#It’s like we all saw through the capitalist illusion

[magpie-to-the-morning]

The Covid lockdown proved that nearly all office work can be done remotely, so now being made to be physically present is like “… really? We’re back to pretending this is necessary?” And it’s a lot harder to stomach.

[fatehbaz]

[I]magine a more decolonial relationship with land. When we think about maps, they really are biographies of land. They teach us about the histories of lands and the people who lived there [...]

In a [...] colonial system, in a capitalist system, we are alienated from land, we tend to see land as a commodity. And in the mapping [...], the cartographies of capital [...], what happens is that developers will enclose a piece of land and will fragment it even further until it's broken up into smaller and smaller pieces [...]. And I've seen cases where one piece of land will have a one hundred and fifty page cultural impact assessment, saying that the impact of development on this land would have a tremendously devastating effect [...] and in an adjacent piece of land that there would only be a 10 page cultural impact assessment because the [colonial administrators] only look at whatever is within the red boundary lines and not at the ways in which multiple sites comprise a complex. [...]

By contrast, when you look at the ways that Kānaka Maoli map land, they map places in relationship to each other [...]. [There is] importance of preserving the continuity of stream flows from the mountains through to the seas because the stream flows are important to the the mixing of the salt and the fresh water, which creates the brackish water estuaries that are nurseries for baby fish. And so in these kinds of stories about land [...], you can see these ecological continuities and relationships, what Kanaka Maoli call pilina, [...] that connection, [...] that relationality. [...] And [...] they [the mo’o] later disperse to every[where] [...], to fish ponds, to springs, to pools, to waterfalls and streams. [...] And they even came up with a word for land called moʻoʻāina, meaning lands that are connected in a series within an ahupuaʻa [...].

---

And so this [...] is a story about water conservation, it's about the protection of water. Today we see large corporations diverting waters away from streams to feed the sugar plantations because sugar is an extremely thirsty plant. But later we saw it going to feed housing developments. Right now, the military banks water, there's water banking going on in Hawaii. [...]

It is just amazing how abundant lands get condemned as being agriculturally unfeasible by state agencies that want to develop things like industrial parks. And capital doesn't just map wastelands, it creates the illusion of abundant lands as wastelands that they then degrade [...]. And that, to me, is the most horrible thing – to take a living land and to make it appear as if it's a wasteland. [...] [B]ecause the state wants the land for other purposes. So it's using that illusion of scarcity in order to claim the mountain [...]. And I remember a planner asking me the question, do you know what was the most agriculturally abundant land on Oʻahu? And I said, was it on the windward side where there's a lot of rain? He says, no, it's where you see Schofield Barracks right now. And that's also true for Lualualei, where the naval radio transmitter towers are located. The military took the most abundant lands and instead of planting food, they seeded unexploded ordinances.

And that, to me, illustrates both the dangers of the maps of capital versus Indigenous stories about Mauna Kea that point to the fact that the mauna is a container of water. If you look at stories from these kilo observations, embedded in the oli is a recognition that the primary source of water for Mauna Wakea is fog drip and that the land is saturated with water. And if you look at other stories about Mauna a Wakea, there are stories about Kamiki gathering water from Lake Waiau, which is near the summit of the Mauna and some of the water splashing over the sides of his bowl to create all of the springs that extend out from Mauna Kea [...] miles and miles away. And so this understanding of Mauna Kea is important because Mauna Kea sits on five aquifers [...].

And that is exactly what's happening: these maps of capital create the illusion of scarcity, which these industrial products then manifest. [...]

---

So, for example, Noelani Puniwai is a professor at the University of Hawaiʻi and she's a Kanaka Maoli scientist. And she explains that we have to learn the akua or the elements of the places where we live. [...] So, for example, Kāne is known as the water that flows underground. He's the fresh water flows underground. [...] The important thing to remember in terms of climate is that the cold waters of Kāne, the fresh waters emerge into Kanaloa, into the ocean, through underground springs and through streams and stream flows. That's important in regulating the temperature of waters around our islands. [...] [T]he cold waters around the islands protect us from hurricanes. [...] [T]hey [the hurricanes] tend to veer north or they veer south [...]. And these freshwater springs around the islands are famous. They are places called Punalu’u [...].

So that relationship between [...] the ocean and the freshwater springs, we can see is crucial to protecting the islands. And so how do we continue that relationship, how do we help to support that relationship when so much water is being diverted by corporate and militarized projects?

---

Words of Candace Fujikane. As interviewed by Kamea Chayne. Text and transcript published as “Candace Fujikane: Mapping for Abundance Against Cartographies of Capital (Ep311).” An episode of the podcast Green Dreamer hosted by Kamea Chayne. June 2021. [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me.]

[professorspork]

i know I always say this, but, last night REALLY WAS the BUSIEST OF DAYS in the Reaper War

before I get into yesterday’s gameplay, I realized I forgot to react to the fact that Jacob got Brynn pregnant, which -- again, I suppose that wraps up everything about his backstory in a nice little bow, lad of the bad dad gets to be good dad, but like... it still gives like they gave his character incredibly short shrift. so. humbug to that.

but I have bigger fish to fry (ha ha, literally, see what I did there?) because ALL OF THIS HAS HAPPENED BEFORE, AND ALL OF THIS WILL HAPPEN AGAIN. I rescued Ann Bryson, and learned that -- shocker -- she had a bad relationship with her dad. I uh may have condoned her getting a bit of a nasty nose bleed in order to track the Leviathan to Despoina, where as ever I got to read a bunch of people’s weirdly specific sad diaries. my jump into the depths was very cool and scary (does no one get the bends in the future???) and I enjoyed my The First-style body swapping conversation with the Leviathan in which I tried to prove I’m ~special and this time is ~different. on the one hand, I don’t know why I expected the origin of the Reapers to be anything other than yet another story of AI gone wrong, but this whole cinematic parallels thing is starting to edge out of “everything matches up and is of a piece” territory and into the murkier waters of “we kind of only had one idea, actually.” to reveal that the Reapers’ plan is just stray AI code to ‘preserve life’ is at once very chilling and a bit of a let down; when I think back to when I talked to Sovereign for the first time and I had my initial “GOD IS A MACHINE THAT WANTS TO KILL US” freak out, I was in fact very on board for an evil plan too broad and complex for a human mind to fathom. for it to be this feels kind of predictable and pedestrian.

that said, watching the Leviathan take down a huge-ass Reaper capital ship with its pulse signal was very satisfying.

oh no this is going to get very long, now that you’ve had this fun teaser i’m gonna put the rest under a cut

then we kicked it on over to Thessia and I highkey traumatized my girlfriend. I feel like I should have seen the reveal that the asari were more advanced because they were hoarding prothean tech coming, but I didn’t. hearing and seeing all the asari commandos helping me get wiped out was a real gut punch, but didn’t hold a candle to my frustration at the confrontation with Kai Leng. I’m not mad that the game wouldn’t let me beat him, per se (though I still think it’s ridiculous that I’ve taken down a Reaper by myself and I’m supposed to be afraid of a dude with a knife), but I am pissed that it all happened with combat cut scene magic. this game has given me difficult combat before! if, in fighting Kai Leng, I’d genuinely felt outmatched, I think I would have tolerated it better -- or if the combat had been me fighting the Harvesters and then Kai Leng sneaked around me because that’s what he does, he sneaks. but to have such a relatively easy combat sequence with him that felt very much like winning just to have it snatched away from me... maddening. WHY CAN’T I BEAT THIS ONE GUY AND HIS KNIFE? I don’t want to be all “Kai Leng is a Mary Sue” but like... he got to murder Thane and then beat me in overtime, and his entire vibe is I exist to sell action figures even though that’s not, as far as I know, any part of Mass Effect’s profit model. so it’s just frustrating. and for them to then rub salt in the wound and have him EMAIL ME to be like “lol snowflake r u triggered” was just. MY PATIENCE IS THIN, ME3. DON’T PUSH ME.

seeing Shepard have to admit to failure was a gutting scene, though, and a necessary one. and watching Liara fight with Javik was highkey satisfying, too. 

so anyway, because i was BIG MAD at Cerberus I tracked them first to that one N7 communications mission-- 

(Sample dialogue: Helen: Why aren’t you using cover? You’re going to die! Use cover! Me, jumping out of cover and rushing Cerberus goons trying to melee them to death: BECAUSE I’M MAD)

-- and then to Sanctuary, and HOO BOY WAS THAT A LOT OR WHAT. from the second I heard Oriana’s voice I had a pretty good idea of what was going on here, but seeing in in practice was still creepy af. and like. i’m just gonna go out on a limb and say INDOCTRINATION BAD. I AM NOT A FAN. shout out to that one capitalist volus on the Citadel who was like “lol sanctuary is a scam don’t waste your money” i guess

additionally, last night was significant because I picked not one but TWO ENTIRE renegade convince options, because I saw no reason to be nice to terrorist daddy the illusive man or actual terrorist daddy Mr. Lawson. after I got through all that, Helen explained to me how difficult it apparently is to keep Miranda alive by the end of that confrontation, so I got to do some WHAT LIKE IT’S HARD? preening at how Nice Sheps Finish First sometimes. 

but as usual, the real highlight is getting to know my crew better and talking with them. I finally got some prime flirting in with Liara during Leviathan. it was VERY cute when she was like “man what’s with you rescuing damsels from dig sites? if you end up teaming up with her to save the world and bring down the shadow broker i’ll be very jealous. ... and concerned” and WEIRDLY CUTER when she was like “hey the only tentacled alien who gets to mess with your brain is ME” because Liara is like 115 by now considering how slowly i’m getting through these missions and she still does not know what romance is. 

[no but seriously, Liara does not know what romance is. half the time I’m still going WE’RE STILL DATING, RIGHT? every time she refuses to talk to me. and even after Thessia, when everyone was like “go talk to Liara, she needs you” and even JAVIK of all people was like “you’re dating Liara, right? it’s so obvious” our interactions did not feel particularly... romantic? it’s a tricky needle to thread, obviously, I’m not looking for sloppy makeouts right after millions of her people died, but it still reads as very odd to me. anyway.]

Javik’s story about how he once had a ship like the Normandy and a crew of friends like mine and they all ended up indoctrinated and he had to personally slit their throats went way harder than I ever expected it to. even just the IDEA of having to do that as my Shep upsets me. i’m legit enjoying getting to know Javik, even though i’m still GuessWhoJustGotYelledAt.jpg every time I leave his room. I HAD ENOUGH OF THAT FROM KREIA, JAVIK, YOU’LL NEVER PUSH ME AWAY.

I was surprised by how hard Tali took Miranda’s successful challenge of Mr. Lawson, though in hindsight it makes sense -- with the geth war still happening on top of everything else, I don’t think Tali ever did get the chance to process her anger at her dad being a war criminal and all. and her whole “emergency induction port” bit about the straw was cute as hell tbh. her friendship with Garrus over the comms continues to give me life. 

(in other quarian news, I AM SAD ABOUT KAL’REEGER.)

and jeff. JEFF. after Thessia i literally ran to the bridge and said aloud “Jeff, make me feel better” as I clicked interact with him, and then he made that dig about asari dancers, and i was like NO NOT LIKE THAT. (I mean, what Shep literally said was “now’s not the time for jokes” which is ironic considering she, unlike me, still calls him JOKER) but then he was all DAD ANDERSON SAID I’M SOLELY RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR MENTAL HEALTH, I’M SORRY, I’M DOING MY BEST and like. what a fucked up little family we are. he feels guilty that I died saving him, still! apparently he asks EDI about my stress levels and they are BAD and he feels BAD! im crey. OH AND ALSO THE FACT THAT PTSD ASARI LAURA BAILEY WAS TALKING ABOUT HIS FAMILY ON TIPTREE AND I CAN NEVER TELL HIM BECAUSE THE GAME DOESN’T LET ME DO THAT???? V UPSETTING.

and then of course EDI had to TRIPLE DOWN on all these feelings i was already having by telling me about human resistance and selflessness on Earth and how she wants to turn off her self-preservation code because she’s not about that. I’M SUCH A TOASTER FUCKER HALP.

Garrus being all “well sometimes your best friend gives you a pep talk” speech was cute as hell, and I was strangely charmed when Kaidan was like YOU CAN TELL I’M EXTRA MAD BECAUSE MY VOICE HAS GOTTEN SO DEEP grumbling.

next up: shore leave, and then going after Cerberus will trigger act 3! i may one day finish mass effect after all!

[ask-the-crimson-king]

Tales from D&D: Skin to Bone

[Hello. Have not done a Tales from D&D in a hot minute. Thought I’d do one now.

This one is from the Icewind Dale campaign that I am playing, and because of it, there may be SPOILERS FOR ICEWIND DALE below the cut. 

I am also going to be tagging @luwupercal because I think they may enjoy hearing about the fate of Barnaby and the fucking feels train this campaign has become. 

Before I get into it, this is the cast:

LYDIA - Vampire spawn warlock. Chill as fuck. Just wants to be able to either cure herself or stop having to run from her new self.

RHOZAL - Hobgoblin Artificer with a lot of emotional baggage. Blacksmith and feelsy baby. Protect him. Has a crush on Lydia. [The feelings are mutual on both ends, however the characters are being COWARDS-]

BARNABY BUSSELTON - Anarcho-capitalist gnome wizard. No longer a PC. Relevant to the beginning of this tale. Will explain.

CHARLES NOLAND - Halfling druid. Was vibing in the snow for 2 months. New to the gang. 

AND FINALLY, MY DUMB ASS AS-

Hakkerskaldyr Strigr, but known as FREYR - Goliath Paladin who worships the Allfather. Lost an eye. And a character that I’ve lost interest in playing. We’ll get into that.

We begin our tale with a TPK in some caverns.  Note: The party is Level 3.

The enemies were a frost giant skeleton, a hag, and a wil-o-wisp. 

Lydia makes it to the hag first. Rhozal and I, Freyr, try to follow her to provide assistance while Barnaby tries to kite the skeleton away from us. 

We get to the room with the hag. Lydia isn’t doing too good. 

The giant stops following Barnaby and comes for us.

Rhozal is put down in one blow from the giant’s axe. Freyr is able to use the final spell slot and put down a smite on the hag, killing it. Lydia, who had been grappled by it, is now free.

Freyr was at 5 hp. The giant needed to do 35 damage for Freyr to be killed instantaneously.

The DM rolled a 7, an 8, and an 11. The giant had a +6 to the attack.

The giant had done 34 damage. One more and I would have been out. BUT THAT WASN’T THE END! Because on the next turn, the wisp used its ability where a creature put down to 0 needs to make a DC 10 con save or die instantly. 

Made the save.

Lydia flees, and now the giant skeleton is fighting this wisp. Barnaby is hanging back, letting them fight it out. Lydia does her Form of Dread and finds Barnaby, takes out a shadowblade, and kills him. Freyr’s axebeak, Ishe, is on her way to try and retrieve Freyr. Lydia tries to mount her, but is bucked off. 

Barnaby’s turn is next and he gets a NAT 20 TO THE SAVE, POPS UP, SAYS “SURPRISE MOTHERFUCKER” AND DOWNS LYDIA WITH A LEVEL 2 MAGIC MISSILE.

Ishe then pecks his ass and puts him back on death saves. Which he got another nat 20 to in two turns. 

SO, TPK. Wonderful. Rhozal then releases a snake called Xipecoatl unto the world in exchange for his life. The snake kills the skeleton, and Ishe comes in to grab Freyr and run. Barnaby gets up and makes a deal with the snake.

Freyr goes to the nearest city with Ishe, once he comes to, for help from the guard. With a nat 20 to persuasion, he gets it.

Barnaby starts making traps around the caves, including alchemist’s fire and rockfall traps. I am sent into secrets corner, alone, FOR 45 FUCKING MINUTES while Barnaby talks. 

Finally, I’m able to get back into the main call, and Freyr takes up his weapons, and the guards, and he makes his way into the caverns. Man checked for traps all the while, but they were disarmed. Barnaby left a note. Rhozal is fucking worried and wants to pursue him now. Barnaby has captured Lydia. 

We resolve to fucking kill him.

Thanks to Lydia being a fucking madlad, we’re able to locate him hiding out in the snow. He hears the sled dogs that are with us. Rhozal is given a scroll of fireball (reward for the quest we were on), and he uses it to cast fireball on Barnaby. Takes 11 fire damage.

I go, and I try to Vow of Emnity his ass. Can’t. Fucking illusion. GREAT. 

Turns progress and the guards can’t hit him because of this illusion. Lydia is not doing well on death saves. She needs to be saved now.

On Barnaby’s turn, he takes out a fang, and teleports away.

“Let this be known as the day you almost caught Barnaby Busselton!”

He also ignites the oil he had planted around Lydia. Due to a Secret, Freyr has fire resistance, so he was literally thrown into the fires to help her. After cutting himself so Lydia could be stable/healed, he hauls her up and out of the flames.

Barnaby is now a DMPC, and will eventually be hunted.

We all leave and get a room in the nearby city of Easthaven. We spent the night there, we had some very nice heart to heart moments. Rhozal now feels empty. But we all cement our bonds with each other, and Rhozal and Lydia become very cute and adorable. I don’t want this post to be a million miles long, so I’ll leave it at that.

I will try to summarize the next few sessions. Essentially, we found a magic cauldron in those caves (its a Cauldron of Plenty) and the Speaker (mayor) of Easthaven was willing to pay 3500gp for it. So we planned to give it to him, but it was stolen in the time period the speaker had told us it would take for us to be paid. We find Charles in the Speaker’s town hall, and we ask him if he knew anything. The answer was ‘no’. So we head downstairs and we find the Speaker beat to shit, along with his guards. 

It is at this point we find out who stole the cauldron, a dwarf woman named Torgga, and we head out as soon as possible. The Speaker offers 1000 more gp for its retrieval.

So we head off to Targos, the last town that we knew Torgga frequented. We go to Luskan Arms, a Tavern, and we find her sleds. But the cauldron is gone. We head inside and we see her heading up to speak with someone. Lydia turns invisible and leaves her familiar, a pseudodragon named Signum (who is also constantly pointing in the direction Lydia is in), with us. When Signum squeaks, it means she’s in danger. 

Lydia is able to eavesdrop on a situation. The Speaker of Targos plans to starve out Easthaven. GREAT. POLITICS. Makes Torgga fear him. He is a corrupted cunt, essentially. 

Torgga is let out, and Lydia remains in the room with the Speaker. 

She then decides to attack. Signum starts squeaking. Me and Rhozal’s player are aggressively signing (because we had been muted for this entire altercation) that we are FUCKIN GONE, we are DASHING AWAY-

But Lydia CRITS ON THE BITE. C R I T. NATURAL. T W E N T Y.

Combat ensues. It takes Freyr and Rhozal forever to try and get to her. Rhozal is able to just yeet his ass upstairs, but then there’s a locked door in the way. Freyr is being pulled back by a tiefling (one of the Speaker’s lot), and even with a FUCKING 21 TO ATHLETICS, I couldn’t break free. FOR LIKE FIVE FUCKING ROUNDS. NO, I did not hit this person, BECAUSE MY PALLY BOY WAS JUST THINKING “don’t hurt more people than you have to, that’s just going to cause more trouble”. 

But anyway he gets upstairs but Lydia is unconscious. Rhozal cannot pick the door. So we start breaking it down.

We break it down.

The Speaker ties up Lydia with manacles. We break into his room (after Rhozal gets poisoned by a Cone Snail doorknob), see Lydia is awake (nat 20 to death saves baBY), and that the Speaker is missing.

He escaped through a hidden door. Freyr watched him do it. So he tries to find the exit, but fails. 

His next turn, this motherfucker opens the door and says “Hello!”. Makes 3 attacks.

Misses 2.

CRITS. ON THE THIRD. FOR FUCK SAKE-

Freyr is down. AND. AND. HE HAS THREE SPELL SLOTS THAT HE CAN USE. AND ALL OF HIS LAY ON HANDS POINTS. BUT HE IS DOWN. FUCK.

Rhozal is also downed, but Signum arrives to save the day! Signum stings him. Speaker rolls a nat 1 to his con save, so he is now unconscious for an hour. Freyr gets healing potion’d, then he res’s Rhozal, and then Rhozal starts tying up the Speaker. Charles had been kinda holding back the tide downstairs (Dire Wolf wild shaping is fucking insane at level 3), so he hauls ass to come help us. 

However, about 5 other people are following. FUCK.

We try to find a way to escape. We also need proof the Speaker is a corrupt fuckhead. Which we THOUGHT we had, because the Speaker wrote a letter that essentially said “Ah yes, I am Evil and Corrupt, muah ha ha.” However. The DM then proceeded to reveal that he didn’t have the letter on him, when he told Lydia that she saw him take it.

Fucking. Damn. It.

We headed into his secret hallway and we try to find a way out. 

The hallway is trapped, however, and nearly takes us out because of those traps. How fucking LOVELY. 

We hear the guards calling for someone, who finds the oTHER END OF THIS HALLWAY AND THEN SNIPES FREYR. Down. AGAIN. 

Then Rhozal is put down. 

Charles and Lydia are able to flee. 

Rhozal and Freyr are taken captive. 

We awake to find ourselves imprisoned. Manacled, in nothing but ragged clothing. The Speaker wants to make a deal. He literally says “Ah yes, I am corrupt and power hungry. Work for me.”

Look. Freyr is not about that life. It’s complicated but it has ties to his backstory.

Rhozal wants to say yes. Freyr is a vehement no. This guy thinks of him, Rhozal, and Lydia as precious pieces on his board. Weapons he can turn against the people of Targos and Ten Towns. Things for his own gain. Freyr would rather choose death before dishonor.

The Speaker then says that Freyr would be imprisoned, and let out once he became more useful. 

Rhozal fears he will be killed. 

