In light of recent happenings in the Gaza Strip

Here's a poem that really opened my eyes about 9/11.
Don't ever forget that media can only really tell one side of the story. It is ALWAYS biased. News is subjective, and so is truth. If you get a chance watch this http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SNfec7Fa2Cc
here is it in words

First Writing Since
(Poem on Crisis of Terror)
by Suheir Hammad
New York, New York

Suheir Hammad is the author of "Born Palestinian, Born Black" (Harlem River Press, 1996, $12.00, ISBN 0-863-16244-4) and other books. 

1. there have been no words.
i have not written one word.
no poetry in the ashes south of canal street.
no prose in the refrigerated trucks driving debris and dna.
not one word.

today is a week, and seven is of heavens, gods, science.
evident out my kitchen window is an abstract reality.
sky where once was steel.
smoke where once was flesh.

fire in the city air and i feared for my sister's life in a way never
before. and then, and now, i fear for the rest of us.

first, please god, let it be a mistake, the pilot's heart failed, the
plane's engine died.
then please god, let it be a nightmare, wake me now.
please god, after the second plane, please, don't let it be anyone
who looks like my brothers.

i do not know how bad a life has to break in order to kill.
i have never been so hungry that i willed hunger
i have never been so angry as to want to control a gun over a pen.
not really.
even as a woman, as a palestinian, as a broken human being.
never this broken.

more than ever, i believe there is no difference.
the most privileged nation, most americans do not know the difference
between indians, afghanis, syrians, muslims, sikhs, hindus.
more than ever, there is no difference.

2. thank you korea for kimchi and bibim bob, and corn tea and the
genteel smiles of the wait staff at wonjo the smiles never revealing
the heat of the food or how tired they must be working long midtown
shifts. thank you korea, for the belly craving that brought me into
the city late the night before and diverted my daily train ride into
the world trade center.

there are plenty of thank yous in ny right now. thank you for my
lazy procrastinating late ass. thank you to the germs that had me
call in sick. thank you, my attitude, you had me fired the week
before. thank you for the train that never came, the rude nyer who
stole my cab going downtown. thank you for the sense my mama gave me
to run. thank you for my legs, my eyes, my life.

3. the dead are called lost and their families hold up shaky
printouts in front of us through screens smoked up.

we are looking for iris, mother of three. please call with any
information. we are searching for priti, last seen on the 103rd
floor. she was talking to her husband on the phone and the line
went. please help us find george, also known as a! ! del. his family is
waiting for him with his favorite meal. i am looking for my son, who
was delivering coffee. i am looking for my sister girl, she started
her job on monday.

i am looking for peace. i am looking for mercy. i am looking for
evidence of compassion. any evidence of life. i am looking for
life.

4. ricardo on the radio said in his accent thick as yuca, "i will
feel so much better when the first bombs drop over there. and my
friends feel the same way."

on my block, a woman was crying in a car parked and stranded in hurt.
i offered comfort, extended a hand she did not see before she said,
"we"re gonna burn them so bad, i swear, so bad." my hand went to my
head and my head went to the numbers within it of the dead iraqi
children, the dead in nicaragua. the dead in rwanda who had to vie
with fake sport wrestling for america's attention.

yet when people sent emails saying, this was bound to happen, lets
! ! not forget u.s. transgressions, for half a second i felt resentful.
hold up with that, cause i live here, these are my friends and fam,
and it could have been me in those buildings, and we"re not bad
people, do not support america's bullying. can i just have a half
second to feel bad?

if i can find through this exhaust people who were left behind to
mourn and to resist mass murder, i might be alright.

thank you to the woman who saw me brinking my cool and blinking back
tears. she opened her arms before she asked "do you want a hug?" a
big white woman, and her embrace was the kind only people with the
warmth of flesh can offer. i wasn't about to say no to any comfort.
"my brother's in the navy," i said. "and we"re arabs". "wow, you
got double trouble." word.

5. one more person ask me if i knew the hijackers.
one more motherfucker ask me what navy my brother is in.
one more person assume no arabs or muslims were killed.one more person
assume they know me, or that i represent a people.
or that a people represent an evil. or that evil is as simple as a
flag and words on a page.

we did not vilify all white men when mcveigh bombed oklahoma.
america did not give out his family's addresses or where he went to
church. or blame the bible or pat robertson.

and when the networks air footage of palestinians dancing in the
street, there is no apology that hungry children are bribed with
sweets that turn their teeth brown. that correspondents edit images.
that archives are there to facilitate lazy and inaccurate
journalism.

and when we talk about holy books and hooded men and death, why do we
never mention the kkk?

if there are any people on earth who understand how new york is
feeling right now, they are in the west bank and the gaza strip.

