*a poem by Mary Oliver, in honor of peony season finally reaching the Catskills. speaking of which, something else is finally here: summer…
This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready to break my heart as the sun rises, as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers
and they open — pools of lace, white and pink — and all day the black ants climb over them,
boring their deep and mysterious holes into the curls, craving the sweet sap, taking it away
to their dark, underground cities — and all day under the shifty wind, as in a dance to the great wedding,
the flowers bend their bright bodies, and tip their fragrance to the air, and rise, their red stems holding
all that dampness and recklessness gladly and lightly, and there it is again — beauty the brave, the exemplary,
blazing open. Do you love this world? Do you cherish your humble and silky life? Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?
Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden, and softly, and exclaiming of their dearness, fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,
with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling, their eagerness to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are nothing, forever?
As of today, June 24, 2023, it’s been one year since Roe fell, thanks to the Supremes and the late (not-so) great state of Mississippi, where the Dobbs case originated, a state with among the highest child poverty rates in the U.S., among the worst maternal health outcomes and highest maternal death rates in the U.S., among the highest death rates for children under five as well as for infants, and the highest percentage of black and brown people as a portion of the total population. Water issues similar to Flint, MI., a refusal to expand Medicaid under the ACA making it the sixth highest state in terms of the number of people uninsured… I could go on and on about the myriad ways in which Mississippi sucks, y’all (take a look at the state website, it’s headed by tabs that say ‘Y’all Vote, Y’all Business’) for women, for children, for people of color, for everyone if if if only they could see it, they being the state gubbmint. Is Mississippi doing anything right, other than screwing over women – primarily poor women – in that state and across the U.S. by pushing its regressive agenda, with the assist of the privileged misogynists on the Supreme Court? Well, Mississippi does have that nice HGTV show. Pardon me whilst I barf.
The Kaiser Family Foundation, which tracks all kinds of health and well-being stats in the U.S. – estimates that 22 million women now live in states where their access to reproductive care is restricted or practically non-existent. And if you think the forced birthers are done, think again, as these dangerous cranks believe contraception is also a form of murder, IVF too.
Mississippi consistently has the highest rate of people living in poverty in the entire nation – so, yeah, it’s a great idea to force women and girls to have babies they don’t want – for whatever reason – and cannot afford in a state where the legislature punishes the population with policies created to shame and blame the poor. Sigh. It’s been a rough year. Reproductive justice requires that we allow pregnant or potentially pregnant people to make decisions regarding the size of their family without interference from the government. Reproductive justice also requires that women and girls have equal, affordable access to healthcare, all healthcare including abortion, prenatal care, post-natal care and support, and support, period, for the lives they choose to live, and the children they choose to raise. Respect women and girls, already, would y’all?
I love Prunella Porter, as well I should. I am she. She is me. Specifically, Prunella is one of my alter egos, my occasional avatar, a persona other than my usual day to day costume of personhood, my ninth or tenth me out of a range of possible masks to inhabit, one of my several faces of Eve. She is a spinster (she literally spins wool, among other things, including tales), she has a raucous though most often hidden sense of humor (unless you have very sharp ears, that is), she lives in New York City in a narrow, book filled railroad apartment that is rent-controlled (cheap!), whose previous occupant was a beloved if wildly eccentric aunt of hers (maybe, they might have made the blood connection up), she owns several cats she does not ever let outdoors onto the fire escape no matter how they howl and beg (nor should you), and she has a surprisingly (to you, dear reader, not to me) robust sex life, one that occasionally involves multiple other persons and the application of saran wrap.
PP is based on another fictional character, that of Jane Hathaway (remember her?), taken to a modern level, with a bunch of details (like sex parties and saran wrap) I have borrowed from the tidbits various persons have shared with me over the many years of my life, tidbits I stored up because can you believe this shit!! that woman right there goes to sex parties wrapped in saran wrap under her trench coat!!, and here we are getting it out of the memory bank finally and into the blogosphere, where such delicious details belong.
