: Linda Rosewood
: A Circle Outside a subversive comedy of manners set in a commune of lesbian witches in Eighties California
: Eye Press
: 9781785634291
: 1
: CHF 8.60
:
: Erzählende Literatur
: English
: 384
: Wasserzeichen
: PC/MAC/eReader/Tablet
: ePUB
It's the early 1980s, and a household of lesbian feminists establish a women-only commune in an ancient Californian redwood forest. It seems a perfect place to practise the ritual magic that helps them function harmoniously as a group - even if they aren't all true believers. By getting back to the land, they can also live more as nature intended and give the finger to the Patriarchy. That doesn't stop jealousies arising, as Wren, an artist, nurses an unrequited crush on Robin, the land's extraordinarily generous owner. Further conflict brews as Gloria, the manipulative leader of the group, disagrees with Robin about her own rule: no men on the land. Warm, funny and harking unashamedly back to a less toxic era, A Circle Outside is a seductive vision of a utopian dream, where the only real magic is self-transformation.

Linda Rosewood writes about lesbian culture, politics, and history. She is a Californian now living in Ireland. A Circle Outside is her debut novel.

Two

Early the next morning, Wren heard Robin’s truck and ran down the driveway. She felt confident in that blue shirt-dress she made last summer.

She opened the door of the red Toyota pickup and climbed in. Robin hadn’t stopped for coffee, but the cab was delightfully warm. They headed up Bay Street, past the open fields of the university, and into the mountains. Santa Cruz was known for its beaches, but redwood forests surrounded the city.

‘Sorry about the bouncy truck,’ Robin said, twisting a dial on the dashboard. ‘But the heater works.’

‘I don’t mind.’ Wren pulled her legs under herself and leaned against the door. ‘I like old trucks.’

Robin had the soft-butch look, hair like Jackson Browne, dark eyes, that serious mouth, and a decisive hand on the gearshift. Wren suppressed a desire to caress her worn suede coat. That, and the lack of coffee, ended conversation for a while.

They wound through redwoods on Empire Grade, the road following the ridge of a long mountain called Bonny Doon. After fifteen minutes of watching the growing winter light on the passing redwoods, Wren was able to ask, ‘Did you grow up in this house?’

Robin answered after a moment, as if she had been half-asleep too. ‘No. I visited Nana in summer. Nikki, me, and the other kids used to run wild over her ranch. Old buildings to explore and rusted equipment to play on. We camped in the meadow, caught turtles in the pond. We climbed trees so high we could see forever.’

‘When you’re a kid, you think summer will never end.’

‘That’s right. But suddenly you become a girl.’

‘Puberty?’ Wren rolled her eyes. ‘I wasn’t a tomboy like you, but I wouldn’t live through that again for all the tofu in hippie town.’

‘Besides breasts and periods and the end of roughhousing, I also started having past-life memories.’

‘Pubertyand past-life memories? What a nightmare.’ Wren had never had a past-life memory.

‘Before I figure it out, growing upis a waking nightmare. My memories speak to me from trees and hillsides, pictures and foreign languages. Stuff like that. Memories sing in my head.’

‘Your memories sing to you,’ Wren repeated politely.

Robin smiled at her. ‘I don’t care if you believe it. It’s true for me.’

Wren had already experienced some pretty weird shit with her coven. ‘I’d like to know more. Our coven doesn’t question our gnostic revelations.’

‘Is that why your rituals include talking to dead people?’

‘We use the altered