É a maternidade obrigatória?

Este texto faz parte de um dos episódios do podcast Punto Ciego, do MUAC (México), e pode ser escutado aqui https://muac.unam.mx/podcasts/punto-ciego no episódio ‘Maternidades’

É a maternidade obrigatória? Quais são as condições de existência da maternidade? Que formas de significação se produzem entre maternidade e um sistema majoritário de reprodução da vida? E que outras formas de fazer maternidade nos atravessam? Mães brancas mães negras mães indigenas mães trans mães. Uma autora negra, bahiana, assistente social, Carta Akotirene em seu livro “Interseccionalidade” fala que tanto Audre Lorde e como Achile Mbembe analisam que enquanto as mulheres brancas tem medo que seus filhos possam crescer e ser cooptados pelo patriarcado, as mulheres negras temem enterrar seus filhos vitimados pelas necropolíticas que militar e confessionalmente matam e deixam morrer contrariando o discurso cristão elitista-branco de valorização da vida e contra o aborto. Reiteramos: o aborto é um direito reprodutivo. E essa relação truncada com a maternidade é uma encruzilhada teórica da qual não se pode escapar. Amamos a nossos filhes nossas filhas nossos filhos, os que tivemos e os que não tivemos. E aqueles que o estado tirou. E a nós mesmas, também nos cuidamos. Maternagem a-feto: matripotências e outras linhagens bastardas contra o patriarcado duro.

{Versión Espanhol}

¿Es la maternidad obligatoria? ¿Cuáles son las condiciones de existencia de la maternidad? ¿Qué formas de sentido se producen entre la maternidad y un gran sistema de reproducción de la vida?  y ¿qué otras formas de hacer maternidad nos atraviesan? Madres blancas madres negras madres indígenas madres trans madres. Una autora bahiana negra, trabajadora social, Carla Akotirene en su libro “Interseccionalidad” dice que tanto audre lorde como achile mbembe analizan que mientras las mujeres blancas tienen miedo de que sus hijos crezcan y sean cooptados por el patriarcado, las mujeres negras temen enterrar a sus hijos victimizados por las necropolíticas que militar y confesionalmente matan y dejan morir contra el discurso cristiano elitista-blanco de valorar la vida y contra el aborto. Reiteramos que el aborto es un derecho reproductivo. Esta relación rota con la maternidad es una encrucijada teórica a la que no se puede escapar. Amamos a nuestros hijes, a nuestras hijas, a nuestros hijos, a los que tuvimos y a los que no. Y los que el estado se llevó. Y nosotras mismas, también nos cuidamos. Maternidades a-feto: matripotencias contra el patriarcado duro.

Sob uma raiz

Sob uma raiz

Quando o cabelo inverte para o outro lado onde não estava eu acordo com as mulheres que não acordam suas filhas corpo contra a gravidade e elas dão um beijo na testa de suas filhas e talvez uma delas seja a enfermeira e outra a cobradora e eu rolo no tapete da sala antes da hora do banho dessa vez sem o segundo tatame embaixo. O tapete é felpudo um pouco gelado umidade de fora rolamos juntas eu e minha filha eu rolo um pouco mais procurando encostar o pedaço da nuca que nunca encosta e de novo vem pra mim quem acorda as filhas das mulheres que não acordam suas filhas?

Construir sua própria vida, construir algo de vivo, não somente com os próximos, com as crianças – seja numa escola ou não – com amigos, com militantes, mas também consigo mesmo, para modificar, por exemplo, sua própria relação com o corpo, com a percepção das coisas.* Um homem escreveu surrupiei a sua percepção para a povoar com meu corpo existência de mulher e outro que disse de uma relacionalidade infinita. Ele, o de antes, pergunta se isso seria como diriam alguns desviar-se das causas revolucionárias mais fundamentais. Preocupação de quem e como as causas urgentes atravessando a escrita de um homem uma mulher se apropria das sensações comuns como emoliente feita de toque e morna ao mesmo tempo em que ela desenvolve maneiras desenhadas na pressa de descascar batatas. Relacionalidade infinita dança improviso mutabilidade modulação.