It is at this point that I and Rhozal’s player go into the Secrets chat so Rhozal and Freyr can argue their points. 

Meanwhile, Charles and Lydia go to find some acquaintances the party made in Targos. Marianne, a Changeling healer, and Mimosa Halfglass, the chief healer in Targos. They start planning a prison break.

In our bickering and imprisonment, Marianne comes to us. We tell her to sneak out our things. She’s disguising herself as a guard. She then leaves. 

Rhozal’s player and I are then brought into the general vc and muted. 

Lydia ends up speaking with the Speaker alone, offers a counter-offer, and also offers to try and convince Rhozal and Freyr to take his deal. He allows her to try and do so. Lydia is shackled and put into the same cell we are. 

The session ends here. However, in the background, Lydia, Rhozal, and Freyr all end up talking. 

I will say this now. I am feeling... stuck with my boy. I love Freyr. I really do. However, I don’t feel... inspired to play him anymore. So the DM has told us we need to make a decision -- take the Speaker’s offer, or don’t. And in this decision, I have a second one, that being; do I continue playing Freyr, or do I introduce a new character. 

I feel like, while the others have ideas and plans, Freyr doesn’t have many. Not many plot things that he feels relevant to or connected by, outside of this prophecy he was given to by Odin in the session he lost his eye. However, that feels like a very late game thing, and I feel like I’m kinda... twiddling my thumbs while the others have things to do. 

My next character I have basically planned out. I know how he talks, how he thinks, his mannerisms, everything. And I really like him. Haven’t quite decided on a name yet, but I incorporated that aspect itself into his character. 

I already know that Freyr is a vehement ‘no’. Lydia and Rhozal tried to convince him otherwise, but my boy is stubborn. But the DM told me that things do not have to end there. 

So my decision by Wednesday is now -- who’s story do I play? Freyr’s, or this new character?

I’m still torn. But I am leaning more and more towards this new character. He feels dynamic, and the character is a class I’ve never played before. Plus I think he’ll get along well with Lydia, Rhozal, and Charles. 

It’ll be a heartfelt goodbye if he leaves. But I feel like his chapter has come to a close. Besides, I feel like he’s a bit too... third wheel-y for what Rhozal and Lydia have going on. He feels too awkward. I don’t like his dynamic too much anymore. 

But who knows, maybe I’ll regret the decision either way. However, I do believe it’s time for my paladin to say goodbye. At least at the time of writing. I’ll provide updates when the fateful day comes.]

[kihyunswrath]

@all kpop fandoms in this shithole of a website

ugh my wrath for this entire MX situation is growing again especially after seeing this one fucking shitbitch twitter account going way overboard with their attempts to bully Wonho and what she said is absolutely irrelevant and I’m not about to bring that up now, but let’s just say this.

I am absolutely done with y’all. 

I’m not ok with this silence from Starship, this lying and covering things up, this forcing MX members to continue without breaks, this absolutely insane spineless cowardice Starship has been practicing, but at LEAST some of those things are kind of written into their work contracts and are indeed tied to legal stuff, WHEREAS.

WHEREAS other groups’ “fans” who are literally having fun at the expense of idols who are suffering unfairly, just because they now have one “threat” less to their own group’s success, was totally voluntary? THAT QUITE LITERALLY WAS AN EXTRA USELESS EFFORT YOU FOR CERTAIN DID NOT EVEN GET PAID FOR?

fuck that. your own favourite oppas absolutely loathe you all and probably hope they could smear pig shit on your disgusting faces and then walk all over you BECAUSE THEY KNOW THIS COULD HAVE HAPPENED TO THEM TOO. are you literally THAT deep in your own stinky asshole to even notice that whatever happens to one group happens basically to ALL of them? 

there’s not a single group out there, not even fucking angelic idol lords BTS, Exo and others who are doing good at the moment, who’s safe from being treated unfairly and inhumanely by their company or their worst bullies and haters. and the same goes to literally ANY and EVERY group that’s currently active or has ever been active. with 99% chance every single idol is suffering from mental illnesses, physical injuries, sleep deprivation, malnutrition and literal PTSD and if they don’t realize it now, they will after they’re done with their careers. AND I AM NOT FUCKING JOKING OR EXAGGERATING HERE, not in the slightest.  

this entire movement for Wonho became so huge at first precisely BECAUSE most of us do love and have loved other groups too and we have ALL seen so much suffering going on in the industry. we hoped our voices could finally bring some reason to it, that since we are the paying customers, we might try to show kpop companies and obviously Starship we are tired of this conservative, capitalist slave trade fuckery and that we are ready to fund better ways to manage things THE SECOND THE COMPANIES REALIZE THAT. this movement became so huge because we KNEW Wonho has been one of the kindest, friendliest and warm-hearted people to ever exist and now that we saw things happening to him, it for fucking certain means absolutely no one is safe. 

if you genuinely love and care for your own idols, whoever they may be, for fuck’s sake DO NOT BE SO NAIVE THAT YOU THINK your idols are somehow immune to being hurt. do not think they can’t be attacked and destroyed by literally anyone who just wants that hard enough. do not think your idols are not already scared shitless that this happens to them. do not think your idols are not already mourning for other friends and colleagues they lost, whose dreams got crushed, who disappeared into nothigness, who got punished for mundane bullshit every single person in this wretched fucking planet is guilty of. 

if you do not want to change your idols’ lives for the better, if you don’t want to advocate for better times, if you think bullying other idols is somehow helping your own favourite group become bigger THE ABSOLUTE LEAST THING YOU SHOULD REALIZE IS THIS: the only one you truly hurt with that is that group you’re rooting for. you may make other fans pissed off and that may satisfy you now, but i know that your short-sighted ass haven’t thought things through, so let me put it out there clear as crystal for you:

one day it’s your fav oppa/eonni who gets attacked, silenced, shunned, beaten up, paid less than what he/she deserved, taken down from his/her pedestal. it might drive him/her into madness, it might cause him/her to want to hurt himself/herself. and you will feel helpless, especially because there isn’t many to join to fight alongside you, because there isn’t anyone left who truly feels empathetic for you. 

that day does come, because this industry doesn’t give two shits about their idols, and every idol, if nothing else happens to them before, has an expiration date. and if not before, at least right after that they’re treated like absolute trash.

also maybe you haven’t educated yourself about absolutely anything ever, but no matter all the apparent competition you see happening in the kpop industry, it’s all a facade. all the people who actually gain money out of the industry are in the same fucking boat. that boat tries to present the economy, politics and culture of South Korea under a positive light, that boat is making anything Korean into a brand you’d want to keep supporting without thinking what lies underneath. the kpop groups fighting against each other is an illusion, because they are ALL playing the SAME FUCKING GAME. their companies. are. one. and. the. same. capitalist. force. 

so maybe think again before you start making bloody wars about which idol group is better than all the others. that’s ridiculously naive and plays straight into their hands.

now if you’re one of those people this post is actually talking about, hurry back to your tumblr and twitter and wherever and remove those “jokes” you made about other idol groups, those witty remarks you wrote, those edgelord insults you came up with and maybe, at the end, for fuck’s sake, stop pretending you truly care about absolutely anyone but yourself. stop pretending you’re a fan of absolutely anybody. just. full stop. 

[okbyokaybye]

Kill the Cop in Your Head

Authoritarian Leftists: Kill the Cop in Your Head

By Lorenzo Komboa Ervin - Black Autonomy, April 1996.

It's difficult to know where to begin with this open letter to the various European-american leftist (Marxist-Leninist and Marxist-Leninist-Maoist, in particular) groups within the United States. I have many issues with many groups; some general, some very specific. The way in which this is presented may seem scattered at first, but I encourage all of you to read and consider carefully what I have written in its entirety before you pass any judgements.

It was V.I. Lenin who said, "take from each national culture only its democratic and socialist elements; we take them only and absolutely in opposition to the bourgeois culture and bourgeois nationalism of each nation". It could be argued that Lenin's statement in the current Amerikkkan context is in fact a racialist position; who is he (or the Bolsheviks themselves) to "take" anyone or pass judgement on anyone; particularly since the privileges of having white skin are a predominant factor within the context of amerikkkan-style oppression. This limited privilege in capitalist society is a prime factor in the creation and maintenence of bourgeois ideology in the minds of many whites of various classes in the US and elsewhere on the globe.

When have legitimate struggles or movements for national and class liberation had to "ask permission" from some eurocentric intellectual "authority" who may have seen starvation and brutality, but has never experienced it himself? Where there is repression, there is resistance...period. Self-defense is a basic human right that we as Black people have exercised time and time again, both violent and non-violent; a dialectical and historical reality that has kept many of us alive up to this point.

Assuming that this was not Lenin's intent, and assuming that you all truly uphold worldwide socialism/communism, then the question must be asked: WHY IS IT THAT EACH AND EVERY WHITE DOMINATED/WHITE-LED "VANGUARD" IN THE UNITED STATES HAS IN FACT DONE THE EXACT OPPOSITE OF WHAT LENIN PROCLAIMS/RECOMMENDS WHEN IT COMES TO INTERACTING WITH BLACKS AND OTHER PEOPLE OF COLOR?

Have any of you actually sat down and seriously thought about why there are so few of us in your organizations; and at the same time why non-white socialist/communist formations, particularly in the Black community, are so small and isolated? I have a few ideas...

I. A fundamentally incorrect analysis of the role of the white left in the last thirty years of civil rights to Black liberation struggle...

By most accounts, groups such as the Black Panther Party, the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee, the League of Revolutionary Black Workers, American Indian Movement, and the Puerto Rican Independence Movement "set the standard" for not only communities of color but also for revolutionary elements in the white community.

All of the above groups were ruthlessly crushed; their members imprisoned or killed. Very few white left groups at the time fought back against the onslaught of COINTELPRO by supporting these groups, with the exception of the smaller, armed underground cells. In fact, many groups such as the Progressive Labor Party and the Revolutionary Union (now known as the Revolutionary Communist Party, USA) saw the repression of groups they admired, and at the same time despised, as an opportunity to assert their own version of "vanguard leadership" on our population.

What they failed to recognize (and what many of you generally still fail to recognize) is that "vanguard leadership" is developed, it doesn't just "magically" happen through preachy, dogmatic assertions, nor does it fall from the sky. Instead of working with the smaller autonomous formations, to help facilitate the growth of Black (and white) self-organization (the "vanguard" leadership of the Black masses themselves and all others, nurtured through grassroots social/political alliances rooted in principle), they instead sought to either take them over or divide their memberships against each other until the group or groups were liquidated. These parasitic and paternalistic practices continue to this day.

The only reason any kind of principled unity existed prior to large-scale repression is because Black-led formations had no illusions about white radicals or their politics; and had no problems with kicking the living shit out of them if they started acting stupid. Notice also that the majority of white radicals who were down with real struggle and real organizations, and were actually trusted and respected by our people, are either still active...or still in prison!

II. The white left's concept of "the vanguard party"...

Such arrogance on the part of the white left is part and parcel to your vanguardist ideas and practice. Rather than seeking principled partnerships with non-white persons and groups, you instead seek converts to your party's particular brand of rigid political theology under the guise of "unity". It makes sense that most of you speak of "Black/white unity" and "sharp struggle against racism" in such vague terms, and with such uncertainty in your voices; or with an overexaggerated forcefulness that seems contrived.

Another argument against vanguardist tendencies in individuals or amongst groups is the creation of sectarianism and organizational cultism between groups and within groups. Karl Marx himself fought tirelessly against sectarianism within the working class movement of 19th century Europe. He was also a staunch fighter against those who attempted to push his persona to an almost god-like status, declaring once in frustration "I assure you, sir, I am no Marxist". It could be argued from this viewpoint that the "vanguardist" white left in the US today is generally ,by a definition rooted in the day to day practice of Marx himself, anti-Marx; and by proxy, anti-revolutionary.

Like your average small business, the various self-proclaimed "vanguards" compete against each other as well against the people themselves (both white and non-white); accusing each other of provacteurism, opportunism, and/or possessing "the incorrect line" when in fact most (if not all) are provacateurs, opportunists, and fundementally incorrect.

The nature of capitalist competition demands that such methods and tactics be utilized to the fullest in order to "win" in the business world; the white left has in fact adapted these methods and tactics to their own brand of organizing, actively re-inventing and re-enforcing the very social, political, and economic relations you claim to be against; succeeding in undermining the very basic foundations of your overall theory and all variants of that theory.

Or is this phenomenon part and parcel to your theory? In volume four of the collected works of V.I. Lenin, Lenin himself states up front that "socialism is state-capitalism". Are you all just blindly following a a dated, foreign "blueprint" that is vastly out of context to begin with; with no real understanding of its workings?

At the same time, it could be observed that you folks are merely products of your enviroment; reflective of the alienated and hostile communities and families from which many of you emerge. American society has taught you the tenets of "survival of the fittest" and "rugged individualism", and you swallowed those doctrines like your mother's milk.

Because the white left refuses to combat and reject reactionary tendencies in their (your) own heads and amongst themselves (yourselves), and because they (you) refuse to see how white culture is rooted firmly in capitalism and imperialism; refusing to reject it beyond superficial culture appropriations (i.e.-Native american "dream catchers" hanging from the rear-view mirrors of your vehicles, wearing Addidas or Nikes with fat laces and over-sized Levis jeans or Dickies slacks worn "LA sag" style, crude attempts to "fit-in" by exaggerated, insulting over-use of the latest slang term(s) from "da hood", etc), you in fact re- invent racist and authoritarian social relations as the final product of your so-called "revolutionary theory"; what I call Left-wing white supremacy.

This tragic delemma is compounded by, and finds some of its initial roots in, your generally ahistorical and wishful "analysis" of Black/white relations in the US; and rigid, dogmatic definitions of "scientific socialism" or "revolutionary communism", based in a eurocentric context. Thus, we are expected to embrace these "socialist" values of the settler/conquorer culture, rather than the "traditional amerikkkan values" of your reactionary opponents; as if we do not possess our own "socialist" values, rooted in our own daily and cultural realities! Wasn't the Black Panther Party "socialist"? What about the Underground Railroad; our ancestors (and yes, even some of yours) were practicing "mutual aid" back when most European revolutionary theorists were still talking about it like it was a lofty, far away ideal!

One extreme example of this previously mentioned wishful thinking in place of a true analysis on the historical and current political dynamics particular to this country is an article by Joseph Green entitled "Anarchism and the Market Place, which appeared in the newsletter "Communist Voice" (Vol#1, Issue #4, September 15, 1995).

In it he asserts that anarchism is nothing more than small- scale operations run by individuals that will inevitably lead to the re-introduction of economic exploitation. He also claims that "it fails because its failure to understand the relation of freedom to mass activity mirrors the capitalist ideolgy of each person for their self." He then offers up a vague "plan of action"; that the workers must rely on "class organization and all-round mass struggle". In addition, he argues for the centralization of all means of production.

Clearly, Green's political ideology is in fact a theology. First, anarchism was practiced in mass scale most recently in Spain from 1936-39. By most accounts (including Marxist-Leninist), the Spanish working class organizations such as the CNT (National Confederation of Labor) and the FAI (Federation of Anarchists of Iberia) seized true direct workers power and in fact kept people alive during a massive civil war.

Their main failure was on a military, and partially on an ideological level: (1.) They didn't carry out a protracted fight against the fascist Falange with the attitude of driving them off the face of the planet. (2.) They underestimated the treachery of their Marxist-Leninist "allies" (and even some of their anarchist "allies"), who later sided with the liberal government to destroy the anarchist collectives. Some CNT members even joined the government in the name of a "united front against fascism". And (3.), they hadn't spent enough time really developing their networks outside the country in the event they needed weapons, supplies, or a place to seek refuge quickly.

Besides leaving out those important facts, Green also omits that today the majority of prisoner support groups in the US are anarchist run or influenced. He also leaves out that anarchists are generally the most supportive and involved in grassroots issues such as homelessness, police brutality, Klan/Nazi activity, Native sovereignty issues, [physical] defense of womens health clinics, sexual assault prevention, animal rights, enviromentalism, and free speech issues.

Green later attacks "supporters of capitalist realism on one hand and anarchist dreamers on the other". What he fails to understand is that the movement will be influenced mostly by those who do practical work around day to day struggles, not by those who spout empty rhetoric with no basis in reality because they themselves (like Green) are fundementally incapable of practicing what they preach. Any theory which cannot, at the very least, be demonstrated in miniature scale (with the current reality of the economically, socially, and militarily imposed limitations of capitalist/white supremacist society taken in to consideration) in daily life is not even worth serious discussion because it is rigid dogma of the worst kind.

Even if he could "show and prove", his proposed system is doomed to repeat the cannibalistic practices of Josef Stalin or Pol Pot. While state planning can accelerate economic growth no one from Lenin, to Mao, to Green himself has truly dealt with the power relationship between the working class and the middle-class "revolutionaries" who seize state power "on the behalf" of the latter. How can one use the organizing methods of the European bourgeoisie, "[hierarchial] party building" and "seizing state power" and not expect this method of organizing people to not take on the reactionary characteristics of what it supposedly seeks to eliminate? Then there's the question of asserting ones authoritarian will upon others (the usual recruitment tactics of the white left attemping to attract Black members).

At one point in the article Green claims that anarchistic social relations take on the oppressive characteristics of the capitalist ideology their rooted in. Really? What about the capitalist characteristics of know-it-all ahistorical white "radicals" who can just as effectively assert capitalistic, oppressive social relations when utilizing a top-down party structure (especially when it's utilized against minority populations)? What about the re-assertion of patriarchy (or actual physical and mental abuse) in interpersonal relationships; especially when an organizational structure allows for, and in fact rewards, oppressive social relationships?

What is the qualitative difference between a party bureaucrat who uses his position to steal from the people (in addition to living a neo-bourgeois lifestyle; privilege derived from one's official position and justified by other party members who do the same. And, potentially, derived from the color of his skin in the amerikkkan context) and a collective member who steals from the local community? One major difference is that the bureaucrat can only be removed by the party, the people (once again) have no real voice in the matter (unless the people themselves take up arms and dislodge the bureaucrat and his party); the collective member can recieve a swift punishment rooted in the true working class traditions, culture, and values of the working class themselves, rather than that which is interpreted for them by so- called "professional revolutionaries" with no real ties to that particular community. This is a very important, yet very basic, concept for the white left to consider when working with non- white workers (who, by the way, are the true "vanguard" in the US; Black workers in particular. Check the your history, especially the last thirty years of it.); i.e.- direct community control.

This demand has become more central over the last thirty years as we have seen the creation of a Black elite of liberal and conservative (negrosie) puppets for the white power structure to speak through to the people, the few who were allowed to succeed because they took up the ideology of the oppressor. But, they too have become increasingly powerless as the shift to the right in the various branches of the state and federal government has quickly, and easily, "checked" what little political power they had. Also, we do not have direct control over neighborhood institutions as capitalists, let alone as workers; at least white workers have a means of production they could potentially seize. Small "mom and pop" restaurants and stores or federally funded health clinics and social services in the 'hood hardly count as "Black capitalist" enterprises, nor are any of these things particularly "liberating" in and of themselves.

But white radicals, the white left of the US in particular, have a hard time dealing with the reality that Black people have always managed to survive, despite the worst or best intentions of the majority population. We will continue to survive without you and can make our revolution without you (or against you) if necessary; don't tell us about "protracted struggle", the daily lives of non-white workers are testimony to the true meaning of protracted struggle, both in the US and globally. Your inability or unwillingness to accept the fact that our struggle is parallel to yours, but at the same time very specific, and will be finished successfully when we as a people, as working-class Blacks on the North American continent, decide that we have achieved full freedom (as defined by our history, our culture, our needs, our desires, our personal experiences, and our political idea(s)) is by far the primary reason why the white left is so weak in this country.

In addition, this sinking garbage scow of american leftism is dragging other liberating political vessels down with it, particularly the smaller, anti-authoritarian factions within the white settler nation itself and the few [non-dogmatic and non- ritualistic] individuals within todays Marxist-Leninist parties who sincerly wish to get away from the old, tired historical revisionism of their particular "revolutionary" party.

This seemingly "fixed position", along with many other fixed positions in their "thought", help to reveal the white left's profound isolation and alienation from the Black community as a whole and its activists. Yet, many of them would continue to wholeheartedly, and retardedly, assert that they're part of the community simply because they live in a Black neighborhood or their party headquarters is located there.

The white left's isolation and alienation was revealed even more profoundly in the criticisms of the Million Man March on Washington. In the end, the majority of the white leftist critics wound up tailing the most backward elements of the Republican Party; some going as far as to echo the very same words of Senate majority leader Bob Dole, who commented on the day after the march that " You can't seperate the message from the messenger." Others parroted the words of House majority leader Newt Gingrich, who had the nerve to ask "where did our leadership go wrong?"

Since when were we expected to follow the "leadership" of white amerikkka; the right, left, or center without some type of brutal cohersion? Where is the advantage for us in "following" any of them anywhere? What have any of them done for us lately? Where is the "better" leadership example of any of the hierarchical political tendencies (of any class or ideology) in the US and who do they benefit exclusively and explicitly? None of you were particularly interested in us before we rebelled violently in 1992, why the sudden interest? What do you want from us this time?

Few, if any, of the major pro-revolution left-wing newspapers in the US gave an accurate account of the march. Many of them claimed that only the Black petit-bourgeosie were in attendence. All of them claimed that women were "forbidden" to be there, despite the widely reported fact that our sisters were there in large numbers.

"MIM Notes" (and the Maoist Internationalist Movement itself) to their credit recognize that white workers are NOT the "vanguard" class: yet because they themselves are so profoundly alienated from the Black community on this side of the prison walls they had to rely on information from mainstream press accounts courtesy of the Washington Post. And rightfully alienated they are; who in their right mind actually believes that a small, "secret" cult of white campus radicals can (or should) "lead" the masses of non-white people to their/our freedom? Whatever those people are smoking, I don't want any! I do have to say, however, that MIM is indeed the least dogma addicted of the entire white left millieu that I've encountered; but dogma addicted nonetheless.

