#Laurel Galana

[gatheringbones]

terri, from the new lesbians: interviews with women across the US and Canada, laurel galana and gina covina, 1977

[garadinervi]

«Amazon Quarterly», Vol. 3, No. 1, Edited by Gina Covina and Laurel Galana, Amazon Press, West Somerville, MA, 1974

[samuelcarveraccidentman]

In the grave of the English general Sir John Moore died in the battle of Elviña (Coruña) January 16, 1809.                                                       How far, how much, from the dark mists,                                Of the green pines, the fervent waves                                they were born to be born! ... of the paternal lares,                                from the heaven of the country that illuminated him cuddly,                                of places, alas! dear ones, how far!                                came to fall, under enemy blow                                to never get up again, be careful!                                Die like that on foreign beaches,                                die so young, abandon life                                not tired of living and craving yet                                enjoy the fruit that cultivated there!                                And instead of the haughty laurel leaves                                that the virile head crowns of the hero,                                go down to the silent and silent grave! ...                                Oh white swans of the British islands,                                O groves that border, galanas,                                The meek rivers, the green banks,                                and the cool fields where John ran! ...                                Yes to you, a bitter whining moan                                came from him who in the last breath                                he said goodbye! with loving anxieties                                turning to you the last thought,                                that escaped from his mind, unarmed,                                With what sorrow, with what pain without name                                how strangely you would say                                also goodbye to how far, so much,                                from the country, alone, until eternity went down!                                 And the big armchair, the still hanging                                the forever abandoned bed;                                the cold ash of the fireless home,                                the soft carpet that loyal retains                                from the foot of the dead a visible sign,                                the dog that the absent master awaits                                and searches for him wandering the barren paths,                                the swollen weeds of the dark mall                                where he used to be,                                the always identical murmur of the source                                when I used to sit at sunset ...                                How would they talk about Moore nonstop,                                with his quiet, afflicted language,                                the eyes, alas, of those who cried!                                Never again, never again, oh sad,                                He must return where they wait for him!                                He left brave, to fight with glory.                                He departed, departed! ... and did not return, for death                                he reaped there in foreign fields,                                which flower that falls where its seed                                He finds no land to take root in.                                Far you fell, poor John, from the grave                                where with your rest you thought.                                In strange land your remains still sleep                                and those who loved you and remember you,                                when watching the waves of the veiled Ocean,                                mourners will say, in their native beaches:                                - There he is, behind that rough sea;                                there it remained, perhaps, perhaps forever;                                grave where no one is going to cry blanket                                the beloved ashes that we lost! ...                                And the sad winds and the quiet breezes                                that the dead love if they sleep apart                                from the homeland, to cool you come                                in the warm summer nights and bring                                for you in the affectionate wings complaints,                                soft sighs, loving echoes,                                some tear without wiping, soaking wet                                the dry stone of the cold mausoleum,                                from your country some wild perfume.                                But how beautiful and without equal abode                                I fit your mortal remains in luck! ...                                I wish God it wasn't for you                                noble alien alien room! ...                                Well there is no poet, dreamy spirit,                                there can't be, that seeing in the fall                                the sea of dry yellowed leaf                                that with love your mausoleum keeps;                                contemplating in the fresh mornings                                of the month of May the rosy lights                                glad to always visit you come,                                don't exclaim: "I wish when I die, I could                                sleep peacefully in such a flowery garden,                                near the sea ... from the cemetery away! ... "                                Well, you never hear, Moore,                                bitter cries, whining prayers,                                not even the other dead to summon you come,                                so that with them in the quiet night                                The uncertain dance of the sepulchres dances.                                Only the sweet breath of the bud that opens,                                of the flower that outlines his last goodbye,                                naughty bouncing, childish laugh                                of beautiful children to hide come                                Without feeling fear behind the white grave.                                And sometimes, many maybe!                                of burning love that the wind takes where                                know God ... for peerless companion                                Blissful you have in the last stay.                                And the sea, the sea, the rough sea that roars                                 which roars the one who crushed you in the cradle,                                live by your side, come kiss the stones                                from a loving floor that with love saves you,                                and around you let the roses grow!                                                              Rest in peace, rest in peace, oh, Moore!                                And you who love him, of your honor jealous,                                sons of Albion, remain calm.                               Hidalga land is this land of ours - so much                                as God wanted to make her beautiful, well you know                                honor who honors deserves,                                and honored like this, which he deserved, was Moore.                                He is not alone in his grave: a town                                with your compassionate respect candle                                for the stranger to whom treacherous death                                he kept away from his own and others                                He came to request asylum.                                When you cross the waves                                and your brother to visit come,                                apply to the grave the affectionate ear,                                and if you feel the ashes removed                                and if you hear indefinable voices                                and if you understand what those voices say,                                Your soul will feel comfort.                                He will tell you that around the world                                Tomb better than the one he found will not find                                Except the loving hug of yours!

Rosalía de Castro.

[gatheringbones]

[“G: Why did you get pregnant?

M: To prove to myself that I was a woman.

G: And then how did you feel about it?

M: I had been doing a lot of self-destructive things since I was thirteen - I dove into heterosexuality and I did it angrily and was contemptuous of any man I ever fucked. I somehow thought that fucking them would get back at them for everything, and somehow I thought that debasing myself would do something. So I got pregnant, which was very heavy 'cause at the time I thought I wanted to have kids. I really believed that there was a living person in me - my whole body was freaking out. They say you can't feel it, but I felt that energy, and I knew there was something alive in me - even if it was not more than a lump of cells, I thought it was still something alive - it was something that I was going to stop from being alive, but I figured I would rather do that. First of all I knew if I had a boy I'd drown it, and even if it was a girl I knew it had 23 genes I hated - and I didn't know who had made me pregnant. All of my hostility came to the surface - I was blind with fury and it all came out. I couldn't sit in the same room with one without wanting to murder him, literally. I couldn't listen to male music, I couldn't read male poetry. Lots of great male artists who had always been a great comfort to me I just couldn't... no male... I couldn't deal with any male, I hated them. After I calmed down about that it became very clear to me that I loved women, and I always had loved women, and that I had never had good relationships with men. I had always had good relationships with women. I had never been attracted to men, I had always been attracted to women, and I realized that I was just going to have to get used to the fact that I was a lesbian.

