Even in 2016, listening to our bodies is a radical idea

Frist published in the Bristol Cable.

Bristol company Coexist have caused a media sensation by discussing a ‘period policy’ for its majority female workforce – the shocking idea that women who need to take time off to deal with menstrual pain should be able to.

While most coverage was supportive or ambivalent, some commentators such as the callers on LBC radio slammed it as ‘a very convenient girly card’, and unfair to men. It seems acknowledging that severe period pain, is, well, painful is still a radical idea in 2016. And that’s not even taking the feminist politics into account.

Bex Baxter, a director of Coexist and facilitator and life coach, is not entirely sure why this story has been so big, but wonders if it could be the phrase ‘period policy’ itself.

“The word ‘period’ represents the core of life – what it is to be a woman, and ‘policy’ represents the patriarchal mechanism to control people to make sure they don’t abuse the system,”  Baxter says. The combination of these two words presents us with an unexpected combination of ideas that seem to be in tension with each other.

Coexist, who manage Hamilton House in Stokes Croft, announced their plan to create a period policy for their staff in February, aiming to recognise and plan work around employee’s natural cycles.

The Coexist policy is currently in process and will address all natural cycles, including the menstrual cycle. Baxter says that even in it’s most basic form, any period policy at all – even voluntary – is radical, “We offer choice. Some women might not want to take it, but we will support women if they think it’s beneficial to them.”

 “It is revolutionary… It’s about truth.”

Headlines latching on to the idea that women could be given time off work due to bad period pains have almost universally missed the wider point. They’ve instead highlighted that capital is the priority as opposed to health, menstruation has been medicalised, and talking about periods in general is still taboo. For Baxter it’s much bigger than one day off work a month.

“It is revolutionary. It is groundbreaking work. It’s about truth. The reality is that women have periods and they shouldn’t be a problem – they’re not a sickness.” Baxter said, “Sickness can occur when natural cycles have been repressed, because women are not being given permission to recognise and work with these cycles.”

Behind this policy is a way of valuing our natural cycles in all aspects of our lives – not just the workplace, suggesting that humans are cyclical beings trying to fit into a linear society.
Baxter thinks we are misinformed about our menstrual cycles:

“Even for women it’s taboo, they are embarrassed and ashamed of their periods, feeling that these natural cycles repress them, making them the weaker sex. This is old debris but still in our consciousness.”

The power of our menstrual cycle can be used intelligently for emotional help. “When this happens,” Baxter said, “women become powerhouses.” Could this be the beginning of a self-care revolution?

As Baxter argues, resistance is an opportunity for change and Coexist are happy to be the first to the party, even if they are not exactly sure why this story has been so explosive. “If we at Coexist can begin to pull it apart, then it might give other people confidence to explore it for themselves.”

Baxter confirms that this could be the beginning of something bigger,  “Women in pain is almost missing the point, but it is a starting point. I don’t mind wherever anyone is in the conversation as long as the conversation is happening.”

Lift leg, place foot down, take a step

First published on Medium.

Recently, whilst I was in India, I had a sudden realisation. It hit me when we were halfway up a huge hill on a forest trek with a group of school children. I was sweating through my clothes, panting slightly from exertion and wearing a pair of seemingly over-the-top sturdy boots (in comparison to the sandals of one of our guides). Each time I paused for a breath or for a swig of water I felt tired, but I felt good. Usually any kind of exercise that is constant for an elongated period of time makes me feel sort of guilty. It makes me feel bad about my health, my low levels of fitness and the state of my under exercised heart. I tend to choose sports like climbing, yoga and silks — which take short spurts of energy and strength, combined with resting positions and moments of consideration. Which way does my body move, where is the fulcrum of my balance? Half of this kind of exercise is about understanding your body and solving the riddle of how to use it to it’s best potential, a form of technique or style. The other half is pure strength.

On my way up the hill I realised something. I felt grateful. I felt grateful for my health — rather than the usual feeling of not feeling quite healthy enough. I felt grateful for my knee which has always caused me problems, but seems to be doing so less and less these days. I felt thankful that actually, I do exercise - cycling every day, climbing and doing yoga, and that my body seems to function more or less in a great way. Aches and pains come and go — I occasionally get a cold, but I haven’t had a serious knock out flu for a long time.

I have never really thought of my health this way before. To be proud of my body — not in an aesthetic sense but in a deeper way. I had that little buzz, the little ripple of excitement in my stomach, that I can remember from way back (over ten years ago) when I reached the bottom of the Himalayas after a two week trek in Nepal. Back then I was in Kathmandu, watching the pouring monsoon rain from my humid hotel room, slowly registering that I had climbed the Himalayas. It felt indescribably good. And it felt good in a deep deep place.

