© Jomi

My body is

Sounding Women's Work | She composes and performs across all genres in art – as JOMI, Jomi Massage and in the band Speaker Bite Me. For years the experimental artist, vocalist, guitarist, pianist and writer Signe Høirup Wille-Jørgensen has been active in debates of the time. Here is a long poem about gender and yes, no, maybe.
  • Annonce

    Man skal høre meget

My gender is not. My body is not. My gender means. My body means. My gender does not matter. My body does not mean. My gender is. My body is. My body is a female composer, musician, songwriter and lyricist. 2021. I am 47 years old and with age ascertained, thoughts wander further into the mind and the personal environment, even the same mind sneaks around in there. I stop and do not know if I should describe this. Whether it is relevant to this text about my position in music. About my gender. Body. The physical working conditions. May I talk about the kids? About all that spilled out of me. Music, blood, semen, children. It created. That which creates. Why am I writing about this now? Why do I say it out loud with the scripture and wait and see the reaction? I'm doing this. What happens then? I take off my clothes and show the female body. Repeatedly. I decide when to show it. I decide in what context. I decide over my body. My body is. In spite. Just as the child's mind goes in defiance, it all takes off to extremes and the untamed imagination stands right behind me and whispers in my ear. These are sentences that do not make any kind of sense. In fact, it's crucial that I do not understand them. You put an onion in your hand for a concert with a Big Band. Afterwards. You only do it afterwards. When everything is in order, I interpret for myself and my surroundings. It created. It's all the work. Onions, horns, vocals, the guitar, the keyboards, the drums, oh, the drums that are stuck in the dress, that are moved by the legs, the body that spins around in its dress, that the child spins, like the Sufi dancer I can only look at, not be, because of my gender. The Big Band who are men,  men who think I sing another man's sound and the artist troupe I choose to work with because they can figure out how to make a huge female lap that you could roll into, lie down softly or maybe it could only speak. I have always needed help to get up, like the faltering child and in an environment where my gender starts out as a resistance factor. I crawled right into the close relationships and stayed there. Vigilant, violent and paranoid, I have been called by myself and others. I call it a vigilant bullshit detector, with a craving for basic security. When I forgive myself. In my life. My life. My work. There are no boundaries. I even beat people, to see if they stayed. I'm still beating them. I leg. In sound. The limitless does not exist. There are yes, no and maybe. The cross-border is a common concern otherwise it is an assault. Abuse is not cross-border. They are abuses. The boundaries disappear in the assault because one disappears as human, living, as body. My gender is not. My body is not. My gender means. My body means. My gender does not matter. My body does not mean. My gender is. My body is. Just as the intention of the first sound had a kind of resolution in it. What do you want? Why are you making so much noise? I want to push people up the wall with the noise. I want to see them disappear. Become a clean body that smiles with closed eyes. Gaps and keeps to the ears, but stays in the wall. Those who are closer to the dissolution of the ecstasy of the individual. They're the ones dancing. I shout from the stage. Sings. Screaming. I play on borrowed gear. Toy. Throws the bricks against the wall. See where they land. Pick them up. Throws again. Playing with the nice doll. She plays the guitar with her knife. In silk dress. I get to quietly assemble my own toys in a beauty box. My own pedals. My own guitar. And you (d) ask me about everything I do not go up in and I have to find the defiance rather than not seem stupid. I do not understand why you keep asking. Does he not see that I can not answer in a way that is satisfactory to anyone? Where is the semen? Is it sprayed again for no other purpose than redemption of an insecure ego? why do I have to compromise on my courtesy to get rid of that kind of communication? The assertive is an exhausting game. Duality dies. I close the door. Closes those forms of talking out. My gear is an extension of the body. I compose with my ears. I do not care about stuff. I can do everything no matter what I have in my hands. See this stone. It has killed thousands of women at the water's edge. Now I throw it as far as I can into the sea. And when, over the years, it's rolled in to the shore again, I find it and throw it out again. I'll probably keep an eye out. Furious maybe quiet. Also, the feminist version of Sisyphos becomes exhausted and resigned. I withdrew. For a while. Not because I would no longer fight. I still kept an eye on the location of the stones on the seabed. I dive daily and draw the ocean floor inside me. A map of changing bodies. My gender is not. My body is not. My gender means. My body means. My gender does not matter. My body does not mean. My gender is. My body is. The mind. What creeps in, one day asked me to stop and find my opposite and through these find my own gender in my music. The sex that is enough in itself. The sex that speaks without resistance, about resistance, in resistance. The sex that speaks freely. The gender that creates from the standing and not as a reaction to the fallen. It is now, this knowledge, next to the guitar pedals, in the weight of the keys, bells and strings striking. No one should live by reactions to unrest. For that, the mind is too fragile. The sound of unrest is a master. You leave your master. I could not stay there. The violent, the sharp, as an expression held my surroundings, which held me. I ran away from home, with the intuition, the instruments, the body and my master waving without me seeing it. I did not turn around. I held the opposites in each hand, like little children's hands that without intentions just reach for the adult hand to walk. Together. The nicest little bunch. What happens next? Is there anything we need to shout out, comfort or throw back behind the belly skin? Are there a number of tones among the change of the lost teeth? I stand strong and you (it) avoid me. Checking that I have no intention of eating him. My starting point is the starting point and it is scary to realize that you are the same as everything created. That we are at the same time. I am neither spider, scorpion, nor a Greek goddess. I'm her lying under the rock at the bottom of the ocean. I'm of the same material as any horn player's instrument. I am the longing to belong. Connect with it all, as I know we all do already. It turns out. My gender is not. My body is not. My gender means. My body means. My gender does not matter. My body does not mean. My gender is. My body is. 


English translation: Andreo Michaelo Mielczarek