I helped organize in the Seattle area for the Million Man March. The strong, Black women I met had every intention of going. None of the men even considered stopping them, let alone suggesting that they not go. Sure, the NOI passed on Minister Farrakhan's message that it was a "men only" march, but it was barely discussed and generally ignored.

The Million Man March local organizing committees (l.o.c.'s) gave the various Black left factions a forum to present ideas and concepts to entire sections of our population who were not familiar with "Marxism", "anarchism", "Kwame Nkrumah", "George Jackson", "The Ten-Point Program", "class struggle", etc.

It also afforded us the opportunity to begin engaging the some of the members of the local NOI chapter in class-based ideological struggle along with participating community people. Of course, it was impossible for the white left to know any of this; more proof of their profound isolation and alienation. At the time, despite our own minor ideological differences, we agreed on one point: it was none of your business or the business of the rest of the white population. When we organize amongst our own, we consider it a "family matter". When we have conflicts, that is also a "family matter". Again, it is none of your business unless we tell you differently. How would you like it if we butted in on a heated family argument you were having with a loved one and started telling you what to think and what to do?

This brings me to two issues that have bothered me since January, 1996. Both comments were made to me by a member of Radical Women at the International Socialist Organization's conference at the University of Washington. The first statement was: "I don't recognize Black people as a 'nation' like I do Native people."

My first thought was "who the fuck are you to pass judgement upon a general self-definition that is rooted in our collective suffering throughout the history of this country?"

She might as well join up with the right-wing Holocaust revisionists; for this is precisely what she is practicing, the denial of the Black holocaust from 1555 to the present (along a parallel denial, by proxy, of the genocide against other non- white nations within the US). Our nationalism emerged as a defense against [your] white racism. The difference between revolutionary Black nationalists (like Huey P. Newton and the Black Panther Party) and cultural nationalists (like Farrakhan and the Nation of Islam) is that we see our nationalism as a specific tool to defend ourselves from groups and individuals like this ignorant person, not as an exclusive or single means for liberation.

We recognize that we will have to attack bourgeois elements amongst our people just as vigorously as we fight against white supremacists ("left", "center", or "right"). The difference is that our bourgeosie (what I refer to as the "negrosie") is only powerful within the community; they have no power against the white power structure without us, nor do they have power generally without the blessing of the white power structure itself. Our task, then, is to unite them with us against a common enemy while at the same time explicitly undermining (and eventually eliminating) their inherantly reactionary influence.

The second stupidity to pass her lips concerned our support of Black-owned businesses. I pointed out to her that if she had in fact studied her Marxism-Leninism, she would see that their existence goes hand-in-glove with Marx's theory that revolution could only ensue once capitalism was fully developed. She came back with the criticism, "Well, you'll be waiting a long time for that to happen".

Once again, had she actually studied Marxism-Leninism she would know that Lenin and the Bolsheviks also had to deal with this same question. Russia's economy was predominantly agricultural, and its bourgeois class was small. They decided to go with the mood and sentiments of the peasantry and industrial workers at that particular moment in history;..seize the means of production and distribution anyway!

Who says we wouldn't do the same? The participants of the LA rebellion (and others), despite their lack of training in "radical 'left-wing' political theory" (besides being predominantly Black, Latino, or poor white trash in Amerikkka), got it half right; they seized the means of distribution, distributed the products of their [collective] labor, and then burned the facilities to the ground. Yes, there were many problems with the events of 1992, but they did show our potential for future progress.

Black autonomists ultimatly reject vanguardism because as the white left [as well as elements of the Black revolutionary movement] has demonstrated, it errodes and eventually destroys the fragile ties that hold together the necessary principled partnerships between groups and individuals that are needed to accomplish the numerous tasks associated with fighting back successfully and building a strong, diverse, and viable revolutionary movement.

The majority of the white left is largely disliked, disrespected, and not trusted by our people because they fail miserably on this point. How can you claim to be a "socialist" when you are in fact anti-social? How do you all distinguish yourselves from the majority of your people in concrete, practical, and principled terms?

III. Zero (0) support of non-white left factions by the white left.

I've always found this particularly disturbing; you all want our help, but do not want to help us. You want to march shoulder to shoulder with us against the government and its supporters, but do not want us to have a solid political or material foundation of our own to not only win the fight against the white supremacist state but to also re-build our communities on our own behalf in our own likeness(es).

Let white Marxists provide unconditional (no strings attached) material support for non-white factions whose ideology runs parallel to theirs, and let white anarchist factions provide unconditional (again, no strings attached) material support for factions in communities of color who have parallel ideologies and goals. Obviously, the one "string" that can never be avoided is that of harsh economic reality; if you don't have the funds, you can't do it. That's fair and logical, but if you're paying these exorbitant amounts for projects and events that amount to little more than ideological masturbation and organizational cultism while we do practical work out of pocket or on a tiny budget amongst our own, it seems to me that a healthy dose of criticism/self-criticism and reassessment of priorities is in order on the part of you "professional revolutionaries" of the white left.

If the white left "vanguards" are unwilling to materially support practical work by non-white revolutionary factions, then you have no business showing your faces in our neighborhoods. If you "marxist missionaries" insist on coming into our neighborhoods preaching the "gospel" of Marx, Lenin, Mao, etc, the least you could do is "pay" us for our trouble. You certainly haven't offered us much else that's useful.

To their credit, the white anarchists and anti-authoritarian leftists have been generally supportive of the Black struggle by comparison; Black Autonomy and related projects in particular. Matter of fact, back in October of 1994 in an act of mutual aid and solidarity the Philadelphia branch of the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW) printed the very first issue of Black Autonomy (1,000 copies) for FREE. One of their members actually got a little upset when I asked how much we owed them for the print job. In return (and in line with our class interests), we allied ourselves with the Philly branch and others in a struggle within the IWW against the more conservative "armchair revolutionary/historical society" elements within its national administrative body.

Former political prisoner, SNCC member, Black Panther, and Black autonomist (anarchist) Lorenzo Komboa Ervin credits the hard work of anarchist groups in Europe and non-vanguardist Marxist and anarchist factions in the US for assisting him in a successful campaign for early release from prison after 13 years of incarceration.

In no way do we expect you or anyone else to bankroll us; what I am offering is one suggestion to those of you who sincerly want to help; and a challenge to those who in fact seek to "play god" with our lives while spouting empty, meaningless rhetoric about "freedom", "justice", "class struggle", and "solidarity". To those people I ask: Do you have ideas, or do ideas have you? Actually, a better question might be: do you think at all?

IV. Bourgeois pseudo-analysis of race and class.

It only makes sense that the white left's analysis of race and class in amerikkka would be so erroneous when you're so quick to jump up and pass judgement on everyone else about this or that, but deathly afraid of real self-criticism at the individual or collective level; opting instead to use tool(s) of self- criticism as a means to reaffirm old, tired ideas that were barely thought out to begin with or by dodging real self-criticism altogether by dogmatically accusing your critics of "red- baiting". Clearly, it is you who "red-bait" yourselves; as the old saying goes, "Those who live in glass houses should not throw stones!" Action talks, bullshit walks!

Some of the more backward sections of the white left still push that old tired line "gay, straight, Black, white, same struggle-same fight!" Nothing can be further from the truth. Sure, we are all faced with the same "main enemy": the racist, authoritarian state and its supporters; but unlike white males (straight or gay) and with some minor parallels to the experiences of white women, our oppression begins at birth. This is a commonality that we share with Native people, Hispanics, Pacific Islanders, and Asians.

As we grow up, we go from being "cute" in the eyes of the larger society, to being considered "dangerous" by the time we're teenagers. As this point is driven home to us day in and day out in various social settings and circumstances some of us decide, in frustration to give the white folks what they want to believe; we become predatory. This dynamic is played out in ghettos, barrios, chinatowns, and reservations across the country. Even those of us who choose not to engage in criminal activity, or aren't forced into it, have to live under this stigma. In addition, we as individuals are still viewed as "objects" and our community as a "monolith".

We then enter the work force...that is, if there are any jobs available. It is there that we learn that our people and other non-whites are "last hired, first fired", that our white co-workers are generally afraid of us or view as "competition", and that management is watching us even more closely than other workers, while at the same time fueling petty squabbles and competition between us and other non-white workers. Those of us who are fortunate enough to land a union job soon find out that the unions are soft on racism in the workplace. This only makes sense as we learn later on that unions in the US are running dogs of capitalism and apologists for management, despite their "militant" rhetoric.

Most unionized workers are white, reflective of the majority of unionized labor in the US; who constitute a mere 13% of the total labor force. This is why it is silly for the white left to prattle on and on about the labor "movement" and about how so many of our people are joining unions. That's no consolation to us when Black unemployment hovers at 35% nationally; many of those brothers and sisters living in places were "permenent unemployment" is the rule rather than the exception, and many more who find work at non-union "dead end" service industry jobs. One out of three of our people is caught up somewhere within the US criminal "justice" system: in jail, in prison, on parole, on work-release, awaiting trial, etc as a direct result.

In addition, many white workers are supportive of racist Republican politicians, such as presidential candidate Pat Buchannan, who promises to protect their jobs at the expense of non-white workers and immigrants. What is the white left or the union movement doing about all of that?

It shouldn't be suprising that the white left still preaches a largely economist viewpoint when it comes to workers generally, and workers of color in particular. This view is further evidence of not only your own deviation from Marx, but also from Lenin, by your own varied (yet similar) definitions.

Lenin recognized why the majority of Russian revolutionaries of his time put forward an economist position: "In Russia,...the yoke of autocracy appears at first glance to obliterate all distinction between the Social Democrats organization and workers' association, since all workers associations and all study circles are prohibited; and since the principle manifestation and weapon of the workers' economic struggle, the strike, is regarded as a criminal (and sometimes even as a political) offense."

In this country, the distinction between the trade unions and revolutionary organizations is abundantly clear (even if some groups like the Socialist Workers Party (SWP) still fail to make the distinction themselves) and the primary contradiction within the working class is that of racial stratification as a class weapon of the bourgeoisie and capitalists against the working class as a whole.

Yet, the white Left (along with the rest of the white working class) fails to see its collaborationist role in this process. And this goes right back to what I said earlier in this writing about the need for a serious historical and cultural critique amongst all white people (and not just the settler nation's left-wing factions) that goes beyond superficial culture appropriations or lofty, dogmatic proclaimations of how committed you and your party is to "racial equality". To even consider oneself "white" or to call oneself "white" is an argument FOR race and class oppression; look at the history of the US and see who first errected these terms "white" and "Black", and why they were created in the first place.

I remember last summer, around the fourth of July, I had a member of the local SWP try to tell me that the American War of Independence was "progressive". Progressive for whom? Tell us the truth, who were the primary beneficiaries of the American Revolution? You know the answer, we all do; only a total, unrepentant reactionary would lie to the people, especially on this point.

Howard Zinn, in his work "A People's History of the United States", points out how early 20th century historian Charles Beard found that of the fifty-five men who gathered in Philadelphia in 1787 to draw up the US Constitution "a majority of them were lawyers by profession, that most were men of wealth, in land, in slaves, manufacturing, or shipping; that half of them had money loaned out at interest, and that forty of the fifty- five held government bonds, according to records of the [US] Treasury Department. Thus, Beard found that most of the makers of the Constitution had some direct economic interest in establishing a strong federal government: the manufacturers needed protective tariffs; the moneylenders wanted to stop the use of paper money to pay off debts; the land speculators wanted protection as they invaded Indian lands; slaveowners needed federal security against slave revolts and runaways; bondholders wanted a government able to raise money by nationwide taxation, to pay off those bonds.

Four groups, Beard noted, were not represented in the Constitutional Convention: slaves, indentured servants, women, men without property. And so the Constitution did not reflect the interests of those groups." (Zinn, pg.90)

Come to terms with your white skin privilege (and the ideology and attitude(s) this privilege breeds) and then figure out how to combat that dynamic as part of your fight against the state and its supporters. Your continued backwardness is a sad commentary when we uncover historical evidence which shows that even before the turn of the century some of your own ancestors within the white working class were begining to take the first small steps towards a greater understanding of their social role as the white servants of capital. A white shoemaker in 1848 wrote:

"...we are nothing but a standing army that keeps three million of our bretheren in bondage...Living under the shade of Bunker Hill monument, demanding in the name of humanity, our right, and withholding those rights from others because their skin is black! Is it any wonder that God in his righteous anger has punished us by forcing us to drink the bitter cup of degradation." (Zinn, pg.222)

We can even look to the historical evidence of Lenin's time. Prior to the publishing of Lenin's "On Imperialism", W.E.B. DuBois wrote an article for the May, 1915 edition of the Atlantic Monthly titled "The African Roots of War" in which he vividly describes how both rich and poor whites benefit from the super- exploitation of non-white people:

"Yes, the average citizen of England, France, Germany, the United States, had a higher standard of living than before. But: 'Whence comes this new wealth?'...It comes primarily from the darker nations of the world-Asia and Africa, South and Central America, the West Indies, and the islands of the South Seas. It is no longer simply the merchant prince, or the aristocratic monopoly, or even the employing class that is exploiting the world: it is the nation, a new democratic nation composed of united capital and labor." (Zinn)

Yet, the self-titled "anti-racists" of the left continue on with their infantile fixation on the Klan, Nazis, and right-wing militias. Groups that they say they are against, but in fact demonstrate a tolerance for in practice. Standing around chanting empty slogans in front of a line of police seperating demonstrators from the nazis in a "peaceful demonstration" is contradiction in its purest form; both the police and the fascists must be mercilessly destroyed! As the Spanish anarchist Buenventura Durruti proclaimed back in 1936 "Fascism is not to be debated, it is to be smashed!" There is no room for compromise or dialogue, except for asking them for a last meal request and choice of execution method before we pass sentence; and even that is arbitrary!

True, tactical considerations must be examined, but if we can't get at them then and there, there is no "rule" that says we can't follow them and hit them when they least expect it; except for the "rule" of the wanna-be rulers of the Marxist-Leninist white left "vanguard(s)" who only see the fascists as competition in their struggle to see which set of "empire builders" will lord over us; the "good" whites who regulate us to the amerikkkan left plantation of "the glorious workers state", or the "bad" whites who work us as slaves until half-dead and then laugh as our worn out carcasses are thrown into ovens, cut up for "scientific purposes", or hung from lamp posts and trees. You people have yet to show me the qualitative difference(s) between a Klan/Nazi- style white supremacist dictatorship and your concept of a "dictatorship of the proletariat" in the context of this particular country and its notorious history. So far, all I have seen from you all is arrogance in coalitions, petty games of political one-upmanship, and ideological/tactical rigidity.

Let's pretend for a minute that one of the various wanna-be vanguards actually seizes political power. In everyone of your programs, from the program of the RCP, USA to even smaller, lesser known groups there is usually a line somewhere in there about your particular party holding the key levers of state power within a "dictatorship of the proletariat". Have any of you actually considered what that sounds like to a community without real power? Does this mean that we as Black people are going to have fight and die a second time under your dictatorship in order to have equal access to employment, housing, schools, colleges, public office, party status, our own personal lives generally?

Look at our history; over one hundred years after the Emancipation Proclaimation (the 1960's) we were still dying for the right to vote, for the right to protest peacefully, for the right to live in peace and prosperity within the context of white domination and capitalism. Today, after all of that, it is clear that the masses of our people are still largely powerless; we stayed powerless even as public schools were being desegregated and more of our elites were being elected to Congress and other positions. The same racist, authoritarian state that stripped us of our humanity was now asserting itself as our first line of defense of those hard-won concessions in the form of federal troops and FBI "observers" (who watched as we were beaten, raped, and/or killed) sent to enforce The Civil Rights Act of 1968 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965.

As we have seen since that time, what the white power structure grants, it can (and will) take away; we can point to recent US Supreme Court decisions around voter redistricting as one part of our evidence. We can also look to the problem of mail and publication censorship in the US prison system (state and federal) that has come back to haunt us since the landmark 1960's first amendment legal challenge to the state of New York that was won by political prisoner and Black/Puerto Rican anarchist Martin Sostre. And then there's the attacks on a prisoners' right to sue a prison official, employee, or institution being made by the House and Senate. Give us one good reason to believe that you people will be any different than these previous and current "benevolent" leaders and political institutions if by some fluke or miracle you folks stumble into state power?

No "guarantees" againt counter-revolution or revisionism within your "revolutionary" party/government you say? There are two: the guns, ammunition, organization, solidarity, political consciousness, and continuous vigilance of the masses of non- white people and the truly sympathetic, conscious anti-authoritarian few amongst your population; or a successful grassroots- based revolution that is rooted in anti-authoritarian political ideas that are culturally relevant to each ethnicity of the poor and working class population in the US. Judging by the general attitudes and theories expressed by your members and leadership, we can be rest assured that it is virtually guaranteed that the spirit of 'Jim Crow' can and will flourish within a white-led Marxist-Leninist "proletarian dictatorship" in the US. It's clear to me why you all ramble on and on about the revolutions of China, Russia, Vietnam, Cuba, etc; they provide convienient cover for you all (read: escapism) to avoid a serious examination of the faults in your current analysis as well as in the historical analysis of the last thirty years of struggle in the US.

These are the only conclusions that can be drawn when you all are so obviously hostile to the idea of doing the hard work of confronting your own individual racist and reactionary tendencies. When your own fellow white activists attempted to put together an "Anti-Racism Workshop" for members of the Seattle Mumia Defense Committee, many of you pledged your support (in the form of the usual dogmatic, vague, and arguably baseless rhetorical proclaimations of "solidarity" and "commitment to racial equality") and then proceeded to not show up. Only the two initial organizers within the SMDC and two coalition members (neither affiliated with any political party) were there. Make no mistake, I have no illusions about white people confronting their own racism; but I do support their honest attempts at doing so. Here we have a situation in which an ideological leap amongst the white left in Seattle may have been initiated; yet, the all- knowing, all-seeing "revolutionary vanguard(s)" of the white left were too busy spending that particular weekend picking the lent out of their belly buttons. Are we saving our belly-button lent for the potential shortages of food that occur during and shortly after the revolution [is corrupted by the mis-leadership of your particular rigid, dogmatic, authoritarian party]?

V. The bottom line is this: Self-determination!

For most white leftists, this means that we as Black people are demanding our own seperate nation-state. Some of our revolutionary factions do advocate such a position. Black Autonomists, however, reject nation-statism [For more on that, refer to page 15 of any copy of Black Autonomy newspaper].

Regardless of whether or not the Black masses opt for a seperate homeland on this continent or in Africa, we will be respected as subjects of history and not as objects that the state, its supporters, or the white left decides what to do with.

The answer to "the Black question" is simple: It is not a question; we are people, you will deal with us as such or we will fight you and the rest of the white settler nation...by any and all means necessary! We will not be cowed or dominated by anyone ever again!

Too many times in the course of American (and world) history have our people fought and died for the dream of true freedom, only to have it turn into the nightmare of continued oppression. If the end result of a working-class revolution in the United States is the continued domination of non-white people by white "revolutionary leaders" and a Left-wing [white supremacist] government, then we will make another revolution until any and all perpetrators and supporters of that type of social-political relationship are defeated or dead! Any and all means are completely justifiable in order to prevent the defeat of our revolution and the re-introduction of white supremacy. We will not put up with another 400+ years of oppression; and I'm sure our Native and Hispanic brothers and sisters won't tolerate another 500+ years of the same ol' shit.

Ultimatly, "an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure"; that's the main reason I decided to publish this, as yet another humble contribution to the self-education of our people. The second reason is to, hopefully, inspire the white left to re- examine your current practices and beliefs as part of your process of self-education; assuming that you all in fact practice self-education.

Reject the traditions of your ancestors and learn from their mistakes; or reject your potential allies in communities of color. The choice is yours...

"It is a commentary on the fundementally racist nature of this society that the concept of group strength for black people must be articulated, not to mention defended. No other group would submit to being led by others. Italians do not run the Anti-Defamation League of B'nai B'rith. Irish do not chair Chistopher Columbus Societies. Yet when black people call for black-run and all-black organizations, they are immediatly classed in a catagory with the Ku Klux Klan." -Kwame Toure (Stokely Carmichael), Black Power; Vintage Press, 1965.

via IWW

[thebiasrekkers]

Make It Right [BTS Mafia!AU]

Pairings: Jin x OC | Taehyung/Hoseok x OC | Yoongi/Jungkook x OC Genre: BTS Mafia!AU Warnings: Graphic Violence, Heavy Language, Angst, Smut, Slow Burn WC: 3,496 Prologue 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 “It’s always darkest before the dawn…” It’s a dog-eat-dog world in Seoul, South Korea. One has to dwell in the shadows in order to reach for the light. What are you willing to sacrifice in order to feel the sunlight on your face? What will it take to drag you back into darkness? How long will the journey be to make it right?

AO3 | WP

Chapter 13: Reflection

"But you know, sometimes I really really hate myself. To be honest, quite often, I really hate myself."

Seoul – Hannam; Yongsan District South Korea

When Yoongi got the call, he was on his way to the airport.

Seokjin managed to secure a personal financial advisor for their group so the next step that needed to be taken was to start consolidating their assets. Yoongi was one of the ones responsible for setting up accounts overseas and he wanted to get the business deals taken care of before the end of the week. He’d need a couple of days to adjust to the jetlag and then he would be in and out of office meetings for most of his stay. Americans were capitalists by nature and so they ultimately would try to get the biggest bang for their buck.

Yoongi was out to accomplish the same.

