Here are five images from my guest post over on the freshly re-launched Interference Archive website. The post showcases images and captions from 10 of the over 100 underground newspapers featured in my Rebel Newsprint show opening tonight (02/21) at the Interference Archive in Brooklyn (131 8th Street, #4).
Click through for the rest of the images and definitely come out for the opening if you’re in the area. The walls are flooded with newspapers, a few posters, and a couple pieces of original artwork. We also have a handful of portfolios around the center table that are filled with individual issues you can flip through, and there will be a big ass stack of free copies of my book in the middle.
Antonio Gramsci On The Indifferent
I hate the indifferent. I believe living means taking sides. They who truly live cannot help but to be citizens and partisans. Indifference is apathy, parasitism, perversion, not life. That’s why I hate the indifferent.
Indifference is the burden of history. Indifference operates with great power on history. It operates passively, but it operates. It is fate; that which cannot be counted on; it is that which twists programs and ruins the best-conceived plans; it is the brute matter that chokes intelligence. That which happens, the evil that weighs upon all, happens because most of humanity renounces its own will, allows laws to be passed that only revolt can nullify, and leaves men that only mutiny can overthrow to achieve power. Thanks to indifference, few hands weave the fabric of collective life unsurveilled, and the masses ignore it because they are careless; then it seems like it is fate that runs over everything and everyone, it looks as if history is but an enormous natural phenomenon, an eruption, an earthquake of which everyone is a victim, those who consent as well as those who dissent, those who knew as well as those who didn’t, the active as well as the indifferent. Some whimper pitifully, others curse obscenely, but none, or very few, ask themselves: if I too had fulfilled my duty, if I had tried to impose my will, would this have happened?
That too is why I hate the indifferent: Their wailing as if eternally innocent is a nuisance to me. I make every person liable to how they fulfilled the task life has given them and continues to give them every day, of what they have done, and especially what they have not done. And I feel I have the right to be unrelenting, not to squander my compassion, of not having to share my tears with them.
I am a partisan, I am alive, and in the conscience of those on my part I feel the pulse of the future city we are building. And in it, the social chain does not rest on a few, nothing that happens in it is a matter of luck, nor the product of fate, but the intelligent work of citizens. In it, nobody is looking out their window while the few sacrifice and drain themselves. I live, I am a partisan. That is why I hate those who don’t take sides, I hate the indifferent.
“Pragaash, Kashmir’s first all girl rock band. Sadly, the band no longer exists because of death threats and a state appointed cleric telling them to cease and desist.”
Sander’s Time - nborloff
A blissful darkness clouds my mind
awash with halcyon specters of a lifetime past when
- BAM -
nocturnal illusions shatter.
The hatch is dogged by I can hear
a sweet southern song that tells us all
Chief is… gone!
The day will be a diamond.
It’s Sanders time, shipmates.
It’s Sanders time.
——————————————————————————-
Had an asshole chief when I was in the Navy. Composed this one in his honor when he didn’t show up for work one day. OS1 Sanders was in charge, and it was glorious.
If You Forget Me - Pablo Neruda
I want you to know
one thing.
You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.
Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.
If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.
If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.
But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine.Face it, your politics are boring as fuck.
You know it’s true. Otherwise, why does everyone cringe when you say the word? Why has attendance at your anarcho-communist theory discussion group meetings fallen to an all-time low? Why has the oppressed proletariat not come to its senses and joined you in your fight for world liberation?
Perhaps, after years of struggling to educate them about their victimhood, you have come to blame them for their condition. They must want to be ground under the heel of capitalist imperialism; otherwise, why do they show no interest in your political causes? Why haven’t they joined you yet in chaining yourself to mahogany furniture, chanting slogans at carefully planned and orchestrated protests, and frequenting anarchist bookshops? Why haven’t they sat down and learned all the terminology necessary for a genuine understanding of the complexities of Marxist economic theory?
The truth is, your politics are boring to them because they really are irrelevant. They know that your antiquated styles of protest—your marches, hand held signs, and gatherings—are now powerless to effect real change because they have become such a predictable part of the status quo. They know that your post-Marxist jargon is off-putting because it really is a language of mere academic dispute, not a weapon capable of undermining systems of control. They know that your infighting, your splinter groups and endless quarrels over ephemeral theories can never effect any real change in the world they experience from day to day. They know that no matter who is in office, what laws are on the books, what “ism”s the intellectuals march under, the content of their lives will remain the same. They—we—know that our boredom is proof that these “politics” are not the key to any real transformation of life. For our lives are boring enough already!
—nadia c (via bazoopers)
(Source: nicotinewhores)
#crimethinc #anarchy #equality #punx #bipolarii #nocturnal
FROG SAGA: Christopher Dorner
Our social systems are growing poisoned fruit. We have built a society where rational efforts to promote positive change don’t work as they should. Unless we can monetize a problem, we won’t bother to solve it. We all recognize this. A masked gunman shooting a dozen people will promote change…
God damn, that was poignant.
I think this Dorner situation in Cali shows that people are becoming less fed Up with oppression everyday. Is this man right for killing innocent people? No, but he obviously has some rage built up from past experiences of racism and oppression and he tried to handle it the right way and the corrupt system didnt listen. Now he’s pissed the hell off with the right tools and training to scare the LAPD into a frenzy. This man is not a hero but I’m not to sure he’s a villain either. What if other black people or other oppressed minority members get the idea of rising up? What if other people decide they will no longer be silenced? What if they can no longer contain us? When we start asking these questions they get scared which is why this man is such a big threat.
Metal fans in Botswana. Dude on the right is nicknamed “Dadmonster.”
What a bad ass picture.
(Source: adbusters.org)
‘Carnal Apple, Woman Filled, Burning Moon’ - Pablo Neruda
Carnal apple, Woman filled, burning moon,
dark smell of seaweed, crush of mud and light,
what secret knowledge is clasped between your pillars?
What primal night does Man touch with his senses?
Ay, Love is a journey through waters and stars,
through suffocating air, sharp tempests of grain:
Love is a war of lightning,
and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness.
Kiss by kiss I cover your tiny infinity,
your margins, your rivers, your diminutive villages,
and a genital fire, transformed by delight,
slips through the narrow channels of blood
to precipitate a nocturnal carnation,
to be, and be nothing but light in the dark.
Republican Murals in Northern Ireland.
