communication wreckage
it's funny. a large part of what i do is communications strategising. especially through technology platforms. gadgets and gizmos and intertwining this and that.
then i have a friend. who in the past two days left me a little gobsmacked. nonplussed. huh? whooey whoo.
i wonder how much of it is around the failure of email as a medium of communication, and how much of it is my failure of saying what i mean, and how much of it is my friend typing when he's zoned off on lalang.
and i wonder how replacing emails with a phone call will help.
sigh.
it's been a long time since i interrogated my own position as an activist. i kinda settled on that term once i started freelancing since i dont have any formal job position to brand on myself. or an organisation that i'm *with*. the decision is a conscious one. i'm sick of institutions, and i'm sceptical of their capacity for change when it's repeating the same kinds of structures, subjects and power relations. but that was in 2005. i havent thought much about it since. but with that abandonment, i've become a free radical. hah. actually, maybe more like a lost atom. the problem with calling myself an activist is this is a little more 'sticky' than say, a job function or an organisation. i dont have the option of clean cuts. unless i quit activism. and what the hell does that mean anyway?
whenever someone asks me what i do, i struggle to be serious and push all the hysterical giggles down with reddening fingers.
uhm... i'm an activist. freelance.
:^|
oookay.....
but what is it that you actually *do*?
uhm.... this and that.
i'm a otak-otak of activism. how do i draw a line between living my life, and doing the things that i do? thoughts and feelings about power, norms, money, sex, gender, race, disabilities, language, culture, fairness, relations, bladifuckingbla bleed into every act. from my dreams, to poetry, to doodles, to hanging out with my family, to random acts of rebellion, to serious writing, to organising actions, to bladifuckingbla.
my platypus. i'm in serious need of something pretty fucking drastic.
i used to think that art will un-choke me. but that tidy little cubicle betrayed me by bleeding all the same. so what am i left with now?
+++++++++++
she is sharing the boat shaped like an oversized teacup with me. i am careful with my bag. if our cup-boat capsizes, fabala will become wet. she seems oblivious to the tiger that just jumped into the ocean. it is causing ripples that swell into unruly waves, tipping us dangerously. she starts to shriek and panic. i asked her to sit down, and lean back into her side, so we can achieve some balance. for awhile, we swirled round and round on the waters' blades. fragments of the sea sloshes upon us. fabala is slightly wet. i am worried that the covers i crafted for her safety is inadequate. but there is no time to check for now. we need to stay afloat.
we arrive at the hut. bright purple mosquito nets cover the door. when it is opened, i see the backside of the sea. not the kind of beach anticipated. but still, it is beautiful in a rough kind of way. some are already making plans to sunbathe on its regular indented curves. i can see the sea sneaking across the sand dunes, breaking the barriers with quiet cunning. her lips are red and her hair is black. a familiar form is on the chair. but as i drew closer, the cat's head turns, and it is not the soul i hoped to embrace. instead, the pussy is sour and grumpy. i move away.
then i have a friend. who in the past two days left me a little gobsmacked. nonplussed. huh? whooey whoo.
i wonder how much of it is around the failure of email as a medium of communication, and how much of it is my failure of saying what i mean, and how much of it is my friend typing when he's zoned off on lalang.
and i wonder how replacing emails with a phone call will help.
sigh.
it's been a long time since i interrogated my own position as an activist. i kinda settled on that term once i started freelancing since i dont have any formal job position to brand on myself. or an organisation that i'm *with*. the decision is a conscious one. i'm sick of institutions, and i'm sceptical of their capacity for change when it's repeating the same kinds of structures, subjects and power relations. but that was in 2005. i havent thought much about it since. but with that abandonment, i've become a free radical. hah. actually, maybe more like a lost atom. the problem with calling myself an activist is this is a little more 'sticky' than say, a job function or an organisation. i dont have the option of clean cuts. unless i quit activism. and what the hell does that mean anyway?
whenever someone asks me what i do, i struggle to be serious and push all the hysterical giggles down with reddening fingers.
uhm... i'm an activist. freelance.
:^|
oookay.....
but what is it that you actually *do*?
uhm.... this and that.
i'm a otak-otak of activism. how do i draw a line between living my life, and doing the things that i do? thoughts and feelings about power, norms, money, sex, gender, race, disabilities, language, culture, fairness, relations, bladifuckingbla bleed into every act. from my dreams, to poetry, to doodles, to hanging out with my family, to random acts of rebellion, to serious writing, to organising actions, to bladifuckingbla.
my platypus. i'm in serious need of something pretty fucking drastic.
i used to think that art will un-choke me. but that tidy little cubicle betrayed me by bleeding all the same. so what am i left with now?
+++++++++++
she is sharing the boat shaped like an oversized teacup with me. i am careful with my bag. if our cup-boat capsizes, fabala will become wet. she seems oblivious to the tiger that just jumped into the ocean. it is causing ripples that swell into unruly waves, tipping us dangerously. she starts to shriek and panic. i asked her to sit down, and lean back into her side, so we can achieve some balance. for awhile, we swirled round and round on the waters' blades. fragments of the sea sloshes upon us. fabala is slightly wet. i am worried that the covers i crafted for her safety is inadequate. but there is no time to check for now. we need to stay afloat.
we arrive at the hut. bright purple mosquito nets cover the door. when it is opened, i see the backside of the sea. not the kind of beach anticipated. but still, it is beautiful in a rough kind of way. some are already making plans to sunbathe on its regular indented curves. i can see the sea sneaking across the sand dunes, breaking the barriers with quiet cunning. her lips are red and her hair is black. a familiar form is on the chair. but as i drew closer, the cat's head turns, and it is not the soul i hoped to embrace. instead, the pussy is sour and grumpy. i move away.