"He was not shooting dirty pictures. He believed sex appeal was 'human appeal.' He also believed 'the true nude gives a version of beauty, both physical and spiritual -- two great needs of humanity. Allen was a seer who thought his photos would inspire a kind of paradoxical chaste lust and reveal the potential of all naked women to become icons."

--David Bowman on Albert Arthur Allen

today i learned that there is no word for clitoris in ancient Greek, and the first time the word kleitoris appears it is as an anatomical term in Rufus of Ephesus texts. Rufus of Ephesus, writing around the first and second century AD, lists the word kleitoris alongside three other synonyms only two still used during his times: numoe, a metaphor whose sense is “the veiled” and murton, “myrtle berry,” based on the appearance of that berry.

“I am blind and so in some things I will not be as good as my father, while in others I will be better. I cannot read some of the books he could, but I have women read them to me.”

--Frank Stanford
(from A Son’s Tale)

&&&

Fifteen terms existed in Latin for clitoris, and the ancient Romans had medical knowledge of the clitoris, and their native word for it was landīca. This appears to have been one of the most obscene words in the entire Latin lexicon. It is alluded to, but does not appear, in literary sources, except in the Priapeia 79, which calls it misella landica, the “poor little clitoris.” It does, however, appear in graffiti.

new year’s eve. a house carved into a hill, yard littered with beer cans. not a “party” but a “get together.” we arrive late, after spilled drinks, ashtrays too. soot on every surface. in the living room, twenty people sit or stand or lean their heads against the wall. as far as furniture, nothing but bodies breathing. i slip my coat off—scarf, sweater, undershirt. still i sweat. m. & i touch each other through a layer of condensation. the introductions begin—hi hello, this is, no, this is. where are you from? have you lived here long? the owners of the house—two couples—are of some vague age i can’t place. late thirties, early forties. details are shared, though, i’m having trouble hearing. the girl in the kitchen—yes, that girl—snapped her heel in half, lays up turned on the floor. although she’s had enough—the only single girl in miles—she is offered yet another. we raise our hands, tilt our heads. present are two boys from work & one guy i recognize from that snowy night at whitney’s house. i remember him at all: goddman kind smile, voice like closed eyelids. later when he sees the girl—teetering now in bare feet—he pulls her into a hug & asks do you want to step outside for a cigarette? watching from her perch on the kitchen counter, whitney says do they know each other? i mean, have they met before? one of the hosts shrugs not that i’m aware of.

as midnight approaches, the stragglers filter into the living room. whoever cannot sit, stands shoulder to shoulder. the drunk red-head kicks the edge of the couch then knocks over the ottoman. whitney seals the seam of her joint. where’s the lighter. the countdown begins. we all kiss. on the porch, the girl is throwing up over the banister; behind her, the guy sits, hands wrapped round her hips.

we drive home very slow.

"I say nothing to no one. Nothing about what goes through my life, the anger, the wild movements of my body towards that dark, hidden word “pleasure.” I am modesty, I am silence itself. I say nothing. I express nothing. About what is important, nothing. It is there, unnamed, untouched.”

--Margurite Duras, undated journal

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i wait to be asked. neglect all tasks unless addressed specifically to me. say my name, yes. otherwise, watch things pile up: a spilled ashtray swept up with a sock then tossed beneath the bed, a cup encrusted with milk, beer, a banana peel. in every direction, a distraction. a drop in temperature, i stay in bed all day. encumbered by library books with pages sticky or smudged. i readjust the pillow behind my neck, lean back against the headboard. the cat walks into the room and mews. when i try to read my old journals the writing's illegible; i must spend two hours tracing and retracing a version of myself as presented in a paragraph with one useable sentence. the demands of daily upkeep puzzle me. my hair’s already dirty though its only been 36 hrs since my last shower.

no sound in the house. a silence maintained by force: shut door, cat curled in the closet, fifteen unplugged appliances. a silence interrupted only by the most basic of daily noises: neighbor coughing, mouse scratching, trapped behind the bedroom wall. the heater clicks on, releases three puffs of steam. seventy-five, eighty degrees. when i sweat, it makes no sound which is the same as when i breathe. face pressed against a window pane. looking out, not in. the wind picks up, streams in through the insulation. a whistling, high pitched. i hear nothing. the difference between silence and quiet is a matter of appearance, personal demeanor. when someone knocks at the door, i do not jump up, run down the hall: hand paused on the door handle who's there? nor do i feel any sort of thrill when the phone rings. a call from the pharmacy, most likely; perhaps my sister's wet vowels, into the reciver: today the baby.... no, i don't have to speak unless i choose. i can sit here all afternoon, brushing my hair, smoothing out the wrinkles in my skirt with my bare hands.

asheville, nc

also, two weeks with little to no sleep. although i lack hard evidence, i blame mccain. home from work at five, i undress, grab a beer from the fridge & watch exactly 50 minutes of news tv then fume all evening. not even a cigarette after months of no cigarettes can calm me. i leave nasty notes on every suv i see with a mccain sticker plastered to the bumper. it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God. three days ago a friend from highschool messaged me on facebook wow you’ve changed! the last time i talked to him he was entering his first year of seminary & informed me over fajitas at el azteca that he was voting for bush in the re-election. sorry liz but i just can’t vote for a candidate that supports abortion. what’s worse is he supports mccain! god, palin’s a babe. in my insomnia rage, i emailed him at three am this morning: wow! you haven’t changed at all then proceeded to list, in about fifteen bullet points, exactly how i felt about him & his "moral covictions." in addition i have unplugged the tv & banned myself from reading anymore on-line articles that begin racial bias might play a bigger role than expected.

the entire left wall of the living room is glass, pushed back by a mammoth spanish oak. open the window: manic green floods the carpet, flypapers the walls, which are still bare, save the green, the stuff of summer in decline. tell me, please, if there is a way to revert back to rage; degrade this silence into such a state of incoherency, violence is possible. true violence can only occur in broad daylight. i want to be watched. if after twilight—is only terror, the basest form, all reverberation. i seek the purity of present-tense. and fail. the formality of my silence, of “healing”—smoothing my skirt as i sit; the sun, skin light with it. mom calls: in january, the rose bowl. do you know where they keep the floats? my sister: i tried sixteen different wedding dresses; they all made me look fat. the formality, even, of despair. i sweat without producing a scent or any identifiable moisture. i wait every day for the sun to reach high noon: a drunk and stumbling yellow, at the height of its virility, bleaches out the leaves, chapped concrete, light itself.

all the windows shut & still some stray wind shaking. shaking, i shiver awake. one a.m. wincing dog, go back to bed. i’m too tired to take a walk, & besides, this wind. a storm traveling due east. the hwy located two spits from my front step empties. at the front door the dog scratches the carpet, holds his leash between his teeth. i, myself, am too winded to wail. instead i wait.

magic sam

Don't Worry Spiders
Kobayashi Issa

Don't worry, spiders,
I keep house
casually.