Uma contagem da vida anonimicamente não sabemos muito bem quem produz os gráficos das vidas anônimas que morrem diante da gente em gráfico morrem diante das mulheres que não acordam suas filhas o meu medo a minha cama por cima de tudo meu sonho por baixo de tudo isso vivemos nas cidades das vidas anônimas e os corpos dos outros são serviços para os nossos. Mas agora as valas de terra solta corpos dos que nunca queremos ver chove e lava os corpos mortos penetráveis superfícies que são fechadas em sistemas de corpos internos neurotizados a doença para dentro. Asfixia aumentada alienação em gráfico especialistas de mortes (homens de gravata).

Posso respirar quando chove muito eu lembro que essa cidade é charco e caminho nas ruas pisando em sementes secas para provocar um craca como aquela do sonho em que a chuva corrompia o cimento duradouro desse prédio onde me penduro como célula macia. Abrir a terra era inevitável eu dizia mas as pilastras estavam seguras o som de cada gota de chuva do lado de fora a chuva desenha um ritual em que o desaguar da nuvem é o lugar de cada morte. Cada morte não posso respirar.

Uma nesga de sol um longo inverno disse outro homem que agora tem medo do fora se encastela para viver depois do inverno. Fecho os olhos e vejo pequenas sementes desperdiçadas nos lençóis freáticos paredes de cimento que secam a terra por dentro uma cova para uma água brotada um teto que pinga também dentro da casa alguma coisa alguma comunidade imaginada de realidade comum de corpos quentes e não dos corpos que vão ou dos corpos que se evitam. Na urgência queríamos uma comunidade de parideiras de mulheres que gozam que abortam e que cuidam. Os filhos doentes do patriarcado são cuidados por quem agora? No abrigo-confinamento a crise dos cuidados a povoar a crise dos cuidados a povoar o invisibilizado em todo e qualquer canto, em toda e qualquer célula doméstica alguns podem mais algumas sofrem mais algumas mães chegam em casa e não podem beijar suas filhas.

Nas costas de mim, nos bolsos do macacão, as cascas de frutas secas nos meus bolsos sun day s as cascas laranja a casa e as cores mornas a luz baixa e aquela pedra esculpida com um nome na lateral da igreja gótica ao mesmo tempo introduzindo o cemitério todo no topo de Glasgow. In the memory of Sundays era um homem ou era um ritual pagão que ocupava ali mesmo do lado da igreja um pedaço de chão terrenal projeção de tempos infinitos. Em casa eu viajo nas paisagens onde olhava para longe procurando quase como se conseguisse perfurar a nuca e expandir espaço sem teto sobre a cabeça onde eu nem sabia que precisaria tanto, agora.

Se eu molhar as cascas secas das frutas com as gotas das chuvas eu vou embora de mim mesma em matéria mágica. Vai embora também um moi idéal e un idéal de moi impressa na tela de projeção virtual procurando olhar sem ser frontal (impossível). Something like that água por tudo água nos meus olhos água por tudo dizem que o vírus habitava as águas sujas antes mesmo de brotar parasita em um pulmão poluído o vírus sem saber esperava uma brecha as condições ambientais um acúmulo de toxinas. Mas estou no lugar que deveria estar anoto coisas do tipo quando há tempo de anotar como mandalas em palavras. Rabiscos de ritual traços cascas.

Choveu tanto. As árvores seguram o limite do lençol freático Domingos un hombre de mucos hablaba por abajo de las sabanas un operario preso na construção do canal por allí húmedo y aun vivo de manos verdes puro limo, algas y hongos el me llama a bajar al canal unos 12 metros abajo de mi ventana. Domingos para ver as formas incompletas de vida e de proteína que cruzam em alta velocidade os subúrbios das águas umedecem a carne da cama o lençol toca por uma fina camada gelada faz uma ponte úmida do meu corpo com o lençol freático.

