CECILIA GERMAIN.......Motherhood....................

34-35
CLARA T LPEZ MENNDEZ...........Mother so far........2-3
HANNA GUSTAVSSON........cover: THE MOTHER......front+back
JESS ARNDT.......Mothers..............................8-9
JOHANNA GUSTAVSSON.......................................
Wake up from this dream and fight!..................28-29
LENA SRAPHIN.............Characterization............4-7
MALENE DAM...........My mothers.....................30-33
PIA SANDSTRM.............To whom it may concern....10-19
ULRIKA GOMM.......Hunger............................20-27

THE MOTHER, February 2014

M. O. T. H. E. R.
Mumbling miniature morning mists
Offering ornaments of orange ointments
The tufted tulip tipping the tears
Her hurried hair hurling her heirs
Earnest envisioning of eagle-eyed eggs
Retrace the remainder, rhythm of reds

She grabbed my hand when I

couldnt take it. Her absence is
felt when it cant be repaired.
My mothers name is Margarita,
daisy in English.
The first chemistry doctor in her
family of humble survivors.

from Samuel,
from Samuel R. Delany.
My mother is an African-American,
Science-Fiction, queer writer.
He lived as a queer person,
in a three-way open marriage

The first and only of her siblings

during the early sixties.

to go attend the walls of college.

A complex, rich

Papers say shes married to my

father. But I like to think
most likely shes married to
science.
She sewed our blankets when
we were kids.
Her mothers name is Juana.
She survived the war, unlike
her sisters.
Her mothers name was Alejandra.
I just learned this some years ago,
when I realized I had never asked.
Now she sits in an old peoples
home, unable to
answer my questions any more.
She also took care of me when I was
a beast. The fears of war left the
scars of uncertainty over her soft,
thin skin.
My mother is an example of ethical
being.
She doesnt take often things for
granted.
She will always listen.
At the same time I know I will

My mothers name is Sam,

and satisfactory relationship,

of which he gives account in his
autobiographical books.
Sam is my mother
even though we dont share
blood or DNA.
Sam is my mother,
not a desire of a mother,
or a representation thereof,
even if I havent lived his story
until fairly recently.
A figure of kin
and incomplete recognition.
Wholesome approach
and untethered family.
His teachings are like a mother
whose advices and warm support
come through crispy pieces of
paper, testimony of the possibility
of existence
that I couldnt formulate
but that I took for granted
when I was growing up
and the examples of my kind
didnt abound around me.

never

And the impression of a shared

be

feeling of

like

comfort

her.

with what,

Perhaps

back then,

just a little.

felt like

She inspires

my, our

me.

undeniable nature,

It breaks my fingers to see her

sacrifices.

now surgically fractured

by socially constructed notions

She inspires me but I dont want to

repeat

and the imperative of choice.

My mother Sam and me dont share

what I consider her mistakes.

nostalgia.

I once asked her:

Things have changed

mom, are you happy?

but were never shared

And the puzzled look in her face

by us.

told me that she had never expected

that question. Or at least she
hadnt asked herself for quite some

Experiences transit in a
unidirectional manner, enough to
make me realize the nature of our

time.

kinship.

Things arent that simple, my

My mother is called

dear

Samuel R. Delany.

I know, but I also want to know.

Hes seventy one years old,

You deserve to be happy, I said.

he taught me the protocols of

Still not that simple.

Times Square cruising,

I guess Im ok.

the importance of contact and

I think I am ok at times,

looking at them in the eye,

but I know I dont want to be

the complexity of experience

a mother. I wonder still,

prior to nominalization,

once in a while,

the length and depth

if I am happy.

of my misled misconceptions.

Mother

so far

by Clara t Lpez Menndez

Characterization
by Lena Sraphin

Eva passed away when I was three, and I have no recollections of

her. A few months ago I was looking for some translation and saw
that she had written characterization on top of the page that
begins with character.