He’d packed his suitcase that morning. His flight was scheduled to depart in the late afternoon, and he would hopefully arrive in California first thing in the morning. He wasn’t planning on staying for more than three or four days, timelines depending. Yoongi wanted to get lunch with Eden before he left.

They’d agreed to be friends, after all.

Friends, he thought bitterly, staring at himself in the mirror as he adjusted the lapels of his gray blazer, who am I kidding?

It was an excuse. It was an excuse for himself.

Reaching out with the olive branch for friendship was his way of being able to stay close to Eden, but keeping her at arm’s length. He could lie to her every chance he could and he’d be a liar still if he didn’t feel a shred of relief when she’d accepted his offer for friendship. But there was a part of him that knew he had to keep the ruse up for as long as possible. The further he kept her from his life, the less entangled in the criminal underground she would get.

He’d been selfish to have maintained the illusion of their relationship for so long.

He sighed. Three years…

How could he have continued to lie to her for three years? It was one thing when they were just starting to get close while he was in the States. He never imagined she would travel all the way to South Korea. Yoongi wasn’t arrogant enough to believe she’d done it for him. He knew of her desire to learn more of her mother’s roots and to walk the same paths and see the same things that her mother had. She’d been an orphan for her entire life, but Eden always cherished that side of her heritage – even going so far as to learn the language and the culture long before he’d ever met her.

It was creeping closer toward mid-morning. He shot Eden a quick text, inquiring whether she had any plans for lunch. It was probably presumptuous of him to think she was just waiting around for him to call or text her. They met up one more time after he’d let a week slip by with no contact. Honestly, Yoongi spent those days contemplating if he’d made the right decision in wanting to maintain a friendship with her. Should he have just cut her out of his life completely and made the choice to stop making excuses to pull her into his orbit?

After waiting for her to respond and getting nothing back, he decided to leave it alone. He’d text her when he arrived State-side and let her know he was out of the country on a business trip. She was used to that, seeing as how he drew up his entrepreneur persona and maintained that guise for all the years he’d known her.

His phone rang and he answered, not bothering to look at the screen to see who was calling. He was already on his way out the door.

“Min Yoongi here.”

“Hyung, we have a problem.”

It was Namjoon.

“What’s wrong?”

Closing the door, he waited for the security lock to beep before he headed down the stone walkway leading out to the expansive front garden. Dragging his rolling suitcase with him, he fished for his keys so he could lock the front gate. Once it was locked, he rounded the corner of the building and headed out toward the street.

“It’s Hyungsoo-nim…”

Yoongi froze.

“What?”

“…uh, I mean, Raelyn Noona.”

He sighed, brushing a hand through his bangs in frustration. “Is Hoseok still having her monitored?”

“Look, Hyung, that’s not really important right now. You know how thorough Hoseok is. He just wants to make sure she’s safe and he always keeps his distance.”

“Whatever.”

“Anyway, that’s not the problem. The problem is that she was seen in Myeongdong today.”

Yoongi was about to take another step when he stopped. “She was seen in Jade Fang territory?” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s not like she doesn’t know how those guys operate. Why would she risk even going there?”

“Well, she was out shopping with a friend. A mixed girl. I think her name is Eden?”

A lump of ice crashed into Yoongi’s gut.

No, he thought, a bead of sweat forming on his brow, how did I miss that?

But the answer was right there. He’d missed it because he always made it a point to keep Eden as far away from his world as possible. Which, in turn, caused him to be kept just as far away from her world and inner circle as well.

“Fuck.”

“Yoongi Hyung? Are you alright?”

“And we can’t send Taehyung to fetch her because he got caught fucking around out there, either.”

He heard Namjoon sigh on the other line.

"No. And I don’t want to risk sending any of the other boys out there. The Jade Fangs are probably itching for any excuse to start a skirmish.”

“God fucking dammit, Taehyung-ah,” he muttered. If he hadn’t blown his damn ability to sleuth around properly, this would have been a cake walk. “What about Jungkook?”

“With his reputation on the streets? They’d see him coming a mile away.”

“I know Seokjin Hyung is in Busan right now. What about Jimin-ah?”

Namjoon sighed again. He wished he’d quit doing that. It wasn’t helping his nerves in the slightest.

“He’s still not back from Jeju. He won’t be arriving until later in the evening.”

“Fine. I’ll go get her.”

“No, you can’t either Hyung. Just like everyone knows about Jungkook, they know about The Lightning Claw too.”

Yoongi hissed, clicking his tongue against the back of his teeth.

“And I can’t go running in there since I have to stay by Hoseok’s side. I’ve already had to convince him three times to stay put.”

This was getting stupid.

But Eden was with her. He knew that she could take care of herself and as long as they didn’t move against them, there would be no reason to stir up trouble. Hoseok wasn’t dating Raelyn anymore and, as a result, she was no longer the Hyungsoo-nim of the Golden Jackals. There would be no reason for them to push at her since she wasn’t tied to them anymore.

Well, at least not in that capacity. He couldn’t control what Taehyung and the others did.

“This is one giant fucking mess.” Yoongi spied the time. He’d have to cancel his flight. “Keep on them. And as soon as Jimin gets back, you let him know what the hell is happening. He’ll at least have an idea of what to do about this since he’s the only one of us who knows how to keep his foot out of his goddamn mouth.”

“Got it. I’ll let you know if anything changes.”

“Good.”

He hung up the call and immediately called the airport to cancel his flight. Yoongi dialed a cab and after five minutes, he hopped in and made a beeline for Gangnam. He didn’t know how he was going to manage it, but he had to keep an eye out and make sure that nothing crazy happened. He’d keep his ears to the ground for as long as he could manage it before calling for reinforcements.

Seoul – Cheongdam; Gangnam District South Korea

It was a fifteen-minute cab ride.

It felt like it took a hundred years to get to Eden’s street.

Arriving, he paid the cab driver and immediately made his way up the stairs. Once he reached the top, he fished into his pockets to retrieve his keys. He quickly plucked through them and saw the spare key.

He still had the spare key to Eden’s apartment and while he’d been meaning to give it back to her for some time, it just never came up. She never asked for it back. While he’d never encroached into her privacy, there were times he would swing by when he knew she was at the shop to make sure that she was at least eating properly.

She wasn’t, of course. She was always eating out – the tell-tale signs of Chinese takeout in her mini fridge.

Slipping the key inside, he unlocked the door and dipped inside. Kicking off his shoes, he slid into the spare house slippers and immediately began marching around the small space.

“Eden?” he called.

There was no answer.

The darker part of Yoongi’s mind that often dreamed up the worst scenarios immediately began to panic. His heart jack-hammered against his ribs and while her apartment was small, it felt like it took almost an hour to search. His legs frantically moved from one empty space and then to the other. She was nowhere to be found.

Dashing out of the apartment, he stalked around the rooftop – flinging his arms out to avoid being hit by the laundry she still had hanging out on the line.

She wasn’t there.

Fuck, came his angry thought.

Well, at least she wasn’t there bleeding out on the floor.

Shaking his head, he took a breath and quieted those dark thoughts – smothering toward the shadowy corner of his heart where they belonged. “She’s fine, Min Yoongi. Get it together.”

He tried calling her and texting her. The call went straight to voicemail.

Again, Yoongi attempted to quiet his frantic mind. It’s fine. Her phone just might be dead. You know how she barely keeps the thing fully charged daily. It’s fine.

Yoongi went back inside, deciding that he would wait for her. That was the best course of action to take. Falling onto the couch, he sank into it and felt like the weight of the universe had been thrust upon his shoulders; this being the first break he was able to take all day.

His phone began to ring and he answered before the first buzz got a chance to finish. “Hello?”

“Yoongi Hyung?” It was Jimin. “I just got back to Seoul. Is everything alright? Namjoon Hyung told me to call you as soon as I was able to use my phone again.”

“Are you still at the airport?”

“Yeah. I just picked up my bag.”

“Good. I need you to take a cab to Gangnam immediately. Raelyn was spotted in the Jung District.”

“Heaven help me, are you serious? Was she by herself?”

“No, Eden—” He paused, taking a moment. He could already tell he was about to sound way too familiar. “—her friend, Eden, is with her. At least that’s what was reported to me.”

There was a long pause and Yoongi looked at his phone to make sure the call wasn’t disconnected. “Jimin-ah?”

“Huh? Oh, sorry Hyung. I just got a bunch of texts from Jungkook. He’s bugging me about coming with him to check on someone. Hold on.” There was the distinct sound of street noises being heard. Yoongi heard Jimin hailing a cab and once he finished giving the driver directions, he returned to the line. “This boy. Well, it looks like I’m headed that way anyway, Hyung. Jungkook is up my ass about bothering Eden. If Hyungsoo-nim—I mean, if Raelyn Noona is with her, then I can kill two birds with one stone.”

Yoongi suddenly sat up. “Wait, what?” His eyes narrowed. “You and Jungkook both know Eden?”

“Huh? Well, yeah, Hyung. Jungkook met her a few months back when he brought his bike into her shop to get it looked at.”

“And you?”

“Hyung, I’m a Christian, remember? Eden goes to the same church I do.” He heard Jimin laugh. “Well, when she makes the time to come, anyway.”

He frowned. Had he even known that about her? Yoongi knew that she believed; that she was a believer, but he never remembered her attending church back when they were in the States. And she certainly hadn’t gone to church when they were still together.

But now that he thought about it, he was usually gone and when he wasn’t gone, he was with her and only her. He took her to various places away from prying eyes because he didn’t want to risk anyone recognizing him and tying her to him. The risk was too great; for her and for himself.

Yet she’d somehow managed to entangle herself in their world, regardless.

Yoongi got up and started heading toward the door. It was already dark outside. When had it gotten so late?

He took two steps out of the door, pulling it closed behind him. He locked the door just as the sound of a motorcycle roared to life from down the street. Yoongi moved to the other side of the roof, peering over the edge. Jungkook’s motorcycle could be seen from the other end of the street. He slowed his pace as he hit the wide turns as he peeled into the neighborhood. Yoongi spun on his heels and immediately went to the other end of the roof behind Eden’s apartment, vaulting over the edge and landing on the fire escape.

Descending the stairs, he hit the pavement in time to see a cab pulling up. Jimin stepped out from it but Yoongi remained hidden in the shadows. Part of him wanted to reveal himself to Jimin, feigning ignorance for why he was there. He was simply checking on Raelyn. Nothing more. He didn’t even know this Eden chick.

That was the lie he could have spun if Eden didn’t already know both Jimin and Jungkook.

He watched as Jimin and Jungkook met each other after parking, the two exchanging brief conversation and relaying to the other about the call from Namjoon. If the two of them were there, then that would be fine. He could leave things in their care and call it a night. He still had to fly out to the States tomorrow morning.

I’ll wait until she gets here, he told himself, pulling out his pack of cigarettes from the inside of his jacket pocket, then I’ll go.

He’d barely gotten a few puffs in before another cab pulled up. Yoongi spied that it was Eden with Raelyn in tow. She hefted the drunk woman up, barely able to keep herself upright as well. They’d been drinking a lot, it seemed. Eden managed to pull out a few shopping bags and paid the cab driver. When Jimin and Jungkook made themselves known to Eden, he was about to leave.

That is until he saw Jungkook brushing Eden’s hair behind her ear.

His legs remained rooted to the ground and a flare of heated jealousy exploded across his chest. While Yoongi knew he had no right to feel that way, the emotions pushed to the forefront. He recalled the conversation that he’d had with Jungkook a few days back about the “Stubborn Tiger” he was pursuing – how he’d stolen her number but was still willing to talk to him despite knowing that he was affiliated with the mafia.

And she hadn’t turned him away.

He took a step forward, away from the shadows and into the light. Could things have been different?

Yoongi watched as Jungkook started heading upstairs, only to stop when their eyes met.

“Jungkook-ah,” Eden called, but Jungkook didn’t take his eyes off of him, “what’s the matter?”

“…Yoongi Hyung.”

It was here that Eden’s eyes searched the darkness and when he appeared, he could see the confusion and surprise on her face. He did his best to ignore it, but he knew that his anger was showing all over his face.

“Yoongi,” she said, her eyes shifting to look back at him, “what are you doing here?”

“Go upstairs, Jungkook-ah,” he said, ignoring her question. His mouth felt dry all of a sudden and he knew it wasn’t because of the cigarette perched between his lips.

He watched Jungkook turn to look at Eden and this made his brow twitch. But when he turned to look back at Eden, he could see the wheels turning in her mind. And then that was when he watched her mentally put two and two together.

“Now, Jungkook.”

He waited until Jungkook was out of earshot before he tossed his Zippo lighter to her. She caught it easily. But he knew she wouldn’t light up in front of him. She was about to get angry. Her anger was about to rise to meet at the level of his own.

“You,” she began, her voice seething as her fists began to shake.

“That’s right,” he said, his expression neutral and his tone cold. But he couldn’t hide the throbbing behind his eyes – the way that his eyes seemed to shake with the heavy emotions swirling in his chest. “I’m one of the Golden Jackals.”

He dropped the cigarette from his lips and crushed the ember out with the heel of his shoe.

“Min Yoongi, The Lightning Claw.”

For a moment, nothing else was spoken between them.

And then he watched the tears form in her eyes, shining under the glow of the streetlight.

“You son of a bitch,” she muttered. Yoongi watched her reach into her pocket and she pulled out the switchblade she was always known to carry. “You fucking…SON OF A BITCH!”

Yoongi watched Eden run at him, and just when she was about to strike, he caught her wrist at the last second. Holding her arm high, he squeezed on the pressure point where her wrist was – forcing her to drop the knife. It landed on the ground with a loud clatter and she raged at him, her voice echoing off the brick walls of the residential housing in the area. He watched her left hand curl into a fist and when she tried to land a blow to his face, he blocked it with his forearm and gripped onto her wrist.

“You liar! You goddamn fucking lying sack of shit!” She tried to jerk free, but his grip tightened. “Let me go! LET ME GO!”

He braced most of his weight onto his back leg, spinning her around and forcing her arms up and over her. Once they were crossed in front of her, he held her tightly against him. He wasn’t sure if it was her heart or his own drumming mercilessly against his chest, but he knew that their breaths were coming out in rough huffs simultaneously.

“How could you lie to me? After all these years, you had me believing I was nothing to you!”

Eden shook violently, doing her damnedest to break free of his hold. But he wasn’t letting go.

“I did it because I didn’t want you wrapped up in this shit, Eden!”

She was practically vibrating now. “That wasn’t your choice to make! It was mine, you bastard! It was mine and you took it from me!” Eden tried her best to fight his hold, but he was too strong. He could hear a broken sob escaping her. “You never even let me make the choice for myself, you asshole.”

The sob was what did it and he finally released her. When he did, Eden whirled around and a loud crack issued as her palm connected with his cheek. Tears streamed down her face and he sighed, the pain of the strike nothing compared to the betrayal that was etched so perfectly all over her face.

“Is that why you finally decided to tell me the truth? Because you’ve figured out that I not only know Raelyn Unnie, but Jimin and Jungkook too? Because your little lie was finally going to come back full circle and kick you in the balls?”

Yoongi couldn’t say anything. What could he say? It wasn’t like anything she’d said was a lie.

He watched her angrily swipe at her nose and cheeks. “You’re a real piece of work, you know that, Min Yoongi?”

And without another glance his way, Yoongi watched Eden ascend the stairs. He couldn’t bring himself to go after her. Because what excuse did he have now? What leg did he have left to stand on?

Eden McGee, once again, managed to knock all the fight he had left out of him.

AN: So it's come to my attention that some of you might not know which honorifics I'm using. I've decided to go ahead and start by listing the honorifics in the story in notes so there is no confusion. -- Hyung - what a younger man calls an older man who they are close with or actually blood-related to. -- Noona - what a younger man calls an older woman who they are close with or actually blood-related to. -- Hyung-nim - what younger men call an older man who they are close with and also see as a mentor; can also be a term for rank, as in Hoseok's case. This can also be used in terms of "In-laws" when speaking to the older brother of their wife. -- Hyungsoo-nim - what a younger man calls his older brother's wife. In this case, since Hoseok is the leader of the Golden Jackals, his ex-girlfriend, Raelyn, was once called "Hyungsoo-nim" as a show of respect. -- Unnie - what a younger woman calls an older woman who they are close with or actually blood-related to. -- Name-ssi - a polite way to address someone deemed as an acquaintance or used in the workplace between fellow colleagues. -- Name-ah/ie - an informal way to address someone who is more than just an acquaintance; generally used between close friends and by older siblings to address their younger siblings. These are the ones that I use the most and will be the most prevalent in this fic. I figured I would go ahead and clear up the confusion. Hope this helps. I will update these as I go depending on which ones are used in the story.

[mssapphire]

Deconstructing Romantic Love, and what’s actually wrong with it (pt. 1) - Desire and Admiration =/= Love.

In our infinite quest for happiness, one pervasive question we tend to have is: what is love? (baby don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me, no mo’). And in this quest we have tried to find a million different answers and we have tried to deconstruct and understand what works and what makes it dysfunctional.

In the last century or so, we have tried to come up with alternatives to what we have identified as the root of all evil and female oppression: heteropatriarchal romantic love. And I say in the last century because Romanticism is a 19th c. thing - and to understand how it completely changed society and our relational dynamics, I’d suggest Alain de Botton (it’s a long video but 1) it’s worth it and 2) if you don’t have the time to read his book(s), it’s a great alternative).

This has given way to different forms of “Ethical Non-Monogamy”. I’ll eventually write a post abut the history around different Free Love movements - and how the term has definitely meant different things in different moments of time, and how we have now devoid it of any meaning, to the point we’re back in the clutches of patriarchy through rampant consumerism of bodies. But that’s a post for another day.

What I’d like to explore today is that the problem doesn’t rely in what relationship model you choose to follow (monogamy, polyamory, relationship anarchy, open relationships), but in the way we (mis)understand love. I recently wrote a post about the meaning of being emotionally responsible, making an emphasis on why it’s so difficult for cis straight men. And following that thread, I’d like to come to another crossroads we (but, again, specially cis straight men) seem to find ourselves on: confounding admiration and desire with love. Let’s break that down.

I could really, really go on a tangent here, but I’ll try to stay focused. We could trace back our culture’s confabulation of love, admiration and desire to Courtly Love. Courtly Love taught men that love but, most importantly, loving the right way, was something that could make you a better person, morally (and even socially) superior. The right way to love a Lady, who was the purest being incarnated on the face of the earth, was to admire her beauty which was no doubt a display of her own moral worth (yes, these are white beauty standards, where the most celebrated type of woman was blonde, pale as porcelain, and with blue or green eyes) - and yes, physical appearance being equated to moral worth was a thing in Medieval times (you can guess which are the good guys or the bad guys in a Medieval story only through their physical description). But here comes the plot twist about Courtly Love: you didn’t even had to have met the object of your desire to love her. So you have an entire tradition of poems being written by men to, for and about women they hadn’t even met. They had just heard about their reputation, and they completely made up a fantasy as to who the woman was - a woman they not only proclaimed to love, but also a woman whom they loved so much they could die for her.

This was fertile grounds for Petrarch’s poetry, now in the Renaissance, who took Courtly Love one step further: actually attaching the object of his desire to a real, living person (Laura). Fast forward to Romanticism and the idea of loving someone to the point it kills you, and that they’re the one and only object of your desire, and your “soul mate”, and thus complete and complement you in every single way has now become the trend as to how we perceive love.

But that all sounds very exotic and distant. What about the present? Certainly, you can’t compare these guys to the guys on tinder trying to hook up with anyone who’ll say yes. But allow me to say: 1) yes, yes I can and 2) it’s not only these guys - but even those who seem “more decent” and actually take you out on a date, and even date you for a while. Allow me to elaborate.

Again, I am going to go ahead and quote bell hooks’ definition of love (this is something I do, a lot): you have to distinguish love as a feeling vs love as a verb (we’ll circle back to this). When you understand love as a feeling, and as a feeling only, desire and admiration tend to feel a lot like love. And the problem lies therein society’s portrayal’s of love: “love at first sight”, passionate sex as the ultimate display of what love is and should be, blind admiration towards that person and how you have to stick through thick and thin until death do us part (does that ring a bell?).

“Seeing no wrong” with the object of our affection (or what we now call “missing red flags”) is something we do when we blindly admire someone. And, thus, that convinces us that real love, true love, is that in which you find no conflict, and where the other person is perfect and without flaw. The problem with confusing admiration and love is that, to admire someone, we have to put them up on a pedestal, so we can continue to admire them without our image of them crumbling. Think about all the times you lost respect for your idols as you found out who they really were, as a person, above and beyond their work.

The same happens with desire - which is something more visceral and raw. That person is desirable as long as they fit the fantasy we have about them - which relies to physical attributes, yes, but about things they do and don’t do. Even more so, sex is something that gives you the illusion of intimacy, because sex is inherently emotional and vulnerable (and the idea that it isn’t is capitalistic bullshit, but that’s a topic for another post).  So while you’re engaging in sex, you can enjoy all those endorphins and mushy feelings, without actually doing the hard work of actually getting to know the person for real. The moment the person displays a behavior or an attribute that clashes with the idea we have in our heads (maybe they’re too awkward, or they have bad breath in the morning), our fantasy, built on desire, starts to crumble.

Let me drive the point home with a personal example. An ex of mine was initially deeply attracted to me because of my intelligence (it was a good thing that he found me physically attractive too). He would be delighted when he saw me debate other people (and destroy them), to the point it immediately triggered physical affection. But as the relationship progressed and we found ourselves sharing and discussing personal views, his attitude started to shift. A quality that he usually admired me for, became something that made him feel contempt. “You’re so smart” turned into “you’re too smart” which eventually turned to “I can never talk to you because everything turns into a debate”. My attitude and approach hadn’t changed. What was happening is what always happens in an emotional relationship where you’re actually getting to know the person: I was falling off the pedestal he put me in. 

