hound. Toronto, ON: Coach House Books, 2006.
ISBN 1-55245-167-4 Paperback, $13.95, 103 pp.
repetto, Vittoria. Not Just a Personal Ad. Toronto, ON: Guernica Editions
Inc., 2006. ISBN 1-55071-244-6 Paperback, $13, 82 pp.
Stephens, Nathalie. Touch to Affliction. Toronto, ON: Coach House
Books, 2006. ISBN 1-55245175-5 Paperback, $13.95, 79 pp.
Waite, Stacey. Love Poem to Androgyny. Charlotte, NC: Main Street
Rag Publishing Company, 2006. ISBN 1-59948-038-7 Paperback, $7.00,
37 pp.
Lesbian poets continue to delight us with their words and images.
This review is a round-up of nine new books of poetry by Lesbians. Collectively, these books demonstrate the breadth and depth of poetry written

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by lesbians today; sit back and enjoy the spin through the best new words
by wimmin.
Domain of Perfect Affection is the sixth book of poetry by Lambda awardwinning poet Robin Becker. Domain of Perfect Affection takes its title from thehome of artist Rosa Bonheur near Fontainebleau in France. Bonheur lived
there with her lover and their animals. This new volume demonstrates Robin
Becker’s poetic vision at it’s strongest: blending family history with artistic
allusions that are grounded in the specifics of daily life. Becker’s artistry ismature and in full form. This book is a perfect affection in which to relax
and recreate; it is a home in which to spend a weekend.
Organized chronologically, Cheryl Clarke’s new book, The Days of Good
Looks, gathers twenty-five years of her writing. It is divided into five sections;the first four sections take their titles from Clarke’s previously publishedcollections of poetry; the fifth section, titled “The Days of Good Looks,”
brings together nine new poems by Clarke. In addition to poetry, each of
the sections ends with two to four essays written during the same period
as the poetry; the essays are gathered here for the first time from disparate
publications. Reading through the entire collection of The Days of Good
Looks allows one to revisit the lived history of the Black, queer, and feminist
movements of the past twenty-five years and to remember the power andimportance of Clarke’s voice.
The Truant Lover is Juliet Patterson’s first full-length book of poetry andthe winner of the Nightboat Books Poetry Prize. Patterson’s work turns on
fragments and montage collected together with attention to sound and feeling. For instance at the conclusion of “Homage to Francesca Woodman,”one of the strongest poems of the collection, Patterson writes,
We cannot say anything.
She is also breathing heavily.
She was found naked
trembling with cold, waiting
for the proper exposure.
Patterson’s work may be new to many readers and some may find it
oblique, but her concerns with writing the body as well as exploring passion andinjustice will delight those who take the time to explore fully her poems.

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Nathalie Stephens is an exciting Canadian writer who blends and bends
genres in her native languages English and French. Touch to Affliction is her
newest book of poetry, and it is a meditation on contemporary language andphilosophy. Provocative and beautiful as well as dense and complex in its
construction, this is a fine book of poetry by an established poet who should
be better known among Lesbians in the U.S. and around the world.
All four of these books were nominated for the Lambda Literary Award
for Lesbian Poetry. They are indeed among the best books published in2006. The fifth nomination, Sina Queyras’ collection Lemon Hound, won
and rightly so. If you can only read one of these books, which would be ashame, Lemon Hound is the one to read. This collection of six prose poems is
Queyras’ reading and reworking of much work by Virginia Woolf. Queyras’
language is dense, layered, and gorgeous. Her lesbian-feminist sensibility
shines throughout the text. Lemon Hound is one of the best books I readthis year and a book to treasure.
In addition to these five books, all nominated for the Lambda LiteraryAward, there are four other new books deserving of your attention.
Eloise Klein Healy’s fifth book of poetry, The Islands Project: Poems for
Sappho, is the sort of book that lesbians pass to one another saying, urgently,“Here, you must read this.” The poems of The Islands Project are important
for the stories that they tell and for the history that they explore. Immediately, The Islands Project is an exploration of Sappho as a historical progenitor
for Healy as a poet. Beneath the surface, The Islands Project is an intimate
exploration of contemporary lesbian life and the historical conditions thatallow us to live it. The fifty-one poems in The Islands Project woven together
become Healy’s most powerful book to date. It is a book certain to becomea treasured classic in the canons of Lesbian poetry.
Vittoria repetto describes herself as “the hardest working guinea butch
dyke poet on NYC’s lower east side.” Her hard work has paid off with the
publication of Not Just a Personal Ad. The collection of forty-nine poems byrepetto is staggering in its attention to story, image, and identity. From thefirst poem, repetto’s work grabs you with its plain diction and style coupledwith its emotional directness and honesty. The real reward for Lesbian readers begin with the poem “The size of it” and continues through the end of
the book. These poems are erotic and sexy. There won’t be a dry hand in thehouse after reading them.
Joan Larkin began publishing in 1975. Her first collection of poetry,
Housework, was published by the women’s independent press Out & Out
Books, as was the iconic first anthology of lesbian poetry, Amazon Poetry,

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which Larkin co-edited with Elly Bulkin. In 1981, Amazon Poetry was
updated, expanded, and published by Persephone Press as Lesbian Poetry.
Both anthologies are out of print and are indispensable to Lesbian literature as Larkin is an indispensable Lesbian poet. For the past three decades,
Larkin has continued to publish poetry, prose, and translations as well as
edit anthologies. My Body: New and Selected Poems gathers Larkin’s newest
poems with selections from three of her earlier books. My Body begins withthirty-two new poems. They are poems of life and death, celebration andgrief. Larkin’s new poems are expansive in their subject matter and theirlocation in time and place. They also are grounded in the things that makepoetry strong: images, new and startling observations, like the consistenceof a person’s ashes, and the excavation of significant relationships – families,
caregivers, lovers, and friends. Among the old favorites collected in My Body
is the delightful “Vagina” Sonnet.’ It begins,Is “vagina” suitable for use
in a sonnet? I don’t suppose so.
A famous poet told me, “Vagina’s ugly.”
Meaning of course, the sound of it. In poems.
“Vagina” Sonnet’ concludes with this couplet, “a waste of brains—tobe concerned about/this minor issue of my cunt’s good name.” This sonnet
is a classic in Lesbian-feminist literature, and it is lovely to have it available
in print to readers again.
Finally, check out the chapbook Love Poem to Androgyny by Stacey Waite.
The twenty-two poems in this collection, the winner of the 2006 Main Street
Rag Chapbook Contest, are dense and provocative. Waite’s earlier chapbook,
Choke, won the 2004 Frank O’Hara Award. Hopefully her full collection of
poetry will be published soon.
This slew of new good books by Lesbian poets is an indication that a Lesbian writing renaissance is at hand. As readers, that makes us very lucky.
*The author acknowledges The Lambda Book Review in which some portions of this review appeared earlier.