Mothers
by Jess Arndt

In 4th grade choir we sang a song: Sometimes I feel like a motherless

child, a motherless child, a motherless child . I liked choir but hated
the song. It seemed sappy. We were supposed to sing it slowly, with
feeling. Later I learned it was a slave hymnal and that made it justifiably
important. The chorus continued: a long way from home. Standing on the
risers in my red Converse hi-tops I tried to imagine it. But I lived across
the street from school and could see my house, a source of wide but
undefined embarrassment. I didnt want to think about being a child,
motherless or not. I only wanted to sing songs by the Beach Boys or Bobbie
Brown. Songs about girls and surfing.
I recently noticed that mothers is thermos re-arranged. A full or empty
container.
My alter ego was in fact a motherless child. I was obsessed with Oliver!
and walked around the cul-de-sacs of my neighborhood slyly singing refrains
from the musical, hoping a scouting agent would notice. I had no idea what
a scouting agent looked like but that didnt matter. I had great
confidence that once I got my lines down one would materialize, recognize
my budding genius, and ask me to play the orphan I was born to be.
The strange thing about it is that everyone has in fact been mothered, if
the verb just means: to bring forth.
A
A
A
A
A
A
A
A

BLOCK
BLOCK
BLOCK
BLOCK
BLOCK
BLOCK
BLOCK
BLOCK

ABOUT
ABOUT
ABOUT
ABOUT
ABOUT
ABOUT
ABOUT
ABOUT

THE
THE
THE
THE
THE
THE
THE
THE

MOTHER
MOTHER
MOTHER
MOTHER
MOTHER
MOTHER
MOTHER
MOTHER

A
A
A
A
A
A
A
A

BLOCK
BLOCK
BLOCK
BLOCK
BLOCK
BLOCK
BLOCK
BLOCK

ABOUT
ABOUT
ABOUT
ABOUT
ABOUT
ABOUT
ABOUT
ABOUT

THE
THE
THE
THE
THE
THE
THE
THE

MOTHER
MOTHER
MOTHER
MOTHER
MOTHER
MOTHER
MOTHER
MOTHER

A
A
A
A
A
A
A
A

BLOCK
BLOCK
BLOCK
BLOCK
BLOCK
BLOCK
BLOCK
BLOCK

ABOUT
ABOUT
ABOUT
ABOUT
ABOUT
ABOUT
ABOUT
ABOUT

THE
THE
THE
THE
THE
THE
THE
THE

MOTHER
MOTHER
MOTHER
MOTHER
MOTHER
MOTHER
MOTHER
MOTHER

We spend a lot of time in psychoanalysis on this.

In Trainspotting Mother Superior is the guy who gives everyone the dope.
He makes them sick and then takes care of them. Hes the container. This
year my mother started taking methadone for her restless legs that make it
unable for her to sit still, to stand; instead she walks.
Another definition of the verb mother is: to act as a mother toward. I
think that means you are supposed to teach or instruct your child how to be
like you or in your image though I am not sure because gay people have no
mothers. It is our defining feature.
This is why lesbians like Oliver! My friend and I spend an hour at a loft
party getting drunk and arriving at this. But what about the fact that I
first listened to Oliver! with my mother? And she with her mother? Who was
not in fact a very good mother to her at all?

Food, glorious food!

Wed chortle together.
Hot sausage and mustard!
While we're in the mood -[ORPHAN SOLO (mine)] Cold jelly and custard!
On the island where my mother now lives, things are wild. Literally: not
domesticated or tamed. Its fecund. There are mothers everywhere. Eagles
watching as their as-yet flightless young flop from trees. Big rabbits and
tiny rabbits, etc. Then one day a baby seal strands itself on the pale
strip of beach. Its crying, a tight little hopeful sound. Its by far the
worst song Ive ever heard.
Sometimes writers talk about giving birth to their work. I guess theyre
referring to the excruciating effort. The shaping something out of your own
material, your own bodily stuff. Or it could just be the disorientation.
I wanted to write something different, poet Bhanu Kapil says. But this
came out.
For days I watch the starving pup. When it goes out with the tide, Im
relieved. Then the next morning its back. Calling. This is whats
happening: either its mother is teaching it to survive through forced
separation or its mother is dead. But its impossible to see past the gray
screen of freezing water so it seems like she might pop up at anytime.
When I was 15 I started mailing off letters to older women who I guessed
might be lesbians. HELP ME, they would start. Im wrong inside plus Im
really in love with this girl who As if I had invented that vise-like
crunch that starts in your chest cavity and moves up through your throat to
your brain. But now at 35 I realize Im still waiting. Isnt someone going
to show up? Going to finally teach me how to be?
Back to the seal. He looks ok, my mom reports from her daily walks. Im
worried about her legs. Still I wont walk with her, in fact I cant force
myself to go down to the beach at all.
Is my problem with writing really just a deflection of or intolerance to
pain?
I didnt want to write about my mother. Thats why I came up with the idea
of thermos that can also spell smother.
Its gotta feed itself I argue, weakly.
But when the eagles plop down from their perch and use their beaks to deskin the seal from nose to tail and afterwards its my mother who comes in
the door, shakes off her jacket gently and tells me about it, I feel
And who taught her?
a long way from home.

