SlutWalk Brisbane — May 19, 2012

The second annual SlutWalk, a march against rape and against slut shaming, will take place in Brisbane on May 19. That’s in a week.

With its contentious name, SlutWalk caused quite a stir when it first became a thing last year. Lots of people were — quite reasonably — confused about its aims. At that time, I wrote about what SlutWalk meant to me; it’s probably a good time to revisit that article: Why I Walked the SlutWalk.

I’ll be back there this year with my loved ones alongside me. Even if you don’t march, it’s a good time to think about the issues at hand: victim blaming and slut shaming. Let’s replace those with enthusiastic consent and sex positivity.

Placard in the crowd says, “Consent is sexy.” Photo by Matt McKillop.

Window Shopping

In a Lush store window in London yesterday, a very brave woman — Jacqueline Traide — consensually underwent torture in protest against animal testing in the cosmetics industry.

An article in the UK’s Daily Mail published photos of the event here. (Whether you call it a stunt or endurance art is up to you.) I post that link with a trigger warning; the photo series is (for me, at least) extremely upsetting. But that’s the point. It’s easy for us to distance ourselves from the pain of animals. We can call them dirty vermin or test subjects. They can’t speak up, and their deaths happen quietly, out of sight.

We wouldn’t let the same torture occur to our friends or our pets. There would be outrage. Charges would be laid. Yet industries that practise animal testing or factory farming continue to torture conscious, feeling creatures — and we continue to rationalise it.

Take a look at that link. Be horrified, disgusted, upset, anxious, nauseous, sad — whatever you feel. Then, in future, think about the products you buy, how they are made, and what you condone when you purchase them.

Traide’s 10-hour ordeal challenged London window shoppers. Who, of course, are the real animals, when we make these kind of nightmares commonplace?

Lush, as one example,  proves that the testing of cosmetics on animals is unnecessary. It is a thriving global business that acts ethically and works to minimise impact on the environment. (They also fixed my face.) This is my chance — as a recent convert — to sing their praises without being dull and telling you Things About Soap.

There are lots of horrifying things going on in the world, and often it feels overwhelming. But every little thing you do to help counts, so do even the little things when you can.

A Poet in Every Home

Monty Python’s Flying Circus: Episode 17

Mrs Potter ‘Ere, there’s Alfred Lord Tennyson in the bathroom.
Mr Potter Well, at least the poet’s been installed, then.
Cut to an officious-looking man in Gas Board type uniform and peaked cap.CAPTION: ‘SALES MANAGER EAST MIDLANDS POET BOARD’
Sales Manager Yes, a poet is essential for complete home comfort, and all-year round reliability at low cost. We in the East Midlands Poet Board hope to have a poet in every home by the end of next year.
ANIMATION: an advertisement.
Voices (singing) Poets are both clean and warm
And most are far above the norm
Whether here, or on the roam
Have a poet in every home.
Cut to middle-class hall. The front doorbell rings. Housewife opens door to Gas Board type inspector with bicycle clips, rubber mac and cap and notebook. In the background we can hear muffled Wordsworth.
Voice I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high…
Inspector Morning, madam, I’ve come to read your poet.
She Oh yes, he’s in the cupboard under the stairs.
Inspector What is it, a Swinburne? Shelley?
She No, it’s a Wordsworth.
Inspector Oh, bloody daffodils.

Thanks to Ib Rasmussen for the script excerpt.

NZ: North Island

My childhood in New Zealand has long since faded into a pastiche of greens: long car trips through the mountains with the windows down; the lowset jacaranda in my grandparents’ front yard and Granddad’s maze of fruit trees out the back; Nana’s lavender hedge and its cult of bees; and the smell of feijoa from my aunt’s verandah, overlooking Hawke’s Bay.

Last time I flew overseas, it was alone — to America. I certainly haven’t travelled with my parents for years. On board, we’re a pressurised mess of sound, light and bacteria. An inordinate number of Continue reading

The Problem at Hand

So, my note to Queensland cracked 1000 page views yesterday. Not a big number, in the scheme of things, but certainly a happy anomaly for a little poetry blog. Thanks for reading and sharing. Glad to know you’re out there.

A brief exchange at Brisbane Airport hit the nail on the head for me yesterday, when our shuttle bus driver asked us if we’d heard the results. He explained that he usually votes Labor but — like many Queenslanders wanting change — voted Liberal this time around. He looked uneasy and said, “I just hope Campbell and the Libs have some good plans for the next few years.”

Herein lies our problem, Queensland. You’re meant to check out your candidates’ policies before you number the boxes — not cross your fingers afterwards. It’s your democratic right to vote. But however your politics swing, it’s your democratic responsibility to vote with forethought.

Oi, Queensland!

Dear Queenslanders — no, let’s get more specific. Dear Queensland women and feminists, artists and arts workers of all kinds, Indigenous people, refugees, queer and LGB people, trans people, genderqueer people, poly folks, pro-choice people, environmentalists, unionists, students, academics, journalists, weirdos, and friends and lovers of the above:

Now is not the time for that peculiar Aussie apathy.

Nor is it time to skip town.

More than ever, now is the time to be visible and vocal in Queensland. It’s time to be patient, fearless, and determined. It’s time to be aware of your rights and to be vigilant.

And above all, it’s time to create as much art as superhumanly possible. Get cracking.