Songs of the Dead by Derrick Jensen Page B

it? Why do you think it’s happening?”
    I don’t have an answer. We just look at each other.
    It’s late, but not late enough to bring a chill. We’re outside. I’m on my back on a blanket. Allison kneels atop me, straddling me, holding me inside. We don’t move, just feel. There’s no moon, and I don’t see her face, only her black form against the stars. I have never seen anything so beautiful. She settles down tighter. I look at the silhouettes of trees, feathery black against the studded pillow of the sky.
    Allison says, soft, her voice throaty and slow, “When we were talking earlier. . . .”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œI think you really got to a primary difference. . . .”
    She shifts slightly. I shift in response.
    â€œ. . . between men and women within a patriarchy.”
    We don’t move. There’s the slightest breeze, and I can tell she’s feeling it on her back, listening to it in the trees. I ask, slowly as well, “How so?”
    â€œYou perceive me as ignoring you, and you immediately wonder what’s wrong with me.”
    â€œI thought you were mad or something. Maybe you and my mom got into a fight.”
    She laughs. I feel her laugh all through her body and into mine. She says, “No, we had a delightful time. She wants you to come over and help her weed, by the way.”
    â€œIf you would have told me that, I would have ignored you .”
    She laughs again, says, “If we reverse the situation, so I perceive you as ignoring me , I don’t start wondering what’s wrong with you, but rather what’s wrong with me. I’m wondering what I did wrong to deserve or at least cause you to ignore me. The masculine focus is that there is something wrong with the other—that others are responsible or to blame for everything that goes wrong—and the feminine focus is that something is wrong with me—that I’m responsible or to blame for everything.”
    I think a moment. “You’re right about that difference.”
    â€œOf course I’m right. Women are always right, remember?”
    â€œNo, that’s men.”
    â€œOh, sorry, I forgot.” And then she laughs and laughs, and I feel her laughter all the way through me, and deep into the ground.
    Seeing god isn’t just a cute name between Allison and me for having sex, like for some people it might be “catching the train” or “docking the ship” or “visiting the thatched cottage.” It’s literally true. Of course in some ways that’s not a big deal: the divine is everywhere, and if you can’t see it you’re probably trying hard not to look. Naturally it’s easier to experience the divine in some circumstances than others. I see it more clearly, for example, in a pond, with the backstriders and tadpoles, the gnats who spiral above the surface and the newts who come up for great gulps of air, than I do in a shopping center, airport, or skyscraper.
    The former are encounters, however slight, with some others, while the latter are cathedrals honoring nothing more than ourselves. It’s back to that same old masturbatory relationship.
    I also don’t want to say that all sex leads to an experience of the divine. I’ve had sex before that is physically or emotionally painful, cold, reserved, half-hearted, distant, boring, ill-advised, sincerely regretted, embarrassing, and even so awful it’s hard to keep from laughing. I’ve had sex that created more distance than closeness, and I’ve had sex that didn’t engender, but substitute for, communication. I’ve had sex that blocked, rather than revealed, the divine. I’ve had sex that removed me from my body rather than bringing me deeper into it.
    But that’s not how it is with Allison. Have you ever had one of those dreams where the sensations and emotions are especially intense, where everything seems closer,