WE, SINGING STIGMATA: THE END OF THE SONG OF THE ENDLESS WOMAN
so.
10 november 2016.
the night before.
you unwillingly surrendered to sleep.
on the verge of the orchestrated end.
exhausted.
so. exhausted.
from singing the never-ending song of the endless woman. an unfinished prayer that we never heard the final verse of. the song of our original mother. earth.
we were merciful back then. we knew patience.
and now, you are beginning to wake up.
to an aftermath that you haven’t been prepared to inherit.
to a reality that is relative. that is a farce. that is constructed.
that has always been this way.
we are.
throat dry.
blood drunk.
hungover on gasoline.
wanting to set yourself on fire in public. but unable to strike the final match against your teeth.
exhausted.
so. exhausted.
from singing the never-ending song of the endless woman.
the unfinished prayer that we never heard the final verse of. the prayer of our original mother. earth.
well. here we are. about TO fucking write it.
we are not merciful.
and we are not patient.
idle no more.
idle no more.
idle no more.
this is us:
we have been birthed through the rupturing in the skull of an incompetent man.
(not the one you think. but the old archaic archetype of androcentrism that has been dictating our living. of our mothers. and our grandmothers. and their grandmothers. and so on).
we have exhausted our possessor.
whoever he is, he is tired of us.
(and if he is tired of us, then what is left? EVERYTHING, my friend. everything is left!)
and we will burn him as we leave him.
there is no god here.
some of our predecessors doubt our depth.
they tease us. they give us nicknames based on age:
we are violent, and everyone applauds.
we are soft, and no one believes us.
we walk into their homes, naked, named and joyful, and everyone takes turns renaming our body.
we fall into their myth, and everyone sings for us.
we kill the myth, and everyone mourns the lost generation of narcissists.
we have forgotten our first mother. for quite some time.
we have learnt to lick our own wounds.
we have learnt to pacify. and be pacified.
but this is procrastination. this is buying time.
this is not healing.
we have forgotten that they did not name us.
they have only housed our childhood.
it is true: we are our own answer.
conjured / worshipped at the hip / palms kissed and wished upon.
we are exiting the well known self-induced psychosis.
we have the nationless screaming into our palms.
the wailing erodes crop circles into our hands / blunt tongues pilgriming their way through our bloody stigmata.
we are all the unwanted saviour. the overlooked resolution.
we have always been a body full of mouths. the holy handless maiden. unable and unwilling to hold anyone else’s language.
those sworn to protect us have failed.
the old white man does not know us. cannot represent us.
the 1% does not know us. cannot represent us.
the education system does not know us. cannot represent us.
the police and prisons do not know us. cannot represent us.
the west does not know us. cannot represent us.
our oppressors do not know us. cannot represent us.
fear does not know us. cannot represent us.
remember: a system cannot fail those
that it was not built to protect.
we.
daughters and sons.
of the world. of colour. of social media. of absence. of self love. of diaspora. of divorce. of transition. of potential. of failure. of selfishness. of gratitude. of god. of the devil. of flesh. of birth. of resistance. of the politically correct. of the easily offended. of overwhelming empathy. of the triggered. of connection. of every nation. of no nation. of every language. of no language. of exceptional mothering. of severed tongue. of curiosity. of consciousness. of the next decision.
we.
daughters and sons.
are the artists.
of a loving liberation. aka the unimaginable terror.
the only tender memory left.
the inducers of the terrific labour the world is unprepared for.
you’ve heard the call haven’t you?
our mother has been watching.
and we cannot ignore her anymore.
do not despair!
do not lay in pieces child!
you have been called!
this is the sign of the times.
of OUR time.
this is merely the catalyst to our own shift.
to our own unravelling. to our own shedding.
it has been done before. and now it is our turn.
my artists. my healers. my witches. my leaders.
we have been training for this. for years.
we come from a long line of sacrifice. of immense love.
we are the living proof of the genetic existence of resistance.
we are the most refined idea our people have to offer to this world.
we have young blood, waiting on our heels to be born.
and we refuse to leave the world the same way we inherited it.
my artists.
we have the privilege, and responsibility, of speaking to the times.
we must protect those who are vulnerable.
by any means necessary.
if you are of the communities targeted, be magnificent in your resistance!
if you are an ally, provide platforms and protect their voices!
by any means necessary.
my artists.
my furious friends.
my lovers of the inevitable rupturing.
there are those who will / and then there are those who actually will.
you must be activated.
you must galvanise.
you must respond.
you must connect.
you must love.
you must resist.
you must transcend.
you must be exceptional.
you must shift gear.
you must MAKE.
CREATE. CONJURE. FACILITATE. PRODUCE.
ART AS ACTIVISM. ART AS PROTECTION. ART AS CONNECTION.
we must start creating work at an exceptional standard that is entirely accessible.
and we must continue making as much of it as we can.
we must saturate our media with our voices.
you must make space in your body for the many who need to speak through you.
you must create safe spaces for dangerous conversations.
my artists.
we know our language. we know how it is to love. and be loved.
but we are not everyone.
we are not everyone.
we are not everyone.
we are not everyone.
AND OUR MOTHER IS NOT ENDLESS.
we must refuse to speak into the echo chamber.
we must resist preaching to the choir.
we must not be intoxicated by the safety of being agreed with.
we must not underestimate difference in opinion and belief system.
we must leave the safety of these beautiful worlds we have fought so hard for.
now, we must enter the worlds of others who do not understand us. or anyone else.
do not be fucking idle!
every moment matters. every movement matters.
the artists are the messengers. we lift the veil. we reflect everything.
this is our job. this is our duty. this is our calling.
to awaken the deep truth that we all share.
forget the learnt silence. the learnt passivity. the learnt bystander body language.
you are everything you have ever needed.
you are everything you have ever needed.
you are everything you have ever needed.
and we have everything we need to find a new way to sing.
we, singing stigmata.
the emerging artists.
the unwanted answer.
the body full of mouths.
the holy handless maiden.
the hopeful trauma.
the lovers of the rupturing.
the ones willing to burn as we leave our possessor.
we must be prepared.
tomorrow.
your tongue will be cut out of your mouth at birth.
tomorrow.
your mother will give you salt instead of water.
tomorrow.
you will dye your clothes with another nations clay.
because yesterday,
they forgot that being a woman,
means being everyone else at once!
hear us:
I, A WOMANLY COLOUR
WE, AN UNHOLY BODY OF WORK
HE, IS DEAF TO THE CALL OF OUR MOTHER
BUT SHE
HAS
COME.
(never forget how hard you have been fought for).
NOW. FIGHT.
________________________
With love,
every artist,
every mother,
every ancestor,
and everyone at your heels waiting to be born.