A Canafístula frondosa me conhece mais que eu habita toda a janela do quarto e carinha minha alma acompanho com ela as cores do dia e ela é um filtro manso das transições dos dias o silencioso canal aterrado entre as ruas que descem do Mont’serrat eu sou a mulher branca do 308 que enumera amorosamente as casas de madeira que existem ainda sobrevivem na vizinhança como hongos coloridos de um outro modo de habitar e os meus vizinhos negros que eu não conheço da história do bairro das calçadas de arenito vermelho que eu queria lamber. Os meus vizinhos das casas de madeira não vão subir para o quinto andar de um prédio de granito marrom que canalizou o lençol Sun days um vôo no espaço aéreo da Canafístula.

Eu tenho outro sonho dessa vez com un hombre de la casa curativa habitava uma casa azul como nas paredes calcadas do Marrocos que nunca fui manchas azules es ahora y no el hombre de mucos que não pode acordar as suas filhas porque algumas delas nem podem acordar (ele está com os ouvidos tapados ele conversa comigo por gestos). O outro está muito ocupado sua vida entre decisões talvez ele leia os gráficos eu espero que ele tenha um tempo entre tantas pessoas que lhe solicitam fecho a tela dos gráficos seguro no colo um bebê com rosto de menino-homem que me pede amamentação como? Interpelada a casa curativa do homem o sonho ainda não é a comunidade de parideiras de paredes calcadas de amoroso sangue.

Eu rolo no solo esticando um último estalo no pescoço desejo sair do sonho vejo algumas plantas aqui em casa e entre as paredes de calcário na umidade as paredes fluxos de sangue fluxos de signo diante da tela evidenciam a vida mais como signo que como vida. Como podem se desfazer de vidas espero desenhando diagramas transformativos olhando uma psyché corrompida remendos de realidade os filhos adultos que não abraçaram seus pais. A minha filha a esperar no banheiro cerrado de névoa amplio o peito para pegar um pouco mais de ar e ele está cheio molhado de água o dia acaba abraço afago quente e é noite de novo debaixo da Canafístula.

* Sob uma raíz de uma árvore Canafístula (Peltophorum dubium) ou Ibirá-pitá (Paraguai e na Argentina). Árvore da família das Fabaceae.

**Escritor homem surrupiado: Félix Guattari, em Revolução Molecular.

Chewing gum short novel 

Particles of my body mix up with the last chewing gum I have recovered from the bottom of the pocket while I think that maybe we could have casual sex as if we were teenager neighbours and later on after years we could look at each other and say we could get married.

Particles of my chewing gum are defeating me but not so much if I get into a self vanishing mode that wants to melt with what is around me being not afraid of losing consistency but eager to experiment other ones. Such as having quick and lavish sex with my neighbour.

Marriage is a word that suggests many semiotisations. Proposing marriage as someone who chews up a chewing gum and is not afraid of losing consistency seems fine. A testing of sense, taste, tender, tonus, intensity, resistance and sweat also do come with.

Neighbour? Is a chance location. Or location by chance. For if being your neighbour I could have had the chance of teasing you since much earlier in life. Luckily another type of territory brought us together. Drawing from this sort of particles and consistencies to drive around between bodies spaces desire libido encounter and adults semiotisations, such as marriage, better saying, tasting it all from the disposability of a chewing gum must, still, be fine.

(End of the novel.)

Redwood

Becoming dog of love
Becoming rabbit of sex
Becoming fox
Becoming lizard (licking licking)
Becoming monkey (screaming screaming!)
Becoming cat closing eyes
The becoming cat warm in each other
The becoming sensitive to your touch
The becoming jelly down in the
Vagina becoming pussy
Becoming water
Becoming lake of
The dog
The rabbit
The fox
The cat
The wolf
Wolf appeared (in a becoming redwood)
(Red hood can be you)
After the Loner’s forest
And the becoming wild of two dogs it sees coming up a Bear with a broken paw
Somebody says
– Heart, woof-woof!
The Bear (female) insists:
– Paw, woof.
Dogs becoming two under the red hood
Neighboring a confusing line, a smoky lake
Opaque water
Forest around
Whatever arises – arouses – are trees
Whatever spreads, spreads
Why not to become, a red lake
A red kite
And after a flight
Alight by a branch
Look around, spy Wolves Bears Rabbits Foxes
Some wild
Some becoming.

