Mel Cook

 It Started on The Playground
 Acrylic, oil, and graphite on canvas.
72 x 48 in.

“Surviving patriarchy and capitalism is like having two dicks in my ass (without condoms). I love anal sex, but this sucks. That’s how they work: they take something you really love, something that involves vulnerability and trust, and they demonize, regulate, and generate profits from it. A perpetual rape that leads to exploitation. For God’s sake, they took reality and turned it into a TV show. The everyday is political, regardless of the lens that you are looking through, even if through some long outdated telescopic lens ignoring the present and probing into the future. We landed on the moon and even that is debated. This constant need for expanding ownership in all arenas is mania inducing. You can even buy a star for your lover or a plot of land on the moon where you can build your new feminist love shack, a marker of forever, or at least for an amount of time that we might understand. This rock is truly better than a diamond. I wonder if they are aware that they are owned: the stars, at least.

This constellation is constantly changing and growing, and we are finally acknowledging that our perceptions of the world are not fixed and that the universe is not fixed. It is constantly expanding. When looking at the stars one night, sitting by the lake, drinking beers, my lover told me that there are four spheres of your practice: ego, ethno, world, and cosmos. And I agreed, listening to his platitudes, likening it to why Shakespeare was so famous— because of his ability to communicate on multiple levels. Sure, the genius is male, wink wink, but what if we don’t agree on the cosmos? Is just the ego left? How can I articulate my own reality when the language for that reality hasn’t existed until now, and is still barely acknowledged? If we are telling you we see a color, and that in fact the color does exist, but you cannot see it, does that mean the color is not real? I think not. Your spectrum is lacking. Get your eyes fixed so we can both see the rainbow.

I just got off of the phone with my best friend. She called because she was upset and deeply hurt that her male partner did not acknowledge her reality as a woman (all of this was in regards to the fear and reality of rape and rape culture), I told her that her feelings of hurt and anger were valid, and that if she feels that he does not truly view her as an equal, then to dump his ass, but to see if she could get him to see her side first. I am a very doubtful motherfucker. I wonder if this emotional labor will pay off. Why do I need to educate you? I know that I am a teacher, but how has this conversation been derailed and mutated? Is it a question of aesthetics? Of gender? I fear that I am another Freudian pillar of existence. I rage against this notion, but it can make one feel hysterical, paranoid, and delusional. If I had the power to control my wandering womb, we would simply be discussing the weather, but you have separated me from my body! It’s one of the reasons you make me hug you with space between us so my breasts don’t touch your body!

And to where do I drift off when you are fucking me over the couch? Painting. The infinite space of potential. I glide through this vast expanse as I exit my flesh-pod of a body. How do we share similar existences? Our borders are always touching. Your history, a history of my body, of our bodies being used, is bound to me and to mine. WO MAN. The common denominator in an age- old equation of power, where you are on top and I am on the bottom. BUTT little did you know: I am a power bottom. Painting is dead! Religion is dead! My cat is dead! Patriarchy is not dead! So fuck death, because as we know, history repeats itself.

Like I said, I am a very doubtful motherfucker, but I do know that I am not blind. ” – Mel Cook

See more of Mel’s work here!

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