Tuesday, December 14, 2010
21st Century Queer Artists Identitify Themselves Vol.3
I'm super thrilled to be a part of Darin Klein's latest opus, the zine after which this post is named. In it the work of 100 queer artists comes together in a manner half catalogue, half telephone book, with each supplying a sample of their work and their contact details. Isn't that such a great idea? An exciting act of community and inspiration circulation? Of course I have my dearest darling Max Steele to thank for the connection (what'up gurl?). I submitted the above schwarz und weiß bilder, by Fussy Lo Mein, and this extract "Monologue for Divine", which is taken from my new play "Kill Everyone Now":
“Power that’s what it all comes down to, that’s what it always comes down to. Knowledge is power, know thyself and rule the world. That’s why I cause such a scene at the grocery store – because I’m a very powerful person! This va-va-voom body in this skin tight gown, my bombastic tits, my outrageous hair do, well, it makes everyone else feel, insignificant. There they are with their wimpy little stalks of broccoli clasped to their emaciated little bodies, all chewed up in mock horror, standing on at the cheese counter, disgusted at the very sight of me. Horrified and simultaneously sexually electrified by my mere presence. Oh sure, the battle lines have been drawn up and I’m outnumbered 100-1 but they all know that I’m winning this one. My very appearance in amongst the cucumbers, in the heartland of their commodified universe is confirmation that I’m the superpower in this supermarket. That I’m inching forward step by step, through the no-man’s land of moral ambiguity and tarmac and into, actually into, their neat little back yards. That I’m dancing in amongst their geraniums like a wild pagan love goddess, and I’m stamping on their patio furniture, kicking over their ornamental fencing, and grinding up their planters, their urns and their all-weather vases with the heel of my cha-cha shoes. I’m coming down the drive and they’re apoplectic.
You see, really, people don’t care what I wear. They don’t give a shit! They barely care what they wear themselves! I mean, have you seen how people dress? Absolutely no self-respect, no pride. They don’t care that I’m wearing a dress, they don’t care that I have on high heels, they’re upset that I’m not playing by the rules. When I dress like this it upsets people, because they feel as though I’m trying to fool them , that I’m trying to trick them into believing that I’m a real woman, or that I believe I am a real woman, or that I believe such a thing as a real woman exists. They hate me for not abiding by the rules, because they hate the rules. Only they don’t realise this, or they’re too stupid or too cowardly to admit it, because they’ve built up their whole self-worth, their whole identity, their whole stupid morality up on those rules, and if they go and start investigating it now, well who knows what they’ll find? Who knows how deep the cracks run? Your whole value system is based on an arbitrary set of images that you stumbled upon in magazines in the doctor’s waiting room, and you don’t even know it. You’ve never thought about it for one second have you? Why you believe what you believe and about whom. Why do little girls wear pink ribbons in their hair? Why do little boys like to play with cars? Admit it, the most complex debate you ever had with yourself was which toilet roll to buy.
There’s this unspoken set of rules to follow and nobody really wants to follow them but nobody really bothers to question them, so everybody just forgets they exist and agree to pretend that they’re spontaneous, natural, predetermined orders. People hate that, and they see me, flaunting it all, throwing all that out the window, flushing it all down the john – and they’re mad. They’re pissed, because nobody wants to wear black nylon trousers and sensible shoes , nobody wants to leave their home and family at 7am, 5 days a week, with the only light at the end of the tunnel being that festival of debt you call the weekend, but they somehow all got together and collectively decided that it’s the right thing to do. And then you see me, and clearly I’m not working an office job, clearly my only master is bation, and it’s just too much.
The only rules that need exist are the ones we make up for ourselves, and hold onto for as long as we find them useful, then we discard them with all the other floatsam and jetsam of modern life. We don’t cling to fax machines do we? We don’t hold on desperately to daguerreotypes or typewriters, or dial-up internet, or powdered egg do we? No. People need something to cling to, anything, I see that, or else why would there be so many speed freaks and alcoholics out there in the audience tonight?, but, the uninvestigated life is not worth living. Don’t cling to it just because it’s there. You see girl? I’m a self-made woman. And if I get bricks through the window? Well, I make a rockery.”