I cannot evaluate jewelry (short)

(Another day) somebody called me. (Not that old men from the street.) He called me as something found out, scared with his own thing, that he was bringing to show me, straight from his past. Wanted because he wanted. My way would be the plot of the drama. He said he read me. He found the proper words. Briefly interpreted me, and told me what was his goal. Showed me his short tongue. Offered me a coffee. Smoking several cigars. One after the other, quicker then I could say anything about his hieroglyphs. Not even without headstone, nothing old as that old, it was just a fresh recovery, of a gesture I don’t recognize. Gestures over a silver matter, as if was a scrawl in an aluminum plaque, an old plate found in the dawn in the street. In the journey between the bar and home-and-studio. I don’t judge. First, I looked for the secrets. He was looking for the relevance of what he was carrying. The memory should be done, I said, for the same one whose secret he himself didn’t knew if existed. Then, it’s when no one knows if this secret has any bottom. I cannot evaluate jewelry. I told him.

I cannot evaluate jewelry (long)

I cannot evaluate jewelry

You want to write a text about not having the body of text. Write be a text without references measure placement – to be a text that opens up other texts (?). (Or enclose it? Deny the possibility of connecting with other ones?, as if it were denying all linearity.) Reduce each substantive to a sign. You want to deny it’s nature text and call it diagram (foundational diagram, functional diagram). You want to go back to it, to the diagram, and cut out a piece. Zoom in on it. You recognize that there are processes of destruction that you collect, that you look for to transform. The not so new, and shelter the new, but you cannot in your urgent time consider everything, the whole. (Complexities…) The edge of the whole that passes by you (along side, besides), is acknowledged as contingent, it’s a whole that is open by / in cracks. The metaphor of a passage, a world in which we are ourselves the cartographers, those freedoms they give you more world. Not the world but other ones to whom you, self delivered makes another piece.

You open a little more of the diagram, that besides perceptions and intuitions take you back to the sensation of slipping into a site. That’s how you realize connected connective possible worlds. There are spaces that encloses themselves as bubbles there are tear out spaces, they became interstitial, porous, as that rupture that dematerializes and disintegrate. You feel the disintegration with the world, the pleasure in your throat and that wants to come out. Comes out as a scream armed with human minds, all of them are possible to be loved.

(…)

This text is its own pornography. This text doesn’t have legs or manner. You don’t know from where to start. If you want, it might not be art. This text, anyhow, is not yours. But right now it became yours.

(…)

You don’t chew what I gave to you. And I take all of it with my hand. I told you brief things. I told you what I thought. Where does it take me to? When I say I don’t know who’s going anymore. That’s what I say. And the heat, the entropy, or the combustion that burns in front of you, and you take with. What I give to you is not me anymore. When I say “then” I already gave to you. So, o que eu dei para você se torna minha boneca por um tempo. (Mas são as minhasguts agora. Você consegue ver isso?) That’s why I chew up to show to you. How is it to you to eat your own guts.

(…)

(Another day) somebody called me. (Not that old men from the street.) He called me as something found out, scared with his own thing, that he was bringing to show me, straight from his past. Wanted because he wanted. My way would be the plot of the drama. He said he read me. He found the proper words. Briefly interpreted me, and told me what was his goal. Showed me his short tongue. Offered me a coffee. Smoking several cigars. One after the other, quicker then I could say anything about his hieroglyphs. Not even without headstone, nothing old as that old, it was just a fresh recovery, of a gesture I don’t recognize. Gestures over a silver matter, as if was a scrawl in an aluminum plaque, an old plate found in the dawn in the street. In the journey between the bar and home-and-studio. I don’t judge. First, I looked for the secrets. He was looking for the relevance of what he was carrying. The memory should be done, I said, for the same one whose secret he himself didn’t knew if existed. Then, it’s when no one knows if this secret has any bottom. I cannot evaluate jewelry. I told him.

