sadjhk
what are the spaces that you inhabit? How do different spaces relate to you your identity to your gender, feminism, sexuality, disability, etc?
are they Are those or i n ta n g i b l e ? physical ii nn tt aa nn gg ii bb ll ee ?? s p a c e s i n ta n g i b l e ?
^^^
What about the spaces we encompass at home versus the public?
spheres we travel through
labels we encompass.
YOUR SPACE. at home, in your profession, your community, this planet and universe...
My space is my mind I'm stuck and confined My space is my mind My space is my mind All I am trying to do is get out of my head To get out of bed To untangle the mess of shiny black thread To copy and paste all the words that were said To distinguish the difference between fear and dread All I am trying to do is get out of my head. Repeat the two three Breath out then do it Pick yourself off Focus on past you Repeat the two three
numbers one and four and in and once more up and get the floor now, the ignore numbers one and four
But again here I'm caught But again here I rot And think over and over those collectible thoughts All I am trying to do is get out of my head To get out of bed To untangle the mess of shiny black thread To copy and paste all the words that were said To distinguish the difference between fear and dread All I am trying to do is get out of my head.
Bending down, she sees tomato soup, mint ice cream, Lucky Charms cereal, peanut butter, ground beef, leftover pizza, rice, strawberry jam, and finally Cheezies. The last thing she ate and the last thing to come up. She stands, flushes the toilet, scrubs her porcelain prison, and takes those eight steps. [step on, step off]. Eight more steps take her to the fridge where she tries once again to fill the emptiness inside. A void. Peering into the abyss, she consumes everything. But it is not enough. It never is. I stand in front of the mirror with my measuring tape and her voice that is my voice in my head. [step on, step off]. I wrap the measuring tape around my body, analyzing the amount of space I take up. I watch myself balloon in front of my eyes. I fill the space of my bed room, my elbow pressed against the window, my left buttock against the door, my head hitting the ceiling. It is too much. It always is. Her best friend, her lover, her judge and jury and executioner - my scale ‒ sits in the middle of the room. [step on, step off]. Step on the scale, step off the scale. Move the scale eight inches to the left. Step on the scale, step off the scale. Move the scale again. Repeat. Continue until every inch of floor space has been measured. Calculate the average. Distrust the floor. Redo process in another room. Repeat. It is not enough. It never is. Eight days it has been. Eight apples, endless coffee, infinite cigarettes. An apple a day keeps the doctor away, right? [step on, step off]. After eight days, her body reminds her that she is still alive. There are sixteen steps between the fridge and the toilet. Her scale sits between them, watching her every move. She sits at the fridge, stuffing herself with immanence, takes the eight steps to her trial, is found guilty of the heinous crime of existing and taking up too much space, takes eight steps and flushes her life down the toilet. She is too much. She always is.
Anyone who knows this knows there are always two voices. Her voice and my voice. Her voice plans meals, counts calories, records numbers, pushes, paces, screams, scolds, berates, pulls away, pushes forward, breaks away, shuts down, but never shuts up. [step on, step off]. It has been so long since I have heard my own voice inside my head. What do I think? How do I feel? Life has been whittled down to calories, exercises, steps, weights, measurements. And always numbers numbers numbers numbers. Eating disorders are intensely claustrophobic. Imagine being trapped inside a dark closet. This closet is getting smaller and smaller, as you become larger and larger. Soon, you suffocate. Soon, you die. [step on, step off]. This is life now. Your mind becomes smaller and smaller, obsessed with numbers and scales and carrots and apples and sit-ups and kilometres and inches. Your body becomes smaller, 2000, 1500, 1000, 800, 400, 200, 150, 130, 115, 106, 100, 87, 74, 62, 12, 8, 6, 4, 2, 0, 00, nothing. Calories and weights and sizes. But in your fucked up mind, these numbers are happening in reverse. You think your body is becoming larger and larger. Your mind is suffocating. You die. There used to be a transcendental power to starvation. I used to long for the lightheaded, airy, ethereal feeling that accompanied going without food for long periods of time. Food was for lesser mortals who thought they could not exist without that vulgar, corporeal necessity. I, on the other hand, was Transcendent. I was Pure Mind. That was before her voice intruded. [step on, step off]. Now, food is not merely something from which to abstain in order to escape mundane reality. Food is the enemy. One must wage war. The battlefield is my body. There is too much space here, too much land to be conquered. There will be casualties. There will be blood. But who will win?
Bending down, she sees her soul floating in the toilet water. [step on, step off]. Froot Loops, ice cream, spaghetti with tomato sauce, grilled cheese, ramen noodles, chocolate sauce, minestrone soup, last night’s Chinese takeout, an entire tray of brownies (eaten half-cooked), scrambled eggs, orange marmalade, and blood. [step on, step off]. Years later, I will think I finally vanquished her demons. Her voice will be gone. When my blood pressure is low, my heart beat erratic, my teeth full of cavities, my throat scarred, and my legs numb from sitting in a chair, I will think of all the years I spent purging her food and wonder who really won the war. In this mental battle for space and salvation, who came out the victor?
by
Chi
Ste
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Na
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me
glass swords sound like illuminated space
crystals ethereal, soaring, propulsive dreams. not at all like millennial birds, squelching out recycled vaseline. the sacred spirits reflect time-space-and-play. they master cerebral soundscapes, releasing earworms to the waterways.
