WE
You and I
Exist eye-to-eye at the center.
Equal connection.
Questioning privilege and situation.
Sharing power.
WE
You and I
Exist on a par
Or not at all . . .
I made it out. I am still alive. I will have this. Cus i used to think i would die when i finally healed, or the revolution would come. But instead comes something else.
Satyam shivam sundaram.
om bhur bhuvaha swaha
tat savitur varenyam
bhargo devasya dhimahi
dhiyoyonaha prachodayaat.
om namah saraswate
om namah durge
om namah kali
om namah stute.
and skin to skin, this is satyan shivam sundaram.
these are small pieces of longing i write,
with more devotion than veda or darshan,
words thicker than the smoke
rising from the stripped scalp of coconut
in the morning.
love, i heard you underneath
like Vishnu crawling seas as fish,
Buddha in samadhi,
Krishna smashing body against soul,
satyam shivam sundaram.
-
[excerpts from Anurima Bannerji and Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha]
-
Friday, November 2, 2007
A bit of feminist theory in the morning...
"What you see is not what you get... [at least to the naked eye]
as big as the universe and more expensive.
When she opens her legs, she flatters the planet.
Taking you in short breaths or deep drags off the end of a long, hard stare, she sucks you in and through the black hole she's grown accustomed to living with - that elusive quality that takes up so much space. And she'll take you for a ride with the enthusiasm of a new millennium superhero, diving off tall buildings into the atmosphere, a free-falling supernova spitting atoms.
She lives in the fourth dimension where everything you've seen and heard is an illusion.
She also knows that at her most desirable she's supposed to dominate with supernova moans that humble the night sky. She's heard echoes about the evolution of relationships from mono to poly. Everything about her is already plural.
She was born aerodynamic, smooth like the milky way, but mostly too practical to do all the work when she doesn't need to. Yes, her corset is laced with burdens, her boots polished to a fine challenge.
She must be riding high, but she's a bottom eater in search of more.
The truth is, when you're usually in control it takes more strength to let yourself be taken than it does to do the taking.
An intergalactic insomniac, a shark who must keep moving in order to preserve the species and continue into the next generation. She's here and now...she remembers with a vengeance, fucks with resistance, and loves only when every other need has been tended to first. All of this comes at a price; the universal exhaustion of a hard-working, working girl. She's tired of strangers ordering her to 'smile.' Tired of walking down city streets as though crossing a grenade field and trying not to step on the wrong onlooker. She's perpetually stuck in a time-warp between bright high neon flashing eclipse and absolute invisibility.
Can anybody see her?
She's a time traveler moving faster than the speed of sound, linking past, present and future. Bridging across the galaxy between straight and bent. Between woman-loving and woman-hating. Between the pages of a book. She's here to remind the galaxy that is is possible to be more than one half of any duality, more than just an extension, an opposite: male/female. Rational/emotional.
Moving in waves - not steps - her posture is regal. her shoulders are back, she wears the dress before the dress wears her. or maybe not.
Maybe she can't crawl out of bed some days, can't choose the proper costume. She knows costumes and weapons are one in the same and she knows all too well.
The truth is she can make you comfortable in your skin even when you shouldn't be, and she wears great pain.
So beware. Up close, microscopically, she might not be what you envision. She might shock with her unkempt reality: clothes that haven't seen a washing machine in months, unshaven legs, breath that bites back, and teeth that wear fur coats. Wrinkles across her soul.
...older than time, made of miniscule particles insisting that even small matter, matters. She lives in chaos where random, inexplicable events defy logic, where unforeseen tragedy strikes when least expected. She's guarded by the protective rings around Saturn. Shielded by the armour-thick glow of the Aurora Borealis. Leery of newcomers. You can't label her neuroses, identify her predilections, or even predict what she would eat for breakfast. She's slippery, gliding through expectations like spilt mercury dancing down your leg, curdling and separating. She's been many people in many places but somehow always the same...
She knows exactly what she likes even when it's not in Vogue. She's attracted to power because it's like looking in the mirror.
So, don't touch too softly or she won't notice, and don't wait for an invitation. The whips she carries are sewn into the lining of her skull, the bondage she employs leaches like poison from her pores. Odorless. Tasteless. It can't be bought or passed on at a weekend retreat. You can't begin to imagine what sadomasochistic lifetimes she's consented to. Or, those she didn't. You can't know her by defining her parameters, testing her tolerance, or crossing her boundaries.
She has a voracious appetite for the truth and the truth hurts most of all.
She doesn't want to demand that you make her come - she wants to dare you. Make her come so she can go away, leave herself with the pounding pounding of your hand...Let the vibrbrbrbrbrbrbrations on her clit stop time.