(…)

Today I read a text full of “criticism”. Gush everywhere and slippery words, the text affirmed some uncompleteness not to need to defy itself, it alleged a certain independence from that production from the 70’s. It tried to build up its own independence by disconnecting from any and everything. Wanted to create its importance by drifting some experimental beginning that had anything radical at all, but took resource of empty and cheap signs from a tradition one century questioned. Yes, it could exist Rothko, De Kooning, Others, but not that that was supported by means of a simulacrum. And other concepts. The mistake of Baudrillard. The soup of words washing out a discourse without North (and chance). Radicating concepts. Claimed to be theirs. Opening up a terrain of exclusivity. And exclusion. Media by media exchanged anything by any other as if it was anything else, I was watching, and it melted the plastic but it wasn’t as Alphonsus does.

(…)

I’m not talking about controlled word. Not measured word also. I wanted to avoid the gush that is disguised as madness, as looseness, as ( ), I wanted to find the text that would be made of a continued meaning net, all of it opened as loose cunt, all of it straight upright as a pole. That’s why I went through again texts written by myself – I appeal to their holes that I couldn’t remember. If I find them after they became meaningless it is not because they can be reborn again. But it’s because they never had life. (Has life what wasn’t read?)

(…)

If the history would work through forms – and that’s not what is interesting here -, what is it that the concept of history potentializes? (…) Intensities networks. Potentiality maps, as affective insurgences, contamination modes. Makes me think: a historiography that doesn’t “capture”, but one that operates, before, its own abstract machine. Abstract history. Real history.

(…)

The memory of the text (of the talk)

The memory of the usurpation

The power of conservation

The desire of the uneditable

I’m strength against those strengths

I don’t even capture my self

(…)

The object destruction

destructed

—————

perversion

————–

art field

(…)

Make space for the new. Qualify the new. Find dialogue in my own generation.

(…)

They are so dirty. They don’t want to participate. They don’t want because they are ashamed, but because they have an alive nature filled up with re-uses and they built their own fictions by means of the delirious death matter, from the other. Detachment they are the ones who have, as I saw them dragging pipes five or six blocks down road, as I saw them arriving at the corner of the square with the cachaça and the cognac. (This a bit of gold!) And in the quick cataloguing of those drummings configuring instruments and drums, tamboretes and emptiness (you need some emptiness, inside, after all, to make it resound). Me and my belly in that crossing, of converging traffic lights, illuminated without knowing by the police, closest to the ground then anything else (even closer then that flying thing that scratches like nothing else the black dust of the streets), feeling the cracks between the pieces of granite, the sound comes up before to the inside, and after, to the outside. There is dread, there is hole in the t-shirt, there is symbol, anarcho-punk, there are signs that I don’t know. Noise. Scratched. I felt. I felt on my belly the sight without spectacle, see?

(…)

That debate was a meaningless recuperation, for some, of what happened in the 80’s. We saw a film, if it wasn’t embarassing to show, after all, so many of them had stubble, showing their regularity with the curve and the texture of the stone, the spirits rhythm, the sun in the fake canvas, there was no real painting. They took the boat, to that island, they took globo (television) and it was film globo, look at that, film!! The lipstick red, and she wasn’t the only one. Everything was a bit gross, irritable, it wasn’t because they were slowly outrageous, after all, we are in other times, and in such times, look at that sluggishness, of the dialogue! Different points of view. The vision of the fragmentation is that that acknowledges the differences. E as defende? But then what? Authority of the re-signification. To the other one was a historical position. His trunks. Discourse to break this and that. Now he has the same tenor, does he? To devour. How fresh is this memory of his own immeasurability! How fresh… But also, authority to model a discourse from a production, from their own production, or make it their own, also, from the discourse. Will to gather. Happiness, infantilism. Anyhow, after all, pleasure “is (was) imperative to the work”.

