personal: wednesday at 2 and why I became an Anarchist or whatever



Wednesday. Afternoon. After. Noon.
For a couple of days I've tried to find a feeling. A feeling that transcends all things that fall apart, that transcends the too fossilized, the too hardened. And I've tried to find feeling beyond provocation, fight or critique. Practically, I've tried through paper, through transparent, cloudy paper and stenciling. Through poems about romantic landscapes that cracks, through, cutting, tearing, gluing, sketching, coloring. Through stenciling the wall outside the house and draw the horizon over the other block.
Yesterday I received a mail from my friend Carin. She wrote that she was thinking of what's dark in the summer. It was a delivery. And a deliverance.
Sometimes I think about another friend. How he is too much inside. Too involved. He needs to step out. But every time he tries he's trapped. But how can I be outside? Still I carry parts of what he's carrying inside me too.
That's a feeling I'm searching. I'm searching for that slightly off beat rhythm.




For the last days I've asked myself why I've not been writing especially explicit politically for a very, very long time. Maybe it was when I some 15 years back was part of some kind of nominating committee for a big youth left wing group discovered that it was imposible to nominee anyone for the new board as every single one interesting for the position had fucked some of the others, or someone in the committee. That meeting I walked out on and never returned to any association or political party again. And kept fucking outside the political realm. Clearly anti-political fucking.
The same year I discovered how the Kurdish self-determination movement was capitalized as political hot stuff. And while being in a sexy project people risked their life meeting members of the Swedish organization that only intended to be involved 6 month, as that is how long a project period was defined in the political program. So I walked out on party politics. On the dialectic relation of left and right that was at the same time too blurred, or rather consensus oriented and simultaeously too black and white. For what is the left direction? What's the right? Or rather, what's the ethics of the left? Capitalization of solidarity and guilt? What's really at stake against fascism? Surely not jargon, or mobilization of one perspective, but rather the mesh, the swarm and the diffusion. The contradiction and the very, very conflictual.

And I walked out on the feminist discourse after a controversy, never was queer, other than queer.
For in some of these seminars I regularly visit with, for sure brilliant, feminist scholars that talk and talk and talk with us about the importance of other readings, other actions, other things, I miss the consequense, the reacting upon. For still, we sit at the seminars talking about how different we'll make stuff, yet never really doing anything else than arguing about the importance that our boyfriens and us should do the dishes equally often. Well, I don't know if the dishes is feminism, or what's really at stake here. Is dishes what's at stake I have an urgent feeling that we need to reevaluate the situation of our culture and what we really wish for. Maybe the dishes have to suffer. For in my everyday it's other annoyances that is pretty hard to face, and where good old equality discourse doesn't function, but action do. Where radical thinking works as good as anything and where it can't be separated from bodily actions. But it's about finding the feeling, of keeping outside that language group of branches and subbranches and stuff and try something else. For fascism will show in any organisation, association, relation of we're not re-organising our thoughts fast enough. Reacting fast enough. Using other words.

Sometimes I notice, in larger situations that's embedded in a a certain political jargon that I'm both uncomfortable and a bit in the fringes of the group. It's like moving between different kinds of social groups and noticing how differently one is perceived. And changing shoes makes a difference for changing imaginary - often based on class. But I'm intrinsically uncomfortable.
And of course I'm most uncomfortable with myself when noticing that I by guilt chose to sit next to some person with darker hair than mine on the bus just so that no one will mistake the situation and think that I'm racist or something. And by my own guilt I unmask what a real fucking racist I am. Some kind of Joseph Conrad-guilt. Guilt of what? For what?

So it is possible to operate beyond guilt or anxiety? Beyond the Swedish word "oro"?  Is it an "oro" for not being neutral enough? For not taking enough a stand? For not fighting for the right of? For not talking enough? Can I think through the scissors and paper a bit off beat? Through the pencil. Through whatever you like. Through criticism but not critique. To be angry and inside the shit, still not as anxious as we can't step out and say something different, maybe something outside the political jam. And dare to be uncomfortable at most times.


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