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145“Augur: Soothsayer, a Diviner by the flight and cries of birds/words” by Sudie Rakusin 1985.
First published in Wickedary by Mary Daly.

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Contributors’ Notes
Corina Abouaf has had twenty-five years in the dental field, from assisting
to management and sales. She has been a special services coordinator for the
Renaissance Pleasure Fair creating programs for the physically and mentallychallenged. She has also been program coordinator for a prestigious arts andeducation agency, and is now retired.
Margie Adam is a singer/songwriter/pianist who joined with other womenin the mid-1970s to create and expand Women’s Music as a cultural andpolitical phenomenon. Her music, performance and activism continue tobe informed by an irrepressible belief in the vision she first encountered in1973 in “Sappho Was A Right-On Woman” by Sydney Abbott & Barbara
Love: “To transcend her circumstances, [the lesbian feminist] may defy thereality of the present and purposely live openly as though the present were
the future. By envisioning and demonstrating a new reality for and withlesbians, she also creates it.” Margie has released nine recordings of music
intended for healing and empowering women while building community.
Her most recent work, PORTAL, is a contemplative solo piano CD and ashort meditation DVD featuring ancient Scottish megalithic imagery set toMargie’s gentle jazz score. www.margieadam.com
Shaba A. Barnes has been a community activist most of her adult life. Aftermoving to the West Coast in 1969, from New York City, Shaba joined the
National Organization for Women and quickly became the secretary of theLos Angeles Chapter. She also joined the Feminist Theatre which was active
doing guerrilla theatre or street theatre as well as performances at Universities
in California. Shaba has been active in theater, acting, and producing. She wasinstrumental in achieving Domestic Partner Rights for all members via the
Lesbian and Gay Association at Kaiser Permanente Hospital in Los Angeles.
She is a CO-Director for Old Lesbians Organizing for Change (OLOC),
the only organization of its kind dedicated to combating Ageism; OLOC
was founded by and for Lesbians over 60 years old. Shaba presently lives in
Albuquerque, New Mexico with her partner of 38 years. She enjoys poetry
readings as she continues to seek avenues of expression by sharing insights
on the spiritual and the power of being an Old Lesbian. She is still available
to teach workshops and classes with a spiritual theme.

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Dean Brittingham: Award-winning photographer Dean Brittingham is alongtime radical lesbian feminist living in Sonoma County, California andfinding peace and love in the natural world.
Lynn Brown has always been a poet and lover of language, the creationof gardens, vision and touch with the intention towards friendship andhealing.
Natasha Carthew is a young lesbian writer from Cornwall in the UK. She
has been published in numerous National magazines, has won awards for
poetry and has had three books of poetry published; her latest book Flash
Reckless having been published by the internationally acclaimed lesbian/feminist publisher Onlywomen Press (www.onlywomenpress.com).
Natasha lives in the country with her girlfriend of ten years, where she iscurrently working on a new body of country poetry.
Chicago Women’s Liberation Union: Out of the upheavals of the 1960s
came a group of Windy City women determined to challenge the suffocating
male supremacy of the time. They joined the growing women’s liberation
movement and organized the Chicago Women’s Liberation Union (CWLU)
which touched the lives of thousands of women through its many organizing
projects from 1969-1977. We say that a small group of women can make
mountains move. That was the lesson of CWLU workgroups in health,education, employment, and gay rights, to name a few. There we createdthe ideas and actions that helped women liberate each other from oppressive
beliefs and old social habits. Now we are sharing our history on the Internet
to inspire new generations to continue the struggle for justice and equality.
www.cwluherstory.org
Chrystos, writer and Native Rights activist, won the Audre Lorde International
Poetry competition in 1994 and the Sappho Award of Distinction from theAstraea National Action Foundation in 1995.
Tee A. Corinne (1943 – 2006): A regular contributor to Sinister Wisdom,
Tee Corinne’s artwork has been identified with the journal since her coverand poster for issue #3 in 1977. Tee was the author of one novel, threecollections of short stories, and several poetry chapbooks. Her most recent
book of art, Intimacies: Photos by Tee A. Corinne, published by Last Gasp of
San Francisco, was a Lambda Literary Award finalist. A gifted and versatile
artist, Tee worked with photography, line drawing, paint, sculpture, ceramics

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and printing, and she also published erotic fiction and poetry and reviews.
Favorite cover artist for lesbian publisher Naiad, Corinne’s work is foundon bookshelves across the Lesbian Nation.
Martha Courtot (1941- 2000) was an activist and a prolific poet. A nativeof Cincinnati, she spent twenty years in Sonoma County, California. She
once wrote, “I write to keep the ghosts in the corner happy.”
Billie Dee is the former National Library Service Poet Laureate (2000-2001).
She earned her Doctorate from the University of California at Irvine. Her
poetry has appeared in both print and online journals, most recently inhaiku-related publications. Her latest chapbook, Hooves of the Wild White
Mare, was published by Burning House Press in 2005. She lives in Southern
California with her long-term partner and a batch of strays. You can visit
Billie’s website at http://www.geocities.com/billiedee2000
Alix Dobkin, raised in Philadelphia, was a guitar-teenager in the 1950s.
Immediately after graduating from the Tyler School of Fine Arts, Alix headed
north to NYC’s world-famous Gaslight Cafe, and from that rich, heady, heartof Greenwich Village culture, launched her full-time, professional folk singing
career in the early 60’s. Focusing during the first decade on an internationaland contemporary/ protest repertoire, she came out as a Lesbian in 1972 andturned to writing and singing for women in general and to building Lesbian
Culture in particular. Over the last 25 years, Alix has traveled to hundredsof women’s communities in the USA and abroad.
Julie R. Enszer is a writer and lesbian activist based in University Park,
Maryland. You can read more of her work at www.JulieREnszer.com
Roxanna N. Fiamma: I live in northern California with my landmate, Fran.
I have been a Lesbian Separatist since the mid 70s. My Utopia is nature.
Francine, born in 1957, lives on land in France with another Lesbian. She
is a plant and cat lover. She has Multiple Chemical Sensitivities. Never het,
she in interested in Lesbian culture, especially separatist, organic gardening,and connecting with other Lesbian Separatists and Lesbian Feminists.
Diane F. Germain is a French-American Feminist-Lesbian psychiatric social
worker who created and conducted a strength group for Women Survivors ofIncest and/or Childhood Molest for five years. She was arrested and jailed forWinter 2007-2008

