Brice and I used to talk about how we were going to go underground for animal liberation. I was reading books about activists who were liberating monkeys and sabotaging factory farms, and Brice was reading Edward Abbey’s book about billboard improvement. We would stay up late, baking everything cookies, hatching our plans. No tell-tale tattoos, no getting caught, no compromise. I pictured the underground as a highly elaborate series of tunnels under the cities, full of action, fire lit walls, and exciting people. I wanted to be there; I
“HERE IT ALL STINKS,” CAPITOL THOUGHT. “ART IS MAKING ACCORDING TO THE IMAGINATION. HERE, BUYING AND SELLING ARE THE RULES; THE RULES OF COMMODITY HAVE DESTROYED THE IMAGINATION. HERE, THE ONLY ART ALLOWED IS MADE BY POSTCAPITALIST RULES. ART ISN’T MADE ACCORDING TO RULES.’ ANGER MAKES YOU WANT TO SUICIDE.”
-Kathy Acker, taken from the DEAD DOLL PROPHECY
A city which normally at this time of year reeks of decaying animals, now fills with water, oil, gasoline, and raw sewage. Dogs and cats seek refuge on roofs as humans ride boats down former streets, searching for friends and family. The stadium normally reserved for jocks and fans is taken over by men with rifles corralling people into order who have lost their entire material lives. Seniors lacking the proper medical care they need pass away, as minor injuries on young folks fester in the fetid water to the point of needing amputation. Desperate folks without trans
I just spent about a week in Pittsburgh, visiting people and playing music. Before I left I was feeling a little discouraged, for various reasons, but partly because of the lack of collective adventures in my life in Providence. At home, we share food and house chores collectively, with mixed feelings about its success from housemates. But as far as we are aware, among our peers we are one of very few houses that shares food collectively and has a house meeting when our unity starts to break apart. Recently we had a conversation about what it means
I’ve been sick for a month, the kind of sick where it feels like death is lying next to me in bed. The kind where no amount of tinctures, teas, or fresh air seems to make any difference. Even though I have a bad cough, runny nose, and husky voice; I know it’s coming from my head. Feeling crazy, feeling uninspired in the ways I need to be. I find myself without a community of folks to have serious discussions about radical politics, the role of art in dissent, what the fuck to do in this totally depressing country. I’ve been
Before the election I was preoccupied with thinking about what four more years of President Bush would look like, how much worse things might be than under the other candidate. At this point, I am remembering that is useless to think that any candidate will ever undo the underlying oppression that this country has been built on. This country is built on slavery and the creation of “race” as a construct which is total bullshit. Scientifically there is less difference between two people of different “races” than between two people w
It was six months I spent without my own space, with a small crazy feeling growing in the back of my mind preventing me from taking my life too seriously. Half that time, I spent living in the house I helped to build from the remnants of old stuffy 1980s style business men. In the three and a half months I spent there I stayed in four different rooms, from a recently vacated room, to a sublet, to a guest room, to my friend’s room when she left town. I had a desk, a typewriter, my cat, some clothes and music. I played music in a band, hung out
I hope people have been paying attention to the news. In Haiti, the United States right wing, including President Bush, instigated a coup against the democratically elected president Aristide. Bush is trying to pass the Patriot Act again because it is becoming expired. And The Unborn Victims of Violence Act was passed in the United States. This is just to name a few.
So the new year came and I'm hoping that it'll beat the hell of one I had last year. I started by making a resolution to do more reading this year; I fell behind some on that lately and it wasn't until I read "Cruddy" by Linda Barry, on suggestion from a roommate, that I got back on the kick. It's a story of a young girl living in a family lacking money and love, meeting friends to take on a trip to retrace a harsh journey she had with her father. Death and overwhelming circumstances plague her, and we are left feeling totally cruddy reading the story.
I once asked a friend what they would write about if they could get a message to I think about this question every time I write this columll talk about elections.