[16 retratos]

The men are performing in the streets
They are dancing
with wires in their coat
frozen in time
Like a shot in a familiar film
from another space and time

I am not here
my eyes are dulled and edged with fear
of dipping across a wrong line
My legs feel heavy with guilt at every step
for beating a pulse
without an echo

I steal a glance at my companions
each with their heart that frames another face
in another space
and I wonder how they seem to shuffle time
as though
the faces hold no iron
As though they are completely free
As though

I am performing on the street
Dancing with wires in my coat
Frozen in time.

There are a lot of things that puzzle me that I simply have no time to unravel. The automatic choice of the word “unravel” puzzles me. As though puzzles were a series of interlocking question marks that have been kicked about, gnawed and crocheted by a barrel of unhappy cats.

Black, Perak and Ghandi. To be frank.. I am tired of it all. I’m pretty sure I’m meant to be excited. To feel some kind of fire bubbling over inside me. The compelling force of outrage and quest for justice in the shape of democracy. It is exciting. Everyday, twitter is like a cliff-hanger, waiting to see what happens next. Who’s going to bring who to which imagined higher body over which clause and sentence under which law. It is extremely exciting to wait and see when the queer theory idea of the ludicrous will bring the house down. It’s almost funny. Hysterical. But I guess it can only be funny when you are a spectator and not one of the actors. By force or choice or by simple accident.

I lost my train of thought. And started thinking about mirrors. About two sides of a dirty 10 sen coin. Palmed from person to person. It can get so black that only McDonald’s chilli sauce is able to stain it clean.

Ran out of words again for today.

the internet has turned me into a one-click activist. all i need is connectivity, a kind of name, an email address. i don’t have to leave my room, i don’t even have to get up from my chair, i don’t have to experience or touch or smell. all i need to do is see through an interface, read and have a split second think. then insert my name and click.

today, i received an email that called for a petition to boycott an artist – Guillermo Vargas “Habacuc”- from representing his country at the Bienal Centroamericana Honduras 2008. I’m not sure what the event is, apart from being some kind of art exhibition.

he definitely caught a stray dog from the streets, leashed it with a rope inside a gallery in nicaragua last year as his art piece for an exhibition entitled ‘Eres Lo Que Lees’ – ‘You Are What You Read’. The title is written on the wall with dog biscuits while the stray dog walks nearby, just out of reach, tied with a rope around his neck.

it caused outrage, understandably, and pictures were released and sent over the internet that showed the dog gradually starving to death. the gallery owner insists that the dog escaped and it was only tied for 3 hours during the exhibition, before which the artist fed the dog with food he brought himself. other petition sites pulled quotes from him here and there and concluded that he admitted to starve the dog to death.

whichever way the truth, there are currently more than 2 million signatures in support of the move to boycott this “animal-hating” artist.

on the flipside, the “One Million Signatures” campaign organised by Iranian women’s rights activists since 2006, demanding for changes in laws that discriminate against women has to date only managed to get slightly more than 7 thousand signatures.

so let’s see. artist drags stray dog to be exhibited as art, disputed intentions and conclusion of actual death, 2 million supporters. whole populations of women and men in a country facing clearly documented discrimination, violence and suppression, 7 thousand odd supporters.

so the one-click activist is not only lazy in terms of activism, but also lazy in terms of analysis.

give me some pictures, clear visuals of a starving dog, easy to understand terms, and i’ll give you my name.

give me an actual complex reality of shit happening in the world, where i have to actually do some search because even information is clamped down, campaign sites filtered and blocked, people struggling to get some small measure of truth out in the open, i just can’t be bothered.

too difficult. time is passing on too fast. hyperlinks are waiting, and only those dished out ready to be served with cute buttons and easy navigation.

give me a story, full of drama, heart-rending pictures, moral outrage and digestible ethics. i’ll give you my name.

*click*

I just got my own handphone phone. It was quite an exciting period. Mobile phones weren’t super cheap then, or subscription rates affordable. Pre-paid was only starting to be introduced. But I had a number to my name, and a device that meant anyone could get in touch with me, and me back, without having to go through ‘gatekeepers’. I grew up in a pretty dense household. Grandparents, god parents, another aunt, 5 cousins, 1 brother, kids that my grandma and godma used to take care of for extra income, neighbours… there was always people around and simultaneous conversations making a kind of comforting background noise.

The only telephone in the house was next to the television, and the television was right next to the main door in the living room. There was almost zero-chance of having a private conversation.

So now, with my very own handphone, I could have a heart-to-heart with a friend even when I was having a pee. It felt really liberating. My own space carved through a rectangular, flip-cover, plastic black Ericsson.

I got an SMS one day. By a number I didn’t recognise.

How strange. Who is this person? What does s/he mean? A friend I forgot to key into my phone?

What the fuck? I’m starting to feel a little creeped out. Who is this person? How the hell did he (no mistake now) get my phone number? Heard from where? From who? Suddenly, I didn’t feel alone anymore, safe to shape my world, my space. Everyone I could have encountered became instantly dangerous, carrying a risk of ripping apart the skin I have made between myself and people I trust. I couldn’t take it. I needed to know who this person was. I needed to establish some kind of knowledge, identity, name, space, context, something i can identify and remember. My handphone became a strange object, rattling with quiet fear. It took me some time, but I finally decided to reply.

Now I am angry. Pissed off beyond belief. How dare you intrude my phone, intrude my space, intrude my life, insinuate all kinds of shit, solicit me for sex, hide behind the cowardice of anonymity, spoil my beautiful day, my awesome week!!

It was the first time anyone I knew had ever encountered this. I didn’t know how to respond to it. I didn’t know what I could do. How palpable is the danger? Is this person stalking me? Is it someone I know? Is someone watching me when I am not looking? Am I going to be raped? What is happening?

I was working in a domestic violence shelter at that time. I answered counselling calls, and I knew the law. There were no laws against sexual harassment or stalking, and there still isn’t. Even if there was a law, it doesn’t mean I will be protected. I know how toothless laws can be. How full of gaps and decay. But I’m still not taking this. I refuse to have one fuckwit spoil my experience and what having a handphone has meant to me. And if there is one thing I can’t stand, it’s assholes who choose to exert their power through sex. I spent 2 years of my life in primary school terrified of this guy who was threatening to rape my best friend – and me by proxy – for some unknown reason. Hanging out near our school, coming to the canteen when no one was around and saying the same disgusting things over and over. I had nightmares about him for years, dreaming of his death so the threat would end. I still remember his face. I’m not a child anymore. I should have told someone, made a report, kicked his balls. Done something. Anything. No more. I refuse to be paralysed by fear and shrink my already small space any smaller.

And they simply stopped. I still have his number, and phone numbers of all other similar stalkers who have made dodgy sms to my friends. I’m saving them up for a class action suit one day!

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