Movement Eight

Pleasure // Erosion // Enhancement

I caught a virus in someone’s bed, inhaled a chemical that snuffed out some macula, and the ringing in my ears was howled into existence through speakers large and small. I’m thirty one years old.

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Someone in the room of disability arts professionals (artists, funders, producers, thinkers) says that instead of the binary distinctions of ‘disabled vs. non-disabled’, it would be better to use ‘disabled vs. not-yet-disabled’ instead, since the incidence of disability rises sharply in old(er) age.

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If we’re using the social model of disability (there are many models), the main form of disability I experience right now is primarily one of stigma, discrimination, and out-dated-attitudes. As long as I move in well-meaning, liberal, left-leaning circles, I don’t really experience any of that. And I mostly move in well-meaning, liberal, left-leaning circles, which could be a problem (see: ‘echo chamber’).

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I sit in the room of disability arts professionals (artists, funders, producers, thinkers) with my undetectable virus, the undiagnosed streaks of afterimage in my eyes and a dial-up Internet tone rippling beneath the surface noise, and I wonder if I’m disabled // intermittently-disabled // not-yet-disabled // not-at-all-disabled if I choose to move in certain spaces only (that choice may get taken away).

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I have a watch, a present for my 21st birthday, chipped and scratched but still beautiful. My body tells the time, and I feel the gouges.