by Rhoda Lerman
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:
What am I doing here? It is very simple. Your world is a mess.
A mess.
Your laws are inhuman. Your religion is without love. Your love is without religion and both, undirected, are useless. Your pastrami is stringy, and I am bored by your degeneracy.
But what’s a mother to do? I’m here to bring it all back together again. I’ll come and straighten things out for you. I will choose an image here to do my work. To do your work. I shall spray your dusty corners with Lysol so you will find knowledge, stitch up those parts of your souls which have lost each other so that man knows what is womanly in him and woman knows what is manly in her. You hate, screw, war, starve and die without knowing me. The closets of your souls are empty of power and love. I do not like to come down here and work. There are no men here for me and I become, as a fish beyond the sea, hungry. And when I am overworked and hungry, I am mean. And when I am mean, I am destructive. So watch it. You are going to have to show me some respect this time, or you will all be impotent and once more the world will come grinding to an end and that end, as in your own grinding, which I have witnessed often, uncomfortably, will have no ecstasy.
Excuse me. I begin my threats again. I must remember, this time, that if I want you to become more divine, I must be more humane.
Somehow, I will distribute the wonders of my baking to you, to heal and balance and restore to you the powers that once were yours in the antique. I have always been the connection between heaven and earth, between man and woman, between thought and act, between everything. If your philosophers insist the world is a dichotomy, tell them that two plus two don’t make four unless something brings them together. The connection has been lost. But I’m back. Don’t worry. I am going to give you the secrets this time. You are not ready, but then you may never be and whatever will I do with them then? I must warn you I am jealous and selfish. However, I am really all that you have. I am one and my name is one and there shall be no one before me. I will forgive you anything, though, if you will love me. Cordially yours,
I remain,
Your Mother/Harlot/Maiden/Wife
(The Queen of Heaven)
P.S. Call me Ishtar
And She spread it before me and it was written
Within and without this roll of a book.
A roll of a book was therein, and there was written lamentations, mourning and woe.
“Moreover,” She said unto me, “Son of Man, eat that thou findest; eat this roll and go speak unto the House of Israel.”
So I opened my mouth and She caused me to eat that roll. And She said unto me, “Son of Man, cause thy belly to eat. Fill thy bowels with this roll that I give thee.”
Then did I eat it; and it was in my mouth as honey for sweetness.
“She was spreading herself like the night over the
universe and found no god to lie with.”
Anaïs Nin
1
I AM CIVILIZED. I AM DISCONTENT. I HAVE A HUNGRY CUNT. TRULY. You’ve seen me. A sad face through the window of a rosewood metal Plymouth station wagon crossing the Robert Moses Power Access Highway. My home is rosewood also. You may have seen my home featured in a GE ad for up-to-date products in color with my red, white and blue dashiki dress and my long striped hair and the seven members of my rock and roll band which we manage for fun and possible profit. They are not rosewood. They are olive and sallow and one, the leader, in the dark, sitting up in bed, in shadow profile, looks like a lizard. His straight North Italy profile suddenly slips into a thick neck so that his chin, although square, becomes saurian. I am mad for him but I suspect him of being unclean. Robert is my husband. The band sleeps late on Sundays, until four or five. I have nothing else to do on Sundays so I go with Robert to his factory, limited, in Canada.
Robert’s line is polyesters. He reduces them into functional fibers. I have been in his small factory on Sundays only. I and he and all his workers, everyone, must wash their hands before entering the loom room. Robert was once a very religious man, an Orthodox Jew. Now he is only very ethical. He wears suits of olive whipcord with vests and has his rules of order, which are formidable, scratched into the tablets of his checkbooks. The factory is in Canada although we live in upstate New York. That is why we cross the Power Highway over the Falls. And on this scenic tour across the power dam and atomic energy plants, I watch out the window of the station wagon into other station wagons and sports cars to see if my destiny has arrived yet or has passed me by.
Is it too much to hope that you’ve read Norman Brown? It would help.