149

protesting the objectification of women in the “Myth CaliPORNia Kontest”
in 1986. She was a staff cartoonist for Hot Wire: The Journal of Women’s Musicand Culture of Chicago and for Lesbian News of Los Angeles from 1987
to 1995. She was a collective member of Califia Community, a feminist
education retreat. She creates humor as a hedge against the heterosexist
phallocentric patriarchy and to tickle the Lesbians.
Alix Greenwood: I am an english lesbian, white, middle-class, 44 years old;
I came out at 25.
Jae Haggard: 25 years ago when I left my first Homestead I looked for a name
I could grow into--Haggard, she who is strong, independent and makes herlife with wimmin. Our Lesbian community and the Earth have provided
the opportunities to do that and more. I’ve also learned about Connection.
I am a blessed womon.
Susan Hawthorne is a novelist, poet, theorist, aerialist, academic, activist
and publisher. Her books include The Falling Woman (novel, 1992; reprinted2003); Bird (poetry, 1999); and Wild Politics (non-fiction, 2002). Her books
have won awards and been listed among the year’s best books on several
occasions. Her latest book The Butterfly Effect (poetry, 2005) is a collectionof poems about lesbian culture. Her poem “Strange Tractors” from The
Butterfly Effect is included in the anthology Best Australian Poems 2006. In
1996, she was the Winner of a Hall of Fame Award, in The Rainbow Awards
for her contribution to the Gay and Lesbian Community. Susan is also amember of the Coalition of Activist Lesbians and over the past four years
she has written articles for numerous publications including for the Journalof Hate Studies on the torture of lesbians internationally. She is a Research
Associate and supervisor of PhDs in Creative Writing at Victoria University,
Melbourne. She is also a performer who combines aerials and text and in
2005, she was invited to perform Eye of a Needle at the 10th International
Women’s Health Meeting in Delhi, India. She is the co-founder, with Renate
Klein, of Spinifex Press. She is currently working on a new novel and anothercollection of poems.
Shevy Healey was born in 1922 in Poland, immigrated at age two, and grewup an atheist/communist/Jewish/only child of a single mother. She was aunion activist. Married with one daughter, she went to school and worked
as a social worker and psychologist. Coming out as a lesbian at age 50, she

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was mentored by Barbara Macdonald. She conducted workshops on sexism/
alcoholism/sexuality/gay identity, and was a conference speaker. Founder of
Old Lesbians Organizings for Change in 1989, she and her partner, Ruth
Silver, traveled and lived at Apache Junction. Shevy died in 2001.
Shawn Helmen: I am a Black Lesbian, a poet, currently incarcerated.
jody jewdyke: proudly obvious big Jewish Dyke Separatist, 36, currently living
and working in Vancouver B.C. Canada. For now, I share my home with awild and wonderful fat orange cat named Matza.  Am passionate about Lesbian
cultures and communities and am so appreciative for all the great Dykes thenand now, near and far who help make our Lesbian dreams come true.
Sonia Johnson, 71-year-old author, activist, presidential candidate, says,“When the ERA died, so did my early naive hopes of reforming patriarchy.
I knew then that not only was another world necessary and possible, butthat she was on her way. She’s very near now and I intend to be here towelcome her!”Pelican Lee was a pioneer of the lesbian land movement and women’s
spirituality in the 1970’s, and is a white anti-racism activist. She has lived
on lesbian land in Oregon, California, and New Mexico. She currently lives
part-time at West Wind Women’s Land and in Santa Fe, New Mexico withher partner of 17 years. She has self-published The Owl Farm Stories andCircle Songs from Lesbian Lands.
Bea Lieberman: I am… mother, teacher of children, folksinger, lifelong
poet, lover of high mountains.…member of Mothertongue Feminist Theatre
Collective, a link in a long line of dedicated idealists and great skeptics.
Jacqueline Elizabeth Letalien: After living in the urbaness of Oakland and
San Francisco for twenty years, she now resides with the cat Fur in thewilderness of Humboldt County, California. She writes a monthly column
Kulture Klatch for the L-Word (The Lesbian Voice of the Northcoast). LWord website:www.lword.mamajudy.com/index.htm
Frances Lorraine is an old Dyke artist, writer and daydreamer who enjoys
living in Honolulu and loves life but never takes it too seriously.

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Mary Meriam’s poems and essays are published (or forthcoming) in Literary
Imagination, Light, The Barefoot Muse, Wicked Alice, Poetic Diversity, So to
Speak, Lodestar Quarterly, Sinister Wisdom, Street Spirit, and HLLQ, among
others. Her first book of poems, The Countess of Flatbroke (Modern Metrics,
2006) features an afterword by Lillian Faderman.
Cheryl J. Moore: I began writing poetry in 1980 after being hospitalized
for anxiety and I believe poetry saved my life. My manuscript is called“Waterpaths” and I have written three lesbian short stories, the second ofwhich was published in Sinister Wisdom #49. Other publications include
Common Lives/Lesbian Lives, Sojourner, The River, and Sensations Magazine.
I haven’t written enough yet about my black and lesbian consciousness. “A
Winter Poem” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2005.
Ruth Mountaingrove: I am always a visionary. part of being a pisces I
suppose. I’d like to live in my Utopia. It would be quite a difference fromthe world I live in, always aware of who is around that might mean me
harm and I don’t mean women. If you want to know more you can google
me Ruth Mountaingrove. If you want to e-mail me my e-mail address isruth3@humboldt1.com.
Nancy Nau grew up in Southern California, where she earned two Master’s
degrees, both in Fine Arts, taught for a living and raised three children.
Then Nau moved to Minnesota where she worked in pastoral care, penned
two poetry books, and three children’s books and where she is earning her
doctorate in education and the arts (ABD – all but the dissertation). Now
that Nau is living in northern California, she states that she “…recollects
in tranquility…” and at last, has enough time to paint, write, and submit
her work to publishers.
Andrea Nicki: I am a professional writer and poet, and have published inseveral journals and anthologies, such as Feminisms and Stories of Women and
Healing: Women Write Their Bodies.
Nicole M.: I’m Black, 37, irreligious. I’m naively obsessed with figuring out
how we might get to Utopia. I can be reached at P.O. Box 1481, Oakland,
CA 94604 if you want to share ideas with me or if you just feel like writing
to me. I’m also interested in lesbian cultures and perspectives (especially
Separatist analysis), community-mindedness, personality, listening, intuition,
imagination, and how you’ve been doing lately—because I’m always worried