And, suddenly, I was seen not only as a human being with flaws and shortcomings, and far from perfect - but having to be so close and vulnerable in front of me was also deeply uncomfortable to him. Because when you’re really close to someone, that makes you reflect on yourself. True love and intimacy is an exercise of self reflection, which allows you to become acquainted with the best and worst sides of you. In my ex’s case, having to be confronted by the intelligence he admired so much initially, made him feel stupid and insecure.

Which leads me to another thing: in this confabulation of admiration/desire for love, men also get another short end of the stick. Because patriarchy has convinced them that a woman’s love lies in her admiration for him, the object of their desire (who has to instantly desire them back just because they want this person) has one job and one job only: to admire and support him unconditionally. This means that men are permanently stuck in a position where they have to display strength and bravado, as they fulfill the role of protectors and providers. And what happens then? you never truly get to know who they are inside. So any sort of criticism, disagreement or conflict is perceived as a threat - if you’re not admiring them, you’re personally attacking them, and you don’t really love them.

Again, the problem with all of this is that we still haven’t understood what love actually is. According to bell hook, love is also a verb. It’s the actions you take in order to nurture the relationship, so you both feel seen, known, heard and understood. It’s getting to know the other person deeply and honestly. It’s seeing ourselves reflected in their eyes and getting to know new depths about us that we hadn’t before.

Think about it in another way: if that person wasn’t physically attractive to you anymore, would you still love them? if that person presented flaws that you hate, would you still love them? If they didn’t have the same social status or job? if they didn’t engage in specific activities with you? and what would you be willing to do if those things change? these are all important questions to assess where your feelings for someone stand.

To be clear: you can love someone and admire them and desire them. But just because someone desires you or just because someone admires you, that doesn’t mean they love you. Again, love is in the work you do. And if you do your homework, you will find yourself admiring that person on deeper more significant attributes, like their compassion and patience and integrity, while you even learn to understand and appreciate their flaws in the context of who they really are - that’s what being understood means.

The problem is not monogamy. In fact, I find it more responsible and sustainable to understand just how much work goes into having healthy loving relationships and deciding to have that with one person, than being a hot ass mess and falling in and out of an unending string of relationships because we’re trying to score “woke points” by denying monogamy. Because if you think you’re defying monogamy while at the same time you’re following the same romantic standards to relate, then you’re not really subverting anything.

Next time you feel like you might feel love for someone, ask yourself if what you’re feeling means that you actually have the willingness to do the work required to be in a healthy relationship with them. If you find their presence in your life worth the effort or not. If this is a nourishing relationship, then the answer will probably be yes.

[chiseler]

The Revolution Will Not Be Spoken

Is there a word for the kind of rhetorical fallacy we willingly participate in every day, whether through inspirational hashtags on an increasingly antisocial social media, or cheap, ordinary political sloganeering? When, for instance, the former front-runner for the Democratic Party’s nomination, Sen. Bernie Sanders, calls his campaign a “revolution,“ we know that he knows that we know that he knows that we know the word is NOT to be construed concretely, historically (or even seriously). Otherwise, he could call himself a “revolutionary” without laughter accompanying. Democrats, or at least huge swathes of them, have for decades appropriated the left lane in our mainstream political culture, and yet no Democrat in Washington with even a hint of ambition in their soul would say, “I am a Leftist.” To utter these words in public instantly introduces a level of meaning and, more importantly, responsibility entirely unwanted by this mannequin “Left”.

Would it be rude to suggest that we start viewing politicians through an institutional lens? Self-alleged socialists finding a savior in Bernie should remember one thing: he’s a clammy frontman, eating healthcare and shitting mortars. A few measly degrees to an erstwhile Reaganite’s left — there stands your Chosen One, ready to drop “revolution” in the capacious lap of conservative technocracy. But this absurd use of empty labels fails to place Bernie Sanders and the now-humiliated Elizabeth Warren on a scale that would measure common morality. What makes Him substantively different from Warren?, you ask while awaiting her endorsement like alms-seeking exiles. 

Well, to reinforce what you already know: Senator Warren wasn’t a Senator when Congress gifted vastly augmented power to George W. Bush’s proclaimed War on Terror. Every jot and tittle of America’s public trust — healthcare, education, low-income housing — continues to be plundered thanks to Bernie prioritizing a known lunatic and his kookoo bananas cronies. Every Leftist grasped the meaning of that vote the very moment it was cast: endless and ever-expanding war (seven countries bombed under Obama, more than both Bushes, Reagan, Nixon, indeed any president going back to WWII).

Would Warren have pledged her allegiance to murdering, maiming and displacing what we now know are millions and counting? Of course she would. The sole meaningful distinction between these two flunkies is that, thus far, Bernie has taken far more money than Warren from weapons contractors like Lockheed Martin, even building them a nest in Burlington. Not to mention his public defense of Lockheed’s F-16s after they were used to kill 550 of Gaza’s children in 2014. No tears — not from Sanders, Warren or Obama. Every U.S. representative asserts “self-defense”: Israel officially exonerated; the Corkscrew Alley of our national conscience pronounced not guilty.

A mere quirk of language allows for this abstraction — degrees of rhetorical freedom available to Sanders via “revolution” and “left”. After all, they’re just conceptual enough to be molded into a parlor game: stretched, toyed with, made sloganary. Who knows? Perhaps when one puts these flexible concepts into focus by investing individual persons with inflexible, practical meaning, the basic absurdity of sculpting metaphysics in such a manner is unambiguously revealed. We are, in that moment, suddenly, collectively responsible for NOT staging that non-metaphysical revolution; for NOT engaging with Capitalism as serious Leftists. The more abstract terms serve as invitations and not challenges; the more concrete ones throw us into a state of personal reflection. Disappointment. Alienation.

Sanders repels voters old enough to have risked everything during the Civil Rights Era. Call it the ghost of antipathies past — blacks and Jews locked together and irking each other’s heads off (in solidarity). Perhaps “revolution” provokes healthy cynicism among African Americans, who rarely emerge better off (Detroit, 1967?) after pitched battles with police. The 1970s saw the alliance between two historically oppressed groups devolve into circular firing squads. To paraphrase Dr. Norman Finkelstein, “radical politics” flows naturally from our seeing a radically unjust world. A more standard political view here in the States might acknowledge “imperfections” or even a few “centrally important issues” to be addressed through reform and regulation; it is a worldview typified by dismissive reflex (“tendentious,” “silly,” “reductive”) whenever it encounters someone who asks: “How do you defend a system that produces radical inequality (eight billionaires owning as much as fifty percent of the world)?” Or: “Why does capitalism necessitate slavery?”

Our system will always provide a modicum of democracy for some, generally the wealthiest among us, as long as it’s supported by a species of enslavement reserved for the multitude. But even by its own lights, this late-phase example of Democracy, American-Style is in shambles. The collaboration of both major political parties in accelerating the fall of organized labor as a broad, galvanizing social force represented the unmistakeable beginning of the end. When that moment came after the war, more decades ago than most Americans can remember now, that our institutions elected finally to put the screws to unionization, collective bargaining, and everything else that the ideal of human solidarity had historically accomplished, to bolster our shining capitalist democracy – keeping labor and capital in a marginal, always uneasy alignment so that a propaganda construct known popularly as the American Dream appeared attainable to all – it all withered to a dry husk.

By the wondrous, miraculous logic of Bernie Sanders’ own self-styled “revolution,” money falls upwards in a reverse rain of sticky, greasy, lint-laden nickels and dimes; a unique electoral approach to wedding democracy with capital and the illusion of its sundering; as if to say “Listen folks, that’s the direction money takes. What can I do?”, while the suckers pay tribute to their self-declared “socialist” padrone.

And now that Iowa’s caucus has exposed our collective electoral shame, will the chumps finally revolt?

Thus, two items remain, for now, on the agenda of All God’s Chil'ren:

First, we must kill capitalism. Whether by means fair or foul, few should deny that it needs doing. Next, if human life is to survive beyond the sun’s engorgement within the next six billion years, it has become imperative for mankind (which still means us) to establish a series of exo-planetary colonies – not unlike those luxurious Galt’s Gulch hideaways in outer space that, it is darkly rumored, our billionaire class has been busily planning to remove themselves to once life on earth gets truly hairy.

Of the two, the latter goal will be achieved first so, personally, I would settle for a modest, progressive shift in our labor markets. But even that objective, modest and progressive as it may be, is one helluva stretch in these United States.

When the AFL-CIO was founded in 1955, a decent chunk of salaried and wage-earning Americans, 35% of them, belonged to a union. When we contemplate our measly and steadily falling 10.5% unionization today, that 35% becomes nothing for anyone to sneeze at. Sadder still to contemplate are the 85% of American workers gamely attempting to survive on the mean streets of a shaky private sector, where an even less significant 6.4% currently enjoy the benefits of organized labor.

So what happens to the beleaguered American Worker as collective bargaining, the Royal Road to fair and dignified compensation for all, narrows into a glass-strewn footpath, flanked by razor-wire?

Stay tuned to this frequency…

by The Lumière Sisters

[tenroseforeverandever]

The Perfect Blend Chapter 2

Characters: Tenth Doctor (aka James Noble); Rose Tyler; Clara Oswald; Amy Pond; Jeanne Poisson; Donna Noble; Sylvia Noble; Wilfred Mott

Tags: Human AU; fake relationship AU; coffee shop AU; stalkerish!Reinette; hurt/comfort; angst; romance; fluff; Christmas; New Year; New Year’s kiss

Story Summary:

Trying to escape from an predatory ex-girlfriend who will not accept their break-up, James Noble (aka The Doctor) finds himself in a coffee shop where he meets a barista (aka Rose Tyler) who makes him the perfect cup of tea and lends a sympathetic ear to his tale of woe.

Chapter Summary: James successfully manages to avoid Jeanne in the days leading up to Christmas, but when he arrives at his family’s home for Christmas dinner, as surprise awaits him.

Chapter Notes: My love for my betas knows no bounds. @rose--nebula and mrsbertucci, thank you so much for taking time out of your busy holiday schedule to help me make this chapter better.

In addition, this chapter needed a wee bit of help from my fantastic French-speaking Fangirls… just to make things sound more natural: @melusine0811 kindly read over this story and gave me some brilliant suggestions; and @elialys also gave me some advice through the grapevine. Merci, mes chéries!

Finally, many thanks to a bunch of the Fangirls for brainstorming with me! I am surrounded by brilliant women!

Read also at: AO3; Tsp; FF

CHAPTER 2

James was unreasonably proud of himself. Somehow over the last few days, he had managed to avoid Jeanne almost completely. Weeell, after all, he was a genius and one of the hallmarks of a genius was being able to think outside the proverbial box. In order to avoid run-ins with his rapacious ex-girlfriend, he had determined he simply needed to be outside his box.

In short, he needed to be where he was least expected to be.

James Noble had gone Christmas shopping.

As much as he hated navigating the throngs of humanity and the capitalist over-commercialization that was an unfortunate feature of the Christmas season in the 21st Century, shopping not only hid him from Jeanne Poisson, but it meant that his family would actually receive proper gifts from him this year, and not just ‘gifts-in-kind’.

Aunt Sylvia had not been impressed with his in-kind gift of the previous year, improvements to her old blender. Although to be honest, he couldn’t really blame her. It had leaped off the counter, spewing her (disgusting) pea soup everywhere and nearly taking Donna’s toes off when the blades, in a bid for freedom, had rushed across the kitchen floor and torn through her slippers. This year, Aunt Sylvia would receive a brand new, state-of-the-art blender (completely unimproved by him), and Donna was getting a new pair of steel-toed slippers (extensively improved by him) as an extra precaution against rogue blenders, and with the added benefit of protecting his cousin from stubbing her toes.

Gramps was the only one in the family who truly appreciated James’ attempts at tinkering, but this year, instead of making him a cobbled-together gadget, James had bought him an ultra-high-tech, backyard telescope. No tinkering required. His old spyglass had taken a beating over the years, and while James had (mostly) managed to repair (and enhance) it multiple times, there was no doubt it needed replacing. James saw it as his familial duty to provide the dear old man with a means to escape the constant harping from his daughter and get lost among the stars whenever he needed to.

On James’ first day of hiding, after responding tersely to a text message from Jeanne, hoping she would finally cotton-on to the idea that he was no longer interested in pursuing any sort of relationship with her, he had gone into tech-silent mode, keeping his phone turned off, and only occasionally responding to emails from his Grandad and Donna.

Despite trying hard to stay hidden in plain sight, James had still managed to find time to return to his usual habitat, working in his lab (improving Donna’s slippers, among other things,) but he had always slunk in by the service hallways, after hours, and made very sure that no one had seen him coming or going. He even slept on the sofa in his office at the back of the lab to avoid detection.

All in all, he had had a rather productive few days.  

He had only two regrets: one, that he hadn’t had the guts to confront Jeanne in person; and, two, that he had also been too cowardly to return to Pete’s Coffee Dimension, even though there had been plenty of times over the days of his seclusion that a good cuppa (and a smile from the pretty barista) would have gone down a treat.  

That was him, though: a coward every time.

His mind had been drawn to the girl from the coffee shop more times than he would like to admit. But despite the lovely blonde barista’s friendly demeanor, he was quite certain she would never want to see him again, after the way he had practically vomited his tale of woe at her. He was frankly embarrassed by the entire event, despite how much better he’d felt having had someone to share his frustrations with. It had not been the best first impression, all told. She must have thought he was nothing short of a spineless catastrophe.

She wouldn’t have been wrong.

Not that it mattered. He was not interested in getting involved with any girl at the moment, no matter how kind and smart and lovely she was. He was still reeling from his experiences with Jeanne, and he’d be doing the barista a favour by not getting to know her any better. With his emotions running high at the time, he hadn’t even bothered to find out her name. Clearly, he was utterly useless at initiating (never mind maintaining) a healthy, romantic relationship with any woman.

And yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about her: how easy she was to talk to; how her bright, brown eyes had gazed at him with compassion and understanding; and in that brief moment, when she had covered his hand with hers, he’d felt as though her soul had touched his.

But then she’d withdrawn her hand, and there’d been a moment of emptiness and awkwardness before he’d resumed telling her about his early infatuation with Jeanne. But she’d still listened to him and it seemed she’d understood him in a way no one else had ever been able to.

… It felt like she could read into my soul and see how lonely I was… The memory of the words he had spoken to her about Jeanne’s effect on him flared in his mind.

He bolted upright from his place on the lab office sofa, mental alarms thrashing against the inside of his skull. It was all so frighteningly familiar, the draw he had to the barista. He couldn’t allow himself to be sucked into another toxic, infatuation-driven relationship. No, he would stay away from Pete’s Coffee Dimension and the pretty barista at all costs.

He dragged a hand through his hair and glanced at the clock on the wall. Eleven o’clock in the morning. December 25th. He hauled himself off the sofa. He needed to get back to his flat for a proper shower and some fresh clothes before heading over to his family for Christmas tea.

 A few hours later, he was staggering up the front walk of his family home under the weight of several brightly wrapped parcels and a pretty Christmas bouquet he had picked up for Aunt Sylvia. He was under no illusion that she would be furious at him for his unnotified disappearance over the last few days and would be hell-bent on making his life miserable while he was trapped under her roof. He understood it was just her rather unique way of showing how much she cared but he still hoped the flowers (and the new blender) would help to blunt her sharp tongue a little.

The front door flew open just as he was juggling his packages so he could reach the doorbell. “Oh, you owe me big time, Space-dunce,” Donna snapped, standing before him, red hair crackling around her face, hands on her hips. “I’ve had to entertain that psychopath all day.”

“Happy Christmas to you too, Donna.” He offered his cousin a bemused, sarcastic smile as he tried to sort out what she’d meant by her strange declaration.

Aunt Sylvia’s severe face appeared in the doorway from behind Donna’s left shoulder. “Oh, he’s bothered to show up, has he? After days of us not knowing where he was, bearing actual gifts, no less. No doubt they’ll all kill us in our sleep.”

“Oi!” James shifted his weight to balance the pile of gifts more effectively, “they will not kill you or even maim you. And I’m sorry about my radio silence, but I was trying to avoid–”

“Mon cheri! James! T’es arrivé!”

“–Jeanne…” He blinked in disbelief at the face that appeared over Donna’s other shoulder. (Presumably Donna’s aforementioned psychopath.)

“Oh, and you brought to me des fleurs,” she exclaimed, pushing past Donna and plucking the bouquet off the top of his pile. “They are magnifique! Merci!”

“Wait! No! Urrrrghh…”

 “Oh, they are lovely!” Sylvia remarked. “It would be nice if someone brought me flowers once in a while…” She shot James a pointed look.

“But… I… urrrrghh…”

“Oh, I have missed you so much, James!” Jeanne leaned over the top of the gifts and planted her mouth over James’ in an impassioned kiss. He recoiled and sputtered as she finally broke away, desperate to wipe the taste of her from his lips.

“How about we let him come in?” Sylvia suggested. “Come dear,” she led Jeanne away, “let’s put these flowers in some water, shall we? James, hurry up, then!”

Jeanne tossed James a coy smile over her shoulder as she disappeared into the house with Sylvia, her eyes smoldering. “See you soon, mon cheri. I cannot wait to get my hands on you properly…”

Donna fixed him with a rather frightening gleam in her eye, then leaned toward him, jostling the packages in his arms, nearly causing him to drop them. As she wiped Jeanne’s lipstick from the side of his mouth with her thumb, she whispered in his ear, “Great. Outer space. Dunce.”

“But…”

“Oh, just get in here,” she hissed, “you bloody idiot! Gramps is waiting for you!”

“I am trying, but someone seems to be blocking my way.” He made a show of shoving past her, down the hallway and into the lounge. “You gonna help me, or what?” he called back to her.

“There he is! There’s our boy!” Gramps stood up from his armchair next to the fireplace, arms outstretched, to greet James. He was wearing two mismatched sets of reindeer antler headbands.

“Thought you’d be happy, Dad, now that he’s here,” Sylvia snarked, coming into the room from the kitchen with a vase full of flowers and Jeanne in tow.

��Too right, I am!”

“James, you should have heard him moaning, wondering when you’d turn up.” She rolled her eyes and glanced over at her father, who was helping divest James of some of his parcels. She huffed, “And, Dad, would you take those bloody things off your head?”

“No, I shan’t! It’s Christmas.”

“And maybe put on some nicer clothes. Honestly! We have company; you’d think you could dress up a bit.”

James opened his mouth, ready to leap to his Grandad’s defense, but the old man beat him to it. He straightened up from where he was stuffing one of James’ gifts under the tree and fixed his gaze on Sylvia. “Well, this is my house, young lady, and the company,” he nodded toward Jeanne, “will have to be content with me dressed as I am. It’s Christmas and I’m comfortable. So there!”

James glanced at Jeanne who was observing Gramps with a critical eye. “Oui,” she conceded in her typical condescending tone, “it is your home, I suppose. Of course, you can wear what you like.”

James glared at her as she pursed her lips in distaste and felt his heart wrench when he saw the hurt on his dear Gramps’ face at her contempt. “Quite right too!” James declared, smiling fondly at Gramps as the older man took another armload of gifts from him. He was wearing his traditional Christmas berry-red cardigan over a checked, red and green shirt, and his usual brown trousers. The outfit was a bit shabby, but familiar and comfortable, a Christmas day staple.

“Oh, I should say,” Donna piped up, entering the room and taking the last of the gifts from James. “Christmas is supposed to be about family and giving and tradition, yeah, and anyone who thinks otherwise can stuff it.”

Jeanne gasped and uttered a French oath under her breath, and Sylvia barked, “Donna Noble!”

Gramps mollified Donna, “Oh, sweetheart, that’s enough. Nothing to get fussed about. Everyone is entitled to their opinion.”

“Their wrong opinion…” Donna grumbled just loud enough for James to hear.

“Let’s all just try to get along, yeah. How about we open some pressies and open a bottle of Christmas cheer?”

James took the opportunity to pull a Santa hat from the deep pockets of his coat. He arranged it on his head with a broad (if forced) grin. “Sounds perfect! I’ll be Santa, then, shall I?”

He looked pointedly at Donna, who grudgingly got the message. “And I’ll be barkeep!”

“Try not to poison Aunt Sylvia or Jeanne, hmmm?” James muttered privately to her.

“Oh, I’ll let Mum live… this year. That French bint, though… no guarantees. And let’s face it, it would solve any number of problems.”

James choked back a chuckle and situated himself on the floor by the unusually posh-looking Christmas tree.

“A fine plan,” Jeanne sniffed as she promenaded toward the sofa. There she stopped and swept off one of the seats with a disdainful hand, before perching herself coquettishly on the edge.

James had to bite his tongue to keep himself from scolding the blonde upstart and a low rumble emanated from Donna.

“James, come ‘ere and sit with me,” Jeanne demanded, patting the cushion beside her. “I’ve been so lonely without you by my side, and it’s unseemly to sit on the floor like that.”

“No thanks,” he replied with a forced smile, “I’m fine right where I am.”

“You are playing (… ‘ow you say?) ‘ard-to-get, comme d’hab. T’es filou!” she simpered, making James feel as though he might vomit. He had just opened his mouth to contradict her, when she spoke again in an imperious tone to Donna. “And I will have a Kir Royale.”

Donna’s eyes narrowed, shooting daggers at Jeanne. “Oh, I’ll just go fetch the champagne and Cassis, then, shall I?” Sarcasm dripped from her words. “It should be right next to the caviar and quails’ eggs. Try again, Blondie.”

“I’ll have a martini, Donna,” Sylvia quickly interjected, her gaze darting between the two fiery young women. “You know how I like it.”