Suddenly, I had this feeling again. I felt indescribably good about my body. My bones, my skin, my nerves and my muscles — they all seemed to be working. They were doing what they are supposed to do and it felt like a fucking miracle. Yet, it’s just the human body doing human body things that it’s pre-programmed to do. Lift leg, place foot down, take a step. But even these minute details blew my mind. It was like a moment in a film when someone is brought back from the dead, or given a new body, or made visible for the first time (there should definitely be a film about this if there isn’t already) and they look at their hands as they slowly turn them over… These are my hands. And they do all the things hands are supposed to do. Aren’t they brilliant? YOU ARE BRILLIANT, HANDS, well done.

I wondered why this feeling had resurfaced. When I arrived in India I told myself to stop worrying about my lemons. I asked myself to not wallow over the negative feelings I’d been struggling with in 2015 and to not focus on what happens when I get back to the UK — instead, to just sit with myself. Be present. Try and see India for what it is — a break. A series of moments to appreciate everything that India may mean to me, without pulling it apart. I found myself just sitting much of the time. Listening. Watching. Just kind of ‘being’ (whatever that means). At the time I didn’t think anything of it, but now, back on my home turf, I feel as though it has allowed me to see the good alongside the bad. I’ve always turned to words, turned into myself when I feel things are bad — capturing descriptions and frustrations in my private notes. Yet, now the staccato moments that I usually have of seeing the spectacular or of recognising this beautiful life we are all a part of — these moments are lasting longer. They are sitting inside me for longer. The sunset last night still lingers in my mind. The beauty of the winter sunlight drowning me as I cycled home past the dock yard this afternoon feels overwhelming. The bright and simple feeling of my feet on my bike pedals driving me across the city that I love. The funny words in the local paper that made me smile. The little girl in the vegetable shop eating a pear with such detailed dedication that she almost made me cry with happiness.

I don’t really know what this all means, and to be honest, I don’t really mind not knowing. As long as it keeps on happening, I’ll keep on lifting up my legs, placing my feet down and taking another step.

When life gives you lemons…

First published on Going Local Going Green and Medium.

When life gives you lemons, don’t worry. Even if you can’t begin to imagine what lemonade looks like, never mind what it might taste like, don't worry. If you lose your lemons, it's okay - they are still out there somewhere, and in all likelihood, they’ll turn back up on your doorstep when you least expect them.
In 2015 I lost my lemons, so to speak. And when I say lemons, I really mean 'my shit'. The past 12 months have been full of ups and downs and roundabouts - a bit like Milton Keynes. It all began with Going Local Going Green.

On reflection

Going Local Going Green is this research project I’ve been working on looking at health, food, nature, economy, land use and food in the city of Bristol - not, as you may have thought, my lemons. As part of our Action Learning methodology we’ve had to meet once every four weeks or so to reflect on the past month and plan for the month ahead. This process is intense. It involves speaking for 20 - 30 minutes in a stream of consciousness about both the things we have achieved and would like to achieve, and also how we are feeling. In all of my 31 years of life I have never been in a situation like this before. To sit with 3 other people and to be given an opportunity to express how I feel about my life. The process began with speaking about work related to the research project, and it ended with a mini life crises. Being allowed an open and supportive space to express myself felt incredibly difficult at first. Although I like to think of myself as emotionally intelligent (or something along those lines) it turns out, when we started this back in April 2015, I was not. I was going through the motions but there was something blocking me, and this became more and more evident as the monthly sessions passed by. Some months I turned up hidden behind a stone cold wall - refusing to get any deeper than a list of actions and events for the past month, avoiding questions about emotions. One month I turned up and pretty much refused to speak because I felt so angry and sad. One member of the group who is much more learned in the ways of Action Learning said that this moment was when they thought they were either going to lose me, or break me. It turns out, I was ready to break. And break I did.

Feeling my way

I had a bout of depression for around 6 weeks, with days full of inconsolable tears and a sense of hopelessness I haven’t felt since I was a teenager curled up on the bathroom floor. I felt as though I couldn’t see the way out of how I was feeling and started to worry that this is how I would feel forever. I started seeing a counsellor who practices gestalt psychotherapy - connecting me with my body and my feelings in a way I hadn’t been aware of before. Who knew you could just feel emotions? I’m such an analytical soul (I blame academia) with an ingrained internal process of; emotions turn up - analyse critically - put in box - file in psyche - never think about again. I didn’t realise that with emotion comes acceptance and responsibility. There is a sense of intention and self care - and most importantly an understanding of yourself and of other people. Who would have thought? Certainly not me 12 months ago.

Pressure points

With this fresh look at my mental health, came a slow look at my physical health. I’ve been having migraines about once a month since my return from Mexico in March. I started seeing another therapist - an acupuncturist, to see if I could alleviate some of this pain. His work has also been around my emotional health, helping to ‘open up some of my channels’ which may have been seriously blocked since I was a wee bairn. Or at least since I was a teenager struggling to handle my emotions (the beginning of the box situation as above). Acupuncture has been a revelation to me. I don’t understand it. I know it works, because I can feel it. Different meridian points have made me feel different things. And the migraines are beginning to alleviate, which is incredible as they’ve been haunting me each month for the best part of a year now. How? I don't know. Sometimes you just need to trust that something works.