10

To whom it may concern

by Pia Sandstrm

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

Hunger
by Ulrika Gomm

that child lies in bed

unendurable
dumbness
for life
the living
that child cannot
eat
by itself
an infant
helpless
day after day
hours of the clock
starving that child
dumbness seizes the body
the body of that child
is dumb
for a long time
going towards
eradication
realitys absolute
unreality
when the body of that child
20

slowly fades
away
clock into
oblivion
repeat
repetitive motion
capable and diligent
hand touching items
and machine
that child lies
untouched
at the assembly line
in the origin of something
oblivion is born
all vitality gets lost
in the fabrication process
obedience gives birth to hate
for ones own
body
and for that child
helplessly lying
there
time passes by
that child shrinks
21

in the room with the

clock
in a vacuum
the self gets lost
no screams from
the little
body
is maybe envisioning
not being
still
alive
if this is possible when the formation
of the self fails to
appear
in the room with the clock
that shame is
enormous
I is the name on
that card
clocking
in

22

feeding that child every

night
several times
sucking greedily
too greedily
vomiting
paying rent next day
the necessity of going
home
is indescribable
timetable is made by someone
else
in that child-free
room
necessity
keeping everything going
that child was made
yet another man
and yet another
child
hope of survival
awaken
anew
hope is fading
so is
23

that body
wage is a
minimum
milk in the breast for
free
impossible to forget
those breasts
weekdays reappearing
so many times
becoming months
until the day when that child
is fetched
away

24

From being a country of emigration, Sweden changed after the Second World
War to become a country with large-scale labour immigration. This was
because of the enormous shortage of industrial labour. The visa requirements were therefore abolished for immigrants from a number of countries.
From autumn 1945 visas were no longer required for people from Denmark,
Norway or Iceland. The visa requirements for people from Finland and Italy were abolished in 1949, and for people from Turkey in 1952, for people
from Greece in 1953, for people from West Germany in 1954, for people
from Portugal in 1955, for people from Spain in 1959, and for people from
Yugoslavia in 1964.

25

Throughout the 1950s many people from Finland came to Sweden, in hope of
a better life with employment and decent housing. Most of their jobs were
in the cities, in heavy industry and engineering workshops, but there
were also some in the forest regions within the timber and forestry sectors. In their new country many faced housing shortages, discrimination
and oppression.
The import of labour during the 1960s was considered essential in order
for Swedish industry to expand and consequently for the national economy to improve, which was crucial for the development of the welfare and
social security systems with which Sweden is associated internationally.
The immigrants were employed in stagnating businesses and kept them running until the crises of the 1970s. With that recession many of the businesses and sectors that had employed immigrants during the 50s and 60s
were wiped out, and labour immigration almost completely stopped. But
people from the Nordic countries still had a common labour market, and
Finnish immigration continued all through the 1970s. The dominant view
among contemporary scholars regarding the reasons behind the free immigration of the 1950s is that it was introduced to reduce the shortage of
labour power during the boom, in order to prevent high pay increases and
to stabilise the economy.
Until the mid-1970s immigrants social conditions were regulated by several international conventions, such as the International Labour Organisations (ILO) convention of 1962 regarding foreigners rights to access
the same social security as citizens of the host country. Also important
was the Nordic convention of 1955 regarding social security for all citizens of Nordic countries. The visa requirement was abolished for many
nationalities in order to foster increasing labour immigration, many
years before the new law regarding immigrants social rights and security
was approved. As early as 1943 Sweden abolished the need for a work permit for citizens from other Nordic countries. Until then the purpose of
the Swedish Aliens Act had been to prevent or limit immigration into the
country.
Since 1974 Sweden has had legislation which gives women the right, under
any circumstances, to make their own decisions about abortion until the
18th week of pregnancy. As early as 1938 the law permitted abortion for
medical, humanitarian or eugenic reasons. In 2008 the requirement for the
woman to have connections to Sweden in order to be able to have an abortion was abolished.
In 1985 the government made a historic resolution for day care for all
children in Sweden. All municipalities had to expand their day care provision, so that all parents in employment or study could be offered day
care for their children from the age of 18 months. Since 2001 children
of unemployed parents have also had the right to day care for 15 hours
per week. A child without a residence permit does not have a right to day
care; a refugee child with a residence permit or asylum status has the
same rights as a child with a Swedish citizenship.