“Oh, I suppose, if you do not ‘ave the Cassis, a martini could be refreshing,” Jeanne conceded. “Very dry. Shaken, not stirred, with two small olives, exactement. And don’t use one of those ‘orrible wooden picks. They change the flavour of the drink. Plastic only for me.”

“I’ll give you a wooden pick, right through the heart,” James heard Donna mumble as she turned to the sideboard to mix the drinks, and he stifled another laugh. “Gramps, a scotch, neat, for you?”

“Right you are, my darling!”

“What about you, Spaceman?”

“I’ll just grab a beer from the fridge,” he said, jumping up and moving to the kitchen. “Want one?”

“Yeah, please.”

As he cracked the two bottles open, he asked, “Glass?”

“Nah, the bottle’s fine, ta!” Donna’s response elicited a pair of identical haughty sighs from Jeanne and Sylvia. James and Donna smirked at each other when he reappeared from the kitchen, and they clinked their bottles together in triumph.

“Right then! Time for presents!” James returned to his place by the tree, took a swig from his bottle, and adjusting his Santa hat, pulled a present toward him. “Aunt Sylvia! This one’s for you!”

 James was living his worst nightmare, trapped in the same house as Jeanne, who believed he was still her boyfriend, and Aunt Sylvia, who was determined to make it so. Jeanne had pouted once the gifts were all opened that she’d received no present from him, but (in her clearly delusional state) had concluded that he intended to give her something privately, later. “Une bague, peut-être?” she had teased with a cheeky conspiratorial wink. “Quel allumeur!”

Donna had groaned in response. James was sure he’d caught the words “stupid bitch” from under her breath as she rolled her eyes aggressively. He was in full agreement with the sentiment. A ring? Seriously? He could not fathom under what circumstances Jeanne could ever suspect he would be planning on asking for her hand in marriage.

Tea was (impossibly) even more excruciating than the gift exchange had been, filled with many failed attempts at awkward conversation and Jeanne playing footsie with James under the table, her silk-stockinged foot, creeping up the right leg of his trousers. He eventually resorted to squirming into a cross-legged position, which resulted in his knees hanging over the edge of his chair, his left one continually poking Donna, who shot him murderous glances from the corners of her eyes. The only bright spots throughout the entire meal were that Jeanne had brought a rather superior wine to the table, so there was no complaining from her about the quality of the drink, and that Aunt Sylvia had truly outdone herself with a sumptuous meal.

James frowned. When he thought about it, Aunt Sylvia had outdone herself in many ways this year. Looking around the house, he noticed that the Christmas décor had been transformed from the usual naff but homey selection. The posh-looking, designer-decorated Christmas tree sported none of the usual cherished ornaments from his childhood; the staircase and mantel were festooned with garland matching the tree; and there were numerous other, similar changes throughout the house, some subtle, some grandiose, all of them impersonal. She was trying to impress someone, and James had a sinking feeling that someone was Jeanne Poisson.

He was jostled from his musings by Aunt Sylvia’s voice from the end of the table, “…the University’s New Year’s Gala. What do you plan to wear, Jeanne? Not that it matters. You’ll look so beautiful on James’ arm, no matter what.”

“No, she will not!” James blurted.

“How could she not? Look at her. Lovely.”

“I don’t think anyone is denying that she’s beautiful, Aunt Sylvia. But she will not be beautiful on my arm. She will not be attending the Gala with me!” He felt his cheeks flush, and from the heat of his ears, he knew they must have been burning red. But even though it had been embarrassing, his outburst had at least been cathartic, and he no longer felt quite so cowardly. The words were out there for everyone to hear, and they just seemed to keep coming. “You are no longer my girlfriend, Jeanne. You haven’t been for a very long time. I do not love you. I don’t know how many other ways I can convince you. Why do you think I didn’t get you a gift? Why do you think I didn’t want to see you the minute you got into town? Why do you think I’ve been basically ghosting you? Hmmm?”

“Oh, such nonsense!” Sylvia retorted. “Don’t be so stupid, James. Of course, she’s your girlfriend, and you’ll be taking her to the gala.”

“I will not!”

“Oh my God, Mum!” Donna shouted.

“Oh, don’t worry, Donna,” Jeanne said. “’E likes to play these little games. ‘E knows, deep inside, we are perfect for one another, don’t you, James?”

Donna sputtered.

James was dumbfounded. He sat looking across the table at Jeanne, his mouth opening and closing stupidly, trying to find the words to express the turmoil of emotion inside him.

Donna elbowed him in the ribs. “Say something, Dumbo,” she gritted out. “Anything!”

The silence clamoured in his ears as all eyes turned on him, and he looked at everyone in turn, lastly at his Grandad who offered him a silent, sympathetic gaze.

“I cannot take you to the gala, Jeanne.”

"N'importe quoi! Mais pourquoi pas?"

Everyone’s gaze was fastened on him, anticipating his response.

“Erm… erm…” he stammered.

“Well?”

“I already have a date.” The words (pure fiction) spewed from his mouth, bypassing his brain entirely. “My girlfriend. I’m taking my girlfriend.”

The silence crashed down around him again, for several long, strained breaths.

“Well, right then…” Gramps stood up suddenly, pushing his chair back. “I’ll be up on the hill, assembling my new telescope, if anyone should need me.” He nodded significantly at James. Then, he retreated at an unreasonable speed for a man of his age, gathering up his parcels and throwing on his coat and hat. Within seconds, the slam of the back door resounded through the house.

And, all around James, there erupted a barrage of astonished cries and screeches of anger.

[hvforks]

Demystification: Occultism, Contemporary Art & the Market

Art: no other relic or text from the past can offer such a direct testimony about the world which surrounded other people at other times. In this respect images are more precise and richer than literature. To say this is not to deny the expressive or imaginative quality of art, treating it as mere documentary evidence; the more imaginative the work, the more profoundly it allows us to share the artist’s experience of the visible and invisible.  

Yet when an image is presented as a work of art, the way people look at it is affected by a whole series of learnt rules about art. These rules can be beauty, truth, genius, civilsation, form, status and taste. Many of these assumptions no longer accord with the world as it is. The world is more than fact, it includes consciousness. Out of true with the present, these rules obscure the past. They mystify rather than clarify. The past is never there waiting to be discovered, to be recognised for exactly what it is. History always constitutes the relation between a present and its past. Consequently fear of the present leads to mystification of the past. The past is not for living in; it is a well of conclusions from which we draw in order to act. Cultural mystification of the past entails a double loss. Works of art are made unnecessarily remote. And the past offers us fewer conclusions to complete in action.

For example, when we ‘see’ a landscape, we situate ourselves in it. If we ‘saw’ the art of the past, we would situate ourselves in history. When we are prevented from seeing it, we are being deprived of the history which belongs to us. Who benefits from this deprivation? In the end, the art of the past is being mystified because a privileged minority is striving to invent history which can retrospectively justify the role of the ruling classes, and such a justification can no longer make sense in modern terms. And so, inevitably, it mystifies.  

Discovering works of art which have undergone a degree of mystification is what I love about art and art history. Uncovering these ‘truths’ is what gives a voice to the underprivileged or the hidden, and also shines a light on an unwanted underbelly of history, which in turn informs our present conditions. 

Through my time studying and working in the arts, I knew there were artists who were explicitly interested in occult themes; artists like William Blake (1757-1827) who’s iconoclastic positions on equality of the sexes and classes, the existence of magic and mysticism, and the right to unfettered sexual expression not only separated him from his peers but also marked him as controversial for his time; artists like Salvador Dali (1904-1989) who produced a tarot deck called the Universal Tarot in 1984, as well as writing a book titled ‘50 secrets of Magic Craftsmanship’ published in 1948, which is an unexplicit top tips of how Dali created his surrealist style of paintings using magical techniques; and another artist like Madge Gill (1882-1961) who believed she was possessed by a spirit called ‘Myrninerest’ and who was openly a member of the Theosophical Society. But the more I started to engross myself in my own esoteric practices, the more I started to notice occult and spiritual themes in art at my place of work; archiving 20th and 21st century art acquisitions. I saw it in Cecil Collins (1908-1989), Eileen Agar (1889-1991), as well as artist Greyson Perry (born 1960) and many more. However, unlike Blake, Dali and Gill, these artists weren’t explicitly documented as mingling with the occult. So what was going on here?

My first thought was to research these artists, to try to confirm their affiliations with occultism - but it became clear to me that it wasn’t about affirmation; it was already visible that occult symbolism kept recurring in art history regardless of whether the artist was ‘into’ the occult or not. To me, what was important was seeing that these themes had been repeated throughout art history for centuries - and there’s lots of great writing about that, for example: Carl Jung’s ‘Man and his Symbols’ published in 1964, or Carl Abrahamsson’s ‘Occulture: The Unseen Forces That Drive Culture Forward’, published in 2018. It became apparent that there were two sides to this: one side being that occult references in art history have been ignored and hidden; they have undergone a degree of mystification. A recent example of this is William Blake’s retrospective at Tate Britain (2019-2020). William Blake had an intense dislike and mistrust of the prevailing orthodoxes of his time: organised religion, divisions by class and gender, and the stultification of social conventions. He and his wife Catherine joined the New Church of Emanuel Swedenborg in 1789 where they practiced a more gentler, mystical form of Christianity in which truth came from personal revelation, not priestly academics and arguments. Blake had a desire for free love and the right for adults to engage in sex unfettered by ideas of sin or social ostracism, and subscribed to the kabbalistic belief that sex was a sacred communion with the Divine. To my disappointment, the exhibition did not explore Blake’s imagery and symbolism, but instead considered the reception of his art with his peers and the monetary value of how much he was paid for certain works; a somewhat capitalist perspective. At no point did the exhibition consider Blake’s radical thoughts, practices or politics; and so this truth remains somewhat hidden in the present; it has undergone a degree of mystification. 

During the last decade (2010-2019), I began to see a huge resurgence of occult popularity, especially in contemporary art and thus the art market. Which brings me to the second side: that occult themes are now gaining popularity in contemporary art practices, that occult or spiritually inspired works are being sold on the art market through commercial galleries and huge art fairs like Frieze - they have become marketable, valuable, and curatable… and most importantly, this means that they are now being viewed through the lenses of the learnt rules: beauty, truth, genius, civilisation, form, status and most importantly ‘good taste’.

Let’s briefly explore this idea of ‘good taste’. As sentimental as I personally am about art for art’s sake, from a strictly sociological perspective, I have to admit that taste is pretty intimately related to power. When you go to a museum you look at various objects on pedestals under special lighting which makes them look magical, which is not too different to when you go to a shopping centre and you walk past all the shop-front displays; but what sets museums apart from any shopping experience is that you can’t buy any of the art on display, and that’s important. In the retail context of commodity fetishism, you correlate your aesthetic taste with material desire, whereas in the museum, because you can’t buy anything, you feel like your aesthetic pleasure is pure, that you’re simply enjoying out of context objects - but of course, that’s an illusion. The museum is the context, and the context is telling you that the things you’re looking at are art. So, whoever decides what’s in the museum decides what ‘good taste’ is, what’s beautiful and what’s valuable, and that goes the same with the art market.

It’s no secret that occultism has been viewed as ‘bad taste’. The resurgence of occultism in contemporary art and culture is not without precedent: the occult has faded in and out of the cultural arena for centuries, from the Witch Trials of 1580-1630 during the Counter-Reformation and the European wars of religion, as well as the 19th century - the setting of the first widespread occult revival since the Christianisation of Europe; the early-modern witch hunts and the so-called age of reason, to the development of Wicca after World War II, the esoteric counterculture of the 1960’s, to the rise of the ‘Satanic Panic’ that troubled the US throughout the 1980’s and early 1990’s. It’s no lie that occultism has had a roller coaster of a time throughout history, but we can recognise this desire in our current moment - steeped in advanced capitalism, swift gentrification and right-wing political gains - the occult and spirituality now holds the promise of connection and empowerment to those who feel powerless. So, of course during this time of uncertainty, a new wave of artists have once again been inspired by occult and spiritual ideologies and themes. Currently in the art market, occultism is on trend and as the art market sees it; political and social turmoil surrounds us, so it’s no surprise new age spiritualism is booming. For example: Damien Hirst’s (born 1965) ‘Mandalas' exhibition from 2019 at the White Cube had people queuing around the block on the opening day, the esoteric was on the ascendent at Frieze Art Fair 2019 with many works exploring the spiritual and supernatural, including high profile commercial galleries like Maureen Paley, Gagosian and the White Cube. A take by Marc Glimcher, the president and chief executive of Pace gallery says: “For many, organised religion’s rejection of universality has left a gap.” for context; he made this statement after opening his new gallery in New York with a blessing from a shaman (2019). It was, Glimsher says, “a moment for the family that is Pace to reflect and appreciate one another and the journey. [...] a growth in the search for an expansion of consciousness today; artists are often the first to recognise and articulate this”.

But many of these ideas have their roots in the counterculture of an earlier time. What Damien Hirst is doing at the White Cube exhibition isn’t particularly new; he’s just doing it in a more acceptable time. But with this, such ideas have entered the mainstream and have become a saleable commodity. The new Pace gallery in New York has crystals embedded in its walls and the London gallery Sadie Coles HQ was selling ‘healing’ gems and minerals in its pop-up shop with the US artist Andrea Zittel (born 1965) (exhibition 2019). Occultism and spiritualism has arguably been co-opted by capitalism and spiritualist art is a booming business. But with any subculture that is embraced by the mainstream and commodified, has the concept of the occult or spiritual lost its purpose?

Let’s take a step back to Marc Glimcher’s statement; what caught my eye here was “artists are often the first to recognise and articulate this”, and well, he’s right. So, let’s examine who the spiritual artist is: if we strip back major western figures, also known as blue-chip artists who created occult inspired or spiritual art in the 20th and 21st century; for example: Wassily Kandinsky (1866-1944), Salvador Dali and Bill Viola (born 1951), then we’re left with predominantly outsider-artists, artists who are considered to be from a minority group, or middle-class artists who weren’t credited for their work during their lifetime. You see, a lot of mainstream visual art inspiration, especially in the fine arts, works in what we might call a trickle-up model of aesthetics, especially with religious and spiritual imagery in 20th and 21st century art. This kind of imagery and philosophy is created by the most marginalised groups and communities, then they trickle up to the middle classes, and then finally to big named artists and commercial galleries. A great example of this is Pablo Picasso (1881-1973) and his African Period which is also known as Primitivism. Primitivism ultimately led to the invention of Cubism and produced one of Picasso’s most famous paintings, the ‘Les Demoiselles d’Avignon’ (1907). During Picasso’s Primitive Period, he painted in a style which was strongly influenced by African sculpture, particularly ceremonial African masks. In the early 20th century, African artworks with spiritual significance were being brought back to Paris museums in consequence of the expansion of the French empire into Sub-Saharan Africa, which brings up a lot of questions about colinialisation, the theft of important spiritual works, and the cultural appropriation of Picasso’s work. We could say that this is happening now, with the popularisation of occultism in contemporary art. That small communities of marginalised groups have been creating and forming a specific aesthetic and philosophy for decades, sometimes centuries, which have then been accessed and popularised by the middle classes with things like yoga becoming more mainstream, mindful meditation apps, healing crystals and Harry Potter, which has then trickled up to the very top and is now being commodified at the art market. The occult has once again gone from ‘bad taste’ to being viewed through the lens of ‘good taste’. 

It’s no secret that the art market has taken a turn in the past two decades, works by women and people of colour are more popular than ever; maybe this is the elite taking advantage of people’s cultural shift towards inclusion and diversity in a way to capitalise on it, or maybe the elite are like, totally ‘woke’ now? To understand the market better, let’s take a look at an institution like MoMA; one of the world’s most important artistic institutions, it came into being in 1929 after a small group of rich New York benefactors made an initial gift of eight prints and drawings. That initial donation grew into the new MoMA which reopened in 2019 after a $450 million renovation which shows more of the museum’s permanent collection of 200,000 artworks. Before the renovation the museum could only present 1,500 artworks on average, now it can show nearly 2,500 works permanently. To put that in perspective, if MoMA stopped collecting new works today, but continued turning over the entirety of its permanent collections gallery every 18 months, it would still need more than 80 years to put everything it owns on view to the public just one time. MoMA decided to take new liberties with the chronological presentation of its collection, and introduced a more theme-based approach which will promote a healthy diversification of genres - putting a Pablo Picasso next to a Faith Ringgold (born 1930) for example. But why is that important? MoMA’s acquisitions and choice of display radically affects the market, and their choice of contemporary art always stimulates the market. It is no surprise then, that MoMA opened one of it’s new gallery spaces with printmaking artist and mystic Betye Saar’s work in October 2019 with the exhibition ‘The Legends of Black Girl’s Window’; this exhibition had an immediate impact on the artist’s prices. Celebrating the acquisition of 42 rare, early works on paper, this was MoMA’s first dedicated examination of Saar’s work as a printmaker and those acquisitions had an inflationary effect on the prices and popularity. Spotlights by major museums almost always have a virtuous impact on demand, and growth in demand means higher prices. And so in October 2019, thanks to institutions like MoMA, we saw a huge resurgence in art exploring occult themes hit the market; right in time for Halloween. 

Even though MoMA’s new expansion did more to reinforce the established canon than to atomize it, the museum’s expansion did more to reinforce the art market status quo than to disrupt it. In a museum system still largely subject to the preferences of its super-rich private patrons, it’s important to recognise that the new MoMA was largely made possible by checks bearing the same old signatures (David Geffen, David Rockefeller, Debra & Leon Black, Ken Griffin and Steven A. Cohen being the largest MoMA donors since 2015). However, with the inclusion of spiritually influenced works like Betye Saar at MoMA as well as the other countless exhibitions of occult or spiritual themed work over the past ten years: like ‘A History of Magic’ at the British Library (2017-2018); ‘Spellbound’ at the Ashmolean Museum, Oxford (2018-2019); ‘The Medium’s Medium’ (2019) and ‘Art + Revolution in Haiti’ (2018) at The Gallery of Everything, London; as well as Damien Hirst's ‘Mandalas’ at the Whita Cube, London (2019); Lenore Tawney at Frieze as part of Alison Jacques Gallery (2019); Melanie Matranga’s wall hangings at Frieze as part of High Art (2019) and Shana Moulton at the Zabludowicz Collection (2019) to name some of the more recent exhibitions; I believe I can safely say that the occult is now going through a state of demystification (from the upper class patrons of MoMA, through to the working classes). The mystification of occult themes appears to be lifting and with this, a whole new occult perspective on not only current artistic practices, but also historic works of art are being discovered today; a good example of this is the Strasbourg Museum of Modern and Contemporary Art’s (MAMCS) exhibition ‘The Europe of Spirit or the Fascination of the Occult, 1750-1950’ (2011-2012) which explored a vast range of works from over 200 years which showed how the visual and literary arts were informed and inspired by appropriated occultism.  

With this demystification of history, we begin to see occult symbolism in the present: we gaze into pools of data, in a terminal trance running on light, power, numbers. We raise histories long dead on Wikipedia, we cast chat communiques to fellow citizens via vibrations. We summon demons, turn our base metal devices to the task of making gold, astral project into virtual worlds, program the very landscape we live in; and this resonates most strongly with working class and unrepresented artists across the UK (the trickle up model of aesthetics; the unrepresented artists are usually the first to notice). Artists like Chloe Langlois (born 1980), Arianne Churchman (born 1988), Joseph Winsborrow (born 1994), Craig David Parr (born 1990), and artist collectives like Chaos Magic, Dohm Ceramics and KÜHLE WAMPE are all exploring occult themes using digital ritualism. This could suggest that the current mining of the esoteric underground and the upsurge of mainstream interest in the occult mysteries serves a more practical function for young, unrepresented and working-class artists. It’s not about the return of Gods and the re-enactment of a technologically dischanted reality. Instead, it’s about the rediscovery of tools and strategies that are, paradoxically again, pragmatic and instrumental. These artists recognise that magic may help us map, manipulate, and navigate the weird political, social and technological landscape that yawns before us. 

Since the eighteenth century, the West has seen a profound transformation in the relationship between art and religion. The Reformation, the rise of capitalism, the ideals of the Enlightenment, the worship of Reason and the growth of the town all led to what Max Weber (1864-1920) called “the disenchantment of the world”. At the same time, the sense of the withdrawal of the divine that found expression in the Romantics, followed later by Nietzche’s announcement of the death of God, the advance of science, the emergence of psychoanalysis and the growing influence of Marxism, led to a reconsideration of Man’s place in creation and thus of his relationship to religion. It was in this landscape of belief violently unsettled that Modern Art came to birth. In the course of this long process the secularisation of society delivered artists from their subordination to occultism and spirituality; the crisis of religion did not at all mean the disappearance of metaphysical questioning. There remains a survival of such questioning today which continues to fuel the invention of contemporary artistic forms, and as such represents an essential key to the understanding of art history and contemporary art. 

Images: 1.  Shana Moulton, The Pink Tower and The Waterfall of Grief, 2019, exhibition view Zabludowicz Collection, London. Courtesy the artist and Zabludowicz Collection. Photo: Tim Bowditch

2. Madge Gill, Untitled, Undated, Courtesy Newham Archives and Local Studies Library

3. Damien Hirst, Mandalas, 2019, exhibition view The White Cube, London. Courtesy the artist and The White Cube.

4.  Left, Picasso’s Les Demoiselles d’Avignon, 1907 with Faith Ringgold’s American People Series #20: Die, 1967. Exhibition view Museum of Modern Art, New York, 2019.

5. KÜHLE WAMPE, Under Different Stars, 2019. Vivid Projects: Black Hole Club. Photo: Marcin Sz

[ospreyarcher]

(Previously on Honeytrap: Honeytrap introduction Gennady muses on his assignment There’s only one bed!/Huddling for warmth Gennady goes to Daniel’s childhood home for Christmas Gunshot wound with hurt/comfort and stoicism Daniel gets drunk as a skunk and kisses Gennady)

This week on Honeytrap! @ancientreader kindly donated some money to the ACLU with the hope of getting some more of Gennady’s inner life, and so hear you go. Gennady and Daniel discuss poetry, love, small town American life, etc.

