viernes, febrero 12, 2010

I said before and wil say it again: no existen "problemas" donde no hay soluciones economicas que los rentabilicen.
Matruska, Rusia y la paradoja gay

Ayer despues del taller de poesia de los jueves estuve charlando con otros miembros del taller, entre ellxs una mujer rusa. Hablando llegamos a Rusia y su conflicto con lo gay.
Ella comentaba que segun el gobierno ultraconservador, todoo acto LGTBI esta prohibido. Por dicha prohibicion, en Rusa se dice no hay gays, lo cual es una mentira del tamano de una casa.
En fin, seguimos habalndo y de repente me di cuenta de la paradoja: un pais que tiene como icono a una matruska no puede negar a sus gays, me explico: si observamos bien una matrusca es la representacion de un fisting lesbico total, porque sino que hace una mujer entera dentro de otra mujer, dentro de otra mujer dentro.
Despues de dicho racionamiento sonrei y me di cuenta de que realmente la heterohegemonia en las sociedades conservadoras se destruye con sus propios simbolos al queerizarlos.
A partir de hoy la matruska se ha convertido para mi en un objeto fetiche.
La matruska es el fisting total.

martes, febrero 09, 2010

Adoro salir temprano de casa, sentir la brisa sobre los labios, esa especie de humedad que recuerda a otras. Respirar el primer aire de la mañana debería ser un deporte obligatorio. La humedad sobre los labios.


No me pude resistir y robé esta viñeta de Bea Espejo del blog de mi querida I. Ziga. Amo a este tandem.

lunes, febrero 08, 2010

Mi texto Favorito de ese libro

Para I. Ziga y D. Pornoterrorista, hermanas en la locura y en el complicado mecanismo de hacer estallar las cosas. I Love you NENXS!

Por segunda vez lo tengo en mis manos: la primera edición (1981) de This Bridge Call My Back. No es mío, de hecho ese libro no es de nadie. Pero reconozco mis marcas en sus rebordes, mis afirmaciones, mis sorpresas delineadas en letra diminuta. Mis irrupciones.

Chrystos, es una de las mejores autoras de este libro. Una india american rabiosa y lesbiana, demasiado india, demasiado incorrecta, demasiado etno-femme para ser aceptada. Por supuesto nunca demasiado nada para no ser usada por la teoría blanca. Transcribo íntegro el texto que más me gusta de Chrystos ( que no aparece en la traducciónrara, chicanisima, bizarrisima, inapropiada del texto, en la traducción castellana que se llama EstA Puente, Mi Espalda).


I Don´t Understand Those Who Have Turned Away From Me
Chrystos

5:23 am- May 1980
I am afraid of white people Never admited taht before deep
secret
I think about all the white women I Knew in San Francisco Women with Master´s degrees from Standford University & car that daddy bougth, women with straight white teeth & clear skins from thousands of years of propoer nutrition They chose to be poor
They have quite convincing in the role of oppressed victim I want
to tell them to go down to Fillmore & Haight & tell somebody about it
Tell Jim my old landlord who picked cotton since he was 6 moved here for a better life lost his hearing & his teeth & his hair from working in the shipyards for 35 years The constan vibration of his drill on the metal literally shook his teeth out He went bald from always wearing a safety helmet He can´t hear after years of that racket He worked so hard for 35 years & he is still poor They live on Webster street, acroos from the projects The house is an old Victorian which will not be paid off unless he lives to be 89 which is unlikely.

Iread the funniest line in a health book yesterday It said, that for some ¨unknown¨reason, more black people had hypertension than white people Not funny No mystery Most Indian people don´t usually live long enough to even GET hypertension All the deaths I carry so havily Faces I Knew Mani Muerdered in Phoenix by whites outside a bar whites who still have not gone to trial Ron dying of pneumonia I still mourn him death None of my relatives has a degree from Standford Neither did Jim So those poor white girls are still suffering mightily in my old home town of San Francisco

It did not help that it ocurred to me that no amount of education was going to improve my lot in life if i didn´t also change my attitude about society I still think that 98% of what happens --liberal, conservative or radical lesbian separatist is : bullshit My attitude is all I own so I quit school

