Gender Agenda: Boundaries by kitya.m

Fay Roberts The Beginning is Always Today 'We

are greeted by the voiees of women And the visions of women 'We step into a forest of arms held wide

And fists raised high. enter a riot of colour: All the shades of defiance Everyr texture of aceeptance All the shapes of love. 'We are told to be bold W'e are gift"d permission We watch and we are seen. We listen and we are heard

'We

Here are the drearners of worlds And the weavers of dreams Here are the wall-shakers Here are the bringers of light We have encoded resistance Into an insistence to be heard Reshaping conversations In the realisation of worth. And by one man's metric, 'We are nasty. A degeneration of Our true station of serviliqr; Civilisation's demise in six slured syllables. Sad.

Listen: if the tower must be dismantled,

Brick by brick, to be rebuilt as kilns And hospitals, and libraries, And bridges, so be it. If the walls must be torn down, Aqabt, we'll lift our busy fingers And strong hearts to the task, Talking all the while. We will break silence with song, And fear with laughter, And dark grey f-ences with pinks and browns, Violets, whites, and greens. And we will plant flowers on your Place ol rest, and remember. And then we will move on, Dancing into the dawn. lYonun Cambri)ge at/ti/,ition o/ "textual art ruittanu", u part o/ tbe Ntuty Women morcment, origindllll irupivl by a rcmark lry 45th Pre,ri)cnt ol the llnitil Stater about hir mah ebttoral rivat, tbe titb ol thit pbu (ad a pbu in the alorementbnil ethilition) it a qrcte (link in blog po''t) by Mo,y WooLtomra/t Sbelby. Ori.qinlty publitbe? on tbit l,tttg po$ 1'4t:11!!l'!Y:!!r:/lytr!)rnw4'orn an? at a vilr onYouTulc

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Matilda O'Callaghan Forest

I don't know where to start How they all entered my heart Trepassing on my forest floor Cutting trees down looking for more So suddenly it was all set ahght I gave myself in without a fight Orange flames now make me think I could do with a good drink As this fire will now spread And torture for days in my head Control gone, boundaries are breached But dawn will come to me and teach Those I've loved and hated together To plant and grow these trees in all weather Learning to stand tall on one's own But know we are altogether sewn For a more inclusive and equal life Even in pain, even in strife I invite you all to build this forest with me Each and every single tree.

Marina Mateo OffJimits I wont stopyou ifyou try. Why would I, anyway. I've got nothing to lose so go ahead, look so insanely complicated, make me want to solve you andyou know that I will.

And dont ask for more because I already gave that part of me to someone else andyou're so gentle and so, so tempting but he's real, and even if'you make me warm he melts me in a way that doesn't even make sense because I shouldn't prefbr f'eeling unsteady

over being so wanted. My only condition is thatyou never try to make me f'eel that way. You're not allowed to cross that line because the only one who did got lost and never came back. As I said, I've got nothing to lose except more nights alone and that's not what f want now. So please,

go ahead and get closer.

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An introspection of my personal boundaries CN: Sexual assault I’ve been thinking about my own boundaries a lot lately – what they are, why they’re there, how I feel about them, how I can change them. Trauma and its fallout drastically altered my boundaries. The memories of multiple sexual assaults, forcible violations of my personal and physical boundaries, were buried and shut away for years but triggered by a single consensual touch, which imprinted that same feeling of violation onto ordinary, loving, consensual touch. Six-year barriers keeping the associated emotions under control collapsed and the feelings flooded out and, tangled amongst them like seaweed, the words, verbalising the chaos. Boundaries surrounding what and how much I tell my close friends were shattered, and suddenly I was fractured and my mind a war-zone. Every day since has been a renegotiation of my boundaries, a retraining and reprogramming of my responses, a learning to be okay. My newly restrictive boundaries are slowly being stretched and my mind is slowly healing. Each degree of trust, safety, relaxation is a milestone. It’s not easy; there are moments when it all spirals out of control again – I write this after a particularly bad night – but through it all I am learning a lot about myself, and I know that in the end I’ll be completely alright again. I will say this though: if men had respected my boundaries I wouldn’t be writing this. I’m not an object to be grabbed and touched, I’m a person with fears and feelings and reasonable boundaries over my own body. My body is mine and mine only. Love yourselves and your boundaries, folks, and keep going, you’ve got this ©

Anoaymous

8.1.18

And now it is time for us to pour tea Steaming into nice white mugs With nice white saucers Now we will remember differently will write ourselves apart Moments will become instances, examples, evidence