Menstrual times

Closely associated with both of the above is my new found menstrual literacy. When I started blocking my own communication in Action Learning, and making a note of when my migraines came, I realised it’s all related to my menstrual cycle. So, as one of my Going Local Going Green pals suggested, I started looking into what this could mean in terms of my menstrual cycle and the changes that my body goes through each month. It would be fair to say this is sort of a positive pandora’s box for me. Everything has been flying out, but it hasn’t all been bad. It’s been one of the most profound experiences of my life. We live in these bodies yet we know so little about them. It turns out we’re cyclical beings in a cyclical world that is pretending to be linear (and wants us to pretend to be linear too). It’s complicated and completely simple at exactly the same time.

So, now I’ve turned into one of those people who talks about lemons. There is a lot more to this, as you can imagine. I can feel my life changing every day. I’m trying to do the things that make me feel good more and to confront the things that don’t make me feel very good. I’m learning about what intention means. I feel like I’m a bit late to the mental health and wellbeing party, but I’m glad I’m getting there in my own time. I’m doing things like this; saying out loud the way that I’m feeling. It’s amazing and terrifying. There are still hard days and there always will be, but now I can allow myself to be honest with when I’m having these days and do the things I need to do to be kind to myself - whether it’s stretching my bones out or challenging my mind. I still find all this openness a minefield and I’m extremely thankful for my friends and family helping me to navigate through this. And I apologise in advance if I verbally vomit about any of this stuff, because I think it’s all brilliant and scary and I need all of your help to make sense of it all - and I hope I can help you in return.

Right now, my lemons are doing alright. I hope yours are too.

The Locavore Test

Blog first published here.

As part of the Going Local Going Green research project we’re embarking on a 100-mile diet – or the ‘locavore diet' as I have come to call it. In other words, only eating food that has been grown, processed and sourced within 100 miles of Bristol.

From the moment we start, I will adopt the locavore test to see if what I'm consuming is local or not. When I walk into a café I will conduct the locavore test. When I head to a friends house for a cup of tea – I will ask the inevitable (and occasionally annoying) questions of the locavore test. Before I bake a cake – I'll locavore test the ingredients. It may become a thing. (It also may not become a thing because I fear I’m slowly becoming that person – the difficult one that claims to have a wheat intolerance, or not eat animal products, or who can only eat raw, fallen foods from the trees of Eden and so on.)

How are we doing it?

We’re not crazy – although we may appear to be slipping into some version of mildly odd to the untrained eye. We’re undertaking this project to help us work out what we mean by ‘local’. After all, we are doing a research project that falls under the label of ‘Going Local, Going Green’. When we talk about local, be it the local shops or the local area, what is it that actually makes it local? Is it the fact it’s in walking distance, that it’s familiar to us, or is it more than that? When it comes to food it gets even more complicated. Did I buy it locally?  Was it processed locally? Was it grown or bred locally? Were the seeds local/ heritage/ native to the country or region? Where did the soil come from? These are all things we have to think about (maybe not the soil bit for now). Taking inspiration from the Canadian couple Alisa Smith and J. B. MacKinnon in their book ‘Plenty’, and the amazing food hubs emerging throughout the UK with the Open Food Network, we’re slowly developing a feeling of what ‘local food’ means in the contemporary sense of the word.

What have we done so far?

So far we’ve set dates to start the diet. Then changed them. Then set them again, then changed them again. My initial lassaiz faire attitude is starting to back fire on me as the fear and the list of ‘can’t haves’ slowly builds. We’ve been keeping food diaries in order to start thinking about where our food comes from. We’ve been researching certain products, such as flour, oil and tea to try and find UK born and bred versions of these, which we will report back on as we go. We’re going to keep video diaries, blogs and reviews on how we’re doing once the diet is underway. We’re compiling the aforementioned list of ‘can’t haves’, which will hopefully eventually become a list of ‘substitutes to’.  And we’re mainly talking about it. A lot. To anyone that will listen. Friends, family, strangers and people who might know things that we need to know – like Graham from Bertha’s Pizza who travelled the west coast of the USA in hope to find the best blend of flour for his pizza, or Jo Elliot from First Great Western on why they’ve decided to source from 15 miles around the train tracks in the South West for the food supplied on the train.

But - why?

There are loads of reasons to experiment with eating locally from supporting the local economy to understanding where food comes from. I know there are important elements like carbon footprints and food miles – but my main concern is that we’re supporting farmers that look after the soil beneath our feet. And that the food we eat is tasty.

My reasons:

1. I want to support local farmers and growers

2. I want to be aware of the rich diversity of food in our local area

3. I want to understand the implications of globalisation on our food system

4. I want to reconnect with my food

What do we think will happen?

Who knows? Maybe it will be easy. Maybe it will be really hard.  I’m guessing it will be more of the former due to our location – we’re not based in the Sahara Desert after all.  Yet I do still keep getting these waves of fear. What about coffee? What about tea? What if I can’t find any oats for my daily porridge? What about my hangover cure of a Big Mac Meal with a Coca-cola and packet of salt’n’vinegar crisps? WHAT ABOUT BOOZE?

Below you can find a list of rules we will stoically stick by…. and a couple of caveats. There needs to be some exceptions to the rules, right? Follow us on this blog with the locavore diet tag, or on twitter@goinglocalgreen and we’ll let you know how we’re getting on.

THE RULES

• All food and drink must be grown and/or produced within 100 miles of Bristol
• Cornwall is included in the 100 miles (it basically is anyway…)

• All elements of the food or drink product must be from within 100 miles: if it is bread, the flour, water, oil, salt and any other inputs and ingredients must be from within 100 miles.

• The same goes for booze. All ingredients must come from within 100 miles of Bristol.

• If we can’t get the information needed to determine where the whole product is from and we’re buying it from a shop – it’s not allowed.

• If travelling further afield than Bristol, the 100 miles starts with where the individual is located.

• Household ingredients that have already been bought are not allowed to be used for the trial period of month one (then we'll see...)

• When housemates or lovers are cooking for us, the meals are subject to the diet.

• Coffee shops mean consuming strictly only local teas/ coffees/ drinks. Sorry.

EXCEPTIONS

• Food at work meetings that cannot be avoided. ie. crew catering at Glastonbury or a work meal provided for you.

• If you are eating out, try to go for the meal and drinks with the most local ingredients. This doesn't mean we get to eat out every night. We promise. 

• If we can’t get the information needed to determine where the whole dish is from and we’re buying it from a restaurant, but over 50% of the plate is local – it’s allowed. 

• Family gatherings/ friends for dinner - try and discuss before hand and explain the project - forfeit some food if you know it's not local. 

• At the pub - only drink locally sourced beers/ wines/ whiskeys etc – don’t forget all of the product’s ingredients are relevant here – some research of ingredients in advance might help. But it might not.

Wish us luck - this might be tougher than we think. You can follow us here, or on twitter:@GoingLocalGreen

The child has a hundred languages

No way. The hundred is there.

The child
is made of one hundred.
The child has
a hundred languages
a hundred hands
a hundred thoughts
a hundred ways of thinking
of playing, of speaking.
A hundred always a hundred
ways of listening
of marveling of loving
a hundred joys
for singing and understanding
a hundred worlds
to discover
a hundred worlds to invent
a hundred worlds
to dream.
The child has
a hundred languages
(and a hundred hundred hundred more)
but they steal ninety-nine.
The school and the culture
separate the head from the body.
They tell the child:
to think without hands
to do without head
to listen and not to speak
to understand without joy
to love and to marvel
only at Easter and at Christmas.
They tell the child:
to discover the world already there
and of the hundred
they steal ninety-nine.
They tell the child:
that work and play
reality and fantasy
science and imagination
sky and earth
reason and dream
are things
that do not belong together.

And they tell the child
that the hundred is not there.
The child says:
No way. The hundred is there.

~Loris Malaguzzi
(translated by Lella Gandini here. h/t to Mr Key)

hurtigruten

A beautiful story of the boat on which my mother and I travelled the Norsk seas in the winter of 2011.

Lucky Dates to Play Monopoly 2014

Some genius from Jonathan O'Brien - the man behind this. 
Read more here.

The first time you play Monopoly will be in the first week of January as part of a monthly board game night at a local bookshop. You will play with your partner, your best friend and their partner. After three trips around the board you will have lost or spent all of your money. You continue to drink while they play, you get too drunk and start to call them all ‘capitalist pigs.’ Everyone knows you don’t mean it but the insults bring an unfortunate edge to the atmosphere. You and your partner go home early, the next day you apologise for being so drunk. They say it’s ok, you want to believe them.

The first week of February sees you playing Monopoly with the same people at the same night. This time you make it around the board four times before being bankrupted, this time by your best friend’s partner. You laugh it off, not wanting to cause the same scene as in January but your previous actions quickly create a nervous atmosphere. You drink as they play and, although you don’t go to the same lengths as last time, a few unnecessary ‘quips’ bring down the tone of the evening.  You and your partner go home early, the next day you apologise for being so drunk. They say it’s ok, you want to believe them.

March. The monthly board game night. Your partner asks if you’re sure you want to go, wouldn’t you rather sit in and watch a few episodes of The Wire instead? You say that it’s fine, that it’s all under control. That you won’t let the evening be ruined just because you lost at Monopoly. They reluctantly agree. Your best friend, who you haven’t spoken to since last month, welcomes you warmly. They kiss your partner on the cheek. Did that kiss go on a bit too long? Is that level of eye contact indicative of something else? You push it to the back of your mind. You’re being ridiculous. You play Monopoly. This time, thanks to some particularly shrewd and clever play by your best friend, you’re bankrupt before you can even pass ‘Go’ for a third time. The evening pans out as before. They play, you drink. Nobody says anything that isn’t necessary for the game. You go home early, your partner stays behind. They arrive home late and don’t say a word as they get into bed.

In April you decide to invite your best friend and his partner over for dinner and, to put it to rest once and for all, another game of Monopoly. The dinner goes well, the evening becomes relaxed and happy. Nobody even thinks twice when you bring out the game and start to set it up as your partner cleans the table. Your friend helps as you arrange the pieces before offering to go through and give a hand doing the dishes. Once the board is ready you go through to the kitchen to tell the others only to find your partner and your friend kissing in the kitchen. They leap back suddenly, they apologise, they try to explain. You cannot think. You leave the house and go to stay with your parents.

May. You have successfully destroyed the Parker Brothers factory and are now sitting in a tree outside your once friend’s house. Your dog is barking. Your top hat is tattered and worn. You do not have a car. Your now ex is in the house. Your friend’s partner is also there. From your vantage point you can see that they’re playing Happy Families. You barge in and demand to play. Terrified, they deal the cards and, until the sirens come, you win hand after hand after hand after hand after hand.

bleed

by the amazing Dominique Christina.

beautiful

The Moths 

 The doctor puts the scalpel to my chest and presses it in. Wait, I’m not asleep yet I say. The doctor doesn’t hear me. He tears the scalpel down to my navel and plunges his hands inside. I have to save this patient he yells as he begins pulling things out. First my stomach, then my intestines, then a few sniffing and uncertain mice. A wrench, a handful of hair, my liver. After the fish slides out, flopping and gasping, it’s your turn. You leap out, do a pirouette and a curtsey. You’ve always made magnificent entrances. Then, some moths.

Timothy Wojcik via Scud

I see teacups in your smiles

come closer.
come into this. come closer.

you are quite the beauty. if no one has ever told you that before know that
now. you are quite the beauty. there is joy in how your mouth dances with
your teeth. your mouth is a sign of how sacred your life truly is. come into
this. true of heart come into this. you are true of heart. come closer. come
closer. know that whatever God prays to He asked it to help Him make
something of worth. He woke from His dreams scraped the soil form the spaces
inside Himself made you and was happy. you make the Lord happy.
come into this.
come closer.

know that something softer than us but just as holy planted the pieces of
Himself into our feet that we might one day find our way back to Him. you
are almost home.

come closer come into this. there are birds beating their wings beneath your
breastplate gentle sparrows aching to sing come aching hearts come soldiers
of joy doormen of truth come true of heart come into this.

my heart was too big for my body so I let it go and most days this world has
thinned me  to where I am just another cloud forgetting another flock of
swans but believe me when I tell you my soul has squeezed into narrow
spaces. place your hand beneath your head when you sleep tonight and you may
find it there making beauty as we sleep as we dream as we turn over when I
turn over in the ground may the ghosts that I have asked answers of do the
turning kneading me into crumbs of light and into this thing love thing
called life. come into it!

come you wooden museums
you gentle tigers
negro farces in two broken scenes.
come rusting giants!

I see teacups in your smiles upside down glowing. your hands are like my
heart. on some days how it trembles. let us hold them together. I am like
you. I too at times am filled with fear. but like a hallway must find the
strength to walk through it. walk through this with me. walk through this
with me. through this church birthed of blood and muscle where every move
our arms take every breath we swallow is worship.

bend with me. there are bones in our throats. if we choke it is only on
songs.

-Anis Mojgani

#RageForGaza

In solidarity and with love.

Dear Coal

This letter is taken from this site originally written by this person. Gold. 

banks

"I built it with my hands. Straightened old nails to put the sheathing on. Rafters are wired to the stringers with baling wire. It's mine. I built it. You bump it down - I'll be in the window with a rifle. You even come too close and I'll pot you like a rabbit."
"It's not me. There's nothing I can do. I'll lose my job if I don't do it. And look - suppose you kill me? They'll hang you, but long before you're hung there'll be a guy on the tractor, and he'll bump the house down. You're not killing the right guy."
 "That's so," The tenant said, "Who gave you orders? I'll go after him, He's the one to kill."
"You're wrong. He got his orders from the bank. The bank told him, 'Clear those people or it's your job.'"
"Well, there's the president of the bank. There's a board of directors. I'll fill up the magazine of the rifle and go into the bank."
 The driver said, "Fellow was telling me the bank gets orders from the East. The orders were, 'Make the land show profit or we'll close you up.'"
"But where does it stop? Who can we shoot? I don't aim to starve to death before I kill the man that's starving me."
"I don't know. Maybe there's nobody to shoot. Maybe the thing isn't men at all. Maybe, like you said, the property's doing it. Anyway I told you my orders."

