In a message dated 06/27/2000 2:49:10 AM Eastern Daylight Time,
[EMAIL PROTECTED] writes:
<< Look at Burroughs, Kerouac, Neil Cassidy, Allen Ginsberg. The beats took
obscenity to a whole new level of art; perhaps the deterioration of the
values
in america and the world will now form a new obscenity that of which
fluxlist will deem incapable of transmission and censor, censure and
moderate. While in fact I didn't even see the offending post and doubt it was
such an attempt at art, what would have happened if it was?
>>
Eryk, I didn't see Ann's post as dissing you at all, I think she was just
saying prank phone calls don't seem as artistically interesting to women
who've experienced the violence and hatred aimed at them. I don't think she
was calling for your rape either, just asking that you -- who seemingly do
have a large and wonderful capacity for imagination -- imagine what it would
feel like to actually be the target of such violence and hatred . . . in
order to see another side to it. Think of the attack on the women recently in
Central Park. Or the women in Bangladesh who have acid thrown on them by men
whom they've rejected.
I like your prank phone call performance, even though whenever I *69 someone,
I always get a message that says that number is not available for that
service.
The Beats have always been a force in my poetic lineage, since my teachers,
mentors and poetry scene were deeply connected to some of them, but when it
comes to sexuality, I had to look elsewhere, as it was mostly either an
anti-female or female exclusionary sexuality the Beats you mention champion.
Look at Burroughs with his hatred of all things female:
"Women are two-holed freaks with poison juices."
And Kerouac. Myself and many other women I know read On The Road and were awe
struck, heavily identifying with the male leads and suddenly realizing only
the males were on the road and the chicks were pit stops.
And Ginsberg himself, whom I actually respect for a lot of things, saying he
could never remember the names of women. (He did remember my name, and
published me in a collection he edited at the end of his life--published
posthumusly-- of political poems for The Nation.)
Barg