She's woman enough to give it up for you and astronomical enough to make each explosion feel new. She won't break or fall to pieces. She knows no singular force is strong enough to reach her now.
she knows where she's going and never forgets where she came from: a single-mother-no-father-big-bang-theory of creation.
she doesn't crave picket fences, station wagons or diamond rings.
Her people are flawed beyond repair so she's had to learn to love and hate simultaneously. Don't be surprised by the company she keeps.
she comes from way down low, on her knees. Pressed into dank mattresses.
The deep metamorphosis lesson that teaches young girls how to become cosmic women: impenetrable. Unflinching. Brazen. She keeps a good secret unless the price is too high and then she'll share it with the stars, naming one for every scar on the inside lining of her flesh.
She's a body housing infinite possibilities for women, some of them snuffed out at a tender age. Some of them raging till dawn. You only think you know her. she's a mother of a woman - the kind that makes Betty Crocker fall to her knees and ask for forgiveness.
She will close her eyes and give birth to new planets, an entire universe balancing on a single eyelash. She sees the future staring back at her with bloodshot eyes. Lips on fire, arched eyebrows, and bottoms up. She's the woman-child who never fit because she learned too soon not to be satisfied with mere mortals.
People are like fish, she thinks, they only grow to the size of their bowls. She doesn't run for cover, shade her eyes from the blinding sun, or expect to be whisked away on white steeds or black Harley Davidsons. She rescues herself. And she knows, every woman needs to be saved at least once in her life.
She never gives up.
Her first word was, "mine." Her second was "eternity." She's destined to be dream larger than life and because she thinks big, she is.
Sure she's a quantum figment of collective imagination, but she's also a femme of her own design.
And it doesn't really matter what name you call her by, it's the one she answers to that counts."
From Quantum Femme, an essay by Elizabeth Ruth
as big as the universe and more expensive.
When she opens her legs, she flatters the planet.
Taking you in short breaths or deep drags off the end of a long, hard stare, she sucks you in and through the black hole she's grown accustomed to living with - that elusive quality that takes up so much space. And she'll take you for a ride with the enthusiasm of a new millennium superhero, diving off tall buildings into the atmosphere, a free-falling supernova spitting atoms.
She lives in the fourth dimension where everything you've seen and heard is an illusion.
She also knows that at her most desirable she's supposed to dominate with supernova moans that humble the night sky. She's heard echoes about the evolution of relationships from mono to poly. Everything about her is already plural.
She was born aerodynamic, smooth like the milky way, but mostly too practical to do all the work when she doesn't need to. Yes, her corset is laced with burdens, her boots polished to a fine challenge.
She must be riding high, but she's a bottom eater in search of more.
The truth is, when you're usually in control it takes more strength to let yourself be taken than it does to do the taking.
An intergalactic insomniac, a shark who must keep moving in order to preserve the species and continue into the next generation. She's here and now...she remembers with a vengeance, fucks with resistance, and loves only when every other need has been tended to first. All of this comes at a price; the universal exhaustion of a hard-working, working girl. She's tired of strangers ordering her to 'smile.' Tired of walking down city streets as though crossing a grenade field and trying not to step on the wrong onlooker. She's perpetually stuck in a time-warp between bright high neon flashing eclipse and absolute invisibility.
Can anybody see her?
She's a time traveler moving faster than the speed of sound, linking past, present and future. Bridging across the galaxy between straight and bent. Between woman-loving and woman-hating. Between the pages of a book. She's here to remind the galaxy that is is possible to be more than one half of any duality, more than just an extension, an opposite: male/female. Rational/emotional.
Moving in waves - not steps - her posture is regal. her shoulders are back, she wears the dress before the dress wears her. or maybe not.
Maybe she can't crawl out of bed some days, can't choose the proper costume. She knows costumes and weapons are one in the same and she knows all too well.
The truth is she can make you comfortable in your skin even when you shouldn't be, and she wears great pain.
So beware. Up close, microscopically, she might not be what you envision. She might shock with her unkempt reality: clothes that haven't seen a washing machine in months, unshaven legs, breath that bites back, and teeth that wear fur coats. Wrinkles across her soul.
...older than time, made of miniscule particles insisting that even small matter, matters. She lives in chaos where random, inexplicable events defy logic, where unforeseen tragedy strikes when least expected. She's guarded by the protective rings around Saturn. Shielded by the armour-thick glow of the Aurora Borealis. Leery of newcomers. You can't label her neuroses, identify her predilections, or even predict what she would eat for breakfast. She's slippery, gliding through expectations like spilt mercury dancing down your leg, curdling and separating. She's been many people in many places but somehow always the same...
