"It’s the same granny square afghan in every apartment and succulents that are difficult to kill and children’s tchotchkes when you’re 30 and second-wave feminist lesbian sloganeering records (you’re kind of kidding, kind of not) and punk houses and cats that are complete jerks and still smoking and safer spaces policies and way too many identity labels to count or use effectively.
It’s the feeling I get when someone brings up feminist zines from the 90’s or prison abolition or uses the term “girl gang” or talks about the SCUM Manifesto or basement shows. It’s the worlds that exist for a conversation or a reading or maybe even a day or two before you remember everything else that makes it impossible for them to exist for more than that. It’s the safety of whatever place you call home.
How do I relate to those things and how do I need them around. How are certain objects and places familiar, even at first glance. Why was my teenage self more willing to say I would marry a painting I loved than another human being. What do I remember about their home and their bedroom. What would I be without it.
How do you like what you have."