"I got to figure," the tenant said. "We all got to figure. There's some way to stop this. It's not like lightening or earth quakes. We've got a bad thing made by men, and by God that's something we can change."

John Steinbeck, Grapes of Wrath, Chapter five, 1939

MA dissertation

in a wordle. 2 days to go. and counting. 

article 27

I am now a blogger for the wonderful Article 27.


 In Article 27's own words: 

Article 27 believes human rights issues and stories are often best told through creative means. We research and write on a variety of finds- old and new- that shed light on human rights issues in a unique way.

We want Article 27 to be a hub of inspiration for human rights activists, artists, technology enthusiasts, and anyone who believes in the power of creativity.

The Universal Declaration of Human Rights, Article 27: 

•  Everyone has the right freely to participate in the cultural life of the community, to enjoy the arts and to share in scientific advancement and its benefits.
•  Everyone has the right to the protection of the moral and material interests resulting from any scientific, literary or artistic production of which he is the author.

You can find my first blog on institutionalised racism represented by a collaborative artwork in the United States of America here: The House That Herman Built


You can also find a rather brilliant piece by the lovely Sushi on the french artist JR here: Women are Heroes


And a very touching photo tribute to Troy Davis, who unfortunately was executed amid national and international outcry last week: The execution of Troy Davis


As my friend Dilhayat told me this week:
 earth without art is 'eh'...


I definitely concur. 

Light

As If Thighs Were Parentheses
by Saul Williams

What my fame affords me
I will use to spread the light
that is caused by the book
that burns to clean the air
at night.

There are some
that would save
the book and others
that would write.

There are those
who would die
for it and soldiers
who would fight.

I have learned
of this book that burns
that it cannot be helped.

There are words
that will catch aflame
as others tend to melt.

There are phrases
soft turns of speech
that shake flesh to the bone.

There are ways
of our saying things
that shape truth into poems.

Or perhaps
they outline a shape
that is already there

like the face
of my sweet beloved
framed by unruly hair.

And these strands
are just words combined
to comb through with
your eyes.

They are wigs
over mountaintops

-the snow
that draws
the eyes.

They are there
when you see them not.

What man sees
his own heart?

He is drugged
and then put asleep
before he's cut apart.

And procedures
like this only done
when arteries are clogged.

Spills and waste
down the mountainside
with forests cut and logged.

All the trees
now shaped
into books
and building-
blocks designed
will take shape
from the mountainside-

the forest of the mind.

And the mind is an active place
where climate will control
means of growth and the greenery
that springs up from the soul.

And the soul
it is like the soil
-as i am into u.

What begins
as a seed of thought
now manifests as true.

It takes time
for a rock to melt
-to decompose a corpse.

And the soil
is full rich with time
like mountains rich with quartz.

Full of charge.
Full of energy.

Full of nutrients and life
sucked from death
which is overturned
and risen to new heights.

Over time
life repeats itself-
the cycle of the wheel.

And the will
is a driving force
to feed, defend, and kill.

What it kills
takes a different shape
as consciousness transforms.

Laws emerge
to defend new life
and thus new crimes are born.

And what's born
from a spinning wheel
is willed and welled
into shape.

Forms emerge
from the sculptors hand
nuanced by love and hate.

And the hate
is grown out of love
of comfort and control

and is shaped by the overgrowth
of fear/hope decomposed.

We compose
with creators hands
the music of the mind.

We choose words
like piano keys
to ease thought to chime.

And we chime upon everything
and every sound we hear.

We diffuse
all times ticking bombs
to distill hope from fear.

And the hope
that we plant we tend.
We water, trim, and cut.

Like the grape
on its path to wine-
we smash beneath our strut.

And we strike chords with expertise.
We lean into each note.
We give time a new signature.
Small hand on big throat.

All the gun barrels
placed in mouths
all the tongues
fingers
parts

can account
for the silent times
where words
play no part.

Love is art
of the give and take
the build and break
the bends.

It is found in
a simple kiss

the laughing bliss
of friends.

And our friends
and our enemies
are much more
than they seem.

They are tall
booming beams
of light with their own
hopes and dreams.

We form teams-
nationalities-
taking sides
with our own.

We commit
to our fantasies
our prayers
and our poems.

And these poems
how they turn to dust
how they blossom with time.

They are like seeds
the farmer plants
with bare hands
in the mind.

And my mind
feels the brush of wind
takes strangers in
notes signs.

It is coaxed
by the pretty face
Egyptian lace
the kind.

And it broods
in it's silent place.

And stirs
when she calls.

And it prays
for a peaceful space.

And answers to Saul.

But it knows
it knows none of it.

And it blurs
by the feed.

It prefers
all the gentler things
and cyclically bleeds.

And it bleeds
flowing streams of words
through the silence of night.

Softest page
of her inner thigh.

She asks
“What would You write?"

I would write
of a burning book.

How each thought stood alone.
How the words had formed families
sheltered from the unknown.

How the unknown would come again
for the words could not hide
truths and meanings
they held within

when the pen
took no sides.