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about you. Please take care of yourself as best you can, and never forget yourown power and creativity.
Marjorie Norris is an ardent writer who belongs to two writing groups:
Women of the Crooked Circle and Spiral Sirens. She was “Just Buffalo Poetin-Residence” in 1999, and has taught creative writing at State University of
Buffalo’s Women’s Studies Department and Chautauqua Institute, as well as
participating in Feminist Women’s Writing Workshop in Ithaca, New Yorkand Southern Lesbian Writers’ Conference outside Atlanta. She has been
published in Arizona Mandala Quarterly and other national publications.
Mona Oikawa is a Toronto-based writer, teacher, and researcher. She is
Assistant Professor of Social Science in the Atkinson Faculty at York University
and Coordinator of the Certificate in Anti-Racist Research and Practice, andthe Race, Ethnicity, Indigeneity Program. Her book Cartographies of Violence:
Women, Memory and the Subject(s) of the “Internment” is forthcoming fromthe University of Toronto Press.
Jeane Orjas: I am 66, single, never married, have no children, and retired
after 35 years of doing non-skilled paperwork in San Francisco’s clerical army
and being an administrative secretary. I am disabled with chronic healthconditions and injuries. My passions are feminism, feminist spirituality,
paganism, magic, mysticism and my spiritual quest. I have written in myjournals on and off for 30 years. I am in a women writers’ group. Having acomputer for three plus years has made it easier for me to try writing essays,
poetry and my autobiography. This is my first published writing.
Pat Parker (1944-1989): African American Lesbian poet who often presented
her poetry, performing with other women writers, musicians, and activists.
She wrote about loving women, the legacy of her African American heritage,
the lives of ordinary Black people. Both in her personal life and as a political activist, she eloquently linked the struggles for racial, sexual orientationand class equality.
Doreen Perrine has been published in various anthologies and literary ezines including Sapphic Voices, Raving Dove, GayFlashFiction, Harrington
Lesbian Literary Quarterly, The Queer Collection, and All Ways A Woman. Her
playwriting has been performed at Here Arts Center, WOW, Under St. Marks
Theatres, and Manhattan Theatre Source. A member of the International
Women Writer’s Guild, Doreen has presented her writing through the Pen

Winter 2007-2008

153& Brush Club and Snug Harbor Cultural Center in New York and her shortfiction was accepted for regional program, Story Time Live. Also an artist,
Doreen coordinates a writer’s opportunity where she resides with her beloved
and three black and white cats in upstate New York.
Sudie Rakusin’s love and concern for the Earth and Her creatures influences
all of her choices and permeates her work. Rakusin’s art has been widelyreproduced in newspapers, magazines, and calendars and can be found insuch books as The Once and Future Goddess by Elinor Gadon, Seasons of the
Witch by Patricia Monaghan, and Wickedary, Outercourse, and Quintessenceby Mary Daly. She lives outside Hillsborough, North Carolina, on the edgeof a meadow with her Great Danes, surrounded by her gardens and a forest.
View her work at www.sudierakusin.com.
Ida VSW Red still dreams of a lesbian feminist utopia as she enters her
75th year.
Kim Rivers: I am a 40-year-old dyke separatist of western European ancestry,living in western Massachusetts, currently abled-bodied, but legally blind.
Dianic witch. Troublemaker to the heteropatriarchy I teach self-defense
and aikido.
Betsy Rose is a singer, songwriter and community song leader, and wasa pioneering voice in the emerging Women’s Cultural Movement of the 70s
and 80s, singing at national and international festivals, and joining voiceswith artists such as Holly Near, Bernice Reagan, Cathy Winter, Malvina
Reynolds, and others. Her songs have been sung or recorded by Pete Seeger,
Ronnie Gilbert, Meg Christian and Cris Williamson, and Bobbi McFerron,as well as women’s choirs and choruses. “Coming Into My Years” is recordedon two of her CDs; her most recent recording, “Welcome to The Circle”, is acollection of songs from her Womansong Circles, participatory singing circles
for any woman’s voice. You can order her music from www.betsyrosemusic.
org <http://www.betsyrosemusic.org or from www.Ladyslipper.org.
Chris Sitka has been an Australian lesbian community activist, writer,
researcher, and creative thinker for the last 35 years. Her writings have been
widely published in Australia, and internationally, in lesbian and feminist
publications and she has given many inspiring talks and workshops. Currently
she and her pup are writing “The Canine Manual For Training Humans.”

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Sharon Stewart: 47 year old incarcerated Lesbian feminist, active inwomyn’s and environmental causes for 35 years, currently advocating for
improvements in healthcare for prisoners. An avid outdoorswomyn, I have
lived in the mountains in Washington state, hiked the canyonlands in thesouthwest and kayaked extensively in Florida.
Sunlight: I have long dreamed of an ideal world of peace and love, seeing
Lesbians blazing the trail by living it. WOMONSEED was my vision of that
trail and where it leads. As the years unfold, I see glimpses even now as wemove always closer to that dream becoming the reality. I have learned at lastthat to change the world, we need to change ourselves, and bit by bit, weare doing so. Let’s celebrate that!
Tanager is a Dyke Separatist Connectionist working to build Lesbian
Nation. As an activist, she is dedicating her life to nurturing Lesbian culture,community and friendships. She is passionate about Lesbian feminist
literature, animals and the Earth. She treasures Lesbian-only space.
Jean Taylor: As well as being a radical lesbian feminist activist, Jean Taylor
also identifies as a working class, non-Indigenous, Celtic Australian who has
just been granted the Old Age Pension, much to her immense satisfaction.
Batya Weinbaum is the founding editor and editor in chief of Femspec, afeminist speculative journal. She has written psychoanalytic theory about
women’s liberation and socialism, work place relations, and oral history
with women in Israel as well as Jungian explorations of islands of womenand Amazons, and contemporary science fiction. She has published poetry,fiction and theory widely as well as numerous reviews, and is working on
a play now as well as painting from goddess archetypes and finishing thenovel excerpted here.
Ellen Williams is a poet and fiction writer. She has been published in Kuumba(a poetry journal for lesbian women), Gay Black Female, Poetic Hours in
London, Short Stories magazine, Collage, Christianity and the Arts Magazine(Chicago Ill), as well as other magazines and journals--sometimes under pen
names. She currently resides in Albuquerque, New Mexico. She is also an
artist whose work has been displayed in galleries. Some of them were also
featured and sold in Detroit, Michigan at A Woman’s Prerogative under thename Cello. Presently, her agent is shopping her novel, The Rock That Age
Built to publishers.