26

sources:
Growth Analysis
Swedish Agency for Growth Policy Analysis
UNHCR The UN Refugee Agency
Regeringskansliet Government office in Sweden
The history of the Finns in Sweden part 3, edited by Jarmo Lainio, 1996

27

Wake up from this dream and fight!

by Johanna Gustavsson

Place: A court room in West Virginia

I: Lolita Lebrn

I am driven from the women's prison facility to the court in Alderson to

be given my sentence. I will be judged to 57 years. It's the morning of
July 8th 1954, it's been a little more than 4 months since our attack on
Washington and I haven't been outside since. I step outside the car, walk
handcuffed one, two, three, six steps and then 5 steps up a staircase and
three steps to the door and then I'm inside again. A hallway with eyes
that eat. My head drops instinctively for a second. We enter the room and
it's packed with people, that's all I can remember of that room, low
ceiling and bodies, insistent bodies and their moist heat all up on me.

Your son has passed. My son has drowned. Your child is dead. Smells and
damp air and free falling, I die. That's the simplest way to describe it,
I die, not big nor small, I just die, death. I feel his entire body
inside me again, but now with the size of a grown person, like a big
fucking mountain imploding and he remains inside me and I'm bursting but
keep myself together, I am not going to loose him. Everything in the room
is above me, everything in that room is on me, I loose my integrity, I
have no integrity at all. They with the body of an elephant with eyes
that eat and eat. I close my eyes and cut them off. I want to take him,
my memory of him, and push them off off me, off me, want to put my arms
firmly around me, like an embrace, and then slowly push them out to make
space, push their bodies away from me. Need space. Have no space. Have
panic. I imagine Julia and Johanna descending on me, cutting me out of
the picture, and levitating me out of here, in my imagination. In present
state, in the court room, I want to let go but don't know how. Hear Lola
Rodriguez De Tio's voice (is she there?) Despierta de ese sueo, que es

hora de luchar! I open my eyes. The judge sits in front of me, he

gestures to me - speak. I take up space and let speak flow out of me, my
son leaves my body through the words of this speech, his body gives my
words body and my life body and I talk about life and poverty and we fill

28

the room, he and I, and the room stands still and listens. I speak of
life before, growing up, losing love and loved ones and fellows and my
country and having a political awakening and finding no alternatives,
there is no choice anymore, I have to live to struggle and remain a
believer in the possibility of change but not being able to live on it,
in it! About pointing out a problem and becoming the problem. All the
time being the fucking problem! Killing joy! Killjoy! The room lies in
complete silence and I continue: GIVE ME ALTERNATIVES THAT IS NOT BASED
ON GROWTH! I scream, I cry, I'm awake, this is not a dream, I am on my
knees, I have fought Lola, believe me, and I have lost one to many things
at this point.
Curtains close.
Judge. Sentence. My verdict: 57 years. Out in 25. Cell next to cell, I
see this in front of me when I close my eyes and I smile even though I
know shit's bound to tear me apart.

Place: Your cell, Lolita

I: Julia de Burgos and Johanna Gustavsson

Your cell Lolita, the wall paper has the same pattern as the immigrations
office. After 25 years in here we might forget how to lock the door,
forget how to take long strides, forget the horizon. But we will learn
again and practice every day. Feel a body and its limits. Inside out,
outside in. Let me be your mirror, let me be your horizon. We sleep next
to each other, pressed up against each other. At night I'm afraid, I wake
you up and we three talk, as always, we say: 1) You cannot have
solidarity between fragments, you need bodies. 2) We are different things
and we keep autonomous. 3) We are different persons and we respect the
distance in that fact. 4) To love is to agree to that distance, to adore
the distance that is between us and the one we love.

And this is the revelation of our unity. We are each others children, we
are a tripod and we are ready for anything to happen.