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Invisible except in graffiti: Stencilled rumours of Difl'erent shapes than the everyday. Even the ground surrounding the walls Has been scorched back to cinders, Part of the routine Every six weeks, A purge - blasting any hint of greenery. The guards have never heard ofaestivation, The way seeds wait out The drv times, Sleeping in the ashes until the rain's return, The kiss of water, The caress that wakens. They have no names For the colours that slumber, For the bright marks On doors, columns, unswept edges; Difficult to scrub awaf,/, Immune to fire. They lbllow routine, Sa['e, prisoning, straight-lined, W'hile the seeds wait For the dav when habit cracks Into curiosigr, To let the rains in.

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Galiena Mitchell-Dann

This Is Not Consent The title of the piece is 'This Is Not Consent'and displays a series of illustrated knickers belonging to young women between the ages of 18-21 in response to the recent raPe case in Ireland where a teenage gid's underwear was used as evidence against her. This is a small sample of what was a

total of thirt;r illustrations.

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Anon;zmous People laugh "Can't believe you kissed him"

I look to m.y f'eet Don't say anything, just listen How long until The taunting is linished What they don't know is I didn't wish this He invaded my being Then lett me, fleeing To proclaim a victory Completely contradietory To my realiSz.

I didn't want this I didn't want you But now I have to stand here Pretending it's a joke to me too

Ximena Barker Huesca 'Obsolete Technologr'

In an age of immense development in artificial intelligence and virrual realiqr amongst other technologr, it's a weird place sometimes to be a woman' Boundaries of real and unreal , physical and virtual are being crossed. I feel more and more replaceabl" - by r"""., to adult content online, by bots and machines. Even dating has been """y taken to the virtuai, with meeting conversations and heartbreak able to happen entirely online. Nowyou can even put a lbce on someone else's body in a pornographic film. This technology drives home a message to me, of what my pu{pose is. I am easily replaced, expendable. I am obsolete.

p*t

Fay Roberts

Truth Or... 1995. I have been on this track

For B9o/o of my life Every erg of my identiqr is bound in This thing that I aspire to be. For I am a medic-in-training-in-waiting. But, as time goes by, and I'm put to the test, Every time I'm questioned, the answer Medicine - f'eels like a fib.

It lies, shy, greasy and insubstantial, Uneasy on my tongue,

An acrobatic texture that Eludes my grasp and dogs my glottis. Manifestly in 2019 I am not a doctor Fucked-up qualifications Delaying my entry into relevance, Tempering my family identiqr I will always be what I aspired to be, Specifrcally - the way I so spectacularly missed. Back to the 90s.

My universiqr lectures frlled, end-to-end, With echoes - not-quite-dentists, Doctors manqu6e, Disenfianchised vets, Blistered by bitterness, many of us destined For support services The technicians, secretaries, and academics That underpin the successful, The golden grins we currently mock and enry

In unequal measure. But this is all useful experience. If nothing else, disappointment is a Potent source of poetry

although

At this point - 1993 - I am a musician But never mind that now... Because I want to talk about how lies feel, FIow, even when.you have no evidence, Conscience clear, these mendacities Clatter on the palate in a particular fashion,

Dash their slippery glitter down your throat, Cold between your shoulderblades, Make.you scratch at reddening pinna, And think: was that really tue? I've come to trust this, Learned that, when I've listened, I can trip disappointment before it hits,

Or at least be braced with Plans B through G.

Which is why I started to pay attention Every time I said yes? to Certain questions, Searched for alternatives on lormal forms, Pawed through wardrobes for something that

fit

Between yes and no,

AII of them and None of the above, Investi gating fashions that Flattered and flattened And lifted and whispered Arrd shouted this complex pattern of identity, Gifted only recently this expanded vocabulary. Shorr and rall, Wide and narow, Dangerous and safe, Strong and frail, Success and failure, Female

anl male.

I have been questing for something That rides tides, The shifting lines of flotsam That mark my boundaries, Eddying and reliably unsteady, Thinking how strong cores fbrm From challenging your balance On a daily basis. (And let's f-ace it - this has been Evident forever, this indecision of territory: Even my eventual degree

Straddling two subjects.) So I'm thinking: maybe the next time I'm asked for my gender I'll let my tongue follow my gut and tell them: Yet, or Probably, or The.tong o/ the iet, or Stick a pin in a li,tt ail we'll pbk V/hich one it it tilay. But, in the meantime, l'm Fay 'Whatever that means to you I'm still figuring out the lies And truths of how what That means feels in between

N\r lluttering shoulderblades. And maybe, some day,

Ill

have a neat and tidy answer;

You'll just need to grant me patience...

