nanopolitics handbook - Minor Compositions

messy, collective voices in movement. And it may be that radicality (the radicalsplaying with rules, reinventing them) emerges exactly there, from thisuncontrollability of words, bodies and emotions. There is no clear intentionality,no conclusion, no solution, but we are sharing a lot, even understandingsomething, maybe.(Our hands now all together, the impossibility of disarticulating this snarlof hands and thoughts, and desires).And now suddenly...shit! He is running behind me! Does he want to touchmy bum!!? Is there an intentionality there, e.g. to make me understand howbad it is to be assaulted? To touch me without permission or even against mywill? I am excited but I am running away, I am escaping - and I realize onlynow, to what extent I am actually always available. Or better, when my bodyis available it convinces itself that the mind is so rich, resourceful and strongthat it can control any exceeding affect, any leaking desire or fear, any vulnerability.Any wound can be cured ‘cause my mind is in charge’, and in factthere is no wound, or it is too deep to emerge as a boundary. There is only theold spirit of rebellion, the temptation of breaking the rules.(…and these women who think they are strong, and these men who feelthey are so weak, and the women so willing to look after that spot of weakness,and these queers who believe they are liberated, and the multiple, old and newoppressions still within all of us, across ourselves…)And so, eventually, after thinking through gender and sex, I ask the questionagain: why is he running behind me and trying to grab my sensitive bodyparts? Is he challenging my supposedly fearless and sceptical view of theboundary? Is he at the same time asserting his masculinity once again?In the reflecting circle at the end of our workshop, when we gather alltogether, ‘curly-hairs’ reminds me with soft but sharp words, that there areboundaries that should be simply re-affirmed (to be then crossed again?). Weare not ever-welcoming porous beings, we are full of wounds. And we areabout to understand that these are much more profound than our skin andmembranes. Deep down in the pumping muscle, our invisible mysterious organreclaims its amenability to wounds, as much as its eagerness to pumpingmore blood and circulate, re-create new life, new loves.Memory calls older memories. Years ago, with my southern women-onlypolitical collective, we discussed why ‘girls’ ‘today’ often seem to perceiveand practice their sexual liberation almost as if it were quantifiable. And wewondered if awareness of our body was something lost in the pretention thatwe can do everything as far as we are in charge. ‘Exposure’ was limited andguaranteed by self- and collective confidence. But in my new feminist queercollective of the north we say we rather do not moralise over ‘how girls or148