Kätlog

Never thought I would write something about home. Thought I lost my home years ago, floating. Tokyo nagaremono. Nagaremono Blues. Hearing songs about Tokyo on the worst radio station ever: RSA. New York, Rio, Tokyo. First time I heard about that special place. The place that keeps my nostalgia, my home. Never went back, and went back, always lacking another place. Space, place, gender, as Doreen Massery told us. What is gender? Am I gender? I went back to Germany. I noticed that men are discriminated. Never seen that before, never experienced the idea that feminism can go overboard, although I hated feminism just because of the feminism for years. When I wasn’t in Germany, I got political, but did I go feminist? I thought so. Going back to Germany, I feel maculinist. Does that mean I always side with the gender minorities? Or the foreigners? I side with the muslims. I side with the gaijin. I don’t side at all.
I side with minorities. I never thought I was discriminated. I was always respected. I hated the discrimination of equals when I was in Todai. I would never side with the Koreans who said that the atmosphere in our seminar was hostile. I would never side with the princess Japanese women who thought they were discriminated. Maybe it was me who saw them as a shame when they wanted to be housewives, anyone, the Caucasian, Chinese, Korean, Tawainese, Japanese girls. The Japanese girls who never spoke up. Me who only spoke up when people discriminated their own. I only saw discrimination when they acted towards their own folks. Why did I think that I could make a change when I spoke up for them who were ridiculed, and never spoke up for the minorities? Maybe because I wasn`t? Maybe because I was minority myself?
I lack consistency. In all things I do. My thesis, my life, my health, my family. What do they mean to me? I’m in a slump. My minority is where I am. Where I feel home. This can be anywhere. This is my home. The change. I need the change. I am a foreigner, but I only act when I am feeling everything is going overboard. I am no activist. I am only activist when things go against my rules. Humanity sucks. I am opportunist. I am lesbian. I am heterosexual. I am a male homosexual. I am not what I was years ago. I am not sure anymore. The universe mocks me. It is uncertain. Me too. I hate extremes. That is why I am writing about them.

I will fail. No one cares about extremes. We need them to be sure about social order. Thank you Foucault and Laclau for that. I am not an activist. I might have never been. And still I think something is wrong. I am incomplete. I know. This makes me change. But to where, what for? Have I lost my enthusiasm, me, the sarcastic one? Will anyone ever know when I am talking about what I think is right? Why do I always sound sarcastic when I am talking about things that really concern me? I don’t like children, why do they like me? I don’t like dogs, why do they like me? Who am I? Is there anything extreme anyway? What is me? Who is me? Am I good? I think I am not. I want to be good. GIve me back my good. My virtue. My humanism. I lost it somewhere. I cannot find it again. I am a shame.