Ruud Librations

Cellphone Snapshots: Stenciled Street Art

2008-06-20T21:30:00.004-06:00

I walk to the Lake Merritt BART station in Oakland every day for my commute to work in San Francisco. For as long as I've lived in or frequented the neighborhood, there's been a tagger who leaves his/her mark in the form of the spraypainted outline of a cupcake. But on the morning of June 4th, this and all the other tags had been painted over. In their place were these magenta stenciled conch shells.

Overnight, the city crews had come and whitewashed away the old graff, and an unknown artist had painted these very vaginal stencils on everything from the backs of signs to the mailbox. Or perhaps it was the artist who first created the blank canvas, and then populated it with a fresh, feminist statement?

On some surfaces, the shells come in pairs. On the fifth, the day after they appear, I snapped a picture of two together. I sent it to a (lesbian) friend, with an appropriately crass caption. Next morning, I see that the very same set has been tagged over. I again shoot the snapshot to said friend, this time with the caption "Homophobes!"

Somehow the series doesn't feel finished. I take a shot of the mailbox on the 11th. The pink stands bold against the once-blue, now-blank surface... this one feels different, marked on such a familiar fixture--on government property, a symbol of the state.

The only shell painted on a non-neutral background is near the Oakland museum, on a power box by the entrance to the parking lot of the conference center, which I pass through daily to j-walk across International. It's even more striking, in some ways, against the green. I wonder how intentional the placement of this one, in particular, was. Vagina Power Box, I call it. I like to give the artist the benefit of the doubt: vagina power box, vs vagina power box. This one, at least, stands untagged. And somehow that feels hopeful.

The "N" Word

2007-12-06T01:34:00.000-06:00

Originally written for and published by The Commonline Project on May 17, 2007.

I am a white woman. I have never, and will never, be called a "nigger," by virtue of this fact. Some might say that renders my opinion irrelevant. I beg to differ. The debate over the infamous "n-word" is not unique; "cunt" and "bitch" spark similar debates among feminists, along with "fag" and "dyke" in the queer community, and "flip" for Filipinos, to name merely a few. While the words may be different, the dilemma is the same: can a word ever be truly reclaimed?

As a writer, I hold firm belief in the power of words. I see their import, not in their dictionary definitions, but as derived from the subtle texture and color that use has given them over the years. For how else do words gain meaning? Words can only be defined in terms of each other, and therefore, without the connotations of each's individual history of usage, would all end up synonymous. As George Santayana famously said, "Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it." Thus it is that in order to effectively use a word, I must know its history, and I realize the implications it may have on what I am attempting to convey, depending on the context, and the sensibilities of my audience.

Does this mean I should never speak a word that has insulted or oppressed? On the contrary. Just as I believe that criminals should be rehabilitated, not punished, I would hope for the successful reclamation of "past offenders," and this can only be achieved by a systematic and deliberate use of the word in a positive way, creating new associations... in effect, changing the very meaning of the word. Can this be done in practice, with a word with such a rap sheet as that of "nigger," or "cunt?" In all honesty, I do not know. I do not believe one can predict what path the flow of language will cut through the future. But just as I strive for perfection every day of my life, knowing I will never achieve it, I think there is some value in the attempt.

Girlistic Winter Issue: Feminism & Fashion

2007-11-30T00:19:00.000-06:00

“Feminism” and “fashion”–two words one rarely hears together. In fact, for many feminists, fashion is the new “f word,” a dirty two-syllable utterance to be spat out with contempt and disgust. And, let’s face it, fashion doesn’t have the best track record when it comes to liberating and empowering women. Historically, clothing trends have been used to control and contain the female body, molding it into something more palatable for and less threatening to the masculinity of the world.

Read my take on the future of Feminist Fashion on page 31 of this fall's Girlistic mag.

Girlistic Fall Issue: Feminism & Food

2007-09-04T04:23:00.000-06:00

What if diets came with an advisory label...

WARNING: Consumption (or in this case, lack thereof) may lead to obsession, low self esteem, eating disorders, and death. Proceed with caution.

???

Read my investigation of the diet industry, "Health Concious or No Conscience?" on page 23 of this fall's Girlistic mag.

the death of love

2007-06-16T16:12:00.000-06:00

the death of love
stop treading on my
dress stop stop stepping
on my skirt you're treading
on my train stop stop
stop treading on my dress

rip

-- Copyright 2007 Maddie Ruud

"Action 1" is a project, born Jan 31, 2007, involving the free distribution of original poetry. I give permission to forward this message as a whole, unaltered, via email, but reserve the rights of publication, web and print.

Gestation

2007-04-11T10:45:00.001-06:00

I reach in panic for my heart:
Yes, still there, and kicking, grown
too big to keep a secret.
Soon, the door of my rib-cage will
spring open and
the labor of letting go begins.
I almost hope it is stillborn, so that
I am the only one to ever carry it.

-- Copyright 2007 Maddie Ruud

"Action 1" is a project, born Jan 31, 2007, involving the free distribution of original poetry. I give permission to forward this message as a whole, unaltered, via email, but reserve the rights of publication, web and print.

Evolution

2007-03-23T11:10:00.000-06:00

I collect lies:

Every morning, eager as a child, I open the box
in which I keep them, and spread them on the floor.
I dress them in each others' clothes.
I have them kiss, and fight. But the day's maturing.
I set my lies in lines upon the table, where
I group them, genus, and then species, and
pin labels to their lifeless bodies. I give each
an entry in my log, as conselation. I'm too
tired to play God again.