And the pen
could be fingertips
softest tongue
against flesh
little toes
against calves
and necks
behind ear
with soft breaths.

And the writing
became the walls
and proposed new design

until silence took charge again
and disposed
of the mind.

How she laughed
when I told her that.

How she smiled
and she stirred.

How the room
took a different light.

How the lights
beamed and blurred.

All the lights
of the city gleamed
as if all burned at once.

All the thoughts
gently laid to rest-
the bequest of new Suns.

And the books
that would hold these thoughts
were the Suns that now burned
in small rooms that were
just like this
where we basked
and took turns.

And the spotlights
that shine on me
navigate every touch.

I am moved
to the darkest space
where small stanzas erupt.

And eruptions
they blind and quake
when too close
to the site.

As if thighs
were parentheses
holding silence
in light.

the girl

She picks up her pen and lets it move. The shapes pour out of her mind, into her body and out in a trickle of ink that twists and turns and twists and turns telling stories of beauty and grace and hope and betrayal. She pauses, bringing the pen to her mouth momentarily, breathing in, letting her lungs refuel and her thoughts collect. The pen touches the paper again with such a force the paper prepares itself to tear.
Yet it holds true, soaking up the black liquid, allowing itself to turn its surface into something new, a tattoo of what is yet to come.

She loses herself.
Has it been an hour? A day? A month? How long has she been sat under this spotlight, hunched over her note book, churning out images that pull at her imagination, forcing themselves to take form. She stops and places the pen beside the paper carefully, as if she was nervous of disturbing the drying pictures, heavy with ink. She always pressed too hard when she drew. It is what gave her drawings such intensity I think.

She lets her hand drop to her lap and fumbles about in her back pocket for her tobacco and papers, still focused intently on the images before her. She breaks her gaze to roll a cigarette and rubbing the paper with her stained fingers, brushing her cheek with her hand, leaving a smudge of her creation on her jaw line. Lifting her lighter for her cigarette she catches sight of her hands, pale in the soft surrounding light on the periphery of her desk lamp. She flexes her fingers and holds her hands out, palms down, for an inspection. Flecks of ink spattered across her skin and dark patches shined where she had pressed down on spilled ink that still remained from the previous days work. Her short nails made her hands her own, feminine, light with their touch, still and passive. Insatiable.

She lowers one hand and finds her cigarette with the other. She leans back and smiles, wiping the loose hair from her face, rubbing her eyes, relaxing her smile and letting her head roll to one side. She closes her eyes and sees the images she had just painted dance in front of her.

Her eyes snap back open and she grins quickly, eyes sparkling as she stubs out her cigarette.

There was work to do.

anti cuts

wow. so. I don't really know where to start.

since I have tiptoed off to sweden, the past few months have seen some big big changes in the uk due to decisions made by the new coalition 'condem' government. I have been watching from the sidelines, fingers poised, following the events intently, my fervent stare broken only with shouts of disgust against the government and fist pumps in support of the students, trade unions, and all other manner of human beings taking it to the uk streets to demand their voices be heard above the grinding of the corporate wheel screaming of capitalism, ignorance and the newly appointed tory majority house of lords interests.

I have been powdering my fb page (the all omnipotent fb) with little snippets of what has been going on in the past few weeks.

I would like to share two of my favourites.

I came across this guy via some other non-believer.
Mollitas and I have just watched his take on the 9th december protest, all 41 minutes of it, and discussed how we feel the protests have been represented in the media and how clever this guy is.
He knows his rights. damn yes he knows his rights. and I'm starting to feel that this is the major problem with rights. you have them, I have them, we all have them, but nobody actually realizes or exercises them... why? because the government backs (or kettles if you will, keeping on the protest vibe) the public into a corner, telling them that national security and terrorism and other big scary words are all important and that they (the state) are protecting us (the public) from... from... ?
ourselves? each other? because I really don't know who it is we need to be protected from when it comes to legitimate protests on the streets. we have voices and they should be heard. after all, this is a democracy. this is a democracy. this is a democracy. THIS IS A DEMOCRACY.

...oh i'm sorry i forgot that it doesn't matter how much the people speak up, ultimately if what we want is not hand in hand with free market capitalism, the arms trade and consumerism it doesn't really matter. education? not for you mate. especially not if you haven't got a few thousand quid in your pocket. I'll just reserve this university place for someone who can afford it and wants to study economics or business or something 'useful' like that. I have already been notified on application for my student overdraft that i couldn't get a loan because 'human rights is not a useful or practical masters... its not like medicine, or law is it?' by the kind man with a big smile sitting opposite me at the bank.



okay, cynical rant almost over...

another friend pointed me in the direction of this fantastic writer from the new statesman..
Laurie Penny.
Her take on the situation is fascinating and honest and extremely well written:

"Things fall apart. Something fundamental has changed in the relationship between state and citizen over the past month. Increased police violence will not stop our democracy disintegrating: before it's too late, before more children are brutalised at the heart of what once pretended to be a representative democracy, this government needs to consider its position."

and her 15 best slogans from the student rally are absolutely brilliant:

• 7. Tiny teenager in a tutu with a megaphone: Marx was right! Marx was right all along!
  
