There is an interlayer of language between every person and the world which I am — as flying women in Islam, as a child who cannot pronounce the word ‘mama’, as a piece of post-soviet porcelain, as a primordial communist, as legs walked thousands of kilometers, as a hole in the fence — trying to understand.
Through madness, anxiety, exhaustion, refusals, curse of identity and trails of editing I try to reach out the slips of tongue, mistakes, dreams and other ways of unconsciousness raising.
I’m not sure if my knowledge is situated inside me; neither it seems appropriate to oppose a human and a culture — many theories of collectivity stem from the romantic opposition of an individual and society, and don’t question the place where the cut between the part and the whole take place, as if dozen of bodies can compose not a single subject or, instead, one body cannot be a throbbing multitude.
Being born into a cradle of the symbolic, we are doomed to be cursed, but not by the evil fairy Carabosse — rather, with every signifier thrown onto us.
Despite the assurances that you are the one who chose to be born, the assurances made by (dead) Francoise Dolto and (nonexistent) Mary Poppins, the ones that can talk with wordless infants, what do we really choose, finding ourselves in some culture, where only accident decides what language and people we will call native; when it is normal to have sex — at the age of 12, 18 or 21; in which borders have been transformed into the flat lines and lost its timely dimension, and progress and evolution are not being the guarantor of ethical sensitivity?
In which physical combinations of relations become commandments and obediences, and coincidences and misunderstandings, turned into law, are seriously taken as truth at last instance. A culture, praying for the ‘I’ and ignoring the unconscious as a fiction of junkies and nuts, a byproduct of the human body?
Emma Goldman dreamt to blow politicians up without blowing their bodies, and Pippi Longstocking has been successfully knocking the nonsense out of bureaucratic and was machines in her fearless children’s skin, important part of which was her loneliness.
How to turn ethics into politics? Is it possible to escape the language that kills? Why do people fight for their enslavement? And don’t have time for becoming-a-child?
In fact, the only fair answer one could give to her child to the exclaimed in anger «why did you give birth to me» — is «it’s not me».