It was while smoking ganga in the women’s bathroom at an incredibly dull and starchy midwestern university that it struck me, as if a gravitationally accelerated apple was dispatched from the Great Tree of Wisdom and knocked something ancient yet familiar back into place. In one desperate yet determined inhale, came a coherent, lucid awareness on the exhale: I am being brainwashed, my mind pummeled, hitched up tighter than a blood knot into thinking there are no women who matter, whose accomplishments ever deserve a formidable and enduring place in the Human Story.
The vulgarity of the lies of history incites in one who fails to question, a false reality that there are no women of importance who accomplish or invent or create. This sadophallic story (named History of Civilization) taught by the withering juiced up Professor Plotkill is not my history, I fumed to myself as if a brawny gust of midwestern wind cleared out the rancid roughage of untruth. I suddenly had more space to begin filling the interior with thoughts and feelings that were coming from the Font of my Selfhood.
I then found the nurture of a large tree with thick set roots that shot out of the earth; there I laid, near the newly erected MBA building, in the clutch of this wise being to give myself fully over to the cascade of pleasure and veracity. All campus prattle fell away, and there I dipped wide and deep into the memory of the lingering shame of “failing” the serial subterfuge known widely as the “midterm exam”.
I reflected upon the moment when with great amusement, gangly gray-faced Professor Plotkill, that sparse patch of filmy hair combed forward in an attempt to conceal a concaving head, delivered the paper; a Big Red D, erect and tumescent, stationed like a stalker at the very top. With the aid of Mother Ganga and the Tree and the Wind, a knowingness arrived like an FTD delivery. Surging up from the marrow, I knew in fact that it was not in my best interest, nor the interest of untamable women past, present, future to consume, inhale, digest, or otherwise preserve what I now refer to as the Patriachotic Program: That protracted (7,000 years?) plot to block and stop our ancestral Memory, to clot and restrict our Original Thoughts and Words.
It was Spring and the Sun and I, in repose, chuckled at what we now shared together in our unified field of sagacity. The Body and Mind are Wise and Beautiful, they repel toxins, are not fond of absorbing harmful matter and will root out/create ways to resuscitate the thwarted/suffocated Indwelling Spirit. This rebellion is not an ingredient of character that is celebrated nor much tolerated in a culture of creative depravation and control, Mother Ganga and I agreed. Gradually, there underneath the maple, I understood the significance of my own private subversion; the Bid Red D flew at me as a holy courier delivering a kind of intellectual kindling, a sacred precept communicated in and through my body. One never knows fully how the Body/Mind/Spirit will rebel when asphyxiation is applied, one only knows that it will, and therein lies the Truth. There are Trees and Wind and Sun to aid in the counsel of such matters and, there is always, of course, Mary Daly and Virginia Woolf for anyone committed to radical consciousness, necessary rebellions, and infiltrating the gloom and glum of the Dead Zones, the Passionless Programs of Submission. To Mary and Virginia, I am forever grateful, and to them the Daly Woolf is dedicated.