Read Online 2000 Deciduous Trees : Memories of a Zine (9781937316051) by Nath Jones - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nath Jones
Tags: Millennium, female author, zine, midwest punk, y2k, female stories, midwest stories, purdue, illinois poets, college fiction, female soldier, female fiction, college confession
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women are?
Him: What? What kind of question is that?
You think I’m going to answer that?
Her: Do you know what women are?
Him: They’re people.
Her: But do you know what they are?
Him: Are you going to get all fucked up and
philosophical on me again? Because I’m sick of it. I don’t want to
hear all this bullshit.
Her: Exactly.
Him: Fuck you.
Her: Don’t you walk away from me.
Him: Fine.
Her: Fine.
Him: Tell me about women. Who are they? Get
on your feminist high horse. Shit, tell me you’re a lesbian. I
really don’t care at this point. I don’t give a fuck anymore
because this isn’t love. I don’t know what you do to me but it
isn’t love. It’s degenerate. You’re a fucking infection.
Her: Nice.
Him: No. No, I don’t care. I’m sick of being
nice just because I’m supposed to be. You can say whatever you want
and I’m just supposed to take it. But I am done. So go ahead. Tell
me all about what women are, because it’s as good a way to waste my
time with chaos.
She looks at him. He is red and shaking,
helpless with misunderstanding. She flinches and takes a deep
breath in spite of his pain.
Her: Chaos?
He looks at her and waits.
Her: Chaos is okay. It’s more natural than
any of your world. It is the only natural irretrievable
progression. It’s okay. And we aren’t wasting our time. Or at least
I’m not wasting mine. This is just what Wall Street uses to control
the world and it is TV and it is classes and work. It is not rocks,
Babe. It’s not mountains or clouds.
He is laughing and sits down on a cement
bench. She kneels in front of him and holds his hands. He protects
her with his knees around her shoulders.
Him: So tell me about women. They’re
mountains and clouds?
Her: Are you sure you want to hear this?
Him: Yeah.
Her: Well, I’m not a feminist or a lesbian,
and I’ll tell you why those ideas are too simplistic. Good for
somebody. Sure. They run counter to society. Yes, there is a male
patriarchy, but fuck that. Women are subject to men, but they
aren’t just women either. They are half from woman and half from
man.
Him: So are men.
Her: No. Not really. Each man starts new.
Each man is additive. He is his father and his mother: XY. But
women are their mother and their father’s mother: XX.
Him: When was the last time you took
biology?
Her: Just listen. In men, XY each is from
the identity of his own parents. The chromosomes came from their
ancestors and yes, they’re mutating and all that but the identity a
man receives is as alive as his mother and father at the time of
conception. That was his dad’s Y. And that X was his mom’s.
Him: Barr bodies? Have you—
Her: Don’t push me. Men are additive. They
are always approaching infinity. But women are pulled back from the
present. They are removed from infinity because they are the
consummation of the mother and the identity the father’s mother
gave to her son, which was then sacrificed for his own
identity.
Him: It’s part of his identity.
Her: I’m not done. So as man is built, man
upon man, as if every one is an extension of Adam and each based in
God—or if you don’t want to use God, then each benefits from the
ability to plant his identity in an unbroken line of men. But
women. Women are built on a fault line. Women are founded on what
men can live without. Adam was fine missing a rib and yet it was
Eve’s creation. Or again getting God stuff out, women are made from
the half of identity men choose not to pursue.
Him: Nobody chooses anything.
Her: In a way. Yet isn’t it true they
do?
He tries to respond but is tired. And
confused. And just hoping she could be happier. It is hard for him
to process everything. She goes on.
Her: So you—you’re a man. You are your mom
and dad fucking. Maybe it wasn’t love, but it could have been and
even if it wasn’t it is based in the present. It is action. It is
passion. Men are created in that heat. They are forged in
orgasm.
Him: Have you
Him: What? What kind of question is that?
You think I’m going to answer that?
Her: Do you know what women are?
Him: They’re people.
Her: But do you know what they are?
Him: Are you going to get all fucked up and
philosophical on me again? Because I’m sick of it. I don’t want to
hear all this bullshit.
Her: Exactly.
Him: Fuck you.
Her: Don’t you walk away from me.
Him: Fine.
Her: Fine.
Him: Tell me about women. Who are they? Get
on your feminist high horse. Shit, tell me you’re a lesbian. I
really don’t care at this point. I don’t give a fuck anymore
because this isn’t love. I don’t know what you do to me but it
isn’t love. It’s degenerate. You’re a fucking infection.
Her: Nice.
Him: No. No, I don’t care. I’m sick of being
nice just because I’m supposed to be. You can say whatever you want
and I’m just supposed to take it. But I am done. So go ahead. Tell
me all about what women are, because it’s as good a way to waste my
time with chaos.
She looks at him. He is red and shaking,
helpless with misunderstanding. She flinches and takes a deep
breath in spite of his pain.
Her: Chaos?
He looks at her and waits.
Her: Chaos is okay. It’s more natural than
any of your world. It is the only natural irretrievable
progression. It’s okay. And we aren’t wasting our time. Or at least
I’m not wasting mine. This is just what Wall Street uses to control
the world and it is TV and it is classes and work. It is not rocks,
Babe. It’s not mountains or clouds.
He is laughing and sits down on a cement
bench. She kneels in front of him and holds his hands. He protects
her with his knees around her shoulders.
Him: So tell me about women. They’re
mountains and clouds?
Her: Are you sure you want to hear this?
Him: Yeah.
Her: Well, I’m not a feminist or a lesbian,
and I’ll tell you why those ideas are too simplistic. Good for
somebody. Sure. They run counter to society. Yes, there is a male
patriarchy, but fuck that. Women are subject to men, but they
aren’t just women either. They are half from woman and half from
man.
Him: So are men.
Her: No. Not really. Each man starts new.
Each man is additive. He is his father and his mother: XY. But
women are their mother and their father’s mother: XX.
Him: When was the last time you took
biology?
Her: Just listen. In men, XY each is from
the identity of his own parents. The chromosomes came from their
ancestors and yes, they’re mutating and all that but the identity a
man receives is as alive as his mother and father at the time of
conception. That was his dad’s Y. And that X was his mom’s.
Him: Barr bodies? Have you—
Her: Don’t push me. Men are additive. They
are always approaching infinity. But women are pulled back from the
present. They are removed from infinity because they are the
consummation of the mother and the identity the father’s mother
gave to her son, which was then sacrificed for his own
identity.
Him: It’s part of his identity.
Her: I’m not done. So as man is built, man
upon man, as if every one is an extension of Adam and each based in
God—or if you don’t want to use God, then each benefits from the
ability to plant his identity in an unbroken line of men. But
women. Women are built on a fault line. Women are founded on what
men can live without. Adam was fine missing a rib and yet it was
Eve’s creation. Or again getting God stuff out, women are made from
the half of identity men choose not to pursue.
Him: Nobody chooses anything.
Her: In a way. Yet isn’t it true they
do?
He tries to respond but is tired. And
confused. And just hoping she could be happier. It is hard for him
to process everything. She goes on.
Her: So you—you’re a man. You are your mom
and dad fucking. Maybe it wasn’t love, but it could have been and
even if it wasn’t it is based in the present. It is action. It is
passion. Men are created in that heat. They are forged in
orgasm.
Him: Have you
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