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Dedicada este ano ao tema 'Mosteiros e Conventos. Porto , Ricardo Carneiro C. Almada e Tiago Mota Saraiva ateliermob. They called my lemon pie apple pie. I am the uneven scrape of a beautiful pie! I am a crayon. I am the scrape of life.


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I am the Being. I became a completely invisible being. An invisible object. An invisible thing. Something invisible.

A Biblioteca

Before, the Invisibility cloak tried to cover me completely, but I would twist and turn and sneak out the edges, you know? Before, it was hard to get a date, for example.

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I was always left out. But if I stretched my arms one way or another, if I persisted a little here or there, I could make it work. I always spoke of solitude.


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But now that the cloak covers me completely, the taste is even bitterer, more and more bitter. Bitter, bitter even; I began to wonder if that was just my taste. If I was a fruit with a sweet start but a bitter finish, rotten, bad, almost unbearable. If before I was the last fruit to leave the bowl, today I rot in the bowl. And yet, I wait. An effort.

I exert. Before the cloak covered me completely, I knew that pale fruits, fruits with beautiful curled or smooth spikes, were preferred.

Letters for Life on Earth

I kept my arms stretched out and in the end or in something after the end someone showed up. We did it. I left. Now the dryness punishes me, but it comes disguised in various little adjectives ranging from bestie to boss to the diva who slays—but never lover, girlfriend, partner. The cloak has already covered me completely. Before, I used to read about the loneliness of the black body.

Now I need to understand the loneliness of the black trans body. Is it when the cloak covers you completely? Today, I find myself asking: is anything even capable of tearing off this cloak? Are You Going To Help? The group, which uses debauchery as their guide to survival, embraces a polyphony of body discourses and a diversity of languages in their performances. I recommend listening to La guerrillera by Soledad Bravo while reading this text. To write about pain, one must listen closely and one must live. Pain is a lived thing, it has color, and its palette is, in its vast majority, black, indigenous, Arab, Latina, Asian.

Pain has a non-white aesthetic. Pain comes together with the concept of the Aryan race and it speaks English, French, Spanish, German, it speaks patriarchy, its voice silences and destroys without any intention of building anew. The voice of pain splits the bodies that suffer on the battlefield, in concentration camps, in peripheries, in forests, in factories, on the streets. Territory de-territorializes and, in all of its diversity, we, the south, reverberate: multiple, diverse, rich.

Raw material. This is the echo of the voices of the Public Enemies of the world! Let it reverberate from the heights of the Andes, from the middle of the desert… , , From the past that paints the future-present, from the present that translates into something of rebellion. The subject subjected to fragmentation, dejection, the subject grounded in transformation, protagonist without protagonism.

uma questão de liberdade

Public enemy number 1, 2, 3, 6 and a half billion people on a planet that believes itself sovereign on the basis of the macho-speak of cis-thought that jokes about the blithe murder of in human male beings, oh Holy Father, black, brown, Brazilian, Arab, Kurd, Congolese, Indian, indigenous, trans, Latin American streams of blood. Return to territory, to mapping that calls me south after first calling itself north. I go south. I bring together the voices of the dead, lacerated, battered, disappeared, raped, tortured, bombed, murdered, enslaved.

I flip my world map over and upside down. That is something truly threatening, so pay attention, it is a threat. I threaten artistic structures and aesthetic systems and, most of all, theater and its methodology built on white Eurocentric cis heterosexual and frequently sexist thought.

I evoke the possibility that Guerilla Art and Guerilla Theater, created in our South American continent during the Years of Lead, can re-emerge from an intersectional, Latin American, anti-fascist feminist point of view, with its ethics and aesthetics grounded in the methodology of presence.

Guerilla Theater and Guerilla Art for those who died in Latin American military dictatorships, for those who still carry this open wound from our history, along with that of colonization, and for those who are dying today. I evoke this original Latin American form of the carnivalesque, this form of thinking about art and politics. I threaten Operation Condor, which continues to act in our Pindorama 4 country known today as Brazil, an operation ordered on the false idea of a democracy built on bodies buried from through the present day, built on decimated cultures and the destruction of art.

I threaten using my body in extinction. Using the death of my ancestors and my ancestral culture that today makes me a mongrel without a defined race, without identity, searching for fragments to construct something I lost, with the blood of murder and rape running through my mestizo veins. One who sits and another who stands.

e-book Vivemos Livres Numa Prisão (Portuguese Edition)

I threaten the aesthetic constructions by experimenting with fluid theory and stream of consciousness, clandestine and armed to the gunnels with poetry, hailing from a country in which dealing arms has been incentivized. I threaten the structure of the United States acting as ally to Brazil, rallying once more against the other, aiming to kill:. Finally, this text is a meditation on political, artistic, and academic memory, which envisages the recent past as the present. A reflection on art and life and the ways in which they join with the practices of creation. Weapon of the clandestine intellectualism of a mixed race woman blocked from taking ownership over her own choices.


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    The boy asked the girl where the ze was. Then the boy suggested that she clean it up and she said that only after all that dust was gone could she possibly call herself ze. He made it even more dirty by ashing his cigarette on the floor and, once again, suggested that she begin cleaning. My words refuse to let themselves be called a text. They are a set of memories and rants, ones grabbed while still in my throat and released in silence, amassing like a school of fish fleeing from something bigger and hungrier, poised to disappear into the waters, into the bloodied white page.

    We belong even though they erase us. We become da Silva, de Almeida, de Oliveira, de Alves… Belonging to all of the plantation owners and not to ourselves. Fuck all of you!