• 14. London teenager with a placard: Fuck this, I'm moving to Scotland!
• 15. Polite hand-drawn slogan by Bath university student: I very much regret voting for the Lib Dems!

good job guys. Keep up the fight.

tribute to emily teague

she sat on the steps and looked at the sky. It was still above her as she gently rested her fingertips in the cold strings of her guitar. Her hair hung in front of her eyes as she played, masking her face from the familiar stories she told with each note she sang.

The air was old and soft, and smelt of the city that she had grown up in. The music seemed to spill out of her palms each time she strummed a chord, the sound barely audible and lingering in the warm evening air. Each word spoken held its purpose and read like a poem drifting slowly around her small form nestling in the darkness of the evening.

She never thought when she sang. She just carried the music from her guitar, and let it free into the space around her, as it bounced off the brick walls and iron railings, old cars and rusty bikes crumpled against the neighbouring buildings, making each surface tingle with the new sensation of music.

The street transformed with each song. She sang louder and with more honesty as the guitar seemed to play itself, her movements pushing and pulling the notes until her voice merged with the music and she seemed to disappear into the street scene, as the focus faltered and the music took hold. The sky swam, her words softened and slowly the music created a picture of its own, resting above the harsh forms of the city, colouring them with ideas of love and truth and pain that helped create the rooms behind each door of her street.

The people pushed their ears up against their keyholes, their letterboxes and the cracks in the windowpanes to hear the sound of honesty filling the street in which they lived. The music called to each soul that was lost, confused and yearning for a familiar story to their own. The words filled their eyes and ears and covered their skin with colours they had forgotten existed. Shapes danced in the sky. Light danced on the concrete steps on which the girl sat. People danced behind their curtains, swaying their shoulders, loosening the knots that had tied themselves to the people they had come to believe that they are.

The girl sat on the steps and looked at the sky, her eyes open, her heart full and her notes on their way up to tell the moon a story of their own.

globes

capitalist neo-liberal consumerism creates consumers who can consume like no one else imaginable.

tv shows, technology, food, clothes, money, cars, houses, music, kitchen appliances, leisure activities, holidays, sports equipment, concerts, drinks, ideas etc etc...

and this seems to create a problem with me. i like to think of myself as an open minded person. i am politically aware on the large part, i am engaged in current affairs, i have a mix of friends and acquaintances, a fairly diverse mix of interests, i enjoy conversations and people and the sharing of experiences and ideas on a daily basis... and yet i am a consumer. i can consume like no one else. perhaps not entirely in the sense of material goods like trainers and clothes and cars... but in the realm of ideas and ideologies and information. and because i am a consumer (this sounds like an excuse) i do not always retain the information I am given. however shocking it may be.

i think this may be due to my desensitization. and perhaps fear. Every day we are told single stories of places and people.. the poor people of the continent of Africa, their plight, the poverty and the HIV/Aids issue... the poor people of the occupied territories of Palestine, their struggle, the violence and the anger... the poor people of the UK, drug addicts, from broken homes and council estates... and although i am an empathetic person, and i feel sympathetic to these causes it does not make me take to the streets in protest. it does not make me throw a shoe at the president of the united states. it makes me angry and frustrated and write some words and perhaps say some words to some other people in heated exchanges... but because these stories are told to me every day by the worlds media, i become desensitized just like the rest of the masses. Oh, another picture of the devastation by a suicide bomber, another dying child of starvation in the Congo, another stabbing on the streets of my home town, Bristol. It is as though these stories are so ingrained in my life, as i look towards my studies in human rights and interest in globalisation and capitalism (or anti capitalism) i am immersed in a world of injustices and inequalities almost every day of my life. and i become complacent with my awareness. not every photograph reduces me to tears anymore... not every account of oppression and violence makes me grab a pen to write letters to my government... it has become mediated by the constant stream of information and naturalization of these issues into my world.

and although this may not appear as a positive thing... it also makes me aware of changes that are happening, perhaps not only to me, but perhaps to all of my generation... with this information boom i am able to choose independently where i get my information from. the bbc or al jazeera? i understand that media is far from neutral, that some sources are more reliable than others, that some certain journalists i respect far more than others... that sometimes a single photograph can tell more than an entire essay written on the same subject. that now we are able to share information, documentaries, tv shows, statements, songs, at the push of a button. i have found this most recently when being surrounded by friends from all over the world, sharing incredibly diverse and relevant information every single day, and the appreciation that comes with these acts of sharing.

with this vast and continuous dissemination of information every second of our lives we find ourselves open to certain information that may have never passed into our hands, or onto our screens and into our minds.

and this, i think, is a truly wonderful thing.