6. today it is ten days. last night bush waged war on a man once
openly funded by the
cia. i do not know who is responsible. read too many books, know
too many people to believe what i am told. i don't give a fuck about
bin laden. his vision of the world does not include me or those i
love. and petittions have been going around for years trying to get
the u.s. sponsored taliban out of power. shit is complicated, and i
don't know what to think.

but i know for sure who will pay.

in the world, it will be women, mostly colored and poor. women will
have to bury children, and support themselves through grief. "either
you are with us, or with the terrorists" - meaning keep your people
under control and your resistance censored. meaning we got the loot
and the nukes.

in america, it will be those amongst us who refuse blanket attacks on
the shivering. those of us who work toward social justice, in
support of civil liberties, in opposition to hateful foreign
policies.

i have never felt less american and more new yorker, particularly
brooklyn, than these past days. the stars and stripes on all these
cars and apartment windows represent the dead as citizens first, not
family members, not lovers.

i feel like my skin is real thin, and that my eyes are only going to
get darker. the future holds little light.

my baby brother is a man now, and on alert, and praying five times a
day that the orders he will take in a few days time are righteous and
will not weigh his soul down from the afterlife he deserves.

both my brothers - my heart stops when i try to pray - not a beat to
disturb my fear. one a rock god, the other a sergeant, and both
palestinian, practicing muslim, gentle men. both born in brooklyn
and their faces are of the archetypal arab man, all eyelashes and
nose and beautiful color and stubborn hair.

what will their lives be like now?

over there is over here.

7. all day, across the river, the smell of burning rubber and limbs
floats through. the sirens have stopped now. the advertisers are
back on the air. the rescue workers are traumatized. the skyline is
brought back to human size. no longer taunting the gods with its
height.

i have not cried at all while writing this. i cried when i saw those
buildings collapse on themselves like a broken heart. i have never
owned pain that needs to spread like that. and i cry daily that my
brothers return to our mother safe and whole.

there is no poetry in this. there are causes and effects. there are
symbols and ideologies. mad conspiracy here, and information we will
never know. there is death here, and there are promises of more.

there is life here. anyone reading this is breathing, maybe hurting,
but breathing for sure. and if there is any light to come, it will
shine from the eyes of those who look for peace and justice after the
rubble and rhetoric are cleared and the phoenix has risen.

affirm life.
affirm life.
we got to carry each other now.
you are either with life, or against it.
affirm life.

My Yellow

(Color definitely more specific than the wavelength of light that one perceives through the eye. Color is perceived through all the senses. It is possible to feel a color, to smell a color, even without sight. Here is my description of yellow as if it were to a blind person. It took me five minutes, but it was helpful to me to free associate what I thought Yellow was to me and create something artistic out of it. It'll probably be different in a week or so... experience is subjective, right?)

My Yellow

Warm, bright, smooth, sweet,
Have you ever held the sun in your lungs?

The soft blanket of warmth tickling

your eyelashes as it calls for the earth

Grow! Grow! All the grass is reaching 

up to the sky

for yellow!

The thrill of laughter from the neighbor's yard

A lick of dew

A splash of dandelion against your cheek
An explosion of wonder---

shaking--

pulsating--

The smell of running

for the very first time

Awe--

Joy--

Excitement--

Have you ever known pure bliss in the dead of night?

Dancing to the beat

the beat 

of your own heart?

Yellow! Yellow! The whole world

is reaching to the sky

for yellow!

My yellow.

I AM OUTLET

Give me your burdens, your weakness, your roaming mind just aching for just a lick of amusement. Give me your dissatisfaction brimming with counter-productivity in your pitiful gut.

Lay it all here, your cold and dark and isolated soul. You should never have had to wait. I'll wind you down a path of meaninglessness and mediocrity you've never thought existed. The days will the longer, and there will be endless nights of occupation and busying. Believe me. I will do that. Just for you. 

So escape it  all. For I am an outlet. I will provide a portal to make all your dreams come true. I will move things in the speed of light, so that you will never have to. I will be your vacation, your trip away from the dirty gritty natural world. Stay with me.

 I am outlet. 

That's not important but there are orange feet, though.

First order of business: John Kenn Mortensen
He is the guy who started me on this whole thing about doing post-its all the time and stuff. They are mad cool! I don't draw like him at all, but I think that is okay. He's very illustrative. I try not to be. I'm trying to be more stream of consciousness because that's just who I am. I like to go with the flow and see where the art takes me.