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Michelle Wing is an urban writer and poet who has spent much of her adultlife in Seattle, Osaka, Kyoto and San Francisco, but now lives in the country
in northern California with her partner Sabrina, her faithful dog Ripley, anda houseful of other animals. She has been published previously in Sinister
Wisdom and Sonoma County Women’s Voices, and works as a columnist andreporter for the Calistoga Tribune in Napa Valley.
Amy E. Winter is a radical lesbian feminist blogger and the webspinster offeminist-reprise.org, an online archive of radical feminist writing.
Susan Wiseheart and Jenna Weston are Aradians who moved from theGrand Rapids, Michigan area to rural lands in Southern Missouri. They arein the process of editing a book about Aradia. For more information e-mailsusan@wiseheart.com.

Cottontail. Barr Lake, Colorado 2007. Photo by Roxanna N. Fiamma. This little
Cottontail is about as tall as my hand. She did not run away but settled into thelittle hollow she had dug and watched me pass. Such a Magic Moment.

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Books Received
Annie On My Mind (Commemorative Edition) by Nancy Garden. Farrar,
Straus & Giroux, 1982. Interview with the author, 2007.
Calyx: A Journal of Art and Literature for Women. (Winter 2007).
Canadian Woman Studies Journal / les cahiers de la femme: Ending
Woman Abuse. Inanna Publications and Education, Inc. (Winter/Spring2006).
Canadian Woman Studies Journal / les cahiers de la femme: Canadian
Feminism in Action. Inanna Publications and Education, Inc. (Summer/
Fall 2006).
Down to the Bone by Mayra Lazara Dole. HarperTeen, 2008
Erzulíe’s Skirt by Ana-Maurine Lara. Redbone Press, 2006.
Hear Us Out! Lesbian and Gay Stories of Struggles, Progress,and Hope: 1950 to the Present by Nancy Garden. Farrar, Straus& Giroux, 2007.

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Women’s Review
of BooksE S S AY

PHOTOGRAPHY

THE DOUBLE VISION
OF KAREN DAVISThe Solitude of Self: Thinking about Elizabeth Cady Stanton
By Vivian Gornick
New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2005, 133 pp., $17.00, hardcover

Reviewed by Linda Gordon

O

ccasionally a marvelous writer turns her
attention
to a andsubject
Above: First and Last Pictureof My Mother
Me. who suits her
perfectly. This is the case with Vivian
Left: Karen Davis, self-portrait.
Gornick’s exquisite meditation on the
In alternating issues, Women's Review will feature the art of a photographer and a cartoonist. This
month we’re showing photographs by Karen Davis, with commentary by Ellen Feldman.

The duality of Karen Davis’s gaze is brought together in her images.
Ever the realist, Davis’s work is grounded in the documentary
tradition; she is a restless explorer of far-reaching subjects. Along withthe direct gaze of the realist, we have the vision of one who soaks up
emotional depths and seeks out layers of irony.
The portfolio reproduced here focuses on intimate family portraits.
In the diptych “First and Last Picture of My Mother and Me,”combinations of youth and age proliferate. The young mother and daughter arepreserved in an image cracked and worn with age. Cut to: cracked hands of theaging mother and daughter—a metonymic shorthand for lives lived—
cushioned in folds of cloth soft as baby’s skin. One can’t miss the irony—and
poignancy—of juxtaposing these images of intergenerational touching, one oflife ahead, the other of life behind.

Pulp and CircumstanceFinding Afghanistan

A Passion for Equality

nineteenth-century feminist Elizabeth
Cady Stanton. Gornick almost seems to beremembering a friend, a soulmate, or even a lover.
She has given us not only an appreciation of
Stanton’s passion for justice but also the story of her
In “The McCann Family,”own
Davis’sword-imagepiece
on her to
deeppowerfulintellectualand politicalattraction
childhood, she arranges dolls that
her sister
Cheryllong
ago inStanton,which
is so playedstrong withthat itvergesonathefamily portrait. In photographerotic.
and text,
the child-dolls
seem withto beelectricity.
the main
The book
virtually sparks
players, but the subject that gradually
emergesperhapsnot asunnaturally,
Stanton
was,ininboth,my view
as wellin Gornick’s,
is the parents’ dominating presence.
Davis, likeher sister,ofhasa stand-in
the leading
intellectual
thecreatednineteenth-century
family through which the painful
truths ofthe family
dynamics
expressed.
women’srightsmovement
and aaredrasticallyunderWhen you scratch the surfaceof KarenDavis’
photographs,
layersrecognizedpolitical
thinker.
This elegant
little ofbookmeaning are exposed. They teasememory, the passage
time,isand(only loose
130 small-dimension
pages),ofwhich
not ahidden associations.
biography but rather a highly subjective rumina— Ellen Feldman
tion, reveals as much about Stanton’s
thought asanything yet published.
Ellen Feldman is a photographer andGornick
writer witha Ph.D.thein “passion
cinema studies
from Newthat
identifies
for equality”
York University. She is principal course
developer
at Stanton
Avid Technology,
Inc. how Stanton’s
she shareswithand shows