(…)

I am an industry. See how I produce a series of, a volcano of manifestos. Extracts, cuts, processes. Analysis. The other, about the other. They did, they said, or they didn’t said. I would call myself a culture industry, not if they didn’t do what they did with that, with the term. Co-opted. Wrong, unfair, anti-aesthetical. Not a person, not collectivity. Productivity, productivism, performativity, reproductivism, performativism, culturalism, classe cultural, capitalism, cognitivism, cognitive capitalism, … What I always wanted, truly, was built up a force against all conservativities. I made an uncertain line between clouds, conservation – experimentation; reproduction – differentiation; authorship, identity – dispersion. Since the beginning. Rupture events. I had in mind, but it wasn’t so clear at the time. A blurry and porous strategy, possible and impossible, invisible machine, truly, an errant diagrammatic body, a fatal doubt about a participation. Perceive and scream, in a short and fragile answer, program that pushes away outside of itself whatsoever creates a terrain of exclusivity, of property, of unequivocality. Sign control? Decoding. A lot I wanted to eradicate, and as a war mission, in the middle of the battle field, I would be able to remove the war-like powers and put in trenches, only trenches, to make think from above the earth, from the intensive struggles, from the ways of defending another thing, matter: expression.

(…)

Who is this you that placed yourself in front of the whole thing? From the extensive moment to your body, organs in reception, deserted in this place without subject or object. Who?

Who is this you that acts, that requires a close sight and places yourself as a sage just as the other one that elaborated the first concatenation? Who do you become, looked after by theory, who would be an archivist in the poiesis of the Archive?

You adopted a montage tool, adopted an open problem. You abandoned yourself in front of the incomplete thing, because you don’t know about other forms. Formalised. I try not to extinguish the possible relations between the times, what can be understood also as subjects of analysis. A decade selected to elaborate the doubts about it (1970). More hypothesis about the dynamics of an art field in Brazil (nowadays). Brazil big thing. Could select another way. I propose, then, to “signal”. (Procedure that no one ever understood.) (My sister said, that I like to say “understand”.) To approximate, to signal, strange affects to an action between the expressed matter, what I “should” do and the historiography incited by the events themselves. I pointed that they are not framable in that “institutional critique” (Fraser), comprehension that would eradicate the heterogeneity of a production that enacts, in other ways, the making-political of a field.

Analyzed events. Archive of emergency. The experience of the art thing (piece). Production, “effected”, assemblage. Investigation, conditions, epistemology (of the arts).

(…)

What happens in an art class? You wait to listen to it all, what the other teachers say. Its a Forum. Radical Education Forum. They have a common background, and then maybe me too. But here… I have to find again this common other, common ground, and think about Jorge and Lenha in a class room. What do they do to people? How they became more generous, they are much more generous, then the general researcher. The severe researcher, the analytical researcher, is itself the archivist acting and manufacturing, nominating fields, but rather, within the participants and interlocutors of their own (parts, parcels, strata). Desafio. I want to listen to. We, me and you, we make ourselves artists. Então você pensa em tudo o que já pensou em desconstruir sobre ser artista para dar suporte a esse território.

territory = meaning

(…)

Being an artist means to take risks. Not knowing what you are doing. Not knowing if the knowledge is applicable to that. Knowing that it is risk, yes. That is it a line of indetermination. Takes risks. And how did I took mines, less and less, since I started to write that way. (One truth, about systems.) I should forget. That’s it. Should invent less should. Said that, I said, I seat down to write manuscripts.

Without being this or that. Without capturing myself. Without wanting to be one body. Love yourself (also).

(…)

Cristina Ribas

*published in Escritos de Artista, Michel Zózimo (ed.) 2013. Porto Alegre.