The Chronology of Water - Lidia Yuknavitch [62]
We put Annie Sprinkle and Andres Serrano and Kathy Acker and Andrei Codrescu and Joel-Peter Witkin on those big white pages. We put ex-cons and recovering addicts and drunks right next to them. And we destroyed the sanctity of the literary page while liberating the noise and heat of art. Everybody had day jobs. Everybody stayed up too late making the big books. Everybody spent way too much time cursing out the blue-aproned nerds at Kinko’s. I spent my food and rent money on our big irreverent mouth. We won awards. We got grants. It really was something, though I don’t know what, and that seems right, even today. It was a fast burning supernova.
I fucking loved it.
Why?
It was the first thing in my life I ever loved that I didn’t spread my legs for. Maybe you believe that. Maybe you think it’s a line. Either way it’s true.
Something else happened through the wordhouse. Through the wordhouse I met writers who had somehow or other read my writing. Through the wordhouse I found voices and bloodsong exactly how it felt to me on the inside where I thought I was the only one. There were others like me. Um, lots of them. Breaking writing rules. Reaching for writing impossibilities. Taking their newly-found intellects into alien territories. Making things up. Maybe even a life. A self.
I’d meet these people at conferences and readings and performances and art shows. We’d huddle in corners and drink and laugh and plot our art secrets. We’d communicate like underground societies of people who read the outsider books, stared at the taboo art until we passed out, mouth watered in the presence of writing that tore your face to shreds even as it might never see the light of day. You wanna know what the two words are that describe what these people meant and still mean to me are?
Tribe.
Sacred.
I don’t need anyone to explain to me why people join gangs or develop prison societies or only trust others of their rule breaking kind. I don’t have any problem understanding why people flunk out of college or quit their jobs or cheat on each other or break the law or spray-paint walls. A little bit outside of things is where some people feel each other. We do it to replace the frame of family. We do it to erase and remake our origins in their own images. To say, I too was here.
And guess what? Turns out, I had a twin.
Did I mention I’m a Gemini?
When I say “twin,” I don’t mean biologically … though who knows, the way genetics travel the superhighways of blood and cells. My twin in the tribe has blonde hair. Blue eyes. Unusual relationships with sentences. Weird views on culture and storytelling. Fire in his fingers and shooting out the top of his head.
I met my twin when I was miraculously invited to give a literary reading at San Diego State University. He had been invited as well. We had been invited together because our writing was, well, weird. There’s never been a good word for it as far as I’m concerned. “Experimental” sounds dumb, and “Innovative” sounds strangely snooty. Whatever the word is for taking everything you ever learned about making characters, plots, and storylines and blowing them up like putting firecrackers in the heads of Barbies as I did as a kid, well, that’s what we do. Whatever the word is for being more in love with words than with conventions and rules about words, that’s us.
Lance Olsen and me, we are, and I say this with some authority, language bandits.
If you don’t have a twin