Prunella is a costume I wore for a time in New York City, when I worked mornings a couple of days a week for real money while writing part-time for part-time occasional speculative, fingers crossed money. Prunella was a tight-ass; Prunella got shit done. Although I suspect PP was in me from even before the time I played secretary as a child, a role I would vehemently refuse to play, ever, in real life (I would not, for example, apply myself in typing class because no, and fuck ever learning shorthand, are you kidding me, no, no, no), thus the adopted persona. Yet, Prunella was also informed by the many women I saw in that role, women who, not unlike Miss Hathaway, were smarter, more put together, and better at practically everything than their bosses and in this I am not referring to other TV shows, I am referring to real life. Miss Gavette, Mrs. Hyatt, Mrs. Lunn, Miss…You Name Her – you know her, if you think on it for a bit. You know her.
Prunella fully emerged, and was named, at Stockland-Martel shortly after I was hired to sub in for a friend who was doing the reception desk part-time. I was a landlord, already, and yes, writing, but having extra cash coming in was always a good thing, and why not? You never know who you might meet and what you might learn. It was a good fit for me at the time, the very late 1990s into the nascent 2000s; I liked and respected Bill Stockland and Maureen Martel, who were and I am sure still are funny, smart, good people in a crazy ass business in which they were both pros (just tried finding their website, no luck, hmmm). Looking at photographs a couple of half-days a week was also kinda great; I love me a good great photo, always have. Witnessing the occasional high- stakes high-jinks, listening in to agents advocating, cajoling, pushing, pulling, loving and hating on their talent and clients was highly entertaining. I am grateful I had the experience, and that Prunella was allowed to flower in a supportive environment (they didn’t know what the hell to make of me, quite frankly LOL). Being Prunella in that space allowed me some distance, and a lot of laughs, in my later thirties, from what I was doing to keep afloat, and where I was in my life; she also allowed me to ward off a few of the inevitably married male photogs who thought I would be grateful? Thrilled? Flattered? By their attentions. Not so much. They mistakenly assumed the phone voice belonged to an inexperienced twenty-something; coming into the office, they found a mah-toor woman who had been around the block, many times. Nope.
Ultimately, Bill and Mo fell in love with Prunella, and how can you blame them; she’s adorable! Plus, she was a finder of solutions to problems that they had to acknowledge no one else was willing to take on, for example: after a few months of watching and assisting with major mailings that went out to various ad agencies and the like, after which at least one third would come back, Prunella asked if she could puh-leeze clean up their grossly out-of-date, inaccurate mess of a database of agencies, names, and addresses, and they said oh, huh, good idea. Done.
Yet Prunella’s greatest triumph (other than simply existing, the fabulous creature) was perhaps even more mundane: the supply closet. The supply closet was a room, really, more than a closet, about twenty-five feet deep, and ten or more feet wide. Unfortunately, and much to Prunella’s dismay, one could only get into the supply closet to about three feet deep, at which point you were confronted by a hecking great obstacle course of boxes and other loose crap of varying sizes that went to great heights, having been dumped all over the place in a manner that was very much in the way, completely disorganized, and simply ridiculous. Ridiculous!! Mouth pursed, and buttocks clenched (not really but you get my drift), Prunella requested of Bill and Maureen that they please allow her to clean and clear out the supply closet as it was driving her absolutely nuts, and was an offense to her puritanical soul (puritanical in terms of organization, not the robust sex life). They said, yes, please, Prunella, do your thang, girl; an appropriate and wise response.
And so Pru got to work, and voila! It was beautiful. It was amazing. It was fun. We (Prunella requested and was given an intern as an assistant) found more than two dozen brand-new boxed staplers, multiple full, unopened cases of sugar and sugar substitute packets, thousands – literally thousands – of pens, pencils, and packaged notepads, too many post-it note packets to count and more and more and more of everything else in the needed to run a large busy office supply line. We also found old photo books and records that needed either to be stored in other and better spaces, or tossed. Soon, the room was ready for actual use; it was glorious, and it also saved money because they finally knew what they had on hand (a lot) instead of buying more of what they didn’t need. Not long after that, the company put it to even better use by turning the space into an office, creating monthly income. I always thought Prunella should’ve got a percentage of the rent on that space, but given she was not planning on being at S&M much longer, did she really want to be a part of the business beyond the superficial, to invest and commit, to get in on the action, to demand a piece? No, she did not. Still, I think of that room with pride, similar to having lanced a boil, I imagine, for the pimple popper doc, maybe (I watched that show once, but – way too gross for Miss Thing, way)?
One day a male intern at S&M asked Prunella Porter about children as they passed in the hallway; she was on her way to the bathroom, and he was being an impertinent little prick, asking her the question in this way: ‘you’re old, do you have kids?’ He was such a cute little smart-ass white boy, studying at SVA or NYU, in his early twenties, and of course I had an answer; one should always answer the questions of the young and necessarily dumb by virtue of their youth, no matter how impudent they’re being! ‘I don’t have kids, kid, but I’ve had two abortions; do you want to hear about those, because I’d be happy to tell you!?’ ‘What?! Ohmigod, no!!’ He ran away from me as if I had the plague, which I found both amusing and annoying, the little shite. Women, you see, are supposed to be ashamed of being both being sexual and of having abortions, which is nonsense, and Prunella isn’t having it, and nor should you. During those same years at S&M, which was located on Union Square, I was taking a writing workshop just a few blocks below 14th street, with a very hip chick I know to this day. Once, in a piece I wrote and read aloud to the group, I shared the story of skipping with joy down Second Avenue after having my first of two abortions, I was that happy, that relieved; hyperemesis gravidarum will do that to a girl. My still friend – a Harvard grad, professional writer, and sophisticated woman of the world – was horrified, shocked, ‘You skipped?! You skipped?’, ‘Well yes, yes I did’ – but again I was annoyed and amused. Please. Abortion is healthcare, period.
Prunella Porter – my friend, my ally, my other self, my possible better half – also appeared on a regular basis when I was a librarian because why not, she’s a hoot, and her stern, takes no bullshit approach came in handy at various points during that time, like with the stalker (crikey) and other miscreants, of which there are far too many in this broken, beautiful world. I don’t know if and when Prunella Porter will emerge once again, but how I love her, and if I need her, like a super power, she will be there. Her birthday is coming up; she’s a moody, volatile moon child like me (the photo below is really kinda dead on re: we wee Cancer babies); we might even have the same birth date!
Yes, I am going to rant. Andy S. pisses me off, and has for a long time. He’s a man, he’s white, he grew up in the U.K., where he attended Oxford, and, since 2016, he has been a citizen of the U.S. Oh goodie. He’s also a practicing Catholic, a conservative (he has famously, publicly, rejected the liberal label when applied to himself due to his occasional flashes of intellectual and political expansiveness), he’s also married, and, in case you didn’t know, the conservative, contrarian pundit of choice on issues of all kinds is gay. And, he’s pro-life because 1. Catholic and 2. Conservative. Grrrrrrrrr. Here’s a quote from his blog from 2021regarding the potential fall of Roe, ‘If you believe that a fetus is the moral equivalent of a human person, and that a fetus can be male or female, then abortion obviously affects everyone who was once a fetus. That makes it more than a “women’s issue” for many people. Equally, if you believe that biological sex doesn’t exist, and that the fetus cannot therefore be either male or female (the current woke position), then the question also affects everyone.’
Does the above quote make anyone besides myself want to scream? Assuming a majority or even – more accurately – a minority of U.S. citizens believe the fetus is the moral equivalent of a human being is an astonishing leap, and morals or moral points of view regarding bodily autonomy, personal medical decisions, and almost everything else are not, nor should they ever be the purview of governments, state, local or federal. In another maddening blog post about abortion and Roe, Sullivan blathers on and on about how he cannot understand why libs won’t move toward a centrist, middle of the road compromise on abortion (Let the states decide! Let there be limits on abortion! HOW’S THAT WORKING FOR US, ANDY?!! NOT WELL, and by us I mean womenand girls), while occupying the high road on the entire abortion question, as it’s pretty damned high and mighty of him to opine on an issue of bodily autonomy that will never, ever affect him personally – his past ‘status’ as a fetus aside. I was once a fetus too, and you know what, I don’t remember it, at all, and I’ll bet you he doesn’t either. No one does, and anyone who tells you they do is blowing smoke up your damned ass. A fetus is a tiny bunch of cells, entirely dependent on the actual human being whose uterus it rents, not a person. Sarah Silverman has it right in her latest stand-up show on Max: if the protestors at abortion clinics want to be accurate (they don’t), the posters they carry showing a fetus should show it as the teeny tiny non-individual person it is, about the size of a dime. If I swallow a dime, do I have to carry it to term?!
Speaking of blowing smoke up asses, Sullivan’s position on the right of women to own their own bodies particularly pisses me off because he is a practicing Catholic, a religion that defines homosexuality as a disorder; many, many religions and individuals worldwide consistently consider homosexuality an immoral choice, a grave sin. Given his previous reasoning, if billions of people worldwide – and millions here in the U.S. – believe homosexuality is the moral equivalent of murder, should we interfere with the acts Andrew and his hubby perform on one another in their bedroom? Of course not. What I personally find disordered and even immoral about Sullivan is his identifying, still, as a Catholic, and a pro-life conservative Catholic at that, while the church he is so loyal to describes him (oops, his ‘lifestyle‘) as disordered. If it’s okay for Andrew and his husband to fellate and fuck one another despite many, many people finding his doing so immoral, going so far as to marry one another and still practice Catholicism, then it damn well better be okay for me to abort an unwanted fetus, a decision that includes a refusal to spend 9 months as an incubator and another 25+ years as manager of all things kid. Surely a right to bodily autonomy for queers like Andy, the right to stick his dick up his husband’s bum, and vice versa, should extend to women as well, but perhaps that’s why he still identifies as a Catholic – because Sullivan wants to squeamishly, righteously cling to tradition, and traditional beliefs, maintaining the privilege of the ‘one true church’, along with his accent, Oxbridge education (he also attended Hah-vaad), whiteness, and maleness – miles and miles and miles away from the realities of what women and girls actually experience in their fully grown autonomous female bodies. I have long said that if only, if only men experienced one six month period of regular, monthly menstruation including bleeding through their tampons, pads, and clothes, along with the joy of cramps, of fibroids, of the pain of an ectopic pregnancy, of a single day – just 24 hours, guys – of labor pains, of the nausea called morning sickness (I personally barfed my guts out 24/7, a condition called hyperemesis gravidarum) or myriad other trials and tribs specific to the female sex – hot flashes, which numerous friends of mine have had for years – then and only then, perhaps, would they show some appropriate humility and silence – politically and publicly – in the face of all personal, private medical decision making by women and girls.
I would no more tell Andrew Sullivan what to do, or not do, with his HIV+ body than I would tell anyone, any one male or female, or somewhere in-between what they can or cannot do with their bodies. To do so would be the worst kind of interference in the personal, private lives and choices of other human beings. Conservatism would seem to lend itself to that argument, particularly when it comes to government interference in the most intimate acts of citizens – including anal sex between consenting males – in a free and fair democracy. Sullivan also doesn’t think that abortion is a racially charged issue – which is a mind-bogglingly blind position to take, again demonstrating the base-line idiocy of white male privilege, given the hundreds of years of history of white men making decisions about black, female bodies. Silly me but I thought we all knew, although he clearly missed (the pandemic highlighted this, Andy, jeez louise, where were you?!), the myriad ways in which the medical profession, public and private institutions, and individuals hold and act upon entrenched biases against black and brown people, leading to worse health outcomes for POC, especially – as we’re talking abortion – in the area of maternal and OB/GYN care.
Andrew Sullivan is of course entitled to his lousy, sexist, misogynistic, racist set of opinions and his lousy, sexist, misogynistic, historically and currently racist religious beliefs (I can’t wait to see what happens to all these white male political types when they get their first black Pope). He’s entitled to go on TV to engage in his particular brand of punditry, and to publish his blog regarding the many ways in which American culture needs to move toward occupying ‘the middle’, a comfy, cozy space I have to assume he believes he occupies. I believe Andy doesn’t realize his middle is not, perhaps, in the center at all, rather being a lot closer to the top one-percent. Let’s call it, say, his safe space (so safe) not in the middle but rather in the top ten percent? That sounds about right. Must be nice up there.
This early photo of D.L. Sayers is so endearing to me, and very different from the photos more commonly shown of the mystery writer, which are generally those taken later in her life, although she died quite young, at only sixty. Her work, particularly the Whimsey ~ Harriet Vane books (four total, and a couple of short stories), are among my most beloved novels; I have read and re-read them many times. They’re filled with humor, feminism (in the 1920s &1930s!), intellect, heart, poetry, and characters that are simply wonderful, and very memorable. She was born the year after my grandmother, and attended Somerville College at Oxford, making her one among the first group of women to attend that elite institution of learning. One of my favorites, Gaudy Night, is set at Oxford, and she uses her familiarity with the school to great advantage; it’s incredibly charming, interesting; the sheer number and variety of female characters is a gift, a bonus.
I haven’t usually enjoyed reading mysteries in my long life as a reader, because all too often the male detective is the same old, same old brilliant, loner eccentric who is inevitably single and terribly dashing, while the victims and murderer are primarily female; the plots are predictable and predictably boring, making it too easy to suss out the villain. If I was going to delve into mysteries, make them period style, set in the days of yore, with a lot of interesting details and fun stuff I can’t entirely relate to – in other words: escapism! And no sadism, or serial killers, or grotesquerie for crying out loud; life is hard enough. Sayers mysteries are among the few I absolutely love; they’re smart, dense with detail, and twisty, plot-wise, though never for the twist’s sake, if that makes sense. And the period framing is terrific. There’s a wonderful TV adaptation of the Whimsey-Vane meet cute (hardly!) and on-going relationship available for free on YouTube, starring the inimitable Harriet Walter and Edward Petherbridge, on whom I have had a crush ever since he first crossed my path as the fair and Mayfair Lord Peter. And then there’s Bunter. Ah, Bunter.
The TV series, which I stumbled across on PBS back in my own days of yore, is what got me reading her books, and I am very thankful they did. Her most critically acclaimed mystery novel is my least favorite – The Nine Tailors – so dense with the detail of how the bells are rung in an English Church (maybe the French and others do it as well? no idea, and I do not care, yaaaaawn) I found it fun, fascinating, good and then oh no, not this bell stuff again – which goes to show you how wrong the critics can be (LOL). Maybe, as I haven’t read it in over three decades, I should try it again? Doubtful, time is too precious.
D. L. Sayers was a brilliant woman, a brilliant human being and writer and it shows in her work. She also led a very interesting – too brief – life, which you can delve into if interested on her Wiki page linked below. Personally, selfishly, I wish she had lived another twenty years at least, to gift us with more of her unique, well-crafted novels, but I am grateful for the books and short stories she did write. Here’s to Dorothy Leigh, with thanks for the many happy hours I have spent with Peter, Harriet, and all the rest.
*the featured photo for this post is of Edward Petherbridge as Lord Peter. in the novels, his relationship with Harriet, Bunter, his mother, brother, nephew and sister-in-law – among others – is part of what make them so engaging. lone wolf detectives who have no family aren’t realistic, at least to me, and the complexity and richness of real life is missing, when we don’t meet the family, the friends and long time connections of the main characters, in novels, and in life!
