Baverman Kate - The Incantation of Frida K
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- Book:The Incantation of Frida K
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- Publisher:Seven Stories Press
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- Year:2010
- City:New York, Mexico., Mexico
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I was born in rain and I will die in rain, begins Kate Bravermans The Incantation of Frida K., an imagined life journey of Frida Kahlo. The book opens and closes inside the mind of Frida K., at 46, on her deathbed, taking us through a kaleidoscope of memories and hallucinations where we shiver for two hundred pages on the threshold of life and death, dream and reality, truth and myth. Defiant and uncompromising, Frida bears the wounds of her body and spirit with a stark pride, transcending all limitations, wrapping her senses around the places, events, and conversations in her past. Frida K. Read more...
Abstract: I was born in rain and I will die in rain, begins Kate Bravermans The Incantation of Frida K., an imagined life journey of Frida Kahlo. The book opens and closes inside the mind of Frida K., at 46, on her deathbed, taking us through a kaleidoscope of memories and hallucinations where we shiver for two hundred pages on the threshold of life and death, dream and reality, truth and myth. Defiant and uncompromising, Frida bears the wounds of her body and spirit with a stark pride, transcending all limitations, wrapping her senses around the places, events, and conversations in her past. Frida K
Abstract: I was born in rain and I will die in rain, begins Kate Bravermans The Incantation of Frida K., an imagined life journey of Frida Kahlo. The book opens and closes inside the mind of Frida K., at 46, on her deathbed, taking us through a kaleidoscope of memories and hallucinations where we shiver for two hundred pages on the threshold of life and death, dream and reality, truth and myth. Defiant and uncompromising, Frida bears the wounds of her body and spirit with a stark pride, transcending all limitations, wrapping her senses around the places, events, and conversations in her past. Frida K
Baverman Kate: author's other books
Who wrote The Incantation of Frida K? Find out the surname, the name of the author of the book and a list of all author's works by series.
Baverman Kate
Mariana Medina
Keely Bautista
Emily Rapp Black
Pablo Ortíz Monasterio
Jerry Hoare
Gerry Souter
Kahlo Frida
Kahlo Frida
Hayden Herrera
Raquel Tibol
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Table of Contents
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
In the fourth decade of my career, there are people I must acknowledge for their inspiration and the indelible intersections of our destinies. I am grateful for my husband, Alan; my daughter, Gabrielle; and my mother, Millicent. In addition, Danielle Roter, Gerald Rosen, Jack Kleinberg, Bob Quinn, Thomas Preston, Mary Donovan, Dave Diamond, AA, my students, Momentum Press, Illuminati Press, the UCLA Writers Program, Beyond Baroque, and the Venice Poetry Workshop. For this book, I am particularly indebted to the Alfred community, Neeti Madan, Amy Scholder, and Jill Schoolman.
FOR MY BROTHER, HANK
In this net its not just the strings that count But also the air that escapes through the meshes.
PABLO NERUDA
i was born in rain and I will die in rain. Know me as river, as harbor. They will say I was a slut with a brazen sailors mouth. They will not remember my elegance and restraint.They will say they looked in my eyes and counted one hundred forty-six pelicans flying in a wavering line into a marina at sunset.
Men dont have the vocabulary for such eyes. A brown, calculating and predatory. Men lack the spectrum, the palette. It is not the eyes themselves, but rather what they contain, the vision. Diego Rivera is like that, with his compulsion to categorize. Men prefer primitive bodies outlined with hard black edges like the Maya painted.
I resist the obvious borders. For this heresy I have been categorically penalized. Did you know they sealed me into a cast for one entire year? It was a premature burial where I kept breathing under dirt.They did this repeatedly, gathered my crushed bones like wild-flowers and used plaster as a vase. They sought to make an object of me. There was no composition. It was vandalism.
I learned, in a hospital, in one solitary confinement or another, that it is still an era of barbarism. In surgery and convalescent rooms, laminated by electric light, I recognized their limitations. They are bloated with ambition, but their methods are inadequate. This knowledge is an illumination that burns. It is the essence of genius and affliction.
