that says to m y mama how sorry I am to have failed at dignity
and at freedom both, and I say I am Andrea but I am not
manhood for which, mama, I am glad, because they have gone
to filth, they are maggots on this earth; and I take gasoline, and
I’m nearly old for a girl, I’m hungry and I have sores, and I
smell bad so no one looks at all very much, and I go to outside
the gasoline on me, I soak m yself in it in broad daylight and
many go by and no one looks and I am calm, patient, gray on
gray cement like the Buddhist monks, and I light the fire; free
us, I start to scream, and then there’s a giant whoosh, it
explodes more like wind than fire, it’s orange, around me,
near me, I’m whole, then I’m flames. I burn; I die. From this
light, later you will see. Mama, I made some light.
E L E V E N
April 30, 1974
(Age 27)
Sensei is cute but she’s fascist. She makes us bow to the Korean
flag; I bow but I don’t look. We are supposed to be reverent in
our hearts but in m y heart is where I rebel. It is more than a
bow. We bow. We get down on our knees and we bow our
heads. It’s the opening ceremony o f every class. In karate you
get down on your knees in a lightning flash o f perfect
movement so there’s no scramble, no noise; it’s a perfect
silence and everyone moves as one; the movement itself
expresses reverence and your mind is supposed to obey, it
moves with the body, not against it, except for mine, which is
anarchist from a long time ago and I never thought I’d bow
down in front o f any fucking flag but I do, in perfect silence
and sym m etry insofar as my awkward self can manage it; my
mind’s like a muscle that pulls every time; I feel it jerk and I feel
the dislocation and the pain and I keep m oving, until I am on
m y knees in front o f the fucking thing. It’s interesting to think
o f the difference between a flag and a dick, because this is not a
new position; with a dick how you get there doesn’t count
whereas in the dojo all that matters is the elegance, the grace,
o f the movement, the strength o f the muscles that carry you
down; an act o f reverence will eventually, says Sensei, teach
you self-respect, which wasn’t the issue with the dick, as I
remember. There’s an actual altar. It has on it the Korean flag,
a picture o f Sensei, and some dried flowers. When I was a child
I had a huge picture o f Rock Hudson up on the door in m y tiny
bedroom, on the back o f the door so I would see it when I was
alone, as if he was there, physically present with me, because
the picture was so big and real and detailed, o f a real face; I put
it up with Scotch tape and kissed it good-night, a mixture o f
