by Cunt Non Grata — she=he
today’s tired, anemic song: Pixies – Where is my mind
What’s the point.
I don’t know. I want to write a ‘dear diary’ blog post, since I would like to get my ‘head together’. Whatever that means. I guess it’s something about letting go of reoccurring thoughts and behaviors and making some ‘sense’ out of what I in essence find ‘meaningless’ ((my life)).
I don’t remember time very well. I’m also bad with faces and names. I feel fairly disconnected and fearful, distrusting, and Tired (helpless? hopeless?) making connections with other human beings. I’m used to being the screen of whatever people want to see. ‘High’ ‘Low’ ‘Good’ Bad’, whatever it happens to be, I find it painful, saddening and frustrating. I want human relations to go deeper, beyond Projection, to real, and mutual Understanding and Connection. To see and hear without distortions. Or with much awareness of that there are distortions.
I’ve lived 35 years so far, and that’s a lot of time of playing the game of ‘here’ but ‘not here’, of being present without being fully present. I’m fairly cynical and bitter. I want desperately to shed my numb surface, open my clenched core, and get in touch with the warmth and tenderness that’s there, inside, aching to get out, aching to be fed, to be met with welcoming delight.
Memories are a part of my everyday life. Remembering glimpses of what has happened, here and there. My own private frame of reference, an internal nagging conversation, triggered by places, words, moods, small markers reminding me of the traces left by the many experiences, making up the paths that I tend to follow in the landscapes that are familiar to me, in the inside walk, that few persons dare to recognize as ‘real’, that most seem to willingly suppress for whatever gains there are in pretending that what they’re doing is making sense and is fulfilling. I walk along the big crack inside that we’re supposed to avoid. Don’t step on the crack. Keep your mind on the external patterns laid out for you by collective madness. Collective fears of the Unknown and the Everchanging, turned into manifold comforting lies and beliefs that We Are In Control, that We Can Be In Control. Of what? Our existence? Life itself? Our feelings? Our Fears? Our Love? What?
Time passes, and most things seem distant. Even the here and now is distant. One day adds to another, and I’m wondering what I’m doing here, not managing to figure out something that I can do to make sense of my existence, I’m wondering if I’m waiting for the nightmare of illusions to end, for a collective awakening, or maybe just an individual awakening from my own mental entrapments, or maybe waiting for it all to end. Sometimes getting into a fear of it all ending. Or rather, if bringing the “end of it all” into perspective: A fear of my own death. Fear that the sum of my whole existence would amount to being in a lot of pain, and then – death. I don’t know why. I don’t know why love and happiness is so important for me to experience to make this space journey ‘worth while’. It’s weird.
This summer I’ve had more liver spots coming on my skin, and small growths. Probably nothing to take notice of, the usual changes that comes with aging. Still I got into some state of anxious paranoia of having skin cancer when getting these itchy growing spots on my under arms and on my shoulders and back. I’m trying to care for my health. I had two teeth pulled out this summer, which was heavenly, since I’ve had an ailing wisdom tooth growing for years, often with gums swollen and irritated, driving me ‘mad’.
I’m trying to care for my mental health. Staying put for a while. Not having this dreamlike existence of moving from one place to another. 3 days in one city, then going 500 km somewhere to someother place. Constantly meeting new faces, new bodies. Many places, and many talks of a collective pain, not cared for by the collective . This is the pain spoken privately. Not the focus of our struggles. It is the crack inside exposed. A few moments of shared sadness. Then back to fitting ourselves into the things we so strongly believe that we can’t change. Walking paths that have been well-trodden, and are easy to follow. The crack inside is what’s mad, not our belief in that the pain is permanent, private, and not possible to change.
I feel scared and alone in my longings. I want to walk around that crack, jump over it, stare into it, fill it with meaning, empty out the fear, welcome the fears of the unknown and the everchanging into the collective consciousness, approach it with friendliness, embrace it with care and acceptance. Shaping the paths around it, stepping into it, feeling the walls, knowing that this is just another place, a space just as exciting and wonderous as the open landscape around the crack. A different view.
Often in my daily life, the phrase “I feel like an idiot” goes through my mind. I’m not sure what it means, “feeling like an idiot”. Probably it’s my interest in things that most seem to fear. And my lack of understanding (absolute bewilderment) of how to connect with that fear and turn it into curiosity. An idiot for wanting connection, and myself creating distance out of my own fears and hurts. Others are perfect screens for my projections. ‘Idiot’ maybe meaning the same as ‘simple-minded’, thinking it could all be very easy, and simple to face fears and expose ourselves to one another without clinging to expectations of what’s supposed to happen next.
I’m tired of being alone. I’m tired of writing texts that are interpreted in whatever way by people that I can’t connect with. Why do people feel familiar with what I write? Why are words so distant from nerves, muscle, blood, heart? I’m tired of being alone. Of my thoughts constantly working on a survival plan: Isolating myself to get rest, Learning nvc to make it possible to live with all the conflicts, Thinking that I need to work out some workshops on Transformative Justice to spread the basic concept, and find real people I can work with to make this a reality in my life – a practice felt with nerve, and stomach, not just something agreeable for the mind to play. Not another addiction. A cure. I’m so tired of being alone. Of being an outcast. Sad and damaged of the hurtful things said and done.
