When the door closes, I bargain for my safety.
Did you hear that?
It was the collective sigh of those who bear their souls to empty rooms.
This week I did everything I wasn’t supposed to do and everything I wanted. Sometimes they were the same thing.
On Friday, I spent the day in a space designed and curated to invoke imagination. The plan for action called for disruption not-so-cleverly disguised as profit. Some bragged about organizing “cockfights” and others advocated for righteous indignation. The ferocity of their arguments were fueled by unconscious privilege and unchecked assumptions about who would benefit from that specific vision of change.
A call to home confirmed this truth: struggle and hope are symbiotic. Like fog on a window produced from warm bodies and breath, redemption is a process.
Why have we added so many categories of justice: economic, social, racial, gender?
It is October, 2012. So many tomes have been written about Pussy Riot that googling “pussy” has yielded new results. Was fantasy interrupted or were horizons broadened?
Vaginas, and the bodies that accompany them, have never been more marginalized as a trendy topic.
Have you noticed that the air smells sweet with rotting leaves?
I think constantly about familiar tensions:
sunny winter blue skies.
I am dreaming in violence again.
The holidays are nearing.
I want to only read radical things: