![]() ![]() I first meet the man, or one of them anyway There was my hubris over attending a premier MFA program, housed in a gothicy stone castle atop a hill that looked down on a struggling populace, amid which I rented a room. There was the fact that I was twenty-three, a writer, and from the desert-a place of flat horizons and wide-open space-who had come to find herself in a relatively ancient city. ![]() Hid it from the plastic and chemical companies that offloaded mercury into the Onondaga, the dead lake, that lay silent and smelly along the backside of the mega mall. The green fortress that hid the enchanted lake where I taught swimming lessons. There were the marbled lobbies and death-trap art deco elevators the Technicolor summers that seemed to bloom harder in anticipation of winter and the erasures of its lake-effect snow. Its downtown held traces of old wealth-the “oriental” opera house with its green and gold mural of mermaids-the paint peeling off their scales. Syracuse was a city that, to me, felt opulent with decay. Hélène Cixous, “The Laugh of the Medusa” A double distress, for even if she transgresses, her words fall almost always upon the deaf male ear, which hears in language only that which speaks in the masculine. Her heart racing, at times entirely lost for words, ground and language slipping away. Every woman has known the torment of getting up to speak. ![]()
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