I became aware fairly late on. Around year 2000 someone got me to read a book on feminism. That’s how I eventually got into activism (whatever that means). I’ve spent the last three years traveling around. I’ve gotten myself an education. Somehow I seem incapable of transmitting it, of sharing the excitement I feel, in relation to what I know with others. I might as well just go asöoiuw lklioj jjoilkkkli alkdf äälkjd ääk. So much time spent on human interaction, the development of many words and languages, and still it’s mostly disconnection going on.
‘Dear diary’: Thank you for receiving my words. It makes the loneliness less lonely somehow. Carving a mark into a rock: “I was here”. Like talking with a rock. More connecting and receptive and less complicated than human interaction. Simple. In the loneliness of my comfortable room, where I feel fairly safe, this ‘carving’ [‘a’ ‘l’ ‘o’ ‘n’ ‘e”] calms my mind. My needs for sharing and belonging are met by scribbling away. [a bit of truth, a bit of sarcasm] ‘Dear Diary’: Today I’m menstruating. I bleed a lot during a couple of days and less during the rest of my period. Yesterday I experienced some positive sides of the social system I’m in, by getting a free health check up at the employment agency that I transferred to, because of being long-term unemployed. It’s seems I’m okay. Need to check my eye sight, and as well having an itchy bottom (had it since childhood, loose stomach too) I had a bit of anemia. The heavy menstruation might make it a bit worse. Otherwise fine. The task of this employment agency, is to help me find meaning by pushing me into an education (I should be doing care work, help the elderly, or clean) so that I don’t have to be a burden for this society but be a proud contributor and not a worthless nobody. [sarcasm, and sadly enough the real message of these places] Some months ago, I missed a meeting and my benefits were cut off for two weeks. A beautifully restful period [total sarcasm] spent my days queueing for free food, and eating free soup on thursdays at a church, doing some praying and singing before eating. People raising their hands if they wanted to be specifically noticed by God, the great caring father, embracing us all, accepting us all. [fairytales told to grown-ups] I was in paper-hell during that time. And scared that I would lose the place of rest that I needed so badly. I had just moved in with a person sympathetic to my own beliefs, and had spent three months before, living with a man aggressively yelling to the Russian lover over the phone — “My friend saw you eat berries outside the store. So you don’t spend any money here, but you can buy berries for you and your son, and gulp down by the store, but you don’t share anything with me!” — also threatening to burn her pass port if she would not give the man money. I stayed in “la la” land in my head during that time. Not getting involved. Not saying one single word. Just listening to this man talking about the woman sharing her “cunt, all over town”. Saying all kinds of nasty things to her and in the presence of her six-year-old son. She quietly disagreeing. She trying to communicate with this man for a space to sleep. Me in silent collusion. Thinking that I need a place to rest, not to fight. It was completely fucked up to stay silent. A mad summer. So exhausted, thinking there are no peaceful places to go.
‘Dear diary’: I think a lot about different conflicts. And wondering why I can’t start thinking of getting a heavy rug to flatten out all the lumps pushed under. Why I keep staring at the bumps instead of the beautiful pattern on the mat covering it. Why I can’t be happy with reading the website of Nane, and Men against male violence but instead get mental images of a woman swimming in the sea, holding up the heads of women struggling to keep afloat, affected by the currents, and me thinking that I disagree with this waste of energy. Supporting the head of one woman at a time, keeping her head above water, while the currents still pull her. Other bodies hanging on to her body, pulling her down. So much energy wasted. The woman from Nane supporting, saying she’s too exhausted to deal with another conflict, close to her. She’s called a man from the ‘Men against male violence’ group, supervising the work that she does, a “guru”. Saying that the women doing this exhausting work of keeping a few women afloat, call this man a guru. But that this should not be told to the man. The man from the ‘Men against male violence’ group is standing on dry land – Masculand – where men implicitly or explicitly are treated the way they ‘deserve’. Implicitly being treated as ‘the guru’ by the women feels ‘normal’ to this man. I have clear images of this. I know that making these images won’t make anything clear to anyone else but myself. I lose energy on just talking, when the words I have are perceived as something non-related to the reality I describe. Talking in this climate, feels like emptying myself of life-supporting air. My perspective, my feelings around the reception and response to my words are not seen as relevant to the struggle with keeping the heads above the surface. The words are drowned out by a strong current. The sea is invisible. The power positions spoken in clear text with clear words in private amongst women is invisible on the shores of Masculand. The women struggling in the water are overwhelmed. They are afraid of more waves. I’m seen as a wave. My words crash on the shores of Masculand. They leave ripples in the sand. The ripples have no meaning there. My words can’t reach to the center of this land. If the storm is strong on the coast, the men stand with their back against it. Huddling up, arms around backs and shoulders. Protecting one another. When the wind calls a specific name, this person gets pushed into the center of the protective mass. They know that the water can not come to where they are. They are safe. When they feel like it, usually when the sea is more calm, they go in for a swim. They go to the struggling women and maybe they say “I sympathize with what you do, it’s important”, maybe they add “I bet this is hard for you. Well, you know, this is hard for me too”. Then they swim back, and huddle up again. Sometimes they bring a woman up on the shore, they use her body as a mattress, saying that she’s “soft and warm”.
The social center is the same. A website that I see as a lumpy mat. I don’t want to be alone in my perspective. I don’t want my words ‘interpreted’. I want to be understood. I carve my message into the rock. Or write it in the sand. I holler it in the wind. It does not matter. The crack is mad. It’s only by pretending that it’s not there that I too would become real to the others.