***

After this, Gennady often ended the day sitting on the end of Daniel’s bed, or even lying beside him if the bed was a double. This was partly a sop to Arkady’s honeytrap assignment: he could easily work it up to sound much more seductive than it was. I was lying on his bed, Arkady Anatolyevich! I can’t imagine why it didn’t work. 

But mostly it was pleasant to bother Daniel. It was nice to take off his suit coat in the overheated American motel rooms, with their radiators pouring out heat in the corner, and lie on his stomach and kick up his feet and pester Daniel till he put down his book. 

Gennady liked particularly to hear Daniel talk about his childhood: hiding under the lilac bush to read the crime magazine True Story (“we weren’t supposed to read it, but everyone did”), taking a paper delivery route to save up money to buy a proper baseball glove, buying an orange Ne-Hi cola (never grape, he noticed) and going down to the creek to fish…

“Did you live out in the country?” Gennady asked.

“No, just a small town. You could walk a couple blocks from my house and hit country, but if you walked a few blocks in the other direction you’d strike the downtown. A gas station and a drugstore and a movie theater – that’s closed now; a lot of the small town theaters are closing down because of television. I’d head downtown after school sometimes to the newspaper office where my mother worked.” 

Gennady sighed with contentment. This was the America of Ilf and Petrov. “I thought American women didn’t work.” 

“It’s more common than you’d think from the magazines,” Daniel said. “I suppose your mother worked.”

“Oh, yes,” said Gennady, momentarily eager: he would have liked to brag about his mother, who had been posted as security to Yalta near the end of the war, during the great conference between the Big Three powers. But of course this was impossible: he could hardly say that his mother and his father and his grandfather had all worked at the GRU, given that he was supposedly not a Soviet intelligence agent at all, although the Americans would have to be dim to believe it.

“Yes,” Gennady said, falling back on generalizations. “Most women in the Soviet Union work. But they are very good mothers, too,” he added. “My mother recited poetry for me.” And for good measure, to set the conversation firmly on another path, he sat up and recited Pushkin’s “Ya Vas lyubil” in his best recitation voice.  

It worked: Daniel looked fascinated. “That’s beautiful,” he said. “I have no idea what it’s about, but even so.”

Gennady could not resist bragging about this safer topic. “I won a volume of Pushkin’s poetry in a recitation competition when I was in school. Our poets,” he added, “are the best in the world.” 

“Oh? Have you read any American poets?” Daniel asked.

“Do you have any American poets?”

Daniel hit him with a pillow. “I’ll lend you my copy of Walt Whitman,” he said, then looked aghast. “No, wait. I don’t think Whitman is a good place to start.”

“He isn’t very good?” Gennady teased.

“He can be – um, he’s a little obscure. It would be better to start with Emily Dickinson or Longfellow. I can still do the whole ‘Paul Revere’s Ride,’ though not as well as you do Pushkin.”

“Let’s hear it then.”

So Daniel stood and recited, and Gennady lay down again and listened with his head on his crossed arms. “There’s a galloping rhythm to it,” he said, enchanted. “That’s very American, isn’t it? A poetry of movement.” 

“Yes,” said Daniel.

But he looked at Gennady so strangely that Gennady said, “What?”

“I don’t know. Most people aren’t interested in poetry, I guess,” Daniel said, and then clarified, “Most men, at least.”

“Poetry isn’t manly?” Gennady scoffed. “Like wearing a coat that is actually warm enough isn’t manly? Poetry is…” How to explain? “When there is nothing else, when all the world has gone mad, you recite poetry to hold things together, to give life order and meaning. The world is shaking, but poetry is steady.”

Daniel was nodding, like he did understand. “I was in a rear unit in Korea,” he said, “and we only got bombarded a few times. But it was still terrifying, and I recited ‘Invictus’ over and over in my head to help get through it. ‘I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.’” He grinned. “Strong words for a man who might get blotted out by a bomb at any moment.”

“Well, of course. In such times you need strong words.”

One evening, in one particularly warm motel room, Gennady rolled up his sleeves to his elbows. They had been chatting for some time when Daniel put his hand on Gennady’s bare forearm, emphasizing some point that he made, which Gennady couldn’t remember afterward because when Daniel touched him, he froze, mentally even more so than physically.

It was a brief touch, just a second perhaps or even shorter, and after Daniel took his hand away Gennady wanted it back. If that was all he was going to do, after all, that was pleasant, and it had been a long time since someone touched him – since someone he wanted to touch him had touched him.

He had heard once a rumor that Stalin used to make his Politburo members waltz with each other, and he wondered about this sometimes: if it was purely terrible, to waltz with another man while Stalin laughed at you, or if they found a kind of comfort in it, if it was good to be close to another person even though it was only for Stalin’s amusement, and even if you know that your dancing partner would denounce you the next day as a counterrevolutionary spy if the Party demanded it, and you would do the same to him.

Perhaps under those circumstances you could only be close to someone if Stalin made you do it.

Gennady tucked his elbows under his body and lay down on his arms, like a Sphinx.

“Tell me,” said Daniel. “Did you leave a girl behind in Moscow?”

“Yes,” said Gennady.

But he didn’t want to talk about Galya. When Arkady began bothering him, Gennady had put a lid on all that part of his life, everything to do with love and sex – like trapping lobsters in a boiling pot of water, and although the lobsters must be well and truly dead by now, he didn’t want to lift the lid and look at their corpses.

“She’s probably moved on by now,” Gennady said.

“You don’t think she’s waiting for you?” Daniel sounded startled.

“No, no.” She had stopped writing him when he didn’t answer her first few letters. “All this waiting around for people is a waste of time,” Gennady said. “We’re all basically replaceable people, after all, she should find someone close by.” Daniel regarded him curiously, and so Gennady went on the attack: “What about you? Do you have a girl back home?”

“Not right now. The job has kept me on the road so much…”

“A girl in every port, then,” Gennady teased.

“No, no.” To Gennady’s surprise – he would not have expected it from a man of the world – Daniel flushed. “What the hell kind of picture does that Soviet dossier paint of me?” Gennady widened his eyes with false innocence – what dossier? – and Daniel said, “Come off it, Matskevitch. I saw a dossier on you, so I’m sure you saw one about me.”

There was no safe answer to this statement, so Gennady didn’t say anything. At length Daniel let it go with a sigh. “My last steady girlfriend was Janet,” he said. “We were dating while I was at the FBI Academy a couple of years ago.”

“And then?”

“And then I got sent into the field, and she wanted a boyfriend who was home more than once every six months, so we broke up.”

Gennady smiled. Daniel hit him with a pillow. 

“That doesn’t mean people are replaceable,” he said. “It’s just that Janet and I weren’t really in love, that’s all. We liked each other a lot and had a good time together, but when it got tough, we didn’t care enough to make it work. If we had loved each other, it would have been different.”

“Do you believe such a love exists?”

Daniel looked at him strangely. “That’s what love is. The will to be together despite obstacles.” 

Gennady shook his head. “Bourgeois romanticism.”

“How would you define love, then?”

“A pretty word for the sexual instinct. A way to deflect the masses’ attention from the misery of their lives by feeding them up on heightened emotions and focusing their hopes of future happiness on sexual passions.”

Daniel laughed.

“What? Why is that funny?”

“You sound like the movie parody of a Communist,” Daniel said. 

Gennady sat up, furious. “Well, you sound like a typical brainwashed capitalist,” he said. “How can you believe in love at your age? A teenager can believe it perhaps, but once first love is past then you know that these things never last forever, and all those heightened feelings were just a illusion built up to obscure the fact that you just wanted to fuck.”

Daniel twitched like a prudish maiden aunt at the word fuck.

“I have noticed that Americans are obsessed with the idea of Communist brainwashing,” Gennady added, “but I think this obsession is because you know in your hearts that your own Hollywood is brainwashing you to believe that love is all you need for happiness.”

Daniel didn’t reply. Gennady’s anger, deprived of fuel, lapsed, and he lay down again, resting his head on his crossed arms.

“Well, I don’t agree,” Daniel said at last. “But that just shows the brainwashing is working, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, I suppose,” Gennady said. “You shouldn’t listen to me too much,” he advised. “You’ll be happier if you stay brainwashed.”

“Well, thanks,” Daniel said, and now he was laughing again. “That’s the key to happiness, is it?”

“Delusion?” Gennady said. “Yes.”

“You don’t believe that ‘The truth shall set ye free’?”

“We are talking about happiness, not freedom,” Gennady objected. 

Another pause. “I suppose I always thought they went together,” Daniel admitted.

Gennady thought that was also very American. But all in all it seemed like dangerous topic, so he changed the subject: “Did you have Fourth of July celebrations in your town?”

He had arrived in the United States too late for the celebrations, and listened enviously as Sergeyich described the fireworks and the parades – “Not as good as we have in Moscow for May Day, of course. But worth seeing! Very different!”

“Of course,” Daniel said. “Every town has them. I played the trumpet with the high school marching band and we marched in the parade every year. Boy, did it get hot in those band uniforms…”

Daniel talked on for a while. Gennady rested his head on his crossed arms, listening contentedly, his eyes drifting shut as the sleepy heat of the radiator suffused the room. He roused from his doze when Daniel poked his shoulder. “Matskevitch,” he said, “don’t you think you’d better sleep in your own bed?”

“No,” Gennady mumbled sleepily.

“I think you’d better,” Daniel said, giving his shoulder a shove. Gennady crawled over him, on the grounds that this was the most direct route to the other bed, and catapulted over the space between the two beds when Daniel shoved him again, and landed with a bounce. He sat up, newly exhilarated, and Daniel laughed at him again, and clicked off the lamp. “Go to sleep!” he ordered. 

***

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[crimethinc]

Yellow Vests for May Day Can Macron Pacify France Before May Day 2019? Probably Not.

Last week, concluding a national initiative aimed at drawing the general population into “dialogue” with the authorities, French President Emmanuel Macron announced a handful of minor reforms intended to placate participants in the yellow vest movement. It’s far from certain that this strategy will succeed.

The situation in France is the culmination of years of strife between protest movements and the state. At the height of the so-called “refugee crisis” in 2015, the French government used the opportunity provided by the November 13 terror attacks to declare a state of emergency intended to suppress all protest activity. Instead, a massive student revolt against the Loi Travail erupted in 2016, defying the state of emergency, and simmering unrest continued through the 2017 elections and the 2018 eviction of the ZAD. The clashes of May Day 2018 showed that the movement had reached an impasse: thousands of people were prepared to fight the police and engage in property destruction, but the authorities were still able to keep the contagion of rebellion quarantined inside a particular space.

Starting in November 2018, the Yellow Vest movement upended this precarious balance, drawing a much wider swathe of the population into the streets. In response, Macron organized a “National Debate” in a classic attempt at appeasement and pacification. The outcome of the National Debate and the May Day demonstrations will tell us a lot about the prospects of social movements elsewhere around the world: what forms of pressure mass movements can bring to bear on the authorities, what kind of demands neoliberal governments are (and are not) able to grant today, and what sort of longterm gains movements for revolutionary liberation can hope to make in the course of such waves of unrest.

Accordingly, in the following update, we explore the concessions Macron offered and conclude with the prospects for May Day 2019 in France.

Paris, April 20, inside the kettle at Place de la République.

Macron’s Intervention

Having postponed his announcement due to the fire that destroyed part of Notre-Dame cathedral on the evening of April 15, President Emmanuel Macron finally presented the results of the National Debate on Thursday, April 25, in a press conference broadcast live on French television.

The government launched this “democratic” political tool three months earlier, on January 15, 2019, to answer the thirst for a more “direct democracy” verbalized by a large part of yellow vest movement—especially through calls for a Citizens’ Initiative Referendum (RIC). Macron’s goal, of course, was to reestablish political stability in France while making as few changes as possible.

President Emmanuel Macron and Prime Minister Edouard Philippe in front of Notre-Dame. This has not been a particularly easy time to head the French government.

In the days preceding the press conference, several elements of his plan were leaked to the press, which diminished the surprise effect that the government aimed to create with this event. But unlike members of the current government, Macron’s supporters, and some corporate journalists, none of us were waiting impatiently for the president’s intervention, nor expecting that anything positive or surprising would come out of this political spectacle.

For more than five months now, yellow vesters have learned the hard way that dialogue with the government is meaningless—the state is prepared to take ever more authoritarian measures in order to maintain its hegemony and preserve the status quo. In the outcome of the “National Debate,” we see again why democracy has not served as a bulwark against fascism, but rather as a means to legitimize state power. Those who control the state are always careful to make sure that while elections, referendums, and discussions can serve to create the impression that the government has a mandate to represent the general population, they never actually threaten the institutions of state power.

The Government Responds to the Yellow Vests

Those interested who wish to see two and half hours of political doublespeak can watch Macron’s press conference in full here. Our goal here is simply to analyze some of the major decisions taken by the French government.

In the opening statement, Macron explained that he had learned a lot from the National Debate and emerged “transformed.” According to him, this three-month political experience highlighted that there is a deeply rooted feeling of fiscal, territorial, and social injustice among the population, alongside a perceived lack of consideration on the part of the elite. Therefore, the government has decided to present “a more human and fair” political project.

However, after these conventional words intended to create the illusion of empathy from the government towards yellow vesters and everyone else struggling on a daily basis as a consequence of the policies implemented by successive governments, Macron lifted the veil, adding:

“Does this mean that everything that has been done in the past two years should be stopped? I believe quite the opposite. We must continue the transformations. The orientations taken have been good and fair. The fundamentals of the first two years must be preserved, pursued, and intensified. The economic growth is greater than that of our neighboring countries.”

President Macron at the official press conference to present the results of the National Debate.

If some people still hesitated to believe that the National Debate was just a political farce, here is the ultimate proof. For months, people expressed their frustrations in the streets and traffic circles. Facing this unprecedented and uncontrollable situation, the authorities answered by saying that in a democracy, dialogue must not be established through “violence,” therefore offering the National Debate as an alternative in order to pacify the situation—while increasing police repression against demonstrators in the meantime.

After three months of National Debate—which fortunately failed to stop the movement—those who trusted the good intentions of the government saw their efforts and demands dismissed. In effect, Macron was telling everyone, “Thanks a lot for taking part of this debate, we heard you, but in the end, we decided to pursue our political agenda and continue the liberalization of the capitalist economy.”

So the long-awaited conclusion of the National Debate was simply a mix of old promises, a few adjustments to show the goodwill of the government, and new reforms to accelerate the transformation and liberalization of society.

Over five months later, yellow vest protesters are still in the streets.

First, Macron rejected some of the biggest demands of the yellow vest movement. The government will not officially recognize “blank votes” as a form of opposition during elections (so far, those votes are counted but they are not taken into account in the final results and in the total number of vote cast). Then, he refused to reverse the decision to reduce taxes on the income of the super-rich—one of the issues that had provoked the emergence of the yellow vest movement in the first place.

Furthermore, the government also opposed the idea of creating the Citizens’ Initiative Referendum (RIC). Instead, they want to develop an already existing alternative¬—the Referendum of Shared Initiative—by simplifying its rules. From now on, instead of requiring 4.7 million signatures to be discussed at the Assemblée Nationale, a petition will only need one million signatures and the approval of at least a fifth of the total number of deputies. If the National Assembly refuses to discuss the issue, a referendum can be held. Macron also mentioned his desire to reinforce the right to petition at a local scale.

A yellow vest protester holding a sign calling for the Citizens’ Initiative Referendum, one of the most popular demands among the movement. From our perspective, efforts to make the French government more “directly democratic” will be ineffectual at best and at worst will legitimize reactionary and repressive state policies as “representing the will of the people.”

Even with the proposal to simplify this participatory political platform, it is easy to see that the government is taking very few risks with this alternative. The idea is to give people the impression that they have more leverage within the democratic system, as they can address petitions to their representatives. But in the end, who will have the final word on these issues? Politicians motivated by self-interest, power, and careerism. There is very little probability that the deputies will validate any petition that could threaten the status quo. As in any other political system, this democratic game is obviously rigged: even if you play by the rules, you always lose!

Then, Macron repeated and clarified some reforms that were already present in his electoral program of 2017: limiting the number of terms for politicians (though he did not specify how many would be allowed); reducing the number of parliamentarians by 25% or 30%; increasing the degree of proportional representation in legislative elections (which will likely give more power to the National Front in French political institutions).1

Members of the Anti-Criminality Brigade in action during Act 22 in Toulouse.

After presenting what the government is planning to do to include more elements of participatory democracy in the French political system, Macron expressed his desire to undertake a “profound reform of the French administration” and of its public service. To do so, the government intends to put an end to the National School of Administration (ENA)—symbol of republican elitism and opportunism—in order to create a new institution that “works better.” Moreover, in May, Prime Minister Edouard Philippe has been mandated to officially present a government plan to put more civil servants in the field so they can help the authorities find solutions to people’s problems at a local scale. Therefore, the government has abandoned its previous objective of abolishing 120,000 posts of civil servants—but this doesn’t mean that the government has abandoned the idea of cutting jobs.

To fight against the steady reduction of public services in the countryside and in some provinces—such as post offices and deliveries, health insurance, and unemployment agencies—the government aims to establish buildings that would concentrate all these rudimentary public services in one location. Such initiative already exists, in fact, but is suffering from critical underfunding.

Then, Macron stated that no further hospital or school will close until 2022—the end of his presidential term—without the agreement of the Mayor of the Commune they are located in. For years, successive governments have underfunded hospitals and schools, increasing the precarious aspect of working conditions. The main question is—what will happen after 2022? Regarding the education issue, Macron agreed to limit the number of students per class to 24 from kindergarten to second grade and to duplicate classes if necessary, as is already stipulated in some priority education areas—read poor districts. This is an interesting focus for Macron when in the meantime, government policies are worsening the educational system as a whole, especially via reforms targeting high schools and universities.

Concerning economic policies, Macron explained that he wants to “significantly reduce” the amount of income tax demanded from the middle class. However, to do so while balancing the loss of tax revenue, Macron is asking everyone to “work more.” The meaning behind this statement remains quite obscure, as Macron offered no further explanation. So far, we know that the government doesn’t want to change the legal age of retirement nor to cancel holidays. However, Macron is not opposed to the idea of increasing the number of working hours per week. The government also aims to reach its objective of “full employment” by 2025, without explaining how this might take place. In order to compensate for the tax cuts for the middle class, the government also aims to suppress some specific fiscal niches used by large companies, but Macron said nothing about the various strategies of tax evasion utilized by the super-rich.

Macron also explained his wish to increase the minimum amount of retirement pensions from today’s approximately €650 per month up to €1000. Moreover, Macron also reconsidered his previous policy regarding retirement and confirmed that pensions under €2000 would be re-indexed to account for inflation starting January 2020. Finally, the government wants to create some sort of mechanism to guarantee the payment of child support to families in need.

Starting in June, Macron wants to create a “citizen’s convention composed of one hundred and fifty people with the mission to work on significant measures for the planet.” In addition, he wants to establish a Council of Ecological Defense to address climate change. This council would involve the Prime Minister as well as the main Ministers in charge of this transition in order to take “strategic choices and to put this climate change at the very core of our policies.” This is not a measure to address the ecological crisis so much as yet another step in the development of the same French bureaucracy that sparked the yellow vest movement in the first place. Our governments and the systems that put them in power in the first place continue to lead us towards darker futures.

Riot police charging demonstrators at Place de la République on Saturday, April 20.

Finally, and most ominously, Macron presented his plan to “rebuild the immigration policy” of France. “Europe needs to rethink its cooperation with Africa in order to limit the endured immigration and has to reinforce its borders, even if this means having a Schengen area with less countries,” he proclaimed. “I deeply believe in asylum, but we must strengthen the fight against those who abuse it.” This will likely be the premise of a new step in the development of fortress Europe. And, of course, whatever authoritarian measures are developed to target migrants will also be used to target poor people and rebellious elements within France itself. In this regard, we can see that it has been self-destructive as well as racist and xenophobic that some yellow vesters have demanded more immigration controls.

As May Day Approaches

Following this press conference, the government hoped that its official announcements would finally take the life out of the yellow vest movement, defusing the social tension that has built up. However, in the hours following Macron’s speech, several well-known yellow vest figures expressed their dissatisfaction with his proposals, calling for further demonstrations. In the end, even if some yellow vesters were sidetracked by Macron’s announcement, it was difficult to predict whether people would massively take the streets for the 24th act of the yellow vest movement.

For Act 24 of the movement, yellow vest protesters made an international call to gather in the streets of Strasbourg. The banner reads “Coordination of the Yellow Vesters from the East.”

On Saturday, April 27, about 23,600 yellow vesters demonstrated in France. For this new day of action, the epicenter of the movement was the city of Strasbourg. As the European elections will occur in a month, an “international call” was made to gather and march towards the European Parliament. Some Belgians, Germans, Italians, Swiss, and Luxembourgers participated as well. About 3000 demonstrators walked through the streets of Strasbourg, confronting police and engaging in property destruction. In the end, 42 people were arrested and at least 7 injured—three police officers, three demonstrators, and one passerby.

At the same time, two demonstrations took place in Paris. The first, organized by trade unions, drew about 5500 demonstrators, among them 2000 in yellow vests, while the other, mostly composed of several hundreds of yellow vesters, did a tour of all the major corporate media headquarters to ask for “impartial media coverage.” Other gatherings also took place in Lyons, Toulouse, Cambrai, and elsewhere in France. (All of the figures provided here are from the French authorities.)

Street confrontations in Strasbourg on Saturday, April 27.