Also,

I keep on talking about dreams and so forth and so on, and I guess its sort of important to talk about why. Dreams are really weird in the way that they don't make any sense. Maybe sometimes they make some sense, but usually they don't.
One time I had a dream about a head in a microwave. It was all my brother's fault. I don't know why it was, but I know with certainty it was absolutely his responsibility. Check out my animation about that dream here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vKgIaIJvBfQ
The subconscious mind tends not to have any inhibitions. Let's face it, my no-sensor mind is my best muse (if i can even remember in the morning)

so here's something I got written down late a couple nights ago:

The bird houses in the circle, they're made of wood and it's dark out and there's a fire and in the middle the hands from the bird houses reach out towards the fire and you can't see the fire because it's too big and bright. and all the bird houses are in a big circle. The moon is golf clubs and paper. And clouds are fire. But they're like little tea light candle fires. The horses they bring you the food on a platter on top of their heads. The horses are not like real horses. They're like the chess piece horses, they only have heads really. That's it though. The orange feet, though. That's not important but there are orange feet though. OH! The platter is clear, that's important. And that's it.

I'm trying to decide what this is going to look like...

relevant? maybe...

I definitely remember typing essays by typewriter all the way through elementary school.  click click click click click whoosh diing click clickclick click click whoosh ding!
 5th grade was the first time I had ever written an essay by computer, and it took me a really long time. It was awesome though. I could erase things without having to use our fancy whiteout button and waiting for it to dry. I remember my family's first computer... a PC, desktop. It took up a lot of room in the room and it was always very very hot. I used it for two things... to write essays, and to look this up:

on repeat. over and over and over and over and over again.

I'm not willing to say that what "we" (artists) are doing is irrelevant, but what if (considering the human race does not actually get wiped out in the near future) our generation is actually going to be known for... videos! Video games, photoshop illustrations, that stuff... things that are meant to be passed along digitally. Things that can reach the other side of the world before you can blink... maybe its not actually important to "slow down the processing of information"

so i'm just going to keep on making more and more and more and more of the same exact thing... in hopes that somehow more can justify the need to draw with pen and paper.
as long as i think its fun... never hurts to play, right?

got power!?

Oh hello, world! I can't even begin to tell you how nice it is to finally be able to connect to the outside universe again. Seriously, before internet or cable... how did anyone find out anything about the world?
At any rate it looks like New Brunswick is recovering fine from "Sandy". This is a prank Sandy pulled for mischief night:

and here we all are, thinking that smashing pumpkins is a big deal.

Elections are tomorrow, so here's what i was thinking. As an artist, I have been finding that a large community of artists really don't have much of a political opinion at all, which is strange to me because I had grown up with the idea that artists are really supposed to be the most politically active. Maybe its not true at all, but I was thinking about the likes of Banksy.

He started off as a vandal. He still is a vandal. People say he "sold out" but I'm convinced that its really because they're jealous. Gosh, if I could be as successful as him.

Anyways, the point is, he talked about a whole variety of things, like censorship, war, corruption... and he's running from cops the entire time. 

I can't tell you that I'm by any means brave enough to do something to piss off the government in order to  tell the government out pissed i am at the government. And to make artwork people would actually look at... I don't know man. 

I don't think its necessarily important to make a painting about something. Whether it be about feminism, war, death, destruction, or even dreams or happiness. It's much more important for one to paint while thinking about something, and the thoughts will always pour out onto the canvas (or whatever medium you use). 

Similarly, "kill your darlings" There are some things that people always run back to painting or drawing when they are uncomfortable, and there are some things that people are always thinking about but are actively avoiding. Kill your darlings. Get the bad out, write about it so many times that it leaves your system. Paint about it so many times that it loses its flavor to you, so you can move on to bigger better things. 

This (minus three post it notes) is what i submitted to the Text and Systems show at Mason Gross this year:

They are post it notes in little 3x3 drug bags. No i don't sell drugs so don't ask. The post-it notes to me represent mass production, trash, hoarding, obsession, dreams... It, to me, is very much about getting the stuff I always want to draw out of my system so I can make better artwork that isn't about hairy legs in tutus. I'm actually very proud to say that It has become more than just my trash pile, and transformed into its own art piece.

also: i had a reoccurring dream last night. I was chewing my fingernails, and it kept on growing and growing and growing and i kept on chewing, but it never stopped. I wonder what it means. :)

Here's a cute picture of my cat: