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We are fermenting whitout recipes

Actualizado: 21 de nov de 2018

By María González //

Proyect: TO LET IN (THE MASS) INTO (MY BODY), Fermenting Feminism. Copenhaguen 2018 // Photo by Andrea Pontoppidan and Lauren Fournier

It’s time to be a community. Time to let our magic out in the light and quit fermenting in the dark. Time to make public the fire of our experience. Fire for which we’ve burnt. The bonfire of our history as burning women, separated from the sun. The same fire used to tame our intimacy. It is time for women to let out into the light all of our knowledge, our inclassified - disclassified knowledge.Time to make public our intimate bacteria, time to multiply our starter culture and turn our family oriented efforts into collective, contaminated communities out in the light. As long as The Family, patriarchy’s cornerstone, is not drawn to the streets by the tide of intimate – public ferments, ending the will to ferment behind closed doors of our kitchens. As long as jars keep shut and those bonnet covered women heads, those hiding long haired cooking women, are never let out in the light. As long as we never dare hold hands and uncover our pregnant wombs, wombs screaming that being raped and contaminated do not make us dirty. As long as we don’t spread dirty wishes to contaminate kitchens disinfected of differents kinds of love. Time to defend our contaminated will to meet outside, to freely abort. Nor separated neither disinfected. Time to get outsideof our jars, free and contaminated. Our fear fermenting jars. As long as we don’t soak all our kitchen listening, as bread boils in the oven, and build a new impossible imaginary describing collective language. As long as we don’t take courage to speak this new language andthe invisible becomes visible. It’s time to make our jars loud in the streets. Time to keep cooking, holding a pot in one hand and keeping the other hand free. Time to fight food made behind closed doors, that makes us hungry. Time to cook outside food that feeds our craving/our hunger. Food made at hidden kitchens, holding secrets that boil to come out in the light. It is time to sun dry all the activated seeds, time to let out all of our rugs, our jars and our wooden spoons to plot together. Time to come out in the light and show all the work, all the hands behind every preparation. It is time to allow ourselves time to eat, time to cook for our children and for them to feed us. Time to let us want and be wanted, to let the seeds of our encounters root us. Time to look at each other again with knowledge that can’t be tamed. A Different, independently structured knowledge. Knowledge like independent collectively working bubbles. It is time to learn that there’s not a lid that can keep locked our bubbles when we boil together. It is time to find ourselves, knowledge deprived, life-contaminated from other incomprehensible lives, recognizing we are im-pure and stop consuming bleached, hurried products, cleansed of any life or touch. It is time to speak as we walk. To make room amongst word-filled-books for other voices, the ones that can be heard when we stop talking. The hearing of a new collective language that can be heard amongst the songs we sing together. It is time to listen to the other invisible worlds and ferment again, over and over again and stand by; there’s not much more to do than staying together. It is time to discuss, to get muddy, get mixed up. Time to not feel pure, time to get off our tendons crippling high heels. We need strong ankles to run, but not run away, for we will not be escaping anymore. We run holding hands with our fears, dancing to inexistent mottos that are born from our listening. It is time to go out and cook feeling the wind on our skin, lighting the fire to carefully boil our public movement. It is time to declare that we ferment without recipes, smelling our fears, pouring our tears and laughter in each jar, emotions privately evaporated until now. It is time to be rotund. To scream our war songs from our corners and shout together that #We. To feel that our mottos are not enough and we are babbling meaning-opening-sentences in the space between our hands. Our sweating hands that shall never let go. It is time to make politics out of our intimacy. These are times. Smelling-ourselves de-parted in the streets times. Times of smelling from being together so many hours. Opened. These are times for fermenting the present, and letting flood the open rivers that run through our legs. Times for scattering our untamable cycles. It is time to recognize our mixed blood running hidden through a vortex between the sidewalk and the street. The same silenced blood. Our blood. Monthly running blood, as we drink red wine in tall glasses. These are times for toasting in cups, for bleeding strongly on our tables. There are times. Two times. One dough. Our dough. Time for experience. Sensitive whole mass; complex, multiple and autonomous doughs. Times for sour doughs, awakening flattened flavors whit forgotten knowledge. The flavour of understandings and knowledge for holding each other. Times that wake up. Times that awake. Sensitivities that time. That tremble. It is time. Head down time. The fermented experience of our reason. Two times. Our consciousnesschroNOlogy. Another time. Female’s blood cycle is flooding the streets. It is happening, there are millions of movements taking place now. Only they’re slower than time and we can’t see them. There’s nothing for us to do. Let’s join this mass’s fall.There’s nothing for us to do. Let’s join this mass’s fall.


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