Baby Geisha (17 page)

 

But this time the volcano's endurance bolsters me. It is still kicking ass before and after humanity, and that is what brings a tear to my eye this time. The volcano weathered cinderallies, and nevertheless I had just been on its trail, now part of a national park, and had photographed a magnificent crop of scarlet gilia, the brightest crop I've ever seen, a wondrous fuschia flower that I had discovered on my way to a powwow as a teenager. That flower blooms only in black lava flow, that flower that grows out of destruction is God, hands down. That is God for me. That wildflower.

 

We are not in an age where we can afford to tiptoe around, making conceptual art and literature that's exclusively for white intellectuals because political art is out of style; it has never been out of style and if you thought it was, effete critics, well it's back in style starting now! I don't know where these elitists have been hanging out but on the side of this volcano communities ruminate and that is politically demanding of identity art and literature. Both the Cowboys who used to destroy volcanoes on their motorcycles and their Indian enemies are unemployed and missing what they used to have; there is a lot of loss going on. I will take a position, stake it out, and make art about what I love. Why am I writing and What change do I wish to enact? What is art and What is love? Don't be shy about it, I tell myself, be direct, act with intention, be a volcanic eruption, a fury. I don't want to make characters, I want to speak directly to you.

 

Some critics claim that first person autobiographical voice is not fiction or that it is fiction's weakest form, but I say that is a tired battle, I say I can use whatever point of view I feel like and call it fiction. Am I emphatic about this because I am
a woman? Who cares, everyone I care about is part man part woman, everyone I care about is part queer, everyone I admire cares about love first and foremost, nobody but me knows if the volcano story is true or false and you know what? Who cares? What I care about is the message I am sending out to my people. That this story's residual symbols square with what I believe. I am tired of people telling me that I need fictional characters in my fiction and that to speak directly to you, reader, from my first person female point of view is inferior. Who are you to tell me I am not inventing the best fictional character right now as I speak? You don't know me or own my voice. I tell people off, then apologize. I take license to change the approach. That is a fiction, no it's not, yes it is, who are you to say?

 

I live for Arizona crash-pad days like that, when stuff explodes and I can watch it crumble. It's not fun or pretty but it's real, that cinderally rider was real, he was a nice man, and the Hopi bean dance is real too, I just missed it, the Hopi are still out there, ruling the desert. I love my country, I am a patriot who spends half her life on cross-country road trips, I have crushes on everyone on a daily basis, the men and women who extrude conflict, a little more comprehension everyday, some minute intelligence, it's what I live for. I am so far from being anti-intellectual it's not even funny. This is totally fiction and it's real too. Fake fiction is fiction that's forgotten fiction and poetry are siblings.

 

I had another experience on a volcano, Picaya in Guatemala. I hiked it at twilight led by a short, dark-skinned man who went barefoot. He didn't give me a flashlight until I was sliding down igneous rock in the dark; I couldn't make out ground from sky, it was so black. But from the top, as six of us watched the sun go down, the sky went William Blake and I bawled then, too, for the terrifying beauty of disorientation. I didn't know how we'd get down the hill as night fell, the ground around us was puffing
and smoking; I anticipated asphyxiating on sulfuric air. Veins of flowing lava around my feet. That volcano was the fixed winner in a boxing match, my flashlight was pathetic shining into lava rivers, their light so powerful, I would have tossed my flashlight in to watch its metal melt. If I made it down, I cried, it will only be because the volcano granted me permission; volcanoes are essentially control freaks. Picaya was why I was able to laugh along with the man's cinderally memory: I could relate. In one way, yes, one could tear it up all over a volcanic peak and the volcano will obviously reign supreme. Yes, I can see where he got that idea, I chortled as we worshipped the volcano, commemorated our experiences on it, mine with the flowers and his with motorcycles. Then I felt nauseous, for nothing is indestructible, even hardcore forces need a buttress, some talismanic appreciation. The barefoot man on Picaya had it right, walking barefoot on those pebbles, cutting his feet up. He was so bloody by the end of the walk, once he felt the soft rainforest's floor that night, he was hurting. Years later, I realized that was sacrifice, his pain was Picaya love. My memory of these experiences hurts, my love for writing hurts, I want to share everything with you so much. If it doesn't hurt, I'm lost.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The Dad stories, though fictional, are in loving memory of Rodney Dalton and Lane Greene. “The Perverted Hobo” is for Benjamin, and “War Foods” is after Lynne's essay, “An Impossible Man.” “Escape Mushroom Style” was inspired by a Chinese restaurant menu courtesy Takeshi, and the Ling Chih identification borrows copy from the
National Audubon Field Guide to North American Mushrooms
, by Gary Lincoff. “The Sad Drag Monologues” are for Stanya and Ariana.

“Small Time Spender” borrows lyrics from the song, “Super Cool Brother” by LA Bare Faxx, and “Jackpot (II)” borrows the Lady'chete from Kathy. “Treehouses” in “Word Salad” was inspired by Jim. Gratitude to my animal companions, Yucca and Shuggie. To Amy, Eileen, Dennis, Bjorn, Sadie, Jesse, Bianca, Sierra, Gail, Francine, Heidi, Jay, Andrea, and Sue: thank you for your inspirational friendship, art, support, and conversation that led to ideas spawning the invented characters here. Thanks to NYU, Pratt, and Vermont College of Fine Arts, Sumanth Prubhaker of Madras Press, Dan Nadel of Picturebox, the CANADA gallery crew. Thanks to my family: Tammie, Greg, Sunny, Amanda, as well as Mike and KC, brothers from another mother. Thanks to Xylor for the cover image. Thanks to Sean for reading early drafts. Thanks to Eric and Eliza for publishing
Baby Geisha
and for making me excited about the future of books. This book {in spirit} is dedicated to Stevie Wonder, and {in physical reality} is dedicated to Matt: true love, talented artist, dedicated editor and muse.

“Flask” is the third mate in Moby Dick, and the title of the drawing. Xylor Jane was born on a palindrome 12/21, the longest night of the year. A double 7, cat and candy lover, looking to take harmonica lessons. She is represented by CANADA Gallery in New York. Her work has been exhibited internationally and can be viewed in her most recent catalogue, Xylor Jane (Picturebox).

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