Robert has made enough money turning luminous threads of polyesters, moondrift, wrapped, ectoplasmic, around man-sized wooden bobbins into carpet fibers, yarn for men’s socks, ladies’ stockings, paper pulp and golf balls. He crimps, twists, stretches, cuts and shrinks the silken cords on the torture racks he himself designs. When his machines are dormant on Sundays I comb my fingers through the silken cords lying taut, waiting for their new shapes. The threads are beautiful. Do you know the legend of the white mare of Ireland? Her foals were extraordinary horses, but an indiscreet act by the farmer who owned them would cause them to gallop off to the sea, and the white mare herself would come only to the true king. If the true king made love to her, he would then be initiated into the kingship of the entire land. I have seen her in dreams, the same luminous threads of her long tail burning in the moonlight as she runs along the black sea. Of course, this is no reason to turn off the polyester machines. But it is why I go to the factory only on Sundays. I don’t like his machines. Robert, watching me at his looms, drifting my fingers through his fairy threads and considering me mad, will finally, like Rumpelstiltskin, stomp his size-fourteen Hush-puppy into the concrete floor and yell through the echoing loom room. “God damn it, Ishtar, you’ll ruin the tension!” But I have already guessed his secret name. It is Moses.
On some Sundays I stop in time before he becomes angry and then the drive home across the chasm is pleasant. On other Sundays I make knots while he sorts through orders, invoices and machinery designs in his glassed cubicle just beyond the looms. Sometimes, if my child, who is seven years old now, hasn’t come with us, on the way home Robert will touch me into orgasm with one hand while he drives. I try to arrange my climax for the moment we cross the dam. The customs officers, trained to watch for suspicious nervous twitches, are forever suspecting us of contraband and rifling through the pubic bundles of crimped and sliced fiber samples in the rear of the station wagon. I manage to contain my trembling until we are distinctly above the chasm and the power dam is in sight. It is rather a game with us and it is why Robert invites me along even though I tie knots in his looms. When he is really angry he won’t play the game at all. Often I tie knots. Then I pass leisurely and unmolested through customs and I am home quickly to my son. Whom I adore.
It is, of course, my power which Robert Moses can not touch, that enormous chasm down there over which he has built his bridges and his trap doors and his harnesses for my energies, around, over and above, but never within, for he has neither touched nor loosed nor used my power. It is dammed now, functioning, limited as his factory, to my motherhood. It is still waiting. Knowing this, he explodes into tempestuous rages or sinks into sullen dank caves of withdrawal. I prefer the rages. I can not predict either. So I stare out the window sadly, hoping I will be found and touched with grace. Opened finally and alive. But each year, as I wait, I am destroyed. Huge rocks detach and roll from my superb cliffs. I turn on the air conditioning and roll up the windows to protect my complexion from the dirt of the highway and preserve myself as we cross the Niagara. I wait for my destiny as my sides cave in. I hate it of course.
Once, recently, I wrote a check from his checkbook in red ink. The rule is thou shalt not write in red ink. Thou shalt write in blue ink and then thou shalt take whatever monies are needed. I don’t wish to be humorous about this for Robert is very serious about the rules. I wrote in red ink beca
use the red pen was closest and Robert Moses became ugly and loomed large in our bedroom when he discovered what I had done. He is very handsome and not at all vain about himself but very particular about the colors of his checkbook and he is very good in bed, quite nice to me, waiting always for me because he is in such good control of most things, so when his checkbook turns up red-inked, he becomes understandably angry. I try not to laugh. I do not cry often either. I choose to ignore his large looming and go to my red and orange den with my black labrador, who lays his great wolf head in my lap. I read Martin Buber to forget Moses. He writes that within every stone is a divine spark waiting to be discovered, that man alone can let loose. I do not know if I am Man or Stone. I think I am more. That is why I look out the station wagon window. And I cry loosely over the book. I do not cry over the checkbook or the fact that soon I will climb into our angry king-size bed. I cry because perhaps I should cry over the checkbook and the bed and because I ought to concern myself with red inks and blue inks. Then he would make love to me and I would be forgiven. It is so easy to love the dog whose head lies heavy in my lap and whose sad brown eyes watch me cry. I wipe my eyes with my fingers and dry them in his fur and go to the bedroom to reseal the covenant. You know how I feel.
