There’s a place for us rebels.
Restless and quiet, lying awake in the night.
The tortured loves of the unloved.
Loving with fault, to no avail, unable to teach through or penetrate through the silence that divided them. She never felt further a part, more of a sad image that floated further and further away, revealing nothing. She had nothing to gain from him, two years of tortuous suffering, almost times, unreturned affection. L was unable to look back, yet terrified and too depressed to look forward. The possibilities evaded her, plunging further into ideas of what is not even there.
Depression is choking immobility. Beautiful strong birds who have lost the will to fly.
Pain attacks are waking up to the world spinning, leaving you unable to retrieve who you were before and after. Gasping for air, compressed by the invisible giant of worry.
The Matrix is a system, Neo. That system is our enemy. But when you’re inside, you look around, what do you see? Businessmen, teachers, lawyers, carpenters. The very minds of the people we are trying to save. But until we do, these people are still a part of that system and that makes them our enemy. You have to understand, most of these people are not ready to be unplugged. And many of them are so inured, so hopelessly dependent on the system, that they will fight to protect it.
i think about this scene a lot when i’m talking about antiblackness and how it works and why it’s damn near impossible to combat
Preface: I’ve decided to write this piece, not only beucase my relationship with language and the subject of love is continuously evolving, bus also because the excercise of exploring desire, longing, passion, desperation, and sadness on a page is as old a practice as composing sonnets or verse. There is intimacy and performance in the form, and like receiving a love letter from a long-awaited crush, we hang onto every word. Who doesn’t know that heart-racing feverish feeling of checking the mailbox each day and tearing open envelopes in search of just a piece of someone’s thoughts, cares, love, and affections. Who doesn’t want to read, or hear “My dear, I think of you everyday.” or “I’ve missed you desperately.” Even after the letters are written and discarded, they will have a special secret place in us, leading me to wonder, was it the words, sentiment, or the ideas that have stuck with me since? We all know that in love we give ourselves, but what self do we form and give in a letter? What self can we gain? Write one letter and you’re a poet, a romantic. And in the act of doing this, what is lost and what is gained? As if the universal sharing of feelings is supposed to be a democratically good idea. Are the love letters you write as important as the ones you never had the balls or care to send? What about the love letters we write in private?
The desperate thoughts and memories that creep into daily existence. The secret lives of desperate, heart-stopping love, where each day is haunted by what (was once? was never?) is not there. Your conscience dies and fades into the moment. We sink back into the form. Reading and writing are solitary activities. No text will ever be enough. The light of passion and ink bleeds internally.
I feel how leaves must feel, carelessly rotten on the ground. I feel like the rain left, how the dust feels as it rips through cloth and bleeds into the eyes. I feel like burrying myself in my room, in my books, into activism forever, living an “alternative lifestyle”, below the expected wages, just enough to get by. I feel like I forgtten what beauty and freedom must feel like. I go on Facebook and feel confronted by a hyperreal world of hyper alienation, stupidity, and complete benign apathy. If I stay much longer floating around I will probably go back to wanting to kill myself. There is no end or perceivable positive future where all identity and subjectivity is tied to inaction. That’s how we become what Marx describes as our own gravediggers. I will not write my own tombstone on some NSA data-mined site of disconnection. I feel totally negative and intolerable. I feel like hiding forever, retreating deeper and more reckessly into myself. I need to stop constantly testing myself with the question, "How much shit can I get away with?". It’s ultimately, how I lose sight of myself, the point of disconnect with all reality, where I begin to question why and how there is even a reality in the first place.
Back to reality. It’s been a great week at the union. I got myself a pretty pay check with money to save. I look forward to a new and better life with more money in my bank and children to never feed. More books to read, more money to save, more rent to pay. Life becomes calculation; it’s all chess.
I revisted the theme of castration, some outdated Chicana theory that was unable to grapple with American literary criticism or the new school. I get what she says, but I don’t agree with all of it. How we are all colonized, a products of fucked up machismo, deconstructing Octavio Paz for blaming women for being fucked up malinche’s, traitors. Men have betrayed us women mod of all. No one can argue against the imbalance of power. I get fucked up into believing that there is nowhere left to regain power. It has all been sold off and co-opted. Behind me an African American male was weeping, sobbing loudly into his red bull. God fuck Amerikkka.
CREDIT THE INVENTOR: SHE IS AN ARTIST NAMED KATHLEEN MCDERMOTT WHO IS FINISHING HER MFA IN HONG KONG
Also she is developing this technology literally to help women assert their space in public AND MAKE A STATEMENT about how women are treated in patriarchal societies! She is developing other clothes too! You can support her project here: http://www.kthartic.com/index.php?/class/about-urban-armor/
The dress is the second in a series of projects called Urban Armor, which aim to help women own their space in public arenas that often attempt to deny this right. As McDermott explains in the project statement: “The series arose partly out of my concern over the persistence of ideologies asserted at women in public space through advertising, architecture and socially normative behavior. I began to look for ways women could take more ownership over their personal space in public.”
Basically this woman is a badass feminist artist. Please support her work and spread the word
“Remember that consciousness is power. Consciousness is education and knowledge. Consciousness is becoming aware. It is the perfect vehicle for students. Consciousness-raising is pertinent for power, and be sure that power will not be abusively used, but used for building trust and goodwill domestically and internationally. Tomorrow’s world is yours to build.” - Yuri Kochiyama, Japanese-American activist (May 19, 1921 - June 1, 2014)
"If you have to fuck shit up. Fuck shit up." - Bamby Salcedo
I have been wanting to write more reflectively on love for some time.
I think now is the time.
Today I went to see a screning of a documentary on trans-Latina activist Bamby Salcedo, chronicling her journey as a street kid from Guadalajara, Mexico to a nationally recognized trans activist in the states.Her story is powerful and she continues to move, engage, and spread solidarity between the trans and Latino communities. What struck me is how hard she struggled to feel loved, accepted, and valiadted in a bullshit transphoic world. As she said “shit is fucked up”.
I am thinking about the love she dared to feel, nurture, and cultivate in her own life and how she continues to love and touch people today.
Maybe because she is from Guadalajara, I also felt a sense of solidarity with her story. She felt like my aunt, my madrina, my mother. The source of her strength is love, she describes in the love of her work she does everyday, her love of life with new fulfilled opportunities, hopes, and dreams. One can truly rise.
Earlier this week my mother said “Love is not the idea of someone. It is what someone makes you feel.” to which my father responded “My grandmother made me feel special. No one made me feel what my grandmother felt.”
It may not sound like much, but my dad gets all choked up when he talks about his grandmother. His eyes water and face softens and he speaks nostalgically of freshly made tortillas and bread. That nostalgia is for a materialization of her love, the freshly made bread that traveled in boxes from Guadalajara to Los Angeles with him earlier this week.
I have been trying to find and reconnect with the love that feeds me, fuels me, and keeps me connected to a nobler purpose and calling. I am searching and expanding the outer limits to push for a love that is expansive and uplifting. For me it is more than mere radical patience, it is radical hope. Radical hope for the courageous, love-crazy laborers who beak fresh bread every morning, garden, compose, and organize. It is caring to connect, to surrender, and most of all give.
If you are wondering where are we going, let me give you a clue; nowhere unless you want to go somewhere. And that desire to go somewhere would nescesitate a plan, an action, a decision. It’s all a choice. That’s why I don’t sympthaize with cynicism anymore. It’s our world for the taking, no? May as well kick, scream, love, and fuck while we still can.
omg, I just wanna work at verso.