If we compare the total number of participants in this 24th act to the other national days of action, it is undeniable that it attracted fewer participants. Does that mean that the government has finally gained the upper hand over the movement? It’s unclear. It is possible that some yellow vesters stayed home from the 24th act in order to prepare for May Day.

Last year, the intensity of property destruction and confrontations with police during the May Day mobilization of anarchists and other autonomous rebels compelled the government to cancel the entire traditional trade union march. In view of the tense social and political situation in France today, who knows what May Day 2019 could bring?

If the government attempts to cancel or repress demonstrations in Paris this May Day, the situation could become explosive. Not only because the police have adopted aggressive new law enforcement strategies over the past few weeks, but also because several calls have been made for yellow vesters to join autonomous rebels at the front of the traditional Parisian afternoon procession for the “ultimate act.” The objective is set: Paris is to become the capital city of rioting.

The world on fire, Paris in the middle.

Here is an English adaptation of one of the calls, entitled Pour un 1er mai jaune et noir:

For a yellow and black May Day!

“When the government violates the rights of the people, insurrection is for the people and for each portion of the people the most sacred of rights and the most indispensable of duties.”

-Article 35 of the Declaration of the Rights of Man and Citizen (1793)

Macron’s government has decided to crush the current social protest by force, reaching a level of repression never seen before: prohibitions of demonstrations, deployment of soldiers, the use of armored vehicles, the use of chemical markers and weapons of war against protesters, jail sentences in spades, hands torn off, blinded protesters…

During the demonstration of May Day 2018, the Prefecture of Police counted 14,500 demonstrators “on the sidelines of the trade union procession” (almost as much as in the traditional procession) including 1200 “radical individuals.” On March 16, at the time of act 18, it was 1500 “ultra violent” ones who were present among the 7000 demonstrators, according to the figures of this same police.

Today, what frightens the state is not the rioters themselves, but the adhesion and understanding they arouse among the rest of the population. And this despite the calls, week after week, for everyone to dissociate themselves from the “breakers.”

If there is one group that currently strikes France with all its violence, it is not the “Black Bloc,” nor the yellow vests; it is rather the government itself.

We are calling on all revolutionaries in France and elsewhere, all those who want this to change, to come and form a determined and combative march. Because if repression falls on everyone, our response must be common and united. Against Macron and his world, let’s take the street together to revive the convergence of anger and hope. Let’s get ready, let’s equip ourselves, lets organize ourselves to overthrow him and drag him through a day in hell.

War has been declared!

Let’s see that flag burn too.

For those who attend to join the May Day festivities in Paris, here are some important links and information:

List of different May Day actions

Information and contacts courtesy of the Legal Team in French, English, and Italian.

Further Reading

We have been publishing updates and analysis on the Yellow Vest movement since it first got underway. You can view all our articles here.

“Proportional representation” would mean that if, for example, 30% of voters vote for the Green Party, then members of that party would receive 30% of the total number of seats. So far, legislative elections offer no proportional representation—even if a party receives a large percentage of votes, it might not gain many seats at the assembly. People have been complaining about this “unfair process,” so now the government is willing to increase proportional representation in elections. Unfortunately, for several years now, the National Front has usually received around 20-25% of votes but only currently holds 6 seats out of the 577 in the Assemblée Nationale. Increasing proportional representation will give them more power in the decision-making—although, of course, it’s not clear to what extent Macron will actually follow through on his promises.

Of course, there is no option for people who have grown disillusioned with government itself: that perspective will never be “proportionately represented.” This is why the government refused outright to recognized blank votes. ↩

[lj-writes]

Finn and Rey versus capitalism

Finn's and Rey's stories can be read as representing the different facets of capitalist exploitation of workers, and their striking back at the First Order was also the beginning of their liberation. They were being held back by the fight by the abusive and false beliefs that had been instilled into them, and it was only by their love and trust in each other that they started seeing through the lies and started on their paths as heroes.

Finn was at the elite end of the workforce, in a position where he was given no real choice but was relentlessly fed the propaganda that he was in an enviable position, indeed the only tenable position in a universe full of danger and darkness. He was never allowed to ask whether he wanted anything else out of life because all other possibilities were painted as unthinkable, as paths to death and destruction.

We know from Before the Awakening that Finn's life as a cadet was strictly regimented, his entire being carefully aimed toward the single end of furthering the First Order's dominance. The only metric of his worth was his accomplishment in areas that the FO had determined to be useful, such as his superb tactical abilities and marksmanship that Phasma openly praised. The cadets' very bodies were measured and policed, as seen with Finn's squadmate Nines being put on an extra exercise and diet regimen because he was deemed too heavy.

This kind of cultish propaganda and the endless pressure to achieve, produce, and conform are often associated with authoritarian communist regimes, but they are also emblematic of the way many experience capitalist systems. So many of us are told that ours is the only moral system, and all opposition equates support for dictatorship. We are encouraged to overlook the structures of incredible brutality that we rely upon. We are told we are worth nothing unless we produce output that is valuable for those in power, and unless we fit into acceptable social conventions.

And of course, none of this is actually for our benefit. For all that we are in a purported meritocracy and are supposed to find fulfillment in being better and achieving more, we at best gain the fleeting approval of people who care nothing about us. Indeed, even though Finn is considered the best of the best in the program, his experience there is defined by alienation and loneliness. He longs to find meaning in the great cause of the First Order, but we all know how that turned out.

Finn's story becomes even more visceral and relatable, I think, if you put it this way: A super-high-achieving student is told that his entire life's meaning is centered around being the best of the best, to uphold the only moral and humane system of governance in the world. He then realizes on his first brush with reality that, hey, he's actually working for the bad guys. He walks away from the only life he's ever known, into what he has been told since he was a child is not a real choice at all but a fall to depravity, instability, and very likely death. He does it anyway because he can't keep living this immoral lie anymore. Such is the strength of the propaganda that he is the only one to walk away and all his classmates stay. They were told that there is no life outside the First Order, but Finn decided to seek it out anyway. In a very real sense he threw his life away, and that is not a choice made easily.

Rey is on the other end of the material spectrum, without even the minimum stability of Stormtrooper life and living at subsistence level if that. The system of exploitation is much less genteel for her; no one bothered to shove perfumed bullshit at her because they don't need to. Her deal is simple: She produces or she starves, and by the way, she's just going to starve more slowly if she produces because there is a monopoly on buying (monopsony, to be more exact) and her buyer can set the price as his likes. She's going to be given the minimum that keeps her from dropping dead and keeps her scavenging. Yay for free markets and entrepreneurial spirit!

Rey, like Finn, is unusually accomplished, and unlike Finn had the advantage of learning what she herself found useful and interesting. The catch is that it doesn't make any difference: She can know ships inside out, train herself to be an accomplished engineer and pilot, and speak multiple languages, but she'll still live in a tent and go hungry.

The one way she could use her considerable skills to improve her circumstances was by leaving and seeking better employment, something Finn pointed out she could always do and something Han offered her in TFA. She could not, however, because Niima Outpost also offered her the only chance of an emotional attachment that she had been forcibly separated from. Unlike Finn she had no illusions about the justice of the system she lived under, but she was just as trapped because of her need to belong and be loved.

We see a lot of Reys in real life, and we may be her ourselves: An educated and skilled go-getter who works multiple jobs and whatever gigs come her way, but still lives in precarious poverty no matter how hard she works. She could seek something better if she wanted to, but is stuck by human connections, family, friends, or just the fear that she is unlovable and will never find acceptance elsewhere. Leaving is still unthinkable, though for different reasons than someone like Finn who was brainwashed into believing that he was living in a just and moral system.

For both Finn and Rey, their physical departures might have been abrupt but truly leaving behind the lies they were sold took more time. Finn was consumed by the thought that the First Order was all-powerful and all-encompassing. He might no longer be able to believe it was a force for good, but he still believed in its absoluteness. His was not a failure of morality or courage--we know he had more than enough of both--but of imagination. Learned helplessness prevented him from imagining anything but the Order's total victory. There could be no life outside the First Order because it would destroy everything that opposed it. The only solution was to flee from it because turning around to face it meant annihilation.

For Rey, leaving was not a choice but an emergency reaction, one that she tried to reverse once the danger was seemingly past. Like Finn she was still operating under a lie meant to keep her compliant, that she was not lovable and worthy as she was but rather had to wait and prove herself worthy to the only people who would love her. As she finds respect and friendship with Finn, then Han and Chewie, and when Maz gently tells her that her family are never coming back, she gradually comes to see the lie for what it is, but is not yet prepared to take the final leap.

It was only through solidarity and love that Finn and Rey could begin to see past the lies they'd been raised with and begin to fight back. When Finn saw Rey being taken away by Kylo Ren in a heart-shattering sequence, that was the moment he went from "I can't" to "I must." That was when the fight went from an impossible one to liberate the universe to a plausible, if still borderline suicidal, one to save one person. All his considerable passion and energy were turned to the purpose of going back to the very place he once wanted to flee to the end of the galaxy to avoid, and there was nothing he would not do--call in favors, ally with the Resistance, look Leia Organa and Han Solo in the face and lie... er, embellish the truth to them.

When Rey saw Finn in Starkiller Base, the heart of the nightmare he swore to her never to return to, that was when she went from "I'm nobody" to "I am everything." Finn showed her that she was worth everything including life and freedom. As was said in the script, this was all she ever wanted--for someone to come back for her. It was the same gift she had given to Finn earlier,  unknowingly: When he revealed himself to be a Stormtrooper, her reaction was not to recoil or lash out but to plead with him not to go. She didn't want a Resistance hero, she wanted Finn, the defected Stormtrooper. I love you just as you are, she told him, and he answered in suitably epic fashion, So do I.

It was on this basis that both Finn and Rey stood up to Kylo Ren, the narcissistic elitist who thought of both Finn and Rey as useful tools at best and as obstacles to be destroyed if they refused to be of use to him. And isn't that a neat little capitalist parable of itself, that for all the lip service to meritocracy the people who actually climb to the top are the douches with famous names, and the only route to the top with them is through their patronage and favor? ("You need a teacher!")

To hell with that, Finn and Rey tell him. To hell with your important family, your inborn power, your casual entitlement. You threaten what I hold  dearest in all the universe and for that I will fight you and never stop until one of us is dead. Finn, who had been raised all his life to unquestioning obedience, and Rey, who had been downtrodden all her life, fought back and refused to back down.

It's worth noting that both Finn and Rey's final acts in The Force Awakens are diametrically opposed to their initial starting places. Finn went from "I won't" to "I will." Where at first he refused to do evil and fled to avoid it, at the end he was actively fighting against evil to protect himself and the person he loved. Rey went from "life at all cost" to "love at all cost." Where she was a shrewd survivor at the start of the movie, she gave no more thought to her own life as she refused Kylo Ren's offer and later lay weeping on top of an unconscious Finn on a disintegrating planet.

Evil and exploitative systems rely above all on the passivity of the exploited. Finn was cowed by terror and Rey by the need to survive. Once Finn was no longer terrorized and Rey found something worth more than life itself, the spell of passivity was broken and they became warriors. The key for both of them was love, in seeing each other just as they were and linking hands in mutual compassion and devotion.

How much time do we spend thinking accomplishment and survival define our worth? How many opportunities and what rivers of potential do we waste because we need to fit in to a system of merit, because we have to make a living in a rigged economy? How long have we been told this is the only way and we have to take any amount of crap thrown at us because we have no choice? What would happen if more of us realize that no, we are worth more than this, and we can do and be so much better--together? What could stand in our way then? What kind of world might we mold from that realization?

We might not be there in the real world, but in small pockets, in our relationships and communities, many of us are struggling toward answers. We can seek answers in our imaginations, too, and these imaginary heroes showed us one possible picture of oppressed people standing against brutality, bound together and strengthened by love. It is a fitting dream for our age.

(Originally posted to my Pillowfort blog)

[benniebenniebenniebennie]

klimt (august 2018)

like a pearl

like the sexless voices

that flood the throats of cathedrals

i am the one you touch

at the bottom of the night

the loom that holds me

deeply in your sight

i am shallow

like breath in fog

sea without moon

the light in the jar of your dull summer night

the one who softly coaxes sound from a bell

behind my eyes

i pluck the secrets billowing

within the skirts

hinged between the forests we shared

the perfect moment comes

debris piling up at the feet of an angel

my father digs the snuff from his cheek

i am shooting bullfrogs

mining the mystery

from each lake

each dream is drowning

in the ponds behind your eyes

you in the passenger seat

and i drunk as a poet

beneath streetlights listening

to suicide with windows down

the dark racing through my hair

like minnows like birds evading death

the same way the brush

dances across a broken smile

o schoolgirl from whose thighs the moon draws blood

o pretty memory

i am going to die

i did not want to know

the summer is an illusion

of childhood seeing

figures in the dark

dancing in the shed light

what goes on between your thighs

o godless plane

o children of dust incest & death

men want each other to suffer

hear an ear popping crush

the distance between the stars is full of many nothings

this was the childhood i was given

delusion, selfishness, the grand scheme, cancelled plans

how many loves does it take to end all suffering

i think about every one

and the murderous few

i am staring you in the eyes

the crumbling statue i love

i fill the couches of each friend’s home i do not know when to leave

my shadow in the cushions and my body moving homeward beneath

the streetlights disappearing into the past

some loves are a forest fire others are rain

after you see yourself replaced & realize you’re nothing at all

feel free to be an insect inside yourself

wading through backwaters

to be the secret you keep from your friends

there are children asking to be born

i am running toward the future

between your lips where i will stay

there is a lust beyond anything known

tucked between dreams like the body and sleep

i have touched the bottom of the ocean

i’ve prayed to god

i’ve wasted my life

there are days when life’s strangeness stares you in the face with a mask

i have taken money from people i love

i have felt water in my lungs

here’s the point of no return

i have stuck my tongue where it doesn’t belong

honey dripping down the legs

from the corners of the mouth

a burning in the soul of instant regret

don’t just stand outside the light

become the nothing you’ve been hurried to since birth

a sick dream of drowning love

time is a capitalist tool

besides the suffering nurtured in cathedrals and in loveless beds all things erode

shadow and anti-shadow

the algae tended to by dragonflies within the sinuses

transcendence

yearning

aching at thought of being a woman

a gold leaf to eat

to starve the poor

every child drowned in a bathtub

every stillborn pried from a mother’s arms

there is a light that never goes out

there is a smothered dream

driving into the opposite lane

it plucks the innocence from every thing

longing to bury its ship in the delta of dreams

calling you in my sleep

my body is a well of discomfort

i want something to hold

the sound contained within a still string

there’s infinity in every thing

i know you can grow fond of me it takes some loneliness

and everything will level like stars forcing through the crescent

moon of the outhouse

death strikes like a snake

there is no regret it is a disease

not every thing is meant to be perfect

there is fire behind my eyes

there are stones in the riverbed

created and stacked like bricks

there is not a world where advertising and art coexist peacefully

the best things drown us transcend existence

everything must have its negative

the shadow and anti-shadow the body and the air i am expelling my brain

onto the corpse of a tree roaming through the words

theyre better with fermentation like the age of automatic death

o when i reach

my hand

into the water

and pull out

a clump of pearls

am i polluting the world with pain

avarice forcing upon the innocent my human game

the morning is cool coals painting in shadow

all these young girls in flower

the past is culture at the bottom of a can

pain is taken lightly

violence is picking fruit from a tree

we are to expect and accept this death

my love with your face sleep-swollen

the embodiment of memory

thunder softly boiling the sky

our fingers moved through the forbidden world

beyond being and time

my ancestry belongs to words

the soap of thought a secret place

i want to know

is each tear a different sadness

do you exist beyond the confines of my brain and its inability to understand

that one can love once and not again

do we want to be free or do we want to beyond the cycle of our sad brains

every day not with you is not a waste

time loses value without a tether to real

reality is a drug

a relationship between hand eye soul brain  

in a single line the sun bursts through

rain storm

solipsism like eating the meat of an animal you never saw live

each christian is dipped in blood i am not a machine

for no reason walking between rows of sunflowers

moving between shaved legs

there is a flowery hillside

lying in the future in which i was your enemy

between the fences of time i lie in wait

carrying a lavender bough

my insides is bubbling

i have seen films where men die for no reason

when reason’s there it makes no difference  

love nestles its head between the thighs of morality

none of my ancestors saw these films

they had real life, a broken mirror, bad luck

laws of the land: suicide, money

mercy, weakness, violence

if you allow me one more chance

i will carry your love for you

& kneel in the field history tends every day

[norsecoyote]

MCU Rewatch: Iron Man 2

Man, this is a wildly inconsistent movie. For every element that really holds up, there’s another which is just unforgivably terrible.

For instance, Stark being effectively suicidal is handled, honestly, insanely well. Both the writing and RDJ’s performance make it immediately obvious from the get-go that something is wrong; the flashiness and extravagance of the Expo and his entrance and his behavior all sort of follow from the character we saw in the first movie, but even given that history it all feels a little too much, to the point where finally learning about the palladium poisoning actually feels like a payoff in addition to a setup. The way this carries through the rest of the film also feels authentic to the character of someone who has literally been so surrounded by wealth and fame his entire life that he doesn’t know how to engage with other people on a level deeper than giving them Things. We get, in other words, a character who’s a mixture of self-destructive and self-sacrificing without ever really giving up his deep, fundamental narcissism. 

Iron Man 2 gets as far as breaking him out of the self-destructive spiral, but leaves the final resolution of the narcissism for the sequel (a task at which, despite a good effort all around, it resoundingly fails). The way it approaches this is by repeatedly hammering home the message that Stark is not a goddamn island: not only does he meet someone out there right now every bit as smart as he is, but it’s shoved down his throat that he only got where he is by standing on some pretty hefty shoulders.

The problem with this is twofold. First, because everything needs to be connected, the only Other People worthy of his attention happen to be his dad, the guy his dad worked with, and that guy’s son. So we’ve only reached the level of “there are a few Real People in the world, but if they’re not connected to me they’re still probably not that important.” 

Second, and way more problematically, the whole plotline with the “new element” is the Single. Fucking. Stupidest. Thing. in the entire goddamn MCU. Like, I have no problem with technobabble, but everything about the concept of a “hidden element” whose “structure” can be reconstructed from a 2-dimensional diagram is not just nonsense but an active violation of the basic physical structure of the goddamn universe. It’s literally on the level of The Matrix’s “human batteries,” where (as SMG has observed) either the second law of thermodynamics does not apply in the world of the films, or Morpheus has misunderstood (or is misrepresenting) what the robots are doing. In Iron Man 2, we’re faced with either the film’s world being one where what atoms are is fundamentally different from our own, or every single person involved in the “discovery” choosing to call it the wrong thing for some reason. And what reason could that even be? What possible motivation could Tony and Jarvis, alone together in the lab, have for referring to this substance they’ve created by the wrong name? I don’t even care about the effectively magical properties this “element” has, I’m just so intensely bothered by the label. I remember thinking how stupid this all was when I first watched the movie way back when, and it is still every bit as stupid today. It’s so stupid it actually completely breaks suspension of disbelief, and I honestly don’t see any “artistic” reason that fits with the film’s themes for it to do so on purpose.

Okay, enough nerd rage. The other worst thing about this film is bad on a narrative level rather than a technical one, and that is the giant sucking void named Justin Hammer. No criticism here of Sam Rockwell, who ekes out every bit of personality he can, but Hammer is as close to a pure modern translation of the simpering, blustery, impotent factotum trope as I hope we ever see. Like, I get that he’s meant to be a foil to Stark, as a capitalist who focuses on incremental improvements over true innovation, but holy shit he is given just zero redeeming qualities. In a movie whose hero and villain are both deeply human, Hammer is nothing but a goddamn stooge (he doesn’t actually mince, as such, but they sure as shit call attention to how short he is). It’s like, I get that he’s there to be a contrast to both Stark and Vanko, but it honestly bothered me as I was watching how consistently the film just shit all over him (his weapons don’t even work. Was that really necessary?).

Speaking of Ivan Vanko, though, Mickey Rourke is if anything more impressive now that we’ve had nine years of shittastic villains to compare him to. What I found especially interesting is, again, a split down the middle of his character. On the textual level, he has not just a clear but a deeply sympathetic motivation for everything he does; SMG was not wrong to refer to him as “Justice Man.” In a universe that has since filled to capacity with dudes going, “I wanna destroy the world/the universe/all life/half of all life because I’m EVIL!!!” Vanko’s quest to break one shithead narcissist out of his comfortable illusions is genuinely compelling. Watching Rourke’s performance, however, I was struck by how clear it is that, for all his obvious motivation, Vanko doesn’t actually, personally, care about any of it. It’s a neat mirror to Stark’s blaze-of-shitty-glory self-destructiveness: Vanko is also working under the impression that his life is effectively over (e.g. he clearly was not expecting to get away from his attack in Monaco), but responds with basically a zen-like acceptance.

Actually, this almost-connection to Buddhism, for all that his fatalism is archetypically Russian, does kind of run through more of the film. He has zero regard for possessions, or even physical Things at all (cf. the scene where, upon first seeing Hammer’s drones, the first thing he does is wrench off one of their heads), but a deep regard for and connection with animal life. The two times when he attacks Stark directly, he avoids killing any bystanders (as far as we are shown, and hoo boy is onscreen civilian death vs the lack thereof a BIG RUNNING THEME throughout the MCU). However, when the final battle takes place in a goddamn artificial forest (sponsored by Oracle) in the middle of a dome in the middle of fucking Queens, he has zero compunction about blowing it to fucking pieces. Even there, though, he’s almost creepily calm through the whole thing; where Hammer impotently rages and showboats, Vanko is like a cross between the implacable Eumenides and Buddha.

...and we all know what you’re supposed to do if you meet the Buddha in the road.