The Latest

Oct 15, 2014 / 2 notes

Internalized

I am sitting here at midnight writing letters to professors about graduate school, trying to develop a graduate school research project on epistemology, and feeling ambivalent about the process (elusive) and what it means to me. I am interested in decolonization, decolonizing my own mind, tracing genealogies of thought and cultural production. (Queer theory, feminist theory, Afro pessimism, and literary analysis). I am interested in philosophical and poetic questions that manifest through art and theoretical entanglements (engagements darling). I enjoy writing to my friends and loved ones.

There is no dichotomy between art and knowledge, both somewhat considered “good”, “valuable”, and “important” in society (depending on who you talk to and how). Ask a nerd what kind of art they like. As a Xicana what kind of art she likes, music does she listen to, or poetry she writes. Maybe her headphones are filled with cumbias, or boleros, or maybe she just likes Belle and Sebastian or Nas.

Maybe she is too old for Tumblr, but too young for reunions, not ready for happy hours, unsure about the rent, cautious when walking the streets late at night.

Maybe her younger friends like beats, pop mollies, and ride the metro until 3am. Maybe they gave each other tattoos dedicated to their favorite passages from the Tibetan Book of the Dead, or Xicana Codex of Consciousness, or lines form Ashata Shakur (“WE HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE BUT OUR CHAINS!”).

Perhaps they have never gone to a protest, but they still say “FUCK THE POLICE” and have ducked from the headlight of a helicopter after a late night tagging session (won’t get into details).  She might be a brown beer kind of girl, or sipping martini’s vodka is her thang, after class, after finals; unwind.

She might be into hiking, yoga, or meditation. She puts on the CD she found at the thrift store. “Breathe. Feel your body relax. Count each breath. Empty your mind.”

Perhaps she found no reason to empty her mind. The meditation did not calm her heart or soothe (her soul) her senses. Yoga helps to bend the body, but did not make her into a nubile ballerina, or a freaky gymnast. She runs to temporarily clear her head.

She finds herself unable to get up each morning. She dreads each day of work. The. Same. Boring. Routine. She goes to a therapist. She sites in the waiting room. A white woman who is fat and sits in a chair all day greets her. She fills out the paperwork and sits in the waiting room. She is called and comes in to speak to Charles. Charles is another fat white man who looks at ease in a Hawaiian shirt and khakis. He invites her to sit on a fat leather couch. She stares at the clouds through the blinds before answering his questions. “I am depressed and I have anxiety.” He writes a prescription. No questions. No mention of boyfriends (or lack thereof),relationships, no existential fumbling, a couple of questions about getting a job, family history. Ah. Family history. Neurotics on both ends. He nods and scribbles notes into a notepad. Panic attacks are regular. Not good, the brain must be given what is missing. Stimulate the production of serotonin and endorphins. Drugs are in order. To sleep and stop panic. No further questions asked.

She hops out of the office, back to the car, the street, the never ending. Art, philosophy, school. Loans and rent. Due and soon. Elusive and fading, and politics, and poetry. Girls who run marathons and girls who make jewelry, and girls who by some miracle, stop crying.  Somehow, the nausea (also, the literal symptons of Prozac) stop. Breathing feels better when you are running on no one’s time but your own. 

para-todxs-todo:

lil-reina:

jilazand:

DIOSA VIDA: An American based recording and visual artist collective based in Oakland, CA led by femcees Jazzminah and Ji La Zand who are of Middle Eastern and Mexican decent. Diosa Vida captures the essence of two womyn embodying bidi bidi bom bom rhythm while spitting Hafiz rhymes down Telegraph Ave. Jazzminah and Ji La Zand summon all mystics from the barrio to stand up.

omg

heck yes too down for this


This sums up my life.
Sep 26, 2014 / 571 notes

para-todxs-todo:

lil-reina:

jilazand:

DIOSA VIDA: An American based recording and visual artist collective based in Oakland, CA led by femcees Jazzminah and Ji La Zand who are of Middle Eastern and Mexican decent. Diosa Vida captures the essence of two womyn embodying bidi bidi bom bom rhythm while spitting Hafiz rhymes down Telegraph Ave. Jazzminah and Ji La Zand summon all mystics from the barrio to stand up.

omg

heck yes too down for this

This sums up my life.

(via la-virgen-te-crei)

Sep 23, 2014

Anxiety

Earlier the month I was diagnosed for anxiety/depression. I am glad to say that a couple weeks of rest and vigorous reading and writing has lifted my spirits and changed how I think. I now feel better about myself and have more hope (and goals) for the future. I am grateful I have a strong, supportive, and compassionate family that understands self care and self-improvement. If people could just take a couple of weeks off between work/jobs/school, then I am sure we can love more and make this world a nicer place.

I am also more focused on my paper and following interesting ideas. I am not always sure where one line of thought to another will lead me, but I am compelled and enraptured by theories on affect, queer futurity, and assemblage ontology. I am inspired by Jasbir Puar’s Terrorist Assemblages and Jose Esteban Munoz’s Disidentifications and Queering Utopia (!!!). Such brilliant and dare I say, creative, weirdly beautiful work from queer and feminist (xicana, post-colonial, postmodern critique!) academic traditions (Duke, UCB’s Ethnic Studies, Rutgers, NYU) I can only hope to one day contribute to. With love and endless admiration; building altares to my favorite radical queer theorists/philosophers— may our subjects always be art, love, joy, and the brave beauty of survival. 

