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pale punk blog

Dear my…fuck.

(via varshhhmellow)

me: YES PLEASE can we institute thursday wine as a rule????

n: is

n: ....describe what you see, meggers, you don't need that positivist bullshit

"The headlong stream is termed violent
But the river bed hemming it in is
Termed violent by no one."

- Brecht, Bertolt, “On Violence” [Über die Gewalt] (1930s), trans. John Willett in Poems, 1913-1956, p. 276 (via fuckyeahdialectics)

"However, if it is indisputable that book-learning and thinking in concepts, indeed of a very high calibre, erected the framework of the American republic, it is no less true that this interest in political thought and theory dried up almost immediately after the task had been achieved. As I indicated earlier, I think this loss of an allegedly purely theoretical interest in political issues has not been the ‘genius’ of American history but, on the contrary, the chief reason the American Revolution has remained sterile in terms of world politics. By the same token, I am inclined to think that it was precisely the great amount of theoretical concern and conceptual thought lavished upon the French Revolution by Europe’s thinkers and philosophers which contributed decisively to its world-wide success, despite its disastrous end. The American failure to remember can be traced back to this fateful failure of post-revolutionary thought. For if it is true that all thought begins with remembrance, it is also true that no remembrance remains secure unless it is condensed and distilled into a framework of conceptual notions within which it can further exercise itself. Experiences and even the stories which grow out of what men do and endure, of happenings and events, sink back into the futility inherent in the living word and the living deed unless they are talked about over and over again."

- Hannah Arendt, “The Revolutionary Tradition and Its Lost Treasure” (via josephhenrystaten)

anyone know the source of this?

anyone know the source of this?

Poems and Fuckery

From n+1 magazine.

you know how sometimes you’re writing a poem
and at the same time children in india are starving
you write one word, a child over there drops dead
a line, five kiddies in somalia give up the ghost
you write a quatrain and there go a hundred innocents in pakistan
you find a clever rhyme and there’s a mountain of fresh corpses in nigeria
you hit upon a canny metaphor – uganda is wracked by famine

so hurry up and write
yeah we mean you
quit with the verbiage
be plain and clear
avoid wordy descriptions and obscurity
cut out rhetorical devices and get rid of tropes
omit as many vapid passages as possible
abbreviate, use acronyms
be lucid and convincing
and finish your poem already
can still
save someone

you know how sometimes you turn on the TV

and they’re all praising putin
so you say fuck this and you change the channel
but on the next channel they’re all praising putin too
you’re like fuck this and you change the channel again, pissed off
but even here, they’re praising putin
so you’re like fuck everything
and you turn off the motherfucking TV

you get online
and they’re all talking shit about putin
you go to another site
they’re all talking shit about putin there too
a third
and they’re talking even more serious shit about putin than anywhere before
pissed off, you’re like fuck this
and get offline
then sometimes you pick up a book
one of the Russian or foreign classics
but more often Russian
you settle down comfortably in your armchair
tuck your legs beneath you
set a glass of cognac on the end table
and you think
My God
there are some fundamental human values left on this earth after all

you know how sometimes you invite your poet friend to a protest

even when you know that he‘s skeptical of protests
he says we have to invent a new political language
and who can argue with that
of course we need to invent that language
but the question is how are we supposed to do it  
without participating in the everyday routine of struggle
although of course it’s too dramatic to say “struggle”
but there’s no better word right now
we haven’t invented it yet …

so you invite your poet friend to the protest
and he goes and sprays obscenities all over
maybe out of a lack of experience
though he’s supposedly a longtime poet-activist
or maybe just out of thoughtlessness 
or maybe also out of self-interest
a hankering for the easy glory of being a prisoner of conscience
but no
most likely he just didn’t think about the consequences
it isn’t every day that he’s reading poems at a protest
and he isn’t well-versed in the intricacies of the criminal code
which makes sense:
he’s a poet, not a human rights activist from some NGO
so you invite your poet friend to a protest
and he goes and yells ‘‘glory forever to any old fuckery”
and men in plainclothes are right there with their camcorders
tsk tsk, they say
this is really dreadful
there are women children and old people here
and you’re cursing away
you call yourself a poet …
you get agitated of course
you’re the guilty one, you invited him, your comrade
and while you have long been the prisoner of your own rhetorical and behavioral cliches
your friend the poet might any minute now break out with the living word
that long-awaited new language might materialize on his very lips
but then they go and grab him
as you were right about to try and resist
this is the 21st century and you policemen haven’t learned a thing
you keep on carting people off for words just like before
I mean how much can we take
like this putin of yours says there’s no censorship in russia
we don’t have censorship
but you guys …
what are you talking about
they just laugh in response
what’s the point, they say
in all this fuckery
and around children too, for fuck’s sake
children are our future
as our putin says
children are our future
be fruitful and multiply
and do not teach your children evil …

so you invite your poet friend to the protest
and they drag him off to the station in a police van
and then to the judge
as a petty offender
you go back home all worried
the guilt eating you up, clawing at your heart
like look at you, Roma, sitting at home drinking tea
while your poet friend is lying hungry on a cot
and maybe they’re beating him for no reason
shoving champagne bottles up various orifices
doing all manner of unnatural things to him
you should be the one over there in his place
you invited him to that ill-starred protest
after an hour or two of worrying
you get online to do some social networking, you can’t bear the loneliness
man is a social animal after all
with innate verbal potential
with the ability to converse that is
to read and write
and the poet is the uttermost realization of this ability
language directed toward itself
the subject of which as my friend the poet would say is
any old fuckery
so you go peruse your social media
and there oh heavens
everywhere you look there’s headlines blazing
poet arrested for a poem
poet challenges authority
poet suffers for the freedom of all humanity
and pictures of your friend smiling
his gaze smoldering
his expression stern
holding the very book
where that fuckery figures
and now all the news feeds
are full of the news of this fuckery
the radio’s repeating it every half-hour
it’s in the yandex top-ten most-read articles…
and although you aren’t generally envious of others’ success
you can’t handle the media overload
I mean what is this comrades
you go to protest after protest
you read, foaming at the mouth,
about blighted injustice and the stormclouds gathering over the nation
you hand out literature
you wave flags
and you might think you’d end up in the top results at least once
but no
not once not even one time
best case scenario you’re implied between the lines in some local gazette
and that’s all she wrote
while now when he drops
just a snatch of fuckery
and thoughtlessly at that
your friend the poet is wallowing in glory
but since you’re fundamentally not vindictive
you write it all off to the warped logic of the media
and you forget your childish hurt feelings
after all what could be nicer
than your friend the poet alive, unharmed
standing in the doorway, smiling
opening a bottle of champagne
