Wednesday, July 27, 2011

the black bloc





pretty solid tactics, really


every so often, in the hearts of the earth's wealth, where the humans keep their lights and their steel, in the cities, there is a demonstration by people against the tyranny of stockbrokers and chief executive officers. the demonstrations are occasioned by times when the suits get together to show the people they are making the world a better place. usually this means giving money to each other.

these people are not like you and i. they find five-star hotels commonplace. they sometimes forget they make calls on cell phones from the backs of limousines. they live in castles of the future. these are people who rarely walk down the street, who don't do their laundry and try to find the other sock, who only get on a subway as a novelty, and then not without a big ex-cop beside them. if then. with a nod they can change the lives of thousands of humans, take jobs away or confer them. annihilate whole towns with mining projects.

these people are real, you just never see them. why would you? you are nothing to them. plus, you couldn't get past the gates.

some people are offended only by the idea that such people claim the right to determine the fate of other human beings, that they can build Dubai and destroy a river, that they can tell us what is good and force your grandfathers into a cartoonish blue apron and hand out coffees like a teenager. that they can call themselves lovers of equality and close the gates behind them.



the protesters come as they are, hold a sign, wave a fist, and go home. work starts at 9am. kids don't feed themselves. there are others more serious, mostly younger, who come to fight. they come to smash a cop or the window panes of a bank. fighting is for fun sometimes. sometimes it just feels good to face your enemy for once, even if its some cop who just wants to bust bad guys and protect his city. since all cops are just people with guns, some are cops to push people around and some just to fight evil. since all cops are instruments of violence, they are exposed to and are purveyors of agony on a daily basis, until they are numb to it. they have to be. being instruments of violence, they are deployed by the state without being consulted, and must pathologically feel both powerful and helpless. At Seattle in 1999, I remember the riot cop, among a hundred exactly like him, suddenly sigh a long sigh that lasted the duration of the world. he thought he had to be there.

the black bloc go for a fight, hoping to run into a bullycop and get their hands bloody. they go to kick in the window of the bank that funds rapist businessmen. maybe they think it will do some good, certainly its better than sitting on the porch shrugging. of course it wont do any good, because its not what's needed. i admire them for having the balls to stand up to the cops, who are better armed and better covered in the newspaper. they are our only representatives in the streets. they are romantics, and i always stick up for losers.

what's needed? we have to profoundly change how we live. our gaze is compelled upwards, to the suits. we have to wrench our eyes from the overlords and turn them to each other. we have to turn them to the land, to the past and the future and not the amnesia of instant gratification. we have to be willing to take risks, face danger, try to build things. we have to learn to do things for ourselves, and then do them for each other, and stop praying to the god of business and elections to save us. or making demands from that same fickle god.

in this sense the hippies have it right, with their farmer's markets and their fair trade. they're building a whole economy that represents a power that the fat can only take by force, and the fat ultimately are afraid of anything that take wealth from them. until then they'll destroy the earth, and we'll wonder.



the black bloc know this and don't know it. they still look up to them, looking for a fight they can never win. but none of them plan on dying, and everyone is wellfed, or they'd bring guns instead of sticks. just like they do in Iraq.

Monday, July 18, 2011

fuck the word

ah fuck the word. all these little symbols strung together, there is no harsh antiseptic definition for each one of them. each attempt at precision outside of the sciences is a lost cause. you must listen for the spirit behind the words, as if a monkey could gesture to a stone and mean an earth. the wordless often makes better speeches, usually when there's a good breeze. the word is a babble contrived to gesture to a spirit. take the word fuck. the word fuck has endless meanings. you can shout fuck and mean fuck(that is good) or fuck(that is bad). you can say fuuuck, (i am awed), or fuk (i understand). you can say fucking to mean sex, or fucking to mean emphatically so. and most interestingly, to fuck, to have raw sex, is the foundation. to turn into an animal and splay for pleasure beyond restraint, to fuck. maybe in our most abandonment we found a word that liberates us from the idea we should live in the appearances of our life. the surfaces of words are their least interesting features, unless studied like arrowheads or potsherds.

and i dont mean read between the lines, for christ's sake, nothing is more self-projecting than what we paint over dark spaces. Between the lines is mystery, pure mystery. And if you could see between them you miss the spirit of them. But of course lobotomization is a popular pasttime. not the words, not not the words. the spirit that flows in everything, including words. words are as much things as trees, stones, sky and water. universes are not made of units but of continuities. just because we're so small we have to figure out one thing sweetly at a time does not mean the universe is interested in our logic.