Sep 22, 2014 / 14,323 notes

weareallmixedup:

daughtersofdig:

Since 1980, 3000 native Canadian women have been murdered/gone missing. Indigenous women are five times more likely than other women to die as a result of violence. Sixty percent of known perpetrators are white men.

Justice for all Indigenous Women! by Jessica Sabogal | Montréal

1 in 3 Native American women are raped within their lifetime, and are at extreme risk of violence from non-native (white) men. x x x

Despite push from the UN for a national inquiry, Canada continues to largely ignore the violence against Native Women. x

(via femblr)

Sep 11, 2014 / 135,873 notes

magnacarterholygrail:

so-treu:

LIKE SHE’S NOT EVEN BEING SUBTLE ABOUT THE SHIT

religion: nicki minaj destroying and being disgusted at phallic symbols

My life forever.

(via lipstick-feminists)

Sep 11, 2014 / 118,594 notes

fogo-av:

mentalalchemy:

nezua:

fnhfal:

Ferguson -2014

I blinked one day and when I opened my eyes, it was normal to have an American army battling Americans on American streets. No one even calls it a war. But it is.

Don’t forget this crazy shit actually happened.

Don’t forget this shit is STILL happening

(via la-virgen-te-crei)

theparisreview:

Luisa Valenzuela, the Art of Fiction No. 170
Aug 20, 2014 / 84 notes

theparisreview:

Luisa Valenzuela, the Art of Fiction No. 170

theparisreview:

“The hardest thing in the world is simplicity.” —James Baldwin, born on this day in 1924.
Aug 3, 2014 / 504 notes

theparisreview:

“The hardest thing in the world is simplicity.” —James Baldwin, born on this day in 1924.

You are 12. You’re at the library looking for some generic young adult fiction novel about a girl who falls for her best friend. Your dad makes a disgusted face. “This is about lesbians,” he says. The word falls out of his mouth as though it pains him. You check out a different book and cry when you get home, but you aren’t sure why. You learn that this is not a story about you, and if it is, you are disgusting.

You are 15. Your relatives are fawning over your cousin’s new boyfriend. “When will you have a boyfriend?” they ask. You shrug. “Maybe she’s one of those lesbians,” your grandpa says. You don’t say anything. You learn that to find love and acceptance from your family, you need a boyfriend who thinks you are worthy of love and acceptance.

You are 18. Your first boyfriend demands to know why you never want to have sex with him. He tells you that sex is normal and healthy. You learn that something is wrong with you.

You are 13. You’re at a pool party with a relative’s friend’s daughter. “There’s this lesbian in my gym class. It’s so gross,” she says. “Ugh, that’s disgusting,” another girl adds. They ask you, “do you have any lesbians at your school?” You tell them no and they say you are lucky. You learn to stay away from other girls.

You are 20. You have coffee with a girl and you can’t stop thinking about her for days afterwards. You learn the difference between a new friendship and new feelings for a person.

You are 13. Your mom is watching a movie. You see two girls kiss on screen. You feel butterflies and this sense that you identify with the girls on the screen. Your mom gets up and covers the screen. You learn that if you are like those girls, no one wants to see it.

You are 20. You and your friends are drunk and your ex-boyfriend dares you to make out with your friend. You both agree. You touch her face. It feels soft and warm. Her lips are small and her hands feel soft on your back. You learn the difference between being attracted to someone and recognizing that someone you care about is attractive.

You are 16. You find lesbian porn online. Their eyes look dead and their bodies are positioned in a way that you had never imagined. You learn that liking girls is acceptable if straight men can decide the terms.

You are 20. You are lying next to a beautiful girl and talking about everything. You tell her things that you don’t usually tell anyone. You learn how it feels not to want to go to sleep because you don’t want to miss out on any time with someone.

You are 18. You are in intro to women’s and gender studies. “Not all feminists are lesbians- I love my husband! Most of the feminists on our leadership team are straight! It’s just a stereotype,” the professor exclaims. You learn that lesbianism is something to separate yourself from.

You are 15. Your parents are talking about a celebrity. Your dad has a grin on his face and says, “her girlfriend says that she’s having the best sex of her life with her!” You learn that being a lesbian is about the kind of sex you have and not how you love.

You are 21 and you are kissing a beautiful girl and she’s your girlfriend and you understand why people write songs and make movies and stupid facebook statuses about this and time around you just seems to stop and you could spend forever like this and you learn that there is nothing wrong with you and you are falling in love.

You are 21. And you are okay.

a thing I wrote after arguing with an insensitive dude on facebook all day or Things Other People Taught me about Liking Girls (via thesefirstfewdesperatehours)

(via lipstick-feminists)

Aug 3, 2014 / 122,228 notes
Jul 28, 2014

Metals

Metals break and melt into the landscape,

it’s dust floats across the distance,

where piercing particles dissolve onto tips of tounges,

stabbing ashmatic lungs with polluted layers

 of industrial substance

caking the earth

in her ruin.

She gasps

and she can not yet free her body 

from it’s own internal disintegration.

The earth, the property, the unpaid rent had different 

hands of fate.

She counts the time through scraps collected.

Feelings become unreliable narrators

of her invisible condition.

Collecting dust and memory with pressed roses between pages

where disintegration evades linearity. 

Her house is not a home

built of wood, concrete, and lead.

Jul 25, 2014 / 1 note

White people treat me differently when I’m out on a date with a white guy. I don’t get it and I’ll never get over it. It’s like, all of a sudden I exist.

Jul 16, 2014

Silent rouse

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.