Jane Eaton Hamilton

"At the bottom of the box is hope." – Ellis Avery.

Tag: sex

The Pleasure Scale, Gay Magazine

illustration: Jessica Poundstone

“The Pleasure Scale,” my contemplation on disability, pleasure and pain, is up today at Gay Magazine. Be forewarned that it is sexually explicit.

I realize there’s so much more to be said about pleasure, mine, and, of course, that found by others.

“I want to feel my body opening in the way it can open, like it is split, and is yawning in two pieces like a knifed watermelon, when it can take not only a fist but a globe, it can take every war, every famine, every mining disaster, every broken child behind bars, every river of tainted water into itself and it can turn water clear and take the broken children onto its lap and cause weapons to be laid down and corpses to rise and people to laugh again.”

Writing the body body body

nude2_oct_2016

sketch: Jane Eaton Hamilton 2016

Michele Filgate talks to Anna March, Ruth Ozeki, Eileen Myles, Porochista Khakpour, and Alexandra Kleeman about writing the body. I so wanted to attend this panel, so I’m glad to be able to read it and share it now. Writing the body fantastic, folks. From LitHub.

Writing the Body: Trauma, Illness, Sexuality, and Beyond

WEEKEND

#Weekend #eatonhamilton
More reader reviews!
really liked it
Jesus Christ, what a gorgeous prose!
And all the queerness! My god. The boi dykes, the kinksters, the dis-identifiers, the non-normatives, the sweet dreamers, the loose-talkers, the sweet lovers, the broken hearted. Gotta love ’em all. –Penny, Goodreads
JEH acrylic on paper 2015
sketch: Jane Eaton Hamilton
Modern romance! Exactly like something you may have read before, but also completely different. What Hamilton has done here is take the type of relationship story we have all read a million times and somehow re-invent it. Some of the elements seem a little forced (the island), but the story opens up into the world when the characters return to the city.
Funny, fierce, tender and revelatory.
–George Ilsley, Goodreads

“Jade Colbert rounds-up the best from Canadian independent publishers.”

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Don’t know if this is exactly a *good* review or not, but it’s the Globe, so what the heck? Happy to be here with Myrna Kostash and Susan Perly.

Globe and Mail review

The WEEKEND Curve

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Julie R Enszer generously reviews WEEKEND for Curve Magazine:

‘Weekend’ By Jane Eaton Hamilton

“Stunningly beautiful.”

“This is a book I have been waiting to read. It is a book I enjoyed every single minute of reading. It is a book I want to share with everyone. I commend Weekend. This is a story of how we live our queer lesbian lives now. Do not miss it.”

Do you have a vulva? Not on Kiddle, you don’t. That would be bad.

 Please send a letter of complaint, at the bottom of the page, and notify your network.

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Update: now the “bad” designation has been replaced by this angry robot saying:

“You have entered an LGBT related search query. Please realize that while Kiddle has nothing against the LGBT community, it’s hard to guarantee the safety of all the search results for such queries. We recommend that you talk to your parent or guardian about such topics.”

Will You Ossuary Me?

JEHOssuary

This flash fiction from my collection-in-progress “Soon I Will Be Dead,” written after a (solitary) visit to the catacombs in Paris, just won an Honourable Mention in Geist’s postcard story contest.  It’s a sick fuck, this little je ne sais quoi of the romantic, and (consequently?) I love it.

And hey, may none of us ever feel the way this bone-heap did:  Pour moi, mort est un gain.

Will You Ossuary Me?

Jane Eaton Hamilton

She wanted to kiss me in bones. Death, much? Spiraling down 19 meters. She pulled the ends of my scarf and I moved closer because hers were Parisian lips, the top lip thin, the bottom lip full, and I felt her deeply inside where my nerves snapped and I was decomposable. There were tibias all around us in the damp light, and scapulas from the plague, phalanges and fibulas and metatarsals. Infant bones. People with polio. People dead of childbirth or famine. War. Cries and tears and screams. The bones of six million Parisians dug up from cemeteries to make room, shovels of bones, wagon-loads of bones pulled by sway-backed nags for a full two years—carted down into these old mine tunnels, then arranged. We stood in puddles. The air was heavy with the motes of people’s lives—more broken dreams, I guessed, than dreams come true. It was quiet, but the past echoed. Ghost-din. Someone had written, Pour moi, mort est un gain. Pour moi, pour moi, pour moi, she whispered and her voice rumbled. Exhumations and exhalations all around us, the breath of death, bone-stacks, bone-crosses, bone-chips in heaps, my mother’s mother’s mother’s mother’s mother’s mother’s mother’s mother, maybe, resting in pieces.   My lips were swollen and sore, cut and scabbed over from all that had already happened. Skulls placed in the shape of a heart, eye sockets staring, and behind those eye sockets more eye sockets. Shadows moved across us; her nipples hardened. She pressed me up against a white cross against a black tombstone. I will leave you, she said as she bit my throat, but not yet.

Poems–it’s a good feeling

Today I found an old file with numerous unfinished poems in it, and I was able to rescue three of them.  One about the water crisis in Walkerton, ON, and the other two about sex in long term marriages.  It is really satisfying to come across something salvageable like that.  Playing around with them made me think both about contaminated water and contaminated marriages, and realize how dependent we are on maintaining the health of both.

I don’t have a history of rescuing old works, so this feels good.

 

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