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Right now I am having quite a hectic discussion about dancers and their being as “sex-decoration”. That´s how the “other person” calls them disrespectfully. And lumps them together with people who sell their bodies for money and uses words like “cheap” and “tasteless”, “bad example” for the next generation. OF COURSE I had to face this witch-hunt a thousand times at universe, from audience, even friends. May they think what they want, but I´d never expected this from an artist. A young promising person who comes from the literature scene with a feeling for a fascinating performance. And who should know that first comes research, then opinion. I am so dissapointed, they are actually insulting the women´s body and it´s way of expression.

The problem is not the girls. The “bad expample” is a matter of projection. Some consider the dancers as heros, others as whores. But do they honestly think, this is reality? No way, the reason for this “horrible image of a woman” lies in it´s viewer. In people like them!

I consider the dancers as what they are: As (in this case) self conscious people who are proud of their body and who don´t want to hide it. Who stand for their sexuality and are not ashamed to play with it. If you ask me, this is the only good example for women/men no matter what generation. Anything else is repression and discrimination. I will never let myself repress either. And just for the note: One of the dancers  is a doctor, another one a teacher, a third one is an artist at Städelschule. But how do the others know, when they refuse researching and listening?

This judgemental thinking is so not consequent, because all young artists need freedom and respect for their work, if they have the balls to be edgy. But only literature deserves respect, or what? God, this makes me … disillusioned. I never felt free but I believed in young art/literature made by intellectual open minded people to help me fight for freedom for body and mind. Well … that was that.

I´m gonna have to write about this, when I geht back from Portugal. Because this is where I am right now: Lisboa! Damn, I couldn´t be any happier.

This post is dedicated to my ‘deco-people’, who you just have to love, because they are wonderful AND with a soul so deep, you might get lost in it. Can you believe that?
Now I´m going out celebrating my (half) freedom.
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I wanted to take this slow. It took me two hours to prepare my outer and inner condition. I thought of avoiding too many people at the beginning, walking around, going by an empty train to get used to myself. But my plan didn´t work out. The first step on the street felt like a jump into a fire: crowded streets with trillions of `normal´ people, wearing normal suits, having normal lunch. I was thrilled. I couldn´t breathe, let alone lift my eyes. I ran to the train station, a cocktail of adrenaline and thoughts drugging me with:
Run, stoop, take small frantic steps as a crack driven woman, hide behind your role, your dirt. Nothing will happen to you.
After a few steps of self suggestion I felt quite safe.
Just keep on looking down with the cap covering your face. As long as you don´t see any people, perhaps they don´t see you.
I was wrong. Half blind of tension, I almost bumped into a business guy, quite cute looking. I had a few key encounters this day and he was the first. His torn open eyes looked at me with disgust, shock and pity at the same time. And I figured: Even if I tried to be invisible,
people indeed might not recognize you. But they see you.
After a long ride on the train and a walk through the city of destination, I finally found a space for my mission. Now I was going to spread my newspaper, sit down and place my paper cup in front of me. Right here. I was really gonna do this, right?
Come on now, do it. Leap off into the pavement. Cower. Use your arms, the cap, the pullover as your shield.
Sitting there, all I saw was shoes passing by. I calmed down under cover until, after a few minutes only, I heard coins rattle. A pair of blue sneakers turned around and walked towards me.
What´s he doing? Is he coming to me? No way, he is. Don´t look up, don´t look up. Breathe. Hide.
A hand sank down to my paper cup and dropped a coin. I looked up where my view met some young
man´s eyes. I thanked him. He nodded and rushed away.
I did it. I´m officially accepted as one of`em.
I was terrified.
And proud.

Tank: trash
Pants: trash
Shoes: Vagabond (fucked quality)
Bag: Rewe supermarket
Make up/nail-polish: dirt