The McCann Family

20 Women’s Review of Books Vol. 23, No. 1, January/February 2006

passion produced her radical democratic thought,
which evolved throughout a sixty-year career that
The McCann
Familylastedfrom the1840s until her death in 1902.
When we thought
were small,my younger
CherylStanton’s
prefiguredthat ofsister
contemporary
had a set For
of fourmechanicaldolls.
called infeminists.
example,like Our
BodiesShe
Ourselvesthem
the McCann
Therethewasa boy experts
doll,
the
1970s,
StantonFamily.
challenged
medicalgirlherdoll,maninsisted
and woman
doll.
They
were
a of
of
daya andthat shedidso notoutthinly disguised
versionof of
thescientific
Davis family.
feminine
instinctbut out
reason.
Cheryl tells
was an“Tom
McCann,”theof boydoll,six
Gornick
anecdote
about one
Stanton’s
because Iwho
think
she
liked
thea ideaof being theThechildren,
was
born
with
bent collarbone.
spunky andadventurous
I washand“MaryAnn
doctor’s
bandageturned child.
the baby’s
blue
from
McCann,”the girlStantondoll. invented
Cheryl had
Motherthat
lackof circulation.
a bandage
McCanntell Tom,“Mary Annis wonderful,”andlikewent
acrossthe baby’s
shouldersand back“Why can’t you
be likeMaryAnn?”
suspenders,which
didyourthe sister,job. The
doctorsaid(If I had owned the dolls,
McCannwould becondescendinglythat aTommother’s instinct
hadthe talented
starthanand aMothertelltoeveryproved
betterman’swould
reason,which
one, “MaryAnn “Thereis average.”)
Stantonreplied,was no instinct about it. I
firsthard
Tom thinking
could standwithout
didAt
some
beforeI sawhelp.
howLater
I could
he losthis balance
the time.
Cherylimpeding
diaggeta pressure
on theallshoulder
without
nosed
Tom withas polio.
She After
fitted this,him Stantonwiththecirculation
you did.”
crutches andacidly,
bracesshe
just“trusted
like hers.
(Cherylwasnorrecollected
neithermenborn withspina bifida.)
thoughttoMotherbooks
absolutely...
but Tom
continued
use myMcCann disliked
havinga isdisabled
child. aHe‘mother’s
instinct’ if‘reason’too dignified
term
wasa chipper
kid but
he always felt bad about
toapply
to woman’s
thoughts.”
Mother’s
attitude.
Father usuallysided with toThis kindof thinking
was fundamental
Mother. “Listen
your Mother.”day ofStanton’s
feministto
politics.
To her, theOne
rhetoric
Father McCann’sleg, which
had been auniquenessloose, fell
genderdifference
and women’soff. Cheryl taped
thein
legpoliticalback onpowerlessness.
as a prosthesis.She
imprisoned
women
Tom felt that after
he becamean amputee,
Fatheremphasized
insteadwomen’sfundamental
was a lot more
aboutWith
his son.
humanity
and understanding
similarity to men.
stunning
chutzpah, Stanton distributed leaflets attacking
unequal, oppressive marriage laws and promoting

divorce—at a wedding. She refused to condemn
Free Love. She opposed tight corseting andadvocated fresh air for women and children. Yet she
was a movement activist, not an isolated
intellectual: she understood that activists need attimes to choose their battles. When a few feminists
rejected the long skirts of the day, which collected
dirt and hobbled them for the sake of modesty, andinstead adopted a costume made by Amelia
Bloomer—a shorter skirt over harem pants tight at
the ankles—they were subjected to relentless abuse.
After three years of it, Stanton advocated giving up
the campaign. “We put the dress on for greater
freedom, but what is physical freedom comparedwith mental bondage?”Gornick titled her book after a famous lecture
Stanton gave late in her life, “The Solitudeof Self.” It is an existential declaration ofhuman freedom and responsibility and a rejectionof all kinds of deterministic thinking, whether
religious or biological. Thus Gornick offers afundamentally romantic take on Stanton.
Ultimately the individual stands alone in her
suffering and her moral obligation to speak thetruth—personal truth, apprehended subjectively,
not socially constructed. Gornick emphasizes
Stanton’s abstract radical individualism over her
strategic thinking. (She does not explore the tension
between Stanton’s passions for equality and for
freedom, or Stanton’s willingness to settle for afranchise for educated women only.) Stanton’sprophetic stance emerged more strongly as she
aged, quite in contrast to the pattern, often assumed
to be universal, of becoming more patient andgradualist with age. In her youth she had been
infuriated by the view of several abolitionist leadersthat women’s worst problem was other women’s
acquiescence in their own subordination. But at theend of her life, she herself articulated that very
thought. She became increasingly isolated
politically, as the women’s rights movement grew
more conservative, more exclusively focused on
suffrage, and more engaged in mainstream politics.
The problem with this individualist existential
position is the problem of the Marxist concept offalse consciousness, which assumes that anyone
who stubbornly refuses to accept the feminist
viewpoint has been either fooled or blinded byideology, unable to identify her own self-interest.
Stanton did not investigate the possibility thatconservative women had material interests in, andmight even benefit from, the existing gendersystem.

published for soldiers during World War II. The new paperbacks cost as little asa quarter and were readily available in drugstores and newsstands all over
America. While many of the lesbian pulps were quick knock-offs intended to

A Bedtantalizeof Red andFlowers:
In Search of My Afghanistan
intrigue male readers, the earliest books, in particular, wereintelligent and thoughtful,
writtenBy Nelofer
Pazirato illuminate rather than sensationalize.
Two of my favorites from the era, Women’s Barracks (1950) and The Girls in
NewFree
Press,
2005, 408
pp., $15.00, in
paperback
3-BYork:(1959),
bothof which
are highlighted
Lesbian Pulp Fiction, exuberantly
served up a smorgasbord of new options for women, as the characters leave
home and explore work, careers, living arrangements, and an impressive rangeof both heterosexual and lesbian relationships. While their covers were
designedReviewed
to appeal toby
prurient
interest,
I suspect that sales of these two books,
JasminDarznik
to both women and men, were also driven by the sheer thrill of discovering
new options and seeing them validated in print. Both books were ultimately
empowering: even a reader who made the most traditional of marriages could
come away feeling she’d had a choice and had made the best one for herself.
And lesbian readers? All in all, the lesbians in these books come out prettyn 1978, five-year-old Nelofer Pazira waswell—better, perhaps, than their heterosexual counterparts. When you weighmarched to a prison in Kabul to visit her
their lives, hopes, and romantic successes against the straight women’s, a little
father, a prominent physician and one ofcloseting and some familial or work disapproval don’t seem so bad compared
thousands to be imprisoned by the Communist
to out-of-wedlock pregnancy, date rape, being jilted by married men, or, ingovernment that year. Flustered and confused,
Women’s Barracks, the painfully frequent deaths of boyfriends, fiancés, andshe reached him only to be greeted with a stern
shiny new husbands in the war.
rebuke. “You mustn’t cry,” her father warned her
Tereska Torres based her World War II novel Women’s Barracks—publishedfrom behind the bars of his dank cell.
under the tag line, “The Frank Autobiography of a French Girl Soldier”—on her
Organizing her family’s escape from Afghanistan
years in the London-based Women’s Division of the Free French Army. The
ten years later, Pazira still finds herself bound bybook sold two million copies in the US between 1950 and 1955, and another two
the same injunction. “Boys my age are sent to themillion in translation and in later American editions. It continued to sell infront line and return dead and injured. Girls carry
reprint editions. By way of comparison, Khaled Hosseini’s contemporary bestthe burden of an entire household.” It is part of theseller, The Kite Runner, sold about as many copies as Women’s Barracks—yet inparticular burden of the Afghani woman in exile,
1955, the population of the US was only 55 to sixty percent of what it is today.
Pazira suggests, to make a final reckoning of her
Neither book has single-handedly changed the world—but both have opened
country’s fate.
Boys my age are sent
doors in a lot of people’s minds.
By Carol Seajay
A Bed of Red Flowers is a memoir of young
Stanton was ... the leading
to the front line and return
woman’s life in Afghanistan during the seventies
alerie Taylor’s The Girls in 3-B is a veritable guide to moving to a big
and eighties, as well as Pazira’s attempt, years laterdead
injured.
intellectual of thecity and setting up a life there. 3-B
was soandpopularthat its themes werein exile, to understand her country’s bloody
echoed in a comic strip, “The Girls in Apartment 3-G,” that ran in dailyarly in 1966, when we were both fifteen, my girlfriend and I found a
Girls carry the burden of an
disintegration. Pazira was born to a privileged
nineteenth-century women’s
newspapers for forty years, although without the book’s lesbian content.
lesbian pulp paperback, We, Too, Must Love, on the bookshelf offamily that suffered steady dispossession in war-torn
entirehousehold.
Reading—or rereading—these tales is
all the richer
when one remembers theanother Senior Girl Scout. We “borrowed” it, devoured it, andrights movement and a
Afghanistan, fled to Pakistan in 1989, and ultimately
realities of the times when they were first published: classified ads werereturned it before its absence would be noticed. I was thrilled byfound sanctuary in the West. Now a journalist based
drastically under-recognized
segregated into “Help Wanted/Male” and “Help Wanted/Female.” Women’s
what I read: that we could support ourselves and make our lives
in Canada, Pazira starred in the widely acclaimed
professional career options were pretty much limited to teacher, librarian, or
together, and that there were many other women like us. My sweetie,
For many years her father and mother quarrel
2000 film Kandahar. Released just months before
political thinker.
nurse, and working class women didn’t fare so well either. Women could be (andon the other hand, was terrified by what she found in the same pages.
over whether to leave the country. Then in 1989, the9/11, the film was inspired by Pazira’s life. It tells thewere) fired for wearing pants to work, and the idea of equal pay for equal work
But she was the one who found the courage to go to the newsstand down thethreat of her brother’s conscription finally sends thestory of an Afghani woman’s return to Afghanistan
wasn’t yet a gleam in anyone’s eye. Sexual relationships between women were
block from her Catholic girls’ school and special order every book referenced infamily into exile. The passages describing theduring the Taliban’s rule. Less an intimate
generally considered immoral, criminal, or a symptom of underlying mental
We, Too, Must Love that wasn’t yet out of print, and then every additional bookPazira’s flight to Pakistan make up some of therumination than a journalistic history of her country,
ornick judiciously complicates her radicalreferenced in those. (Blessings on the newsstand boys who
illness. They could land a woman in jail or a psychiatric institution, with or
sold us the books
most harrowing parts of the book. Exile forces
A Bed of Red Flowers is driven by the author’s passion
individualist interpretation by examiningwith a minimum of grief.)
without electric shock treatments. The pulps remind us of how much courage it
Nelofer and her family to reconsider theirnarrate the history of a country that, she suggests,
Stanton’s connectedness to her feminist Katherine V. Forrest’s anthology, Lesbian Pulp Fiction:toThetook in the fifties and prefeminist sixties to pursue a life with women, and how
Sexually Intrepid
understanding of the class and religious tensions
and the West still do not know.
comrades and personal friends—usually the sameWorld of Lesbian Paperback Novels 1950–1965, brought backAmerica
utterly thrilling it could be to discover these secret, underground worlds. They
these memories andunderlying the war. For their journey across the
Pazira’s mother and father belonged to an
people—and the pleasure she took in sisterhood.more as I read through the selection of excerpts from twenty-two
remind us, too, of how subversive women’s dreams and lesbian lives were in theclassics fromdesert to Pakistan, this modern Afghani family
elite that embraced many aspects of a
Gornick knows about this because of her ownthe heyday of the pulp novel. Forrest cheerfully prefacesurbanized
face of the postwar wave of conformity that swept America in the fifties.
each excerpt with theposes as tribe of devout provincials. For the first
Western lifestyle in the late sixties and seventies.
feminist illumination, that “moment of joy, when aoriginal publication’s lurid cover and sensational jacket
Many of the pulps that followed Women’s Barracks and 3-B focused
copy, providing antime in her life Nelofer dons a burqa, the traditional
Her father was a respected physician in Kabul andsufficiently large number of people are galvanizedentertaining introduction to these books for the generations
specifically on lesbian experience: Vin Packer (Marijane Meaker)’s Spring Fire
who started
Muslim cover of Afghani women. Back in Kabul
her mother a teacher of Persian literature. Nelofer
by a social explanation of how their lives havereading after the pulps disappeared, as well as for those who(reprinted 2004 by Cleis Press) is the tale of a motherless, tomboyish college girlnever understoodshe only occasionally saw women in burqas, andherself enjoyed a modern education, one of only
taken shape and are gathered together... for thewhat all the fuss was about.
“done wrong” by an older sorority sister. Ann Bannon’s beloved Beebo Brinker
neither she nor any of the women of her family
five percent of Afghani women with the same
pleasure of elaborating the insight.” She illustrates The best reason to read the old pulps is that they’re fun.
series (all currently in print from Cleis) follows the adventures of a group of
But there are otherwore them in their daily lives.
privilege. The year after her father was first imprisStanton’s experience with excerpts from herreasons: readers in their twenties and thirties will recognize
girls as they make their way to Greenwich Village.
their own lives andThus disguised, Nelofer and her family
oned, in 1979, the Soviets invaded Afghanistan,correspondence, much fuller in those days withoutdreams in the “differently gendered” Beebo Brinker, heroine
Other pulps have extensive publishing histories as well; several were amongof Ann Bannon’s
encounter a people and a culture they barely
launching a brutal, decades-long war with
telephones and with rapid postal service than itmuch loved and frequently reprinted tales. Those who appreciate
the top five bestsellers the year they were published. Kensington Press recently
edgy episodes
recognize. They spend a few nights in the home ofAmerican-backed guerillas, the mujahidin. With themight be now. I wish, however, that Gornick hadcan revel in the day when a single kiss could make a woman
reprinted all six of Paula Christian’s novels, which were republished previously
both an outcast andsome poor villagers, where Nelofer prefers to go
war, the Pazira family’s privileged life was steadily
made more of Stanton’s lifelong partnership withan outlaw. And historians will note the guidebook-like qualities
in the late seventies and early eighties in spiffy leatherette-covered collector’sof many of thehungry rather than share food that has passed
dismantled.
Susan B. Anthony—one of the great personal/books and the way they disseminated new ideas throughout
editions. Naiad Press republished Ann Bannon’s five Beebo Brinker novels andthe culture.
through so many unwashed hands. It is at thisAs a teenager, Nelofer identifies strongly with thepolitical partnerships in history. (I would place it in An estimated 2,000 lesbian-themed novels were publishedthree of Valerie Taylor’s novels in mass-market priced Volute Press editions in
as part of thepoint that Nelofer realizes that, with her limited
whom she idolizes as a nationalist force
the same category as that of Franklin and Eleanorgreat pulp paperback boom inspired by the success ofmujahidin,
the early eighties.
the “pocket books”
experience, she is unqualified to judge the village
resisting the Soviet invaders. After school she andRoosevelt.) The Stanton/Anthony partnership was
women whose lives differ so much from hers.
her friends regularly line up to throw rocks at thethe more powerful because of their differences: theNaseema, the family’s guide and host, is one ofSoviet tanks, and at one point she even acquires a
strategic, practical, spinster Anthony and the18 Women’s Review of Books Vol. 23,
No. 1, January/February 2006
many women left orphaned and widowed by the
gun and joins an underground resistance movement.
iconoclastic, theoretical, eloquent Stanton,