All the schools & crazy houses I was in were simply brainwashing & most of the feminist mobvement that I worked so hard to be part of was propaganda This is heresy but it held no solution for me Surely Jane suffers oppression on her job because she is a woman All the problems and issues which feminism raises are valid & important It simply does not give me answers for correct behavior in my own life Certainly I won´t obey that lesbian mafia nonsense that one must dress in a certain way or cut off one´s hair to be real Those are all the most superficial rules silly I no longer believe that feminism is a tool which can eliminate racism -or even promote better understanding different races & kinds of women I have felt less understanding between different races & from many lesbian women that I do from some straight people At least their heterosexual indifference allows me more freedom to be myself Ifelt so much stricture & censorship from lesbians I was supposed to be a carpenter to prove I was a real dyke My differences were sloughed over None of them came to pow wow or an AIM* fundraiser to see about me Above all I could not enjoy & love being a woman Jane commented when I first met her that she didn´t care for most lesbians because they didn´t like women didn´t like themselves Of course it is extremely difficult to like oneself in a culture which thinks you are a disease

Many of the lesbians I knew seemed to throw off the outer trappings of their culture & were very vocal in criticizing it Yet, they had no joy, no new roads Night after night in endless picky meeting discussing everyone´s inadequancies & faults & the harm which men do or night after night in dreary body shop bars drinking themselves into a stupor
I worked so hard as a part of a local women´s coffeshop & bookstore, harder than I´ve ever worked I ordered for the kitchen, & the art shows, did shifts, brought flowers, cleaned, met the pest man & phone man, did entertainment, washed a million coffe cups Recently someone told me that a young lesbian whose parents have given her a law practice, commented that she remember me I didn´t worked she said all I did was talk with people I remember her too she was one of the thousands of women whose names & faces I memorized & tried to understand only to have them disappear after 3 months or whenever they found a lover After 3 and half years I had so little left of myself so many bitter memories of women who disrespected me & others A woman who call herself a communist but supported capitalist enterprises of women, rather that our brave collective workr-pwned effort The lies, pretensions, the snobbey & cliquishness The racism which blend through every moment at every level The terrifying & useless struggle to be accepted The awful gossip, bitchiness, backbitting & jealosy The gross lack of love

Ileft the womén´s movement utterly drained I have no interest in returnig My dreams of crossing barriers to true understanding were false Most of the white women I thought I was close to want nothing to do with me now Perhaps white women are so rarly loyal because they do not have to be There are thousands of them to pick up & discard No responsability to others The bathing beauties They want the status of reality & respect whitout laber Respect us simply because we exist Give us what we want now My biterness distorts my words

I don´t understand those who turned away from me





PRECIOUS

Eran los 80´s. Unx se pregunta si no seguimos en el mismo círculo de prácticas vejatorias, de encubrimiento machista, de cobardia. Precious (Push) es como cuando estás entredormida y alguien te despierta con una patada en la cara. Nadie debería parir mientras le golpean la cabeza.

Precious, es una forma de trazar las redes y las intersecciones entre género, raza y sexualidad, que de forma despiada nos atraviensan. También es un motivo para repensar la familia nuclear, para repensar qué nos han vendido por amor y filiación (heteropensante). Para cuestionar, de forma valiente, por qué llamamos amor al maltrato.

Cuando salí de verla, me quedé sin aliento. Después me llené de rabia y me dieron ganas de seguir luchando.

Gracias , Gracias, Gracias.

Después de esta foto sólo puedo preguntarme: ¿Me gustaría ser como Joan, estar como Joan o estar con Joan? La respuesta, evidentisima: Las tres cosas.
Un link Indispensable que nos ha pasado el interesantísimo Rodrigo Requena:
http://bibliotecafragmentada.wordpress.com

A partir de ahora formara parte de los links permanentes de esta página.

domingo, febrero 07, 2010

El leve estremecimiento dentro de la cabeza, entre las manos, sobre el plexo, dentro del sexo: el reencuentro con la poesia.