Accumulation. The years. The dust. The shadow. Not seen a single ray of sunlight for decades and hidden behind sacks of unread book piles. The closet covered in pale wall papers. Pale rosy wall papers. It… More
It splits her chest open to enter her from the thoracic cage and winds around the lungs to get inside her arteries. It irrigates her entire entity, completely soaking every inch of her cells in it, turning them into blue, navy blue, all the layers of the color blue, until her skin becomes cyan. Her lips though ice blue color, dribbles what is left of her inside liquids out.
Eventually, on her last breath, she solidifies.
featured image credits to: http://tenka.seiha.org/images3/k6/6.jpg
She gave it one last look. Walked down the corridor to the door while Brushing the dust on the shelves with her fingers. Although it burned her from inside, she couldn’t stop to look behind her shoulder, because she knew the rule; she would turn into a pillar of salt. The challenge was to step out of the door with a smile on her face and sprinkle of love in her soul.
She didn’t look back, nevertheless she went into the labyrinth of the rooms. She went into one room which led to the garden, the garden led to the kitchen, the kitchen led to the dining room, the dining room led to the balcony, the balcony led to the bedroom… She was running from one door to the other, forward always, but never in progress. She found herself at point A. Where it all began.
These doors trap.
Finally, exhausted, she took the paint, colored the door with bright white, drew a window instead, unlocked the window with her pen and threw herself out.
I cross the curtain to sit on the parquet floor putting the soles of my feet together and holding them in my palms. I start moving my knees up and down to be part of the individual warming ups taking place on the floor. I look around and enjoy watching my shadow enlarged on the opposite wall, where photos of dancers cut from black and white newspapers are plastered. My shadow tangles with other peoples’ shadows once one of the choreographers comes forward and tells us to walk around the dance floor in order to become acquainted with the space.
Guest author Tamar Shirinian is a Postdoctoral Teaching Fellow in the Sociology and Anthropology Department at Millsaps College
This month, major cities throughout the U.S. will hold annual gay pride events: parades followed by parties throughout the night and weekend. These kinds of celebrations – for rights (to marriage, for example) and especially for LGBT visibility – make up domestic claims to freedom. According to these rhetorics, by providing visible space and time for gays, lesbians, bisexuals and transgender people to take pride in their worlds, the U.S. is on the proper path toward civilizational progress. As such, gay pride, its ideological and cultural attachments to a certain kind of good life, should be contextualized within geopolitics.
Yes, geopolitics. The queer political has become geopolitical. This U.S. practice of attaching nationalist ideals of liberty and freedom to homosexuality is now well known within queer anthropology as well as wider queer…
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My corner in my studio is not a mere corner. It is me. I am born every time my brush touches the palette and caresses your body to fuse my inner self in you. You are born every time I am born. Every time I pour my sentiments on you. You become real and you become me. I become you.
I am not the painter, I am my painting.
Pour my glass and get me drunk with every gulp which brings me to you. I will forever die in this corner, forever live, relive, be born, become you.
I pain(t) on my whiteness until all fade to black. Until my shadows find a place to elongate. My hands are stiff once holding my brush but my fingers are lenient and are able to flush away all the awe not yet put on my canvas, not yet colorized, not yet pain(t)ed.
We all fade to black, black is a color, I am longing for my own color in black.