Something Old I Found

hello
like sun
on sun-burnt skin
unbearable and intrusive

with no hope for shade
hello
like salt water
on tiny papercuts
naive until
the sting sets in

taking bittersweet revenge
hello
like sand
on bleached teeth
frenzied and grating
carving trenches

of marked pain
hello
like goodbye
when the word
drips and falls
like rain
when its still
yellow outside...EAC

Update on the Updates

for anyone that is dying for the next installation in my blogworld (as i am sure there are millions of you that are....), have no fear, more will be coming soon. i have been beyond super human busy and have yet to have a chance to collect on some of my thoughts.

therefore, check back soon (for those of you who check at all)

--e

Body Art

Above is the part of the inspiration for my new tattoo. During her life, Frida Kahlo held onto a mantra from an old Mexican folk song: Arbol de esperanza, mantente firme. Translated, this means tree of hope, stand firm, or tree of hope, keep strong. During the more painful periods of her life, she painted the above painting, entitled "Tree of Hope." In her right hand she holds a flag bearing the inscription of her mantra. I planning on getting the flag from the painting somewhere on my body--possibly the shoulder of my "broken collarbone arm."

"...i met a girl who kept tattoos for homes that she had loved..."

Feminism is Not a Dirty Word...

If I have not declared it before...I am a feminist. Gasp! Oh No! That dirty word... This is the reaction most people have to the term. Some of the disgust may not be unwarranted, because, in my mind there is a misconception of what feminism is today. In our post-post modern times (yes folks, sadly we left postmodernity some time ago), feminism has dropped it's first, second, and third wave meanings. This does not mean that hose meanings still do not pervade the term. They certainly do. However, the kind of feminism that I am proposing is not only about women and social, economic, political, relational, etc. quality, but about equality for all groups of people who are marginalized, stigmatized, weeded out by social discourses that fear "the other," that constantly seek to pick out that "which does not belong." Feminism, today, I would argue, is not about women hating men for all the evils of the world (although there are some warranted reasons for that hate at times...), it is about striving for a world that is not filled with judgment, hatred, poverty, pain, suffering, violence, despair. It is about striving for a world where people are free to be who they are without fear of being hurt, raped, mutilated, ostracized, exiled, etc. Therefore, anyone who respects the humanity in each person is a feminist to me.

Why am I ranting? I suppose I must come off as too hopeful. I am not hopeful that I will live to see the day when the world will possibly look like this. However, that does not mean that I can't fight for it while I'm alive. I'm sure women (White and African-American) during the suffrage movement were told many times that their dreams were impossible. If someone had stopped fighting then, I might not have the privilege to vote for our shitty presidents today. The point is I feel very passionately about helping those that cannot help themselves--not because they are not strong enough--but because we live in a society, we live in a world, that sometimes works incredibly hard against them.

Okay, so the point of this post. Finally! I am currently working on a paper (that I can hopefully submit somewhere) about the relationship between gender, race, violence, and the nation with a specific focus on the "borderlands" (the U.S./Mexico border), and even more specifically about the situation in Juarez, Mexico. In short, over the past 13 years more than 400 women have gone missing, and have been found dead, or are presumed to be dead, within and outside the city of Juarez (which is near El, Paso TX). The Mexican government has done very little to further the investigation over the past 13 years, and the majority of the murders remain unsolved. The majority of the women are young factory workers, who work in the maquiladoras (see: globalization) and who are, for the most part, kidnapped as they go to or leave work. Most of them are then raped, mutilated, and dumped in the desert or the streets of Juarez. This situation is clear example of how a cultural understanding of women within a nation can be tied to violence and the body. In a culture, where women are to remain silent, remain pious, are kept in the background--then violence is easily justified (theoretically, not morally). Women's body's, in this case, become objects subjected to physical manifestations of machismo and physical signs of a disregard for human rights.

If you want some more information on this situation, you can start here:

http://www.amnesty.org/es/alfresco_asset/24a3f182-a438-11dc-bac9-0158df32ab50/amr410112004es.html (P.S.--this one is in Spanish)

http://www.now.org/nnt/fall-2006/juarez.html

Poetry as a threat to National Security

Below is a poem written by a prisoner in Guantanamo Bay. Amnesty International is working within a larger campaign to close Guantanamo. Many claims have been made about the detainment of many prisoners for years without any criminal charges being filed against them or any hopes for a civilian trial. In the name of human rights, many have raised their voices against the institution. I don't know enough about the situation to comment intelligently, but it does not surprise me that it is possible that some innocent men line the halls of Guantanamo. The poem is quite beautiful and heart-breaking. For more information regarding the poem and this issue try this link: http://www.amnesty.org/en/news-and-updates/feature-stories/poems-from-guantanamo-20071212

“To My Father” by Abdulla Thani Faris al Anazi

Two years have passed in far-away prisons,

Two years my eyes untouched by kohl.

Two years my heart sending out messages

To the homes where my family dwells,

Where lavender cotton sprouts

For grazing herds that leave well fed.

O Flaij, explain to those who visit our home

How I used to live.

Iknow your thoughts are swirled as in a whirlwind,

When you hear the voice of my anguished soul.

Send sweet peace and greetings to Bu’mair;

Kiss him on his forehead, for he is my father.

Fate has divided us, like the parting of a parent from a newborn.

O Father, this is a prison of injustice.

Its iniquity makes the mountains weep.

I have committed no crime and am guilty of no offense.

Curved claws have I,

But I have been sold like a fattened sheep.

I have no fellows but the Truth.

They told me to confess, but I am guiltless;

My deeds are all honorable and need no apology.

They tempted me to turn away from the lofty summit of integrity,

To exchange this cage for a pleasant life.

By God, if they were to bind my body in chains,

If all Arabs were to sell their faith, I would not sell mine.

I have composed these lines

For the day when your children have grown old.

O God—who governs creation with providence,

Who is one, singular and self-subsisting,

Who brings comfort and happy tidings,

Whom we worship—Grant serenity to a heart that beats with oppression,

And release this prisoner from the tight bonds of confinement.

laughter unfastened

overcast and grey
weather for thinking
whether to think or brood
i had been looking lost and tired
top corner dusty edge
color images outlined in black.
i had been staring and wondering
how long ago was it
that i understood how to smile like that
head back open throat eyes shut
laughter unfastened
an object in motion
will stay in motion
until someone breaks her heart
trying to capture the moment.
in freeze frame
now not even remembering
how it began
or the basis for laughter.
who had thought
to steal the moment through the lens
so I was stuck fast
tangled in the sunlight forever.
other pictures gathered on these walls
exist only as stage productions
forced smiles learned over time.
we make pretty pictures happen
same teeth
same eyes
same frames
immune to feeling
discerning happiness through frozen limbs
is an undertaking
except that top corner shot
from days burned out in summer heat.
take me back under undisturbed
can one force the body to laugh that way again,
or must it always impatiently wait to be still?
anticipating the perfect moment
to free itself from false motion.
staring once more out the window
into deserted dark streets.
staring and wondering
while the sun breaks free from the clouds
to finally be trapped in the sky

Work in Progress

it's not done...but it's getting there

Things I've Been Doodling