August 2010: Femzine 2
Thinking about a new femzine issue, we came up with the idea of “crossing_passing” and soon realized the different thoughts each of us had, thinking about these words
passing a cross
crossing a pass,
searching the passport…
always remind me
of the password.
More than once I note in discussions that the mentioning of the association “old women” creates strong (at best ambivalent) reactions. Curious about old women, I try to combine familiar observations with a distance-look at the unfamiliar case of old women creating radical democracies. When old women dream of creating communes giving themselves names such as "the Babayagas" or "the Olgas ", they also invent novel relationships in democracy, and that’s why they are so contested. But their example shows forms of solidarity that are neither ancestoral nor based on a national patriarchal welfare system and family support. Continue reading
Make yourself a radioactive instant soup and look inside out. Inside – a barrel of monkeys; outside – three beggars. Continue reading
I confess that at that time examining the movement of hands and arms was one of my daily default activities, running somewhere in the background of every conversation or metro ride. I wasn’t impressed with prominent veins, I wasn’t interested in the color of the polished nails, I wasn’t trying to find hypotheses for green finger tips. Why and how they looked didn’t touch me much. With those impressions in mind, I would return home, look at the turn-of-the-century building from across the street, and imagine stories about each window that still had the light switched on late at night. My stories were a collection of hands and windows.
Attempts of an immaterial body to soliloquise
Wendy Harcourt: Body Politics in Development. Critical Debates in Gender and Development. London: Zed Books 2009
In the world things can break with equal passion as they are fused together and politics are most powerful when they are passionate, born from strong bonds between people who live, breath and touch the same desire, if only for a time. This piece is detritus, a rupture of that connective passion – or a response to it. It is about division and the impossibility of coming together (if only for a time). That time knows no measurement – we may isolate where it begins, but not where it ends. This is the mystery of history, of where we are now. Continue reading
Two dynamic poles… OR what knives on a panel are looking for and temporarily seem to have found… Continue reading
Lake Balaton. A couple on holidays. He takes pictures of her. She smiles.
A perfect façade, till … Continue reading
How I discovered that choosing whether or not to have children involves a lot more than just me. Or rather: how I discovered that me is a lot more than I thought.
By the end of the 1980s, Socialist Romania was a locked-in country pretending to be self sufficient. Some people believed it. Most of them tried not to think about it. And the rest kept sane by oxygenating their secret lives with bootlegged whiskey and Tina Turner tapes.