In this way I transcended them. I defied gravity. I should have died in the gutter like a barren dog, a hit-by-trolley-car bitch. I should have died in Diegos overwhelming shadow, curled into its shallows and currents. Its bloodstained coral reefs.Who but a water woman could have navigated his mined ports? He was a lady-killer. He murdered me slowly. It took him decades of sabotage. But wind and infection outwitted him.
This is the reason for the grief he will flagrantly display. He will mourn, but it will be with a theatrical and unsettling ambiguity. He will recall my parrot cage torso and nights of sleeping on razors and barbed wire. He will find the place where they sawed off my leg. He will dream it, how it smelled like decayed meat in a dirt alley at noon in a region of drought and plague, dust, piss of goats, rot of hibiscus. Diego will recognize the trolley car has stopped. He may mistake my absence for freedom.
They will say I smoked cigarettes and marijuana, cursed hoarse as a crow in all my languages and loved morphine and Demerol, tequila and pulque, women and men. I will shrug my illusion of shoulders and answer that I am a water woman, not a vessel, not something you can sail or charter. I am instead the tributary, the river, the fluid source, and the sea itself. I am all her rainy implications. And what do you, with your rusted compass, know of love?
Their grafts and amputations, the casts and operations, are without limit. They will not complete their excavations, for surely I am an archaeological site now, not a woman, not a human, not anymore. When you have survived the withering disease, when you have dragged your polio leg like an anomalous branch scratching the pavement behind you, when you have continued breathing after they left you for dead on a city boulevard, when you have lived with Diego, when you have looked into your face and seen your third eye, you know death is a reward.
When they have skinned me completely, I will be as water women freed of their unnecessary bodies. Men prescribe these structures, these female forms, for pleasure and convenience and the perpetuation of sons. They invent laws and rituals to enforce this. I have taught myself to become deaf to them, oblivious. Of course, its been a mutual decision. Mine has not been a typical exile but rather a negotiated settlement. I left the world as it is ordinarily known and it left me.
When they cease the medieval procedures they call medicine, progress, and technology, I will float like a leaf, a delinquent maple beginning to curl, to turn to tissue to be painted on. I could etch the surface. I have the tools. I am as intelligent as they are and more subtle.
Yes. I am screaming. Its time for morphine. I hear cathedral bells through rain. Its the hour for amnesia and invisibility I call being saved. Nurse better come.
I will be like a sheet of parchment on which is printed a chemical formula for immortality. Or perhaps it is a prayer by an adept, a brujas incantation for the end of pain. Or an American doctors prescription. Or a prophecy announcing the obliteration of obsolete forms, like promises and political systems of social justice, and the more exquisite personal savagery called marriage.
I understand what floats on rivers which conclude in harbors pale as the veins of infants. What you see from your veranda is not debris but entire texts rendered intelligible. This is what moves in the current, on the backs of stray fronds, the sodden bleached lily and old newspapers. Cures for insomnia and betrayal by man and accident. And methods to heal abscesses and find lost daughters.
I consider a journey through the fluid called a continuum. A physicist at a dinner party in London explained this to me. He said you could cross it, this construct, like a continent or an ocean.We have just not yet devised vehicles for the passage. We are too primitive.
I experienced joy then. It was England and I drank too much tequila and brandy. I wanted to remove my Tehauna dress with its stiff ruffles and embroidered stylized flowers. I longed to dance barefoot, skirt dropped to the floor. I still had two feet then. But my withered leg made me shy as a child.
I wanted to tell the scientist it was still the Dark Ages. Perhaps I was too drunk. The ninth century, the nineteenth. A trivial difference. How many will there be? Incoherent centuries, ruled by irrational hunger? A thousand, perhaps? Ten thousand?
How can I know this, as rain falls and bells fall and dissolve, and petals and moths and stars? I am pagan.You cannot get to my birth-place simply by booking passage and having your passport in order. There are doors where your stamps and visas are rejected absolutely. Some points of entry are deceptive. The currency and conditions for admission are in constant fluctuation, like a woman dreaming. Perhaps you must offer human flesh, or gardenias out of season. Or butterflies in jars collected by crippled children in alleys dense with the scent of jasmine and urine and a sense that a woman has been recently slapped.
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