Because I don't have a writing desk. Apparently, that's one of the top-tier priorities and I'm failing miserably at this. I usually just sit on the floor of my closet, chain smoking and writing-- like slowly killing myself is cool or something.
I'm trying to negotiate my spaces. I'm trying to figure out what the fuck it means to have loving relationships with people while still maintaining my autonomy, my independence, my sense of self departed from others--as a woman, as a woman of color, as a woman of color writer, as a queer theorist, as an etc, etc, etc kinda person.
But maybe that's not possible. Maybe it's another one of those myths made up by bourgeois white people (i.e. white supremacist capitalist patriarch recolonizers/white liberal feminists??) who think themselves to have sprung up out of the earth without a clue, without a history to their arrival. Perhaps it's part of this American identity I use to dream of as a little girl--the dainty lunch sandwich made with Wonder Bread was sure to come packed with some kind of ideology to stand behind. Rabid individualism is the American way, no? And the American way is the way of fucking champions, right? And I've always wanted to be a champion, yeah??
Okay, there's no fucking way...
Because I am, as you have been, as we will continue to be, a progression of combined life-forces. We're sort of imprinted bodies inhabiting spaces in certain ways, and we eventually create community. Part of me believes that I exist through the relationships that I have with people/objects/places. That's not to say I'm not tangibly here. I am. At least, I'm learning to be present and all that jazz. But as real as these string of limbs may be, there's still something to be said about how relationships shape, define and direct you. I use to think that the skin you inhabit determines your experiences in the world, but I'm just now learning that the skin that inhabits you is just as important.
And that's what makes it so hard to create community/coalition space--in the women's studies department, in the interpersonal relationships I have, in/across/through/around transnational/global/intraregional discourses. You have to count the personal and the private as a real phenomenon. You have to combat racism/sexism/classism/heterosexism/ablelism/etc simultaneously, even within groups dedicated to pro-women or pro-feminist causes.
But I'm saying things people have been saying for centuries. I'm wanting things people have wanted all along. And all I hear is Jeremy (the voice inside my head) saying: "Shut the fuck up, kid. Tuck your first world problems back into the pocket of your overpriced jeans, 'cos real shit is happening real fast and I'm not going to deal with any whinny bitches today." (FYI, for those of you who don't know him, Jeremy is pretty much a jerk)
Sometimes I get so carried away with theory. Like my lungs become this hot air balloon and my insides go so light, I'm lifted. Up and up and up as one idea leads to the next. And I want to ground myself. Bring it back to the ground, they say. Bring it back to where it matters. And I want to, because I want to feel the dirt under my fingernails. I think that's why I make such pained expressions in class. I'm trying to bring myself back down. But my lungs have expanded so much by then, that it's hard to breath.
Have patience with me. I'm trying to find my center.
P.S. You'll have to forgive any of my over-generalizations/lack of development at certain points. This isn't a legit scholarly work. Obviously. I'd use waaaay more curse words if it were.