The bed is where the devil belongs because in the MoDern world he gets kicked the hell out of
everywhere else
The Radical warphole of feminist geneologies
By: Pavan Kaur Ubhi
Artist’s Explanation What I am attempting to evoke is how the 3 positions of feminism cannot be oriented in absolute space and, therefore, are being handled by the monstrous hands of patriarchy. The reflections in the shards of mirror show that, when we look at experiential theory, we are sucked into an understanding that the absence of absolute theory leads to more independent, intersectional, and radical theory, which feminism strives to encapsulate. The fists symbolize that radical power that erupts from drowning the idea of the 3 feminist waves down the warp-hole. The foot prints on the side indicate that the individual should be responsible for orienting themselves however they choose. The problem with this idea is that it screams NEOLIBERALISM; thus, within the spacial freedom that we fight for we are still constrainedto the normative binary construction. For this reason, each foot has the binary code written inside of it. Neoliberalism and the binary construction of our freedom is represented in several other ways in the piece. The yellow goo that is coming from the sky is the neoliberal placenta--with which the double helix of feminist identity is intertwined, coming from a black and white cross-hatched sky.
Human Soul [ Human sits inside a large wardrobe closet with a laptop on his/her knees. The wardrobe has doors which stand open. Soul walks up to the opening of the wardrobe to face Human. ] Soul - Hey. Human - Hello. Soul - Hi, there. Human - Hi? Soul - Can I talk to you for a minute? Human - Why? Soul - Because I think it’s important. Human - Who are you with something important? Soul - I am your soul! Human - My soul? Soul - Yes! [ Soul disappointed, turns away from Human and walks away. ] Human - Eh, you, who are you really? What do you want, eh? Soul - Why do you say this “eh”? Human - Well, I’m Canadian. You’re not? Soul - No, I’m French. Parles-tu français? Human - I don’t speak French. Soul - Your loss. Human - You realize you can’t be my soul if you’re French and I’m not French. Ha, I don’t even drink wine. Soul - Really? Wow… How do you survive? Human - And if you were my soul, wouldn’t you have to be inside of me? Soul - Why would I want to stay inside you? You spend your time in the closet.
Human - But I thought… Soul - You think? Human – Excuse me? Soul - You said, “I thought”. Do you mean to say that you actually think? Because really, if you did, wouldn’t you have thought about why you’ve spent your life in the closet? Human - My closet? … But it’s safe, and warm, and it has everything I want and… Soul - It’s boring. Human - But it’s my home! Soul - But are you happy? Human - Of course I’m happy. What a question. Soul - But don’t you ever go out? With your friends? To a restaurant? To work? No? Human - Sure I do, I just take my closet with me. Soul - Isn’t that a heavy burden to carry? Human - No. It’s where I belong. Soul - You know, on the outside, there’s butterflies and rainbows and big tall trees, oceans and mountain ranges… Human - I have pictures of those things on my laptop. Soul - …and wine and cheese. And so much cheese! And so much wine! Human - Really, aren’t you just perpetuating the whole stereotype of wine and cheese and French people? Soul - Oh, (h)you, are a (h)utterly hopeless babouin! Human - A what? Soul – Un babouin? Un singe. A monkey. Idiot. Like, ooh ooh ahh aaah. Human - We are digressing from the topic. Soul - Ooh ooh ahh aah…
Human - Now really, look, why are you here? Soul - Ooh ooh aah aah ooh ooh ahh aah. Human - Okay that’s enough really… That’s enough! [ Human stands up and lunges at Soul but is blocked by bars. Extended silence as Human realizes there are bars inhibiting him/her from reaching Soul.] Human - What? I just don’t…understand. Soul - Isn’t it obvious? Your closet is imprisoning you. Human - But I thought the closet was only in my mind. I thought I could get out if I wanted to, needed to, I thought… Soul - The closet is very real for you, Human. As your Soul, I can escape it. In dreams and in nightmares, I am on the outside of the closet, living the life you wish you had. Human - Oh no no no. I’m perfectly happy in my closet. I am… But if, just say if, I wanted to get out, what would I have to do? Soul - Scream. Human - Scream? Soul - Scream, “I am in the closet and I want to get out”, until somebody hears you. Human - But that’s so awkward. Soul - Life is awkward. Human – Well, then, I think I’m going to just stay here for a while, and try to forget about you. Soul - You do that. Go right ahead. Turn your Soul to mush. Why should I care? [ Human turns on laptop. Soul melts to mush. ]
In the sunlight, I bathe naked just to prove that I belong in my skin, like, look, no seams the fingers fit, flawlessly but then again, it’s just flesh, ripe, firm the devil makes us sin until our insides shrink like raisins or dryer sheets scentless and see-through, we grow thin, like the devil doesn’t eat the skins and we begin to look as awkward as puberty felt as difficult as it gets to breath when you’re coughing up placenta or bits of pneumatic lung and the smaller that you shrink the bigger a burden you become you’re aware of this in nights too cold to cry out for another blanket, tears like secret diamonds better saved than spent wishing for a fire to consume you if they would only light it someone else’s hands, always the length of cord like a noose the severing of scissors, switches, tubes of fluid, in somebody else’s hands belly buttons and stitches like this is a rented suit and only the devil lets us loose.
SEX SPACE
by: keiosha ross
Sweet Suck Sip My Tea Tea Gently It is Hot to the Lips Sweet Succulent A mist Stir my Cup A hole Erupts Spinning It is Luck Slow it down It’s Enough