MONSTROSITY EXHIBITION

May. 1st, 2012 | 12:20 am

"All that was necessary to be loved widely was to publish one's anxieties. The whole enterprise of art was a calculated display of suffering." - Leonard Cohen.

Show me your monsters.

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WHAT WAITS FOR YOU

May. 1st, 2012 | 12:07 am

"Breavman, you're eligible for many diverse experiences in this best of all possible worlds. There are many beautiful poems which you will write and be praised for, many desolate days when you won't be able to lay pen to paper. There will be many cunts to lie in, different colors of skin to kiss, various orgasms to encounter, and many nights you will walk out your lust, bitter and alone. There will be many heights of emotion, intense sunsets, exalting insights, creative pain, and many murderous plateaux of indifference where you won't even own your personal despair. There will be many good hands of power you can play with ruthlessness or benevolence, many vast skies to lie under and congratulate yourself on humility, many galley rides of suffocating slavery. This is what waits for you."

Leonard Cohen, 'The Favorite Game'

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SUNDAY MORNING

Apr. 28th, 2012 | 03:46 pm

The earlier you walk away, the fewer memories will hurt you.

Are these stories yours or mine?

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WEAKLINGS OR JEZEBELS

Apr. 18th, 2012 | 10:58 am

Society - both men and women - hates little girls, because society hates women.

You may not have noticed, but being a girl is apparently one of the worst things in life.
So. The world hates you. You are considered the worst thing to be compared to. Throw like a girl. Talk like a girl. Cry like a girl. God forbid we ever be girls.
Throw like a girl? A weak, half-hearted, and ultimately futile attempt.

Run like a girl? An uncertain gait, tottering on high heels, one arm flailing comically for balance while the other holds on to your overpriced purse, knees kept together (otherwise your skirt will ride up and expose your bits).

Cry like a girl? Pointless tears cried out of frustration or fragility or the inability to grasp the problem. Why cry like a girl when you can be a man and solve the problem?

This year, in India, a man strangled and killed his wife for the heinous offence of choosing to give birth to a daughter.
35-year-old Paramjit Kaur's husband, Nishan Singh, had been very upset over having two daughters. Desperate to have a boy, the birth of a girl again angered him so much that he reportedly tortured and killed his wife in a fit of rage.
And it's not just the men who hate girls. It seems that women don't want daughters either.

Girls are harder to raise than boys, because girls are born dramatic and manipulative. (And these girls grow up to become...? Yup.)

The world is harder for girls than boys, sayeth they. (And a suitable reaction to the injustice is... non-action?)

Male hatred and fear of women is well documented if not widely acknowledged. In popular culture, Eve was the first sinner. Delilah broke Samson. Helen sparked the war between the Teuthranians and the Greeks. Pandora - stupid girl - opened a jar (though the men told her not to!) and by so doing unleashed all manner of evil onto the world. Herodias alternated between witchy dance moves and foolish games.

So the men reacted.

They cut off women's clitorises and sewed up our vaginas.

They bound our feet, breaking the arches to force the toes and heels together.

They killed female foetuses and new-borns, and neglected female infants.

We are either weaklings, or Jezebels. Little girls, or manipulative bitches. Useless bouquets of hormones, emotions, and desires for shoes, or cold-hearted ball-busting dominatrices.

We are either too fat or too thin.

We're too sexy (and therefore promiscuous!) or not sexy enough.

We are too assertive (what a bitch!) or not assertive enough.

We either have too many children (can't keep your legs closed?) or too few (is she infertile? selfish? both?)

The sad fact about misogyny is that both men and women are equally guilty.
I, personally, cringe whenever I hear a woman insist she can’t be friends with other women. Her statement is usually supported with generalizations like “women are back-stabbers” or “women are always jealous of me, how I look or what I have.” I get it. She’s probably been done wrong by a woman she thought was friend. But when I hear such blanket statements about our entire gender, I can’t help but wonder, if you are unable to form healthy relationships with other women, what does that say about YOU? Maybe that’s why Oprah and Gayle are constantly labeled as lesbians. Because society rarely sees two women, who never compete with each other or are jealous of the other’s accomplishments, demonstrate unconditional love, admiration, respect and support of each other in the way that these two besties have done. I’ve said it before: as much as I love men, there’s something special about the bond I have with my female friends that a male partner can’t provide.
So, women hate women. Men hate women. Is it any wonder that society hates little girls? Little girls are like women except too young to go to jail and too young to have their beliefs questioned.

When little girls are weak, it's because they are growing into women - weak, naturally, and therefore not a threat. When little girls are strong, this must be nipped in the bud, otherwise they'll grow up to become bitchy women, and who knows what sorts of demands they'll make to change the world and the men in it?

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A THOUSAND SUITCASES

Apr. 17th, 2012 | 03:06 pm

There are a thousand old suitcases between us stuffed with unwritten unsent letters soaked with uncried unheard unseen tears, separating who you are and who I am. With each step you take, the suitcases crash onto me, and I move further away. Each step you take brings us no closer but brings me more pain. Proximity can only be achieved when there is nothing in between to stop the union.

You have done all of the things that you could do to push us further apart.

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CORE

Apr. 16th, 2012 | 01:11 am

Beneath all our confessions and concealments, omissions and commissions, there will always be truths that we didn't know existed. I hope that there is more to the self than what is already known.

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SONIC

Apr. 15th, 2012 | 01:14 pm

What you have never had will never be flawed. What has never been born cannot die.

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LOOKING THROUGH ONE EYE

Apr. 15th, 2012 | 12:40 am

You will never see this, and if you do, you will never know or believe that this was for you.

I want to take all the words you have ever spoken to me, and all the secrets and all the nights you have ever shared with me, and all unfulfilled moments I have ever flicked at you, and put them all under my bed, that is, the tiny atom-thin blanket of air and dust that must surely exist.

For how can any two things be so close, so intimate, that not even an atom wall separates them?

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A DAYBREAK

Apr. 15th, 2012 | 12:31 am

You are still beautiful after 14 years. I want you to Overthrow Me.

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GIVE YOUR TEARS TO THE TIDE

Apr. 14th, 2012 | 02:04 am

What is the color of you? It is the boldest blue, the cruel scorching blue of a sky determined to destroy. It is the blue of the innocents led by the hands of the church and grown mighty by their own will. It is the blue of the fresh sheets laid out week after week by the hands that love, the chest that will never be whole, the eyes that have seen too much loss. Your color is the boldest blue.

It is true - of all the memories I have kept close to me, like a tightly folded note ensconced conveniently in a pocket of the least favorite handbag, of all those memories of you, it was the memory of the precise moment of your departure that I had scratched away from the glass lens of my mind. What did we say? How was it said? We said so much many times, and then we did not, that the winds of time have swept over and confused all the words with the silences and all the yeses with the nos.

In complete darkness, I flood the canals of my ears, leaving mauve, gold, and tangerine beats struggling, treading, floating, diving. There is only a scarlet sliver bulging out of a forbidden place.

I wrote words that you didn't understand. I don't understand the words that you didn't write. Your two questions are the perfect answers to all the questions I asked myself between that forgotten second and the clarity of this night. Thank you for repainting the colors of my memories of you, brusquely, yes, but pure and accurate in every hue.

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