Jupterians insights

(Listen along with the reading)

I fall into the hole. Wearing a skirt, I crumpled to the ground. It was a beauty pageant, I was on the catwalk, shame on me!

Everyone laughs, shame on you!

Shame on me for my excesses, excesses of words,

excesses of opinions outside what fits within a sea of obviousness,

excesses of misplaced desires in the collective imagination,

colonized by ash, death and slavery.

I don't give up,

I persevere as a walker.

It's hard to find a self that satisfies me.

Resisting projections is exhausting.

So I emanate the need not to belong to the obvious, to the constant, to the world of 0 or 1.

So I decide to live the mother.

Mother of myself now.

I mother myself, I validate myself in the condition of I-don't-know-where-I'm-going-but-there's-not-my-place.

I think of the mediocrity of a body-home-woman with no enjoyment of her own.

I think of the dependence on imaginary authorities that freeze me as a small, fearful, defenseless girl.

I talk to myself,

I tell myself that what I'm looking for transcends colonial freedoms, the freedom to do-what-I-want-at-what-time-I-want.

Not that freedom!

Not the freedom to choose where to live, to travel, to consume beautiful things.

I know that,

it's white privilege, it's the freedom of those who play the game, who accept creating their identity and their power to act in the selling of time in exchange for material illusions and empty ideas of belonging.

What I'm really hunting is something with no name.

Something that makes you laugh and cry, something that makes you squirm, sweat, relax and become aware.

All at the same time.

This nameless thing that when it crosses me lets me sleep and dream that I'm swimming among whales.

The power of the majesty of reality itself, understanding human responsibility, working from your place, with what you have, from your social place, to be able to inhabit this body-home, to make use of this body-temple of pleasurable and libidinal festivals.

The power to be able to create rituals, to open the eyes of consciousness, to feel part of the land, so part that you feel like home.

The power to give birth to the future, to want to belong and not want to run away. To differentiate, to fight, to resist.

Inadequacy is a character in this private theater that opens the curtains and presents itself to me.

What does it want to say, what message does it want to convey?

I came up with an answer, and it was good to feel what it did to me.

I persist with the answer I've invented.

It suits me, it causes me to let go.

It warns me of revolution, revolution of the gaze, revolution of desire, revolution of the imaginary.

It calls for insurgency, for the ideology of human care to be anchored in time.

It cries out for daring to make life a space for constant, symbolic experimentation, for diverse, real, face-to-face experiences.

It suggests making a home in the discomfort of the new.

I then think of neurological plasticity, I think of human, noble virtues,

I think of the humility to learn, to be in relationship with the world.

IN relation! Neither above nor below.

Because after all, before the sky, the sun and the sea, we are all small.

Who corrupted the idea of hierarchies in the natural world by making them the subject of bloody racial and misogynistic disputes?

Who corrupted the idea that because it is in nature it can be extracted, appropriated?, who needed to invent the concept of nature and what we need it for anyway? If it's perfectly clear that we need air, water, food and protection over our heads...

Why does it seem impossible for us to overcome the idea of scarcity and that we will no longer be eaten by the lion?

It seems that we are suffering from a shortage of humility, it seems that our dreams need to be capitalized on in order to be legitimate.

And they must be recorded, photographed, divulged, shared, propagated, exhibited, made explicit??... it all seems so obvious.

Inadequacy speaks to pushing the boundaries, subverting everyday life and going beyond, reinventing desire.

To desire beyond the capital-centric horizon. Letting go of the idea of seeking to belong to the clan of dominant values of a few (always few, but very armed and bloodthirsty) murderous men who call themselves masters. Owners of people, owners of knowledge, owners of the decisions of those who can know.

Owners of violence, of ideas of domination. That's what they are!

They spread the mantra of domination. Dominate everything. From the earth to emotions.

Now, how can we believe that this is possible, that this is natural and the only possible story to explain why we have come this far? Where bodies-race-gender dissenting from the hegemonic white male, are restricted and alienated from their existence.

There's a lot of patience, a lot of stomach to endure hearing these shitty mantras over and over again from armored bodies that become fascistized in their quest to adapt to the intense flow of constant changes and new revelations that sometimes cause worlds of predatory beliefs and ideologies to collapse, professorships that are crumbling...

I look away and ask my friends to dance with me in the middle of the living room at that little party.

Nobody wants to come, they're embarrassed, they're afraid of who knows what.

So am I.

They don't come. I go, I stay, I'm already here.

I take a chance, I'm disappointed by the looks around me of admiration for the extravagance mixed with debauchery and evil whispers.

I keep it, I keep the pleasure of dancing to myself, I keep it so much that I forget where I kept it.

Inadequacy tells me that for me to be okay with it, I need to feel it.

It just wants to be a funny memory from a time of inconsequential and unprotected spontaneity. She wants to be part of history, she wants to be a chapter in a biography.

She is what doesn't fit. She's a gale, the water of a raging sea.

She is the dissent in me,

she is my other.

I need to love her to become people, to become human.

I'm learning...