Fascism is real. It’s here. Now. RESISTANCE IS EVERYTHING!

#559

Cannot share this too often.

“Dear Liberal Friends, you do not have the tools to fight Trump” … because it’s not

just Trump, it’s Fascism, and it’s world wide.

The particularities of historical circumstances aside, comparisons to Germany in 1932 can not be passed over as exaggerations. With existing technology, surveillance, militarized police, nuclear weapons–with global warming passing the point of no return–the seriousness of our crisis makes the disasters of the mid-2th Century pale in comparison.
 
If there were such a thing as a World Mind, our Zeitgeist would seem to be full out bent on collective suicide. No wonder, then, that such thoughts enter my own mind from time to time. I have to remind myself that Death needs no assistance from me–it will find and rally its armies on its own. Our resistance is the only vote that matters in this election.

Still Imperial His Laughter

A poem I wrote some 30 years ago, put aside and forgot. Remembered last night in a dream.
#555
The river runs — a stillness
with the city around her
runs
through the city
a stillness at its heart
of trees stripped
lifting
shadows from the bank

Here and there a leaf rides clear
water through the branching thicket

A blazing gust
blinds windily — wakes
A presence in the
deeper tempers of this November noon.

A weighted glint of cold
a flashing
eye
an understanding, silent mock

A laughter not of water stalks
across the surface of the stream, chills
the vestal air

Winter, soon.

And near, high
around its dark mass — The Colossus
strides on iron feet
ferric dust, red flakes rusting red
over red leaves everywhere he walks
the laughter goes

withering over the coming snow, spreading
his fine red rust over the white crust of snow
falling…

because he is not forest
or the wild hills
neither is he City
— built of love but broken — broken
leveler

of forest and the city’s siege, his coronets
crying over midnight seas

Still Imperial, impaler
of the singer and the song
falling

like red snow
everywhere

he goes

is Death

 

The Future is Black Hole

What we see now, is essentially what has been in place since before most of those marching on the street were born. If it were not so, there would not be this rolling-over-on-it’s- belly full-out effort to normalize the nightmare. They were already fascists. We already lived in an Empire of Money and Death that deserved to be overthrown.
Some of us told you. Not that it affords any comfort or satisfaction. If we can’t turn this around; if we can’t prevent what is sure to happen, there really isn’t any reason to live. Death is by far the greater mercy.

Deleuze & Guattari: Culture of Death / Culture of Capital

Capital as the Body of Death

S.C. Hickman's avatarThe Dark Forest: Literature, Philosophy, and Digital Arts

Desiring machines make us an organism; but at the very heart of this production, the body suffers from being organized in this way, from not having some other sort of organization, or no organization at all.

– Gilles Deleuze/Fritz Guattari, Anti-Oedipus

There comes a moment in their great work Anti-Oedipus (for that is what we must call this black book of riddles) when D&G – in an almost gnostic litany of negativity from one of the drifting echoes of Artaud’s process of ‘Unmaking / Unnaming’ (“No mouth. No tongue. No teeth. No larynx. No esophagus. No belly. No anus”) expose the body of death to the onslaught of expressive delineation: “The automata stop dead and set free the unorganized mass they once served to articulate.(8) It’s as if the nanobots of our own late era had already infiltrated the discourse of this early dreamwork, as if the viral memes of our late capitalism…

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After the rage…

images
I finally got a couple hours of sleep.

The rage has dissolved into tears, and the tears into grim resolve. It’s time to wipe the tears, to do what must be done… and then… to laugh, a laughter sadder than tears.

It’s not only at the beginning of the day, one must ask, why go on? but before every undertaking. There is nothing any longer that is trivial. Everything, everything–is life or death.

Do I bother to draw water to drink? Do I prepare food to break the fast? This pen, and these brushes? Is there any reason to pick them up, to make marks on this paper?

How many times I’ve wondered–what was it like, in Germany, 1933?

I think about the people who voted for … I will not write that name, or let it pass my lips… the ‘good Germans’

I will not be a ‘Good German.’ I will not be a ‘Good German.’

No more, the prattle of the ‘realists.’ No more talk of following those who ‘get things done.’ There is no longer any reality worth living, but that we take up and create for ourselves.

Love, Solidarity, Imagination…RESISTANCE!