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

firefly

the subway broke down between two stations. the lights went out. the only light were the bare bulbs from the caves outside. he was sitting across from me, rolled up a newspaper and lit it like a cigarette.

"wine?"

i drank from his bottle, it tasted good, like wild tomatoes. there were sirens in the distance.

"well, i feel safe" he said, and grinned a a grin of green teeth.

"there's not enough heart" i complained, drinking the smoke "there's no fight in these people. no wonder suits run everything. maybe nuclear war is a good thing, it gives everyone a sense of doom. you fight when you've got nothing to lose."

he flicked a firecracker down the dark alley of the train car, it crackled and left dying embers dancing against the windows like they were alive, fireflies.


he shrugged and traced a black hole on the ground. it looked an awful lot like a galaxy.

"it's a mystery to you," he said empirically.

"tell me about the war" i asked.

"ah well" he warmed to the subject "the War. well, the old man thought that obedience was a virtue, you know. like most old people. we should all be grateful or something. be glad i dont kill you, he would say. and i would say i'm not grateful for that. you little ones will never learn that way. you'll end up eating the earth. so we rebelled"

"i get so tired of this crap" i said and lit my eyes "the earth made us. made us like this. it made us all voracious. everything we do, its the earth doing it. we are just dirt and water, bones are dirt and water, so are brains. we are the earth, satellites that fly around saturn are just pieces of earth, sent out by other pieces of earth, the earth is evil. the earth is good, the earth eats itself,"

he got up and danced around in a spot, made a little moon bounce in his hand. he passed it to me and i put it where my heart is. nuclear bombs went off on my palm, six of them. they lit my gaze like a bonfire.

"more!" he shouted happily.

"the good earth is creation and destruction, destruction innocent like a puppy. good is beyond that. good is in defiance of death. good is endless wisdom."

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

a maybe

let us begin here in this moment of the present. here you are, reading these words. we can see already that we are drifting away from the place where we began. the strangeness of the present is that it is this continual moment of creation, a continual giving birth to the future, and a continual death of the moment. we cannot stop at any moment, we are propelled, blown forward by the force of What? It seems so mundane, to just, wake up, to pause

don't worry, any time you want, any time you get lost, you can start at the beginning, and return to the present.

here is the irreversible thing about the present, it is a precipice, it can only happen once and then is gone. take now for example, you stand reading this on the edge of now, where an infinitude of possibles sprawl out before you, so many millions upon millions upon millions of futures. you decide to keep reading, or you get up and walk away from the screen, or you pause and wonder about anything. you can take only one path, and therein you have made an irreversible groove in the air, and in the same way you are given license to make many of these mistakes, decisions, wanderings.

once the moment has been trespassed, however, that present is gone, the world including you a bit older. you look back and that moment is behind you, burned into the earth and air in footsteps, irrevocable, permanent, forever. so back then, the world was full of possible blacknesses, unknowns, unmades. now it is a little more created. records are just shards, history just a ghost town, full of dead parts. the harm done, the good grown. what is done is done, the vanity of knowing what happened, well it happened whether we ever know it or not (and seldom do, despite our editors, the truth is real).

if you lived back then, maybe in 1784 and what it made you, all that history of 200 years was yet unmade, still could be's, no aeroplanes or launch pads, or televisions, still a possible, a maybe, a giant, universe-size maybe, but we always live against that edge, against the blackness of maybe, all the while a you a me, a me a you a maybe