I

“

”

G

E

V

“

”

war. Barely older than Nelofer, she has made it her
life’s purpose to avenge her parents’ murder by
Russian soldiers. She regularly crosses the desert ina burqa and delivers fleeing families across theborder to the Pakistani city of Peshawar.
Early in her stay in Pakistan, Nelofer cracks open
a window to take a peek at the neighborhood. The
sound of gunshots causes her to retreat in terror.
Women, her hosts explain to her, are not allowed to
be seen without “proper cover,” even from thewindows of their homes. It is a jarring introduction
to freedom in the new country, and to her new
identity as a Muslim woman.
Here and in many passages, Pazira is careful tosuggest that the problems of Afghani women
cannot be attributed merely to the Taliban. At
one point, she meets an Afghani woman in a
refugee camp who begs to be paid with a burqa
for her appearance in Kandahar. Outside
Afghanistan, burqas have become extremely
hard to come by, and the young woman issure that it is just the accessory she needs tocreate erotic allure on her wedding night.
Pazira refuses, but is left unsettled by theexchange and its implications for the futureof women in Afghanistan.
The making of the film Kandahar makes up
a lengthy and interesting section of thememoir. Parts of the movie were shot in a
refugee camp on the Iran-Pakistan border. The Iranian director Mohsen
Makhmalbaf, known for his brilliant
and canny realism, chose the actors from thepoor refugee families. At every turn, the crew meetsthe reluctance of fathers and husbands to allow theirwomen to be “shown.” Actresses are hired only to disappear the next day, snatched back to their homes byenraged fathers. Pazira becomes the object of scrutiny
and suspicion as again and again, she is enjoined toleave the film crew, drape herself in a burqa, and settle down to be a proper Muslim woman.
Pazira frequently evades private details about
her life, so the memoir, though often highly
dramatic, lacks the intimate episodes andreflections that would have made it a true personal
history. Her quest to find her friend Dyana is meant
to drive the book’s second half, but Pazira’s
description of the friendship suffers from herevasiveness. Dyana finally is no more than ashadow-self for Pazira, a way of keeping alive her
connection to her lost country.

Pazira concentrates the final section of thebook on a series of interviews she conductedwith former Soviet soldiers in January 2004.
Islam, the Taliban, and even the American-led war
and occupation of Afghanistan, are given scanttreatment as she focuses on what she believes is thetrue point of departure for modern Afghan history:
the Soviet invasion of 1979. As she forces our gazefrom both her life and present-day Afghanistan, herpassion and conviction are unbridled. For all thegaps and evasions of her telling, hers is aremarkable journey. From a Kabul prison cell as agirl of five, Nelofer Pazira’s journey ends at Lenin’s
tomb; she has become a woman, a journalist, and an
exile for whom the search for Afghanistan is her
life’s calling.
Jasmin Darznik is a lawyer and doctoral candidate at
Princeton University. She is writing a dissertation on
narratives of Middle Eastern women in exile.

housewife and mother, able to write only because

Women’s Review of Books

3

28 Women’s Review of Books Vol. 23, No. 1, January/February 2006

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Corrections
Credit information was missing about the artists of the covers of backissues of Sinister Wisdom printed in Sinister Wisdom #70. We apologize forthis error. Here are the covers along with the names of the artists.

Jasmine Marah

Friends On Park Benchby Terry Hauptman

Celia Rodriguez

Companionship by
Aly Kim

Old Lesbians:
We Are Everywhereby Nicky Spencer

Sudie Rukusin

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Sudie Rukusin

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Either/Or by
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166

sinister wisdom #72 — Utopia

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