29

My mothers
by Malene Dam

I have mothers, whom I projected a father into, as big warm loving hugs
and fun times. Those are my big gay bear mothers as a Dad. Those came in
the moment when I was so desperate without even knowing it. I was in a
haze of becoming the artist thing, just out of gymnasium, having moved
away from my hometown to a bigger city, at art school. The artist thing
provided a role that was understood as avant-garde, something else, in my
small-town setting. Claiming this role became a way out of the suburban
mirrors of similarity, which could only reflect the very few.
I left those mirrors behind without ever looking back.
I would sit next to my then mother, Jan, my big gay bear art teacher and
we would paint watercolors. Mine from old family photographs of my dad
and I, - there were only a few. Jan from Google images of erect hairy
bears, he had many to pick from. My dad looked like these bears. But he
was still, quiet and untouchable. My mother as my gay bear Dad invited me
into his home and into his chosen family. He gently showed me another way
of living and having family.
We both came from the same small-town religious community of the West
Coast in Denmark. He had been a swimmer too. I enjoyed hearing the allure
of the saunas of his coming of age and wished I could transport those
memories into mine. They did not seem remotely available in my memory
box.
Jan created a community around this small local non-profit art school. He
became a formative figure for so many going on to art academy studies and
lives. For those of us coming from small-town uniformity this was a vital
moment. This mother figure was listening, fun, extroverted. He pushed,
tickled, and at times manipulated us into more courageous beings. Courage
was celebrated we had little podium dance parties in the middle of the
afternoon transforming the traditional art plinths into stages. He fostered a space where we could experiment together an everyday that was

30

different one that entailed hard work, fun, rigor and experimentation.
He gave our hunger a sense of form and direction. He was our big queer
mother, loving and pushy. I didnt know these could even exist.
Then there is the mother who held me when I was going through a hard time
at twenty. I had not dared to tell her. Afraid she was going to brush
over the heaviness I felt as some teenage stuff. She works in psychiatry. The heaviness had been occupying my body for half a year, and a
fear that it would never leave had crept in there too. This heavy bodily
feeling was outside of words. My mother suggested we take a nap and she
held me that fall afternoon. The boundaries of my body and self seemed
so intensely porous. Lying there, letting go and giving over what was my
adult body. I felt a continuum. My relation with my mother was there in a
stretched-out time all the changes that come with growing up yet always
with her care. Her love exceeds parental discipline and guidance. I come
back to this moment again and again. How my relation to my biological
mother is always also a profoundly bodily affective bind. Its different
from our strange mirrors of mimicry gestures, tones, sensitivities and
words we look alike. I carry this moment with me into friendships. When
I feel profoundly alone, I remind myself of my mothers wordless way of
being there and caring. I try to make these bodily moments a part of my
friendships. There are many ways of caring for each other. Understanding
relationships as continuums, simply knowing that our bodies are tied by a
love that moves beyond words, reason, and logic. To be held when you feel
most vulnerable and alone.
I have had would-be-mothers of authority. In the figure of the teacher in
my early education. I think I was unable to fulfill an image of the student they wanted me to be. I recall them as distanced. I felt unseen and
misunderstood. I guess I didnt fit the mold. I wasnt quiet or studious. Maybe a cocktail made for their disapproval. So it seemed. None of
these teachers asked me what I was trying to understand. It appeared to
me that the quieter boys had the same issues I had. They too did not fit
the mold.
These teachers held the promise of the mother in their very distance.
As mothers to the quiet good student girls. It felt conditional. Other

31

teachers a few male ones seemed more comfortable and unquestioning

in their teaching. Maybe they understood themselves in my restless/nonstudious yet hungry student role. Maybe because this mirror of reflection did not follow clear lines of social formations, we could more easily meet and listen. They showed me another equal and more reciprocal way
of relating. They became mothers. The mothers of authority disciplined a
gendered and limited version I could never successfully perform. I still
cant. Maybe I rejected them too.
Then there are mothers of generosity, of whatever gender expression.
They have been my teachers, and continue to be, outside of college and
grad schools. Our relations transpire and develop on completely different terms. They could start their critique classes with yoga exercises
or mark the five-minute breaks as dance time. They institute classrooms
structured around listening and conversation. No competitive retorts.
Always interested. Always attempting to hear, and knowing that sharing
requires trust. From them I learned to value our different ways of communicating. They became mothers by showing and teaching a certain way of
listening, being aware together. In them, intellectual hunger was always
paired with compassion. It was based on solidarity, and it was always political.
My given mothers mother, my grandmother was the greatest listener I have
ever met. She would always insist on sitting at the young table at our
family Christmas parties. Surrounded by her grandchildren she wouldnt
say much, but would just sit and listen. She felt such a joy hearing what
we were up to never judging or wanting rosy sweet stories. She was the
most selfless and genuinely caring person I knew.
Then there are friendships and their care, my chosen family. These
friendships are sometimes the only reason I am able to face this world.
We keep tabs on each other, understanding each others ambitions and
pressures. We are co-conspirators. The competitiveness is left at the
door. We listen and understand each others insecurities, how these can
transpire in less than flattering ways. We challenge each other to be
better, yet also understand that sometimes we just cant. These friendships give me a home where, who I am and who they are, are celebrated.