She knows exactly what she likes even when it's not in Vogue. She's attracted to power because it's like looking in the mirror.
So, don't touch too softly or she won't notice, and don't wait for an invitation. The whips she carries are sewn into the lining of her skull, the bondage she employs leaches like poison from her pores. Odorless. Tasteless. It can't be bought or passed on at a weekend retreat. You can't begin to imagine what sadomasochistic lifetimes she's consented to. Or, those she didn't. You can't know her by defining her parameters, testing her tolerance, or crossing her boundaries.
She has a voracious appetite for the truth and the truth hurts most of all.
She doesn't want to demand that you make her come - she wants to dare you. Make her come so she can go away, leave herself with the pounding pounding of your hand...Let the vibrbrbrbrbrbrbrations on her clit stop time.
She's woman enough to give it up for you and astronomical enough to make each explosion feel new. She won't break or fall to pieces. She knows no singular force is strong enough to reach her now.
she knows where she's going and never forgets where she came from: a single-mother-no-father-bi
she doesn't crave picket fences, station wagons or diamond rings.
Her people are flawed beyond repair so she's had to learn to love and hate simultaneously. Don't be surprised by the company she keeps.
she comes from way down low, on her knees. Pressed into dank mattresses.
The deep metamorphosis lesson that teaches young girls how to become cosmic women: impenetrable. Unflinching. Brazen. She keeps a good secret unless the price is too high and then she'll share it with the stars, naming one for every scar on the inside lining of her flesh.
She's a body housing infinite possibilities for women, some of them snuffed out at a tender age. Some of them raging till dawn. You only think you know her. she's a mother of a woman - the kind that makes Betty Crocker fall to her knees and ask for forgiveness.
She will close her eyes and give birth to new planets, an entire universe balancing on a single eyelash. She sees the future staring back at her with bloodshot eyes. Lips on fire, arched eyebrows, and bottoms up. She's the woman-child who never fit because she learned too soon not to be satisfied with mere mortals.
People are like fish, she thinks, they only grow to the size of their bowls. She doesn't run for cover, shade her eyes from the blinding sun, or expect to be whisked away on white steeds or black Harley Davidsons. She rescues herself. And she knows, every woman needs to be saved at least once in her life.
She never gives up.
Her first word was, "mine." Her second was "eternity." She's destined to be dream larger than life and because she thinks big, she is.
Sure she's a quantum figment of collective imagination, but she's also a femme of her own design.
And it doesn't really matter what name you call her by, it's the one she answers to that counts."
From Quantum Femme, an essay by Elizabeth Ruth
Que sera, sera
sing a song for me
not that one in the back row popped off the top charts
or the one your friends cousin uncles sister thinks is so great because of the catchy melody.
i want the one thats old dusty recovered from long distances crossed waters
across plains of existence
beyond any doubt that its been played around fires
the crescendo bouncing off walls acoustically speaking
remembering it makes you crinkle your nose from
the hilarity of musics grand insanity capture it had on you.
oh please make a song out of me
from fingertips, silent lips, up on the high ground finished with drowning.
im finished with all of it.
but scared witless eyesight hindrance immobile
batting in the last inning
ive forgot how it felt to win.
or maybe i forgot how to drown.
head barely above water waiting for the tide.
i forgot i could write so eloquently i put everything else above me and tragedy spills home out into this screen.
ink flows like heavily trafficked veins
it stops
the corners of mouth curl up into something resembling a smile, but deeper.
longer.
sincerely.
this power is heavy. this lack of power is exhilarating.
such an open wound, naturally healing, forming enclosure.
i can't even begin to finish the thought.
i miss writing and i miss being good at this.
im opening my notebooks yet again.
time to reminisce.
the writer in me is back from a long vacation.
i'll see ya around.
-----
Yo no puedo explicar en inglés.
Esta vez yo no estoy atemorizado. yo no puedo ser.
Todo quiero es de...estar enamorado.
Soy feliz de ser donde soy.
not that one in the back row popped off the top charts
or the one your friends cousin uncles sister thinks is so great because of the catchy melody.
i want the one thats old dusty recovered from long distances crossed waters
across plains of existence
beyond any doubt that its been played around fires
the crescendo bouncing off walls acoustically speaking
remembering it makes you crinkle your nose from
the hilarity of musics grand insanity capture it had on you.
oh please make a song out of me
from fingertips, silent lips, up on the high ground finished with drowning.
im finished with all of it.
but scared witless eyesight hindrance immobile
batting in the last inning
ive forgot how it felt to win.
or maybe i forgot how to drown.
head barely above water waiting for the tide.
i forgot i could write so eloquently i put everything else above me and tragedy spills home out into this screen.
ink flows like heavily trafficked veins
it stops
the corners of mouth curl up into something resembling a smile, but deeper.
longer.
sincerely.
this power is heavy. this lack of power is exhilarating.
such an open wound, naturally healing, forming enclosure.
i can't even begin to finish the thought.
i miss writing and i miss being good at this.
im opening my notebooks yet again.
time to reminisce.
the writer in me is back from a long vacation.
i'll see ya around.