Bella Dalliston

--__------l

s I

l j

Bea Carpenter Sisters

she's seen me being sick, laughing sc much

I splurted out rny squash, crJnnglike a baby

over the boy I thought I liked, brushing my teeth, nude, dressed up, fussing and flapping We've shared clothes, bitter words and harmonies We've sat silentl;r togethe4 content in each others compa"ny the occasional giggle developing when one of us thinks of something worth remarking on.

I moan at her, cheer her on, compliment her and am her counsel.

she does the same for me

through long conversations and thousands of exchanged 'words of wisdom'over text. any boundaries between us are long gone, faded into hazSr memeiries along with any harsh feelings we've had towards eaeh other. W"e are

tightly bound together surrounded by a private army of compassion and

&iendship.

Anon;rmous

& r#*ffi

Lately, you've stafted to unhome yourself. Tenderly, then all at once

Your voice on the phone: 'I'm a unique ugly fruit I am soft and heary I am pulp turning rotten And I wish I could switeh'.

(I don't know what to do) So I archive.your {bundations. Starting with the bricks, each one numbered, The moss growing in-between The peace of' ten-year-old sleepovers.

You tell me: 'I have lost the edge of where I thought I was going' You tell me: 'I'm on my own'

I record ceilings and doors The rug which we lay on to count Glow-in-the-dark-stars : A r..,ay of measurins my bedroom floor" Unroof'ed

too-tall, I lie on the le& of the bed And somewhere the funpression of ayou who wzls onceyou and is stillyou buried in the you that makesyouyou lies on the right Both of us,listeniag to the moon.

THe futoox tlre goddess af the night Although apparently liftless, the Moon greatly affects lrl,

Earth. T'tre fluctuating monthly rhythm of reflecre,l l'"i' trvice daily ebb and flow of the rides and maay natural r t', l' essentially ilocked to the lunar phases as, uniqueiy, is tht' r ,'1', ' cycie of luamankind. The Moon is associated with rv,'tr,' ,' number r3,, perhaps because she moves r3 degrees 3 ,l*v ,',, the Earth rr.3 times in one year. ?eople see a man itt t h,' sometimes.a hare, owl, swan or lady, At an average distance of z4o,ooo miles, the Mootr i'. ,'rr,

neighbour. Her radius is r,o8o miles compared with th:rt ' 'i ': at 3,960 uriles, a ratio of 3:tr. However, the Moon is tr,,t and the Ea:rth's gravity pulls the larger hemisphere alrr.''' us. The Mroon thus has its 'dark side', which we Deltr .\r'rparadoxicallly becomes fully lit each new moon. The Mr:on's orbital plane is tilted to that of thc F.;rltli ;' the Moon crosses the Sun's path (rhe ecliptic) twicâ&#x201A;Ź ltt,,tii i,i or new Moron occuring at this time places the Sttn, M,,,'t, " in alignrnemt, enabling eclipses to occur.

A child learns through touch — feels the difference between wet & shiny, liquid & solid —stores the knowledge in fingertips as they reach for the edge of their world — find the place where me meets you, where you and me meet. Fingertips feel for boundaries and leave their smudged spirals on everything they touch.

Touch is beautiful when it is consensual. when boundaries are listened for and felt for. Touch is bound up with boundaries: touch, n. — Of two or more things: to border one another; to meet or coincide at a particular point. Touch can be pleasurable or painful, it explores physical boundaries but it also comes to hold meaning beyond what is materially definable. It is about relations between people. And when we say ‘that touched me’, we usually speak of a point of connection or contact that is not physical but emotional. An act of friendship might be ‘touching’, a song might ‘move us to tears.’ An experience ‘leaves its mark’. Reaching for language to describe an immaterial sensation we find ourselves using words which speak of tactility and texture, the tangible, that which can be felt, and of the point at which one thing meets another. When the outer world or another person affects us, we feel for the shifts in the border and the boundary-line.

Boundaries can be both separation and connection. I’ve drawn mine as circles — letting in and keeping out — pictured like this they are rippling — my fingerprints like a pebble thrown in water, making the contours of a mountain range on a map.