32

We face the world together get too loud together. Other times they are
there in the social anxieties being awkward together. When you can
share and see yourself with others the insecurities as well as the desires and pleasures, everything is a little easier, lighter and more fun.
The sense of being able to just be. We invite others in, always happy to
meet new dance partners. We are different, a bastard group of oddballs in
many ways. The way we care for each other in this odd bunch of a chosen
family is really to be each others mother. We all need mothers, queer
ones, in this world. Some that listen, understand, and celebrate our more
deviant sides.
In the weird life of an itinerant art person, these relations mold and
shift, grow in and out of intensities as geography and schedules shift.
But they are always there, these mothers. They form part of how I understand family. My chosen queer family, my friends, and my given family. All of these contexts of being together are profoundly formed by my
mothers, in all their figurations. I take them with me. They have taught
me about family, friendship and how we relate to other people. This text
could be much longer, and include many more, but for a moment I wanted
just to think about them.

33

Motherhood
by Cecilia Germain

34

Come close! I will share something

with you. Motherhood is all about
(interupted, diapers have to be
changed)....
Now I will reveal to you a great secret;
Motherhood is the art of (interupted, someone is hungry).....
Ok, once again; motherhood may seem
like a lifechanging experience, and
the truth is (interuption again,
someone has colic).........
I will try to do this quickly instead!! Motherho(interupted before even starting, someone woke
up).......
Lets start over. This thing I am going to tell you about motherhood is
very important! Please listen carefully now. To truly be a successful mother you will have to (interupted once more, someone is hungry
again)............
Ok, here is a last try. I wont repeat this!! Motherhood is really
just about (interuption)...........
35

hi!
this is an invitation to participate in
DISRUPTIVE LAUGHTER.
disruptive laughter is a publication of 5 issues. each issue will be available both online, as a pdf
for downloading, and in a small edition printed version. there will be some sort of release event in
the end when all the issues are done. so each issue will be more like chapters in the whole, and the
release is an event of gathering those five chapters.
to loose a little bit of the hierarchical curatorial role my idea is to invite three women to participate in disruptive laughter, and those three women will invite two women each to the project.
all together we will be ten voices. this is also a way to hear and listen to voices that you have
not met before. for every issue it will be the same ten women dealing with those different voices
given for each issue. so over time and for each new issue we listen and speak and in the end there
will be a multitude of voices heard.
disruptive laughter:
#1 THE VISIONARY
#2 THE MOTHER
#3 THE DYKE
#4 THE POET
#5 THE WARRIOR
my idea is that the project will be going on for about a year, with start sometime during late summer 2013. every second or third month there will be a new issue published. the idea to give you the
titles for every issue from the beginning, is so each and everyone of the participants can dispose
their individual ideas and contributions to fit their own creative process. and for every issue all
these 10 voices will meet, a multitude of identities, thoughts, lived experiences, dreams, standpoints, complexities and voices.
each participant will have about 5 pages for each issue (more or less if needed). the format will be
A4, standing, b/w. the material can be images; photos, stills, drawings and/or text; essays, concrete poetry, articles, speeches and so on.. the layout will be very simple. all the body text will
have the same font, if there is not a specific layout idea for a specific text.
it is important, if you decide to be part of this project, that you will be part of it through all
the five issues. this project is formulated with inspiration from Audre Lordes life and work.
looking forward to hear from you! please dont hesitate to contact me if there is any questions or
thoughts!
all the best
/Ulrika Gomm
April 3 2013

DISRUPTIVE LAUGHTER
is supported by Lngmanska kulturfonden.
Font
PT MONO
was released in 2011 with an open user license. It was designed by Alexandra Korolkova, with participation of Isabella Chaeva, with
the purpose to support almost all minority and official languages of Russian Federation in the correspondence with electronic governments.