-----
Yo no puedo explicar en inglés.
Esta vez yo no estoy atemorizado. yo no puedo ser.
Todo quiero es de...estar enamorado.
Soy feliz de ser donde soy.
Poems by Aleksandr Pushkin
"I loved you: and, it may be, from my soul
The former love has never gone away,
But let it not recall to you my dole;
I wish not sadden you in any way.
I loved you silently, without hope, fully,
In diffidence, in jealousy, in pain;
I loved you so tenderly and truly,
As let you else be loved by any man. "
"My used ignorance--in an instant
Was shaken by the demon's hand,
And he combined my poor existence
With his existence to the end.
His evil eyes became my own,
I gain poor treasure of the worlds,
My heart was beating in a tone
With indistinguishable words.
I'd looked at all with look that's clear,
And I was shocked by what I'd seen;
Whether such world could once appear
As great and beautiful to me?
What, a young dreamer, looked you for
In such a world, with utter fervor,
For whom, with all your heart before,
You were not shamed to pray forever?
And I looked at the people, else:
The 'judges' of the lowest level --
So cruel, lofty, biased, base --
The fools that always drift to evil.
Before these ever-frightened hosts,
So vain, and cold, and full of vengeance,
The voice of truth is simply lost,
And helpless -- knowledge of the ages.
You're right, the ever-witty nations,
A call for freedom is asleep!
Herds needn't freedom's innovations,
They have to be just cut and stripped,
Their heritage for generations --
The yoke with joker's bells and whip."
"You're the kind that always loses,
Bliss and you are all at odds:
You're too sweet when chance refuses
And too clever when it nods. "
The former love has never gone away,
But let it not recall to you my dole;
I wish not sadden you in any way.
I loved you silently, without hope, fully,
In diffidence, in jealousy, in pain;
I loved you so tenderly and truly,
As let you else be loved by any man. "
"My used ignorance--in an instant
Was shaken by the demon's hand,
And he combined my poor existence
With his existence to the end.
His evil eyes became my own,
I gain poor treasure of the worlds,
My heart was beating in a tone
With indistinguishable words.
I'd looked at all with look that's clear,
And I was shocked by what I'd seen;
Whether such world could once appear
As great and beautiful to me?
What, a young dreamer, looked you for
In such a world, with utter fervor,
For whom, with all your heart before,
You were not shamed to pray forever?
And I looked at the people, else:
The 'judges' of the lowest level --
So cruel, lofty, biased, base --
The fools that always drift to evil.
Before these ever-frightened hosts,
So vain, and cold, and full of vengeance,
The voice of truth is simply lost,
And helpless -- knowledge of the ages.
You're right, the ever-witty nations,
A call for freedom is asleep!
Herds needn't freedom's innovations,
They have to be just cut and stripped,
Their heritage for generations --
The yoke with joker's bells and whip."
"You're the kind that always loses,
Bliss and you are all at odds:
You're too sweet when chance refuses
And too clever when it nods. "
A way to explain my painfully indescribable lust for music
" Lew Wygotski, the renowned defectologist wrote:
"Words die giving birth to thoughts, implying thereby that thought and speech transcend one another."
This is along much the same lines as Schopenhaur's assertion that thoughts die the minute they are dressed in words. Words are but reference points for experiences, the idea of conversation being to evoke common ground through associations between people. But maybe there are other ways of arriving at the same result. It is sometimes said that a picture says more than a thousand words. So does music; it is a method of conveyeing emotional states of mind from the creator to the listener. "
- Carl-Johan Vallgren, The Horrible Sufferings of the Mind-Reading Monster Hercules Barefoot (His Wonderful Love and His Terrible Hatred); a novel
"Words die giving birth to thoughts, implying thereby that thought and speech transcend one another."
This is along much the same lines as Schopenhaur's assertion that thoughts die the minute they are dressed in words. Words are but reference points for experiences, the idea of conversation being to evoke common ground through associations between people. But maybe there are other ways of arriving at the same result. It is sometimes said that a picture says more than a thousand words. So does music; it is a method of conveyeing emotional states of mind from the creator to the listener. "
- Carl-Johan Vallgren, The Horrible Sufferings of the Mind-Reading Monster Hercules Barefoot (His Wonderful Love and His Terrible Hatred); a novel
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