Fingerprints are traces of touch. Here are mine — five fingerprints —orange for the sandstone city I grew up in, the buildings which are my touchstones, the place which has left its dust on my hands in grubby gold. You can carry this zine with you. Hold it in your hands. It’ll have your fingerprints on it too now. You can feel all kinds of closeness when reading a piece of writing or looking at a work of art. Something might be made by a stranger but it still holds a strange intimacy. The page is a boundary-space, a way to connect and to keep separate. It allows for holdings-back just as much as it allows openings up. And you can open or close it any time you like. It’s away of feeling for, and drawing the boundaries.

boundary, n.

Pronunciation:'baundari Etymology: < bo-ltird n.1 + -ary-suffix'l

1" That which serves to indicate the bounds or limits of anything whether material or immaterial;

also the limit itself.

The theme for this Lent term CUSU Women's Campaign Gender Agenda zine is 'boundaries'. A boundary is a complex term, drawing boundaries and crossing boundaries can be difficult. \Mrether we are marking a line in the sand or blurring a binary, contemplation of the meaning of boundaries can help.

This is a collaborative page for allwomen and non-binary people in Cambridge. tt is a playlist, a gallery, an anti-supervision reading list. Scrolt through & add recommendations of images / texts / songs that share a loose link to

the theme of boundaries. This is a page for us allto contribute to and leam from (*" shared knowledge = care ** )

// Please also read / listen / look / add with care & respect //

If you feel that yr recornmendation needs a content note, then please add one

ll Read ll Your Silence Will Not Protect You - Audre Lorde Poems - Anne Michaels Soho - Richard Scott

The Kites Are Flying - Michael Morpurgo Love - Jeanette \Mnterson

Things I Don't Want to Know - Deborah Levy LAND - Gormley, Winterson, Richardson Houslights Website - Houselights is an organisation which runs workshops which aim to ensure that the next generation of theatre professionals understand how to report an incident of sexual harassment. https://housel ights. org. uk Eros the Bittersweet - Anne Carson

The Argonauts - Maggie Nelson

// Listen // I need my

girl- The National

This is the last time - The National I

was an eagle - Laura Marling

Don't let me bring you down - Laura Marling Patricia - Florence and the Machine Smother - Daughter Hurricane Drunk - Florence and the Machine How - remastered 2010 - John Lennon lmagine - John Lennon Venus as a boy - Bjork Dance with my father again - Done Again

Rehab - Amy Winehouse

ll Look ll

Paris is Burning - film 'Paris ls Burning is a 1990 American documentarv film directed by Jennie Livinoqton. Filmed in the midto-late 1980s, it chronicles the ballculture of New York City and the African-American, Latino, ggy, and transqender communities involved in it. Some critics consider the film to be an invaluable documeniary of the end of the "Golden Age' of New York City drag balls, and a thoughtful exploration of race, class, gender, and sexuality in America' - \Mkipedia

Blue (1993) - film

Blue is the twe$th and finatfeatuse frlm by director Derek Jarman, released four months before his death from AIDS-related complications. Such complications had already rendered him partially blind at the time of the film's release, only hing able to see in shades of blue.

The fi,lm was his last testament as a film-maker, and consists of a single shot of saturated blue mlour filling the screen, as background to a soundtrack where Jarman's and some of his long-time collaborators' nanation describes his life and vision" - Wkipedia

Adding to this: Derek Jarman kept a sketchbook with hand written notes & poems alongside pages painted in Yves Klein's'lnternational Klein Blue'. Some are overlaid with gold lettering One page reads: I

want to share this emptiness with you.

Not fill the silence with false notes or put tracks through the void

lwant to share this wilderness without fenes The olhers have built you a highwaY fast lanes in both directions I ofier

you a joumey without direction

\Altrere our paths cross for a moment

like the swallow that flevv through our ancestors medal arm yourself like a warior for a journey into the unknown I offer

you uncertainty

no svveet condusions

Forest, Field and Sky: Art out of Nature (BBC programma) - a clip of it can be found here: https:/lwwwyoutube.eomlwatch?v=Yxll3r4Zx<4 - an artis* tights a fire in the sea! Richard Long, 'A Line Made by Walking' (1967)

Land - Anthony Gormley

*r*&

Louise Bourgeois .. look at her red drawings - there are allsorts of boundaries here. You can see some of them in Kettles Yard (https:llwww.ketflesyard.co.uldeventslartist-rooms-louise-bourgeoisf)

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