Gulliver is dead
That’s me. In the land of Lilimut. (Thanks, Corinna, for your poem).
No. That couldn’t be me. That’s Gulliver. He died.
Those little ones are his friends. They’re going to… oh you know what they’re going to do with him. 😊😊😊
This is Shulamith Firestone. She’s my Funny Girl, not Barbra Streisand.
She was 25 when she wrote The Dialectic of Sex. Her friends and fellow parishioners did not like her a lot. A wee bit aristocratic. Wouldn’t help clean the house, wouldn’t deign wield the broom. I’m an intellectual! I don’t mop floors! They none of them found that funny. Couldn’t take a good joke, the poor folks.
She died four decades later, at 67. Like a roach. The rent unpaid, her young boyfriend beating her up. Her biographers and writer friends—I reckon the same ones who swept the yard and mopped the kitchen floor—feasted on her struggle with schizo and the scandal she made of herself panhandling.