Night falls. Under my blanket Truth, I shiver
with insomnia and cold. I must make it up with
sheets of lies; this is the only bed I can sleep in.
I pack them in around me, clutch my favorite
to my chest like a still-born child, and cry for it,
but they all fall away when I dream.

-- Copyright 2007 Maddie Ruud

"Action 1" is a project, born Jan 31, 2007, involving the free distribution of original poetry. I give permission to forward this message as a whole, unaltered, via email, but reserve the rights of publication, web and print.

Ode to a Sainte

2007-02-27T12:09:00.000-06:00

Paint me vibrant on your altar,
Set me marble in your hall,
Lift me dripping from the water,
Chip me out of frescoed wall.

Sort my ashes from the fire,
Unravel me from tapestry,
Melt me down and forge me over:
I'm still unwhole. I'm still unholy.

"Action 1" is a project, born Jan 31, 2007, involving the free distribution of original poetry. I give permission to forward this message as a whole, unaltered, via email, but reserve the rights of publication, web and print.

Helen

2007-02-23T11:51:00.000-06:00

Her hair is,
and her face is;
she is beautiful.

Like,
her hands alight in shades of.
She is beautiful.

-- Copyright 2007 Maddie Ruud

"Action 1" is a project, born Jan 31, 2007, involving the free distribution of original poetry. I give permission to forward this message as a whole, unaltered, via email, but reserve the rights of publication, web and print.

Dropping the V-Bomb

2007-02-14T12:34:00.000-06:00

The night is cold; I should have worn gloves. In a plastic grocery bag, I carry packing tape, a disposable camera, and a collage, which reads, "YOUR VAGINA IS WORTH MORE THAN A DOZEN ROSES – judy_blooms at yahoo .com". I registered the email address yesterday, and set up a default vacation responder to read, "Chicago for V-day." Reaching the mailboxes, I hold my cigarette between blue lips, rejoicing to find the "Community News" board empty. I haven’t planned a taping strategy, but I end up covering the whole collage with the clear, wide tape. This way, if the poster board gets torn down, it at least stays in tact. I stand back, admire, snap a picture, and point my feet towards home. I’ll sleep easy tonight.

Noonish, 12 hours later, with my morning diet coke and smoke, I return to see what’s become of my v-bomb. Nearing the place, I can see that the community board is empty. Censorship: I expected as much. "Vagina" seems widely considered a dirty word. But there, curled up, wedged between the wall and the garbage can... there it is. Dirty, tape stuck to itself in places, but still in one piece. I pick it up, spread it out on top of the trash bin. Yes, I think with satisfaction, my vagina is.

I wonder how it ended up there, not in the garbage, but behind it. We’ve had no precipitation. Did it fall due to the cold? Did someone pull it down and leave it there? Who? Male, female? Disgruntled teen, protective parent, paid staff? What was he or she feeling? Anger? Confusion? Shame? My fingers are frozen raw, and the tape is dirtied and will not stick. I leave it, laid flat on the lid of the bin. Let the piece take its course. The wind bites my face, and I long to get back to the warm body of the small dog I call love. This holiday leaves us all out in the cold: we all fall from our original intentions, the declarations we make, prompted by Hallmark cards and candy hearts. Do people even hear them, or is it for ourselves we make them? It all ends up in the trash. Or in close proximity.

Impulse

2007-02-13T12:14:00.000-06:00

The words that stream
from my mouth dance
to their own tune,
like smoke rings blown through
each other, creating an image
of ripples on a pond.
I never learned to skip
stones, and I don't know
how to whistle, but I can
hum: humdrum and spontaneous
both, my phrases
orbit their meaning. Thoughts
cannot occur to me before
I speak them; this is creation,
this is it, or it, or it. This
lack of control is freedom.
A glorious reeling,
this.

-- Copyright 2007 Maddie Ruud

"Action 1" is a project, born Jan 31, 2007, involving the free distribution of original poetry. I give permission to forward this message as a whole, unaltered, via email, but reserve the rights of publication, web and print.

birth

2007-02-12T11:23:00.000-06:00

i come to life: with every inhalation getting closer to existence,
attempting to approach with grace
this lunar landing on my newfound conscience.

nearing myself, i open up my lungs
to embrace the thinning atmosphere
around my emotional body:

i crash.

-- Copyright 2007 Maddie Ruud

"Action 1" is a project, born Jan 31, 2007, involving the free distribution of original poetry. I give permission to forward this message as a whole, unaltered, via email, but reserve the rights of publication, web and print.

song in my hair

2007-02-08T11:38:00.000-06:00

I pull it back; there's a song in my hair, of deep-ringing bells as in the Spanish missions I visited in childhood. Directed by a faux-friar, I hand-dipped candles in the courtyard, that burned with the scent of a simpler life, before the tallow soap bubbles burst, leaving me less clean. What remains of the golden crop that glowed Indian-corn-kernel red under California sun? A freshly shorn wayward sheep, Our Lady of Perpetual Headaches.

I am.

2007-02-02T11:17:00.000-06:00

Identity is a funny thing.
In this age, you can identify as anything,
even as something you're not;
where your body is an accessory, to be
changed as you change your clothes.
But what if our minds existed solely to move
our bodies through space and time?
What if my body transcends me?:
conciousness as purgatory.
I dance in paradise. I feel, therefore...

Paper hands

2007-01-31T14:55:00.000-06:00

crumpled in my pockets:
When they were folded
neatly on the table, no one
read what's written in my
palms. Ball them up, and
throw those hands
away.

-- Copyright 2007 Maddie Ruud

"Action 1" is a project, born Jan 31, 2007, involving the free distribution of original poetry. I give permission to forward this message as a whole, unaltered, via email, but reserve the rights of publication, web and print.