G: You had an abortion then?

M: Yes. I had two abortions... that was the first one. I dropped out of school and plunged right into feminism. It was obvious to me even at the time that the main reason I was there was because I wanted to come out. I wanted to come out so bad - I just wanted to do it and get it over with, you know, and just be comfortable in my identity as a lesbian. I had been avoiding the women's movement for years because I didn't want people to think that I was the old dyke who couldn't get a man. I wasn't able to become a feminist until I realized that I didn't give a shit if I was an ugly old dyke who couldn't get a man. I didn't want a man anyway. So I became active in the women's movement, and I met lesbians for the first time in my life. It was scary because even though I knew I was one I had never met a real one.

G: Were you saying you were a lesbian at that time?

M: Oh yeah, I had been saying that I was a lesbian for years before that. I can remember saying to a friend a couple of years before, when I was fucking all these men, "You know, I'll bet I'm a lesbian, because people with case histories like mine always turn out... if I didn't know me and I heard my case history I would be convinced that was a lesbian." And she said, "Oh, don't worry, you're not a lesbian." She tried to reassure me, but I knew. I just didn't want to deal with it; it was scary being a lesbian. Particularly since being a woman was so important in my family. So I became involved in the women's movement full-time. Then I needed money - so I got a job as a waitress. I was working nights and sleeping during the day and I didn't have any time for the women's movement. The only people I was hanging out with were the people I worked with. All of a sudden, since I didn't give a shit about men, I was really attractive to them. I'd never been attractive to them before, but all of a sudden I was fascinating - I guess every man want to fuck a dyke, you know, to prove they're a real man. So they started following me home. I was horny and I didn't have any lesbians knocking at my door, and I knew how to manipulate men, so I figured fuck it, I'll give them one more chance - so I started fucking a couple of guys. I told them, "Look, I hate men. I'm  a lesbian, I haven't come out yet, but I promise you I'm a lesbian." So I fucked them. And at that time I had an IUD which I had gotten after my first abortion, which they had promised me would be very effective. I got pregnant again, six months after my first abortion. My second abortion was really nice. I went to a really nice clinic and it was very clear to me, never again, never again. It's over. There was a really nice woman who was my counselor and I was awake for the abortion. She was holding my hand and while the fetus was being taken out of my body I was holding her hand saying to her, "Never again," and she said, "Oh, you're going to come out?" I said, "Oh, yes," and she said, "Far out," and she called across the room to another woman who was a counselor, and said, "Hey, this woman's coming out." It was so nice, so supportive, she's holding my hand, a woman, and I was telling her that I was a lesbian. She was telling me that that was great, and they were taking that goddamn thing out of my uterus. It was almost worth being pregnant, it was such a nice abortion. I was so into her that I didn't feel any pain, it was annoying, but all of a sudden it was over. It was really nice.”]

The New Lesbians, edited by Laurel Galana and Gina Covina, moon books, 1977

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Marie, from The New Lesbians: Interviews With Women Across the U.S. and Canada, edited by Laurel Galana and Gina Covina, Moon Books, 1977

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Barbara, from The New Lesbians: Interviews With Women Across the U.S. and Canada, edited by Laurel Galana and Gina Covina, Moon Books, 1977

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Barbara, from The New Lesbians: Interviews With Women Across the U.S. and Canada, edited by Laurel Galana and Gina Covina, Moon Books, 1977

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the new lesbians: interviews with women across the US and Canada, laurel galana and gina covina, 1977

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terri, from the new lesbians: interviews with women across the US and Canada, laurel galana and gina covina, 1977

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connie and jeanette, from the new lesbians: interviews with women across the US and Canada, laurel galana and gina covina, 1977

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terri, from the new lesbians: interviews with women across the US and Canada, laurel galana and gina covina, 1977

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part one of Adrienne, from The New Lesbians: Interviews With Women Across the U.S and Canada, by Laurel Galana and Gina Covina

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here is the entirety of the piece with Marsha, the woman who came out to her counselor during her abortion. This book is out of print and difficult to find.

The New Lesbians, edited by Laurel Galana and Gina Covina, moon books, 1977.

[gatheringbones]

the new lesbians: interviews with women across the US and canada, laurel galana and gina covina, 1977

[L: You said here on the questionnaire that the Greek Orthodox religion was important to you. Is it important to you now?

B: No, not in a religious sense. In an aesthetic, emotional sense, yes, it always will be, because the things that are true about the Easter service, for instance, will always be important to me, and there will always be a need for me to go for Easter.

L: What are those needs?

B: There’s a beautiful hymn that’s sung at Eastern time about Christ trampling out death and to me the essence of what we do as we get up every day is to get rid of the death in us, to get rid of that which is standing still, stagnant, that isn’t creative, to make the day— and it happens every day for us. It’s a very triumphant hymn, beautiful. So that kind of an emotional thing I can’t leave, even though I don’t think there’s a God up there. It’s much more Blakian what I believe now, that it’s in each of us, that divine thing— some of us kill it, some of us have it killed at a very early age, but that’s where it is, it’s in us. That has to be cultivated.]

[gatheringbones]

the new lesbians: interviews with women across the US and Canada, laurel galana and gina covina, 1977