Crisis Mode/Stasis/Genis/Sex
Shame.
I am done, yes. There are 7.25 days between me and walking the old traditional archway of Mills glory and summer heat, between myself and article, pushing my doughy flesh into the crevices of the Olin Library.
When I leave, I mourn the tall shelves of books that I hid inside of the most.
My mother had a painting of a woman sleeping inside of a large conch shell that always used to wow me. It was not Impressionism, NY School, or Beat, it was actually hokey and poorly painted, but the Sapphic desire of sleeping inside of folding pinkness felt liberating. And when I fold myself into the sharp edges of books in sanctuaries devoted to books, I feel like the sleeping Sappho, sexxed with knowledge and comfort. I feel folded and protected, quilted and eager to absorb via osmosis the powerful maternity of these sexy shelves.
And I am done with that, for now. I am on shakey ground. i have been called out for what I am, and I am struggling against someone I used to hold on a high pedestal. My only paternal figure has struck me down, fire and brimstone, to invalidating depths. I will overcome, but I am left feeling shame of my naked power, my bodily archive, my dis/identification. I feel that to revolt, I must continue with the very important task of restoring lost herstories, continuing to be an educated QUEER, continuiong to love the feel of my legs sheathed in silk, the curve of my ass in a pencil skirt. The smartness of my grin reflected in your depths. Because I can be/am generally unashamed, validated, profoundly marked by my time here at Mills College, and totally fucking intelligent and hot. I know the power of my mind and my body. Do you?
I am, above all else and despite all resistance, a Mills woman.
So where to proceed from here?
We move to the city, I get lucky enough to carve a space for myself in our hardwood flat for writing writing writing, above all else I am a Mills woman who writes. And I will write theory, and I will write fiction, and I will write theorized fiction and archive and i will tell my damn story because i will not be erased.
Above all else, I am a Mills woman who writes who will not be erased.
And I will go on dates, and I will fuck where and when I want to, and I will take power over my own wiles and pistons, because I have pistons and styles, bitch.
I am above all else a Mills woman who writes and who will not be erased and who lives as a high femme angiosperm, pollinating and decimating your constructions of gender, class, race, and sexuality, taking control of my energy and acknowledging the feeling of my legs sheathed in silk.
I will love my partner deeply and maddeningly, as I always have and always will, we do not live to save each other from this breaking globe, but to be the salvation of this breaking globe. He is not Impressionism, NY School, or Beat, but he is post-modern and he is the greatest soul I know.
I am, above all else, an archive.
I am done, yes. There are 7.25 days between me and walking the old traditional archway of Mills glory and summer heat, between myself and article, pushing my doughy flesh into the crevices of the Olin Library.
When I leave, I mourn the tall shelves of books that I hid inside of the most.
My mother had a painting of a woman sleeping inside of a large conch shell that always used to wow me. It was not Impressionism, NY School, or Beat, it was actually hokey and poorly painted, but the Sapphic desire of sleeping inside of folding pinkness felt liberating. And when I fold myself into the sharp edges of books in sanctuaries devoted to books, I feel like the sleeping Sappho, sexxed with knowledge and comfort. I feel folded and protected, quilted and eager to absorb via osmosis the powerful maternity of these sexy shelves.
And I am done with that, for now. I am on shakey ground. i have been called out for what I am, and I am struggling against someone I used to hold on a high pedestal. My only paternal figure has struck me down, fire and brimstone, to invalidating depths. I will overcome, but I am left feeling shame of my naked power, my bodily archive, my dis/identification. I feel that to revolt, I must continue with the very important task of restoring lost herstories, continuing to be an educated QUEER, continuiong to love the feel of my legs sheathed in silk, the curve of my ass in a pencil skirt. The smartness of my grin reflected in your depths. Because I can be/am generally unashamed, validated, profoundly marked by my time here at Mills College, and totally fucking intelligent and hot. I know the power of my mind and my body. Do you?
I am, above all else and despite all resistance, a Mills woman.
So where to proceed from here?
We move to the city, I get lucky enough to carve a space for myself in our hardwood flat for writing writing writing, above all else I am a Mills woman who writes. And I will write theory, and I will write fiction, and I will write theorized fiction and archive and i will tell my damn story because i will not be erased.
Above all else, I am a Mills woman who writes who will not be erased.
And I will go on dates, and I will fuck where and when I want to, and I will take power over my own wiles and pistons, because I have pistons and styles, bitch.
I am above all else a Mills woman who writes and who will not be erased and who lives as a high femme angiosperm, pollinating and decimating your constructions of gender, class, race, and sexuality, taking control of my energy and acknowledging the feeling of my legs sheathed in silk.
I will love my partner deeply and maddeningly, as I always have and always will, we do not live to save each other from this breaking globe, but to be the salvation of this breaking globe. He is not Impressionism, NY School, or Beat, but he is post-modern and he is the greatest soul I know.
I am, above all else, an archive.