But then you have heard me singing “My Johnny Lies Over the Ocean” under the water in my bathtub, soaking and humming water songs and listening to my own pulsating echoes and to hear me, you know that I am joyous also. I make my son laugh. At times I can make Robert laugh.
Other times I can not. Years ago, I heard Robert telling a tight group of men at a cocktail party for carpet dealers and manufacturers, some wearing white wool socks and Robert Hall clothes, some in Barney’s sharkskin, the most interesting story I had ever heard about his business. “The men in the backroom,” he told them, “opened a bale of polyester rejects from Akron—tires—and there was a Chinaman’s head in the middle of the bale.” We had a terrible hissing fight in the cloakroom because he wouldn’t repeat the story for me.
“I just want to know if there was blood on the polyester or just the head by itself.”
“Drop it. It’s not a story for you. You don’t have to know everything.” His lips shrunk like prune fingers too long in the tub and in the blacklights of the bar the fake front sugarcube tooth from his football accident gleamed wildly and menacingly.
I laughed lightly. “Aah, once a queen, always a queen.” It is a line I use often to soften him and he laughs at me for then I am not serious. But this time I had stepped too deeply into his territory and he walked away with his easy sexy roll that betrays me, always. He is not my destiny, I told someone’s sheared beaver. I’ve known that for a long time. But he might be my destiny if I’m not careful. And if he’s not careful, perhaps I’ll be his destiny. We are both very careful. But I am lucky. He is only smart. I had two drinks that night and spent time in the parking lot tongue kissing a dark faced sharkskin-suited retired colonel who sold oriental rugs by mail order. It is why I don’t drink. Scotch opens my sluiceways. I have a self-developed allergy to alcohol. One eye aches and my nose runs. I borrow Robert’s generous handkerchief. When I am due for an affair, my allergy disappears. It is a protective device.
We all have protective devices. Robert, for instance, has never seen death. He has managed by disengaging himself at the proper times. Often, as with his own parents, well in advance. Perhaps it makes him feel immortal. I don’t know. He remarked when his grandmother died in an old-age home, “I’m sorry I didn’t get to know her.” He has never mentioned her since. I of course have seen death. My father died after he had a tooth pulled and he called me to his bed to get my mother quickly as his heart strangled. And my grandmother, who I am in so many ways, is at my shoulder always. Mrs. Morin has seen her there as has Mrs. Broga and Mrs. Tice. Mrs. Morin has also seen my grandfather in spirit. She brought him to me when I sat in her small upstairs sewing room and she rocked in her chair and clutched her throat. “An architect who can’t talk. Do you know him?” My grandfather, who lost the race between the Chrysler Building and the Bank of Manhattan to build the tallest building in the world, hemorrhaged for six months into vegetation and wrote painful notes on scratch pads that looked something like I LOVE YOU but may have been something about his bed sores. It is not really Robert’s fault that he has not seen death. It is not his fault that he has not been at home when each of my dogs has been struck down one by one on our country road. Perhaps it is well. I don’t know what he would do in the face of death. In the face of birth, I looked up at him from my cribbed recovery bed and thought he was my father returned, until he began to retch and vomit while the nurse pushed on my stomach and removed the excess bloods from my vagina. I became a mother. He did not become a father. You understand.
I have only seen Robert cry once. We were new lovers and I threatened to leave because of his great anger. I never left. I have never since threatened and he has never since cried. I don’t think he would any longer. I have no desire to leave. I just think there is something more. I have a cousin who would like to die. She is young and lovely. A handsome Greek offered to kill her and she went happily to his student apartment in Paris but he only made rude love to her. Perhaps this is why the severed slant-eyed head … I have it down to a simple hieroglyphic … two slant lines and a question mark for a nose … that I sketch at the bottom of each calendar month, on Robert’s King Size Catalogue and all over the telephone books … annoys Robert. He may not care to recognize the power of death.
Having participated in birth and death so intimately, I am acutely aware of my own ripeness. Is it too much to hope that you have read Brown’s Life Against Death? He is wrong, of course, about some things. But still he leaves me with a hungry cunt. That is crude although men discuss their needs as lightly as I request a Kleenex. However, if you have even a cursory knowledge of Freud you will recognize that I am civilized, discontent and hungry. I want to be resurrected. My way. I am growing old before I grow perverse. I wish to return to polymorphous sex, anyway, all over.
No hand across the border. No single soul. No one place. I want my back scratched and my hair smoothed with a coarse masculine paw. Raw. No Corn Huskers Lotion for me, nor do I weep for a Tammuz long gone. No Vaseline. I have a wonderful cat named Blue, who, if he were six feet tall, I would run away with. His brother, Green, and he lie on my bed all day and lick each other. They are orange tigers. So is their mother, Tuesday. If Blue were six foot and could support me, I’m sure I would leave. He walks beautifully also, with four feet and a marvelous upright tail which tickles my underchin as he crosses, proprietarily, my chest. Blue and Green hunt all night and leap from odd places, meeting in midair. Blue is a cat and I am a woman. We don’t mess with each other.
2
ONCE UPON A TIME WHEN THE GREAT GODDESS, ISHTAR, LOVED and ruled the earth and all of humankind were women and a simple chemical additive could cause reproduction of more women, an error was made. It did not indeed seem at the time a great error. It was rather a chromosomal deficiency. One of the children born was a mutant, tiny horns, too many aggressive parts in its soul, not enough intuitive parts and an odd roseate stump between its legs. Its infant features, however, were soft and pure in the image of the Great Goddess. The infant was brought to Ishtar.
Ishtar looked upon its face and spoke. “Send it away to the sea. It is necessary that it should not live.”
The mother cried.
Ishtar spoke. “I see the world plunged into greed, grief, war and destruction. I see the end of civilization and the burning of our libraries. The infant is to be sent to the sea.”
Wrapped in a reed basket, the infant was floated down river toward the sea. At a bend in the river, the basket was caught by bull-rushes and a wolf mother dragged the infant to its lair in the wilderness far beyond the walls.
The mutant grew. At first the wolf mother suckled the infant and then lay with it. Its limbs grew thicker and hairier. The other cubs nipped at its uprightness and woul
dn’t play with it for its deformities. The mutant ate raw flesh and fondled other beasts as he grew. Shepherd girls, returning from the pastures, reported that it had leaped upon them in odd, heavy ways. It was last seen running across the steppe after a pack of wolves.
Slowly the women forgot about the mutant. With Ishtar’s guidance they continued about their business of creating civilization as had been decreed.
Many years later, the mutant appeared at the city gates, large, bestial and clumsy.
“I can perform funny tricks with my strange stump,” he called to a gentle long-necked poetess writing under the shade of a fig tree. “I want to come into the city,” he called to a stately group of matrons of Law passing along the avenue in their robes. They ignored him. “Let me in or I’ll break your wall down.”
The mutant huffed and puffed and kicked at a cornerstone. The poetess laid a finger to her lips. “Hush, I am composing alphabets.”
“Let me in. I belong in the city.”
“Nay,” answered the gentle poetess, “you have eaten raw flesh. You belong with the beasts.”
“I’ll tend your flocks and sharpen your nubs and bring you delicate grains from afar and repair your city walls and install your air conditioners and do funny tricks with my strange stump if you will let me in.”
The matrons, listening, nodded to the poetess. The poetess opened the gates. In return for his labors and funny tricks, the matrons promised to civilize him.
They have never succeeded.
Eventually the walls were kicked in.
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN:
In your Bible, such as it is, the Story of Job must be placed first. Then the story of Noah. Then the Genesis. First record the fire, then record the flood and then record the new beginning of your age. The entire story of Job takes place in a cave where he and his few friends hang from ropes, since there is nothing solid for their feet. They discuss why I did this thing and whether I did it because of wickedness. I, raging outside, burning animals, uprooting mountains, drying up seas, have missed a few men. Job is brave enough to go outside of the cave and ask why. He is afraid I will swallow him. But I don’t. I tell him of the wonders that have issued from my womb and that it is not his place to question and he is lucky to be alive, that he is no more wicked than anyone else and I did not intend him to witness the conflagration or to live through another one. I had overlooked him. I had overlooked groups here and there. They hid in the caves and tried to keep records. The world around them was gone. Job is antique. You don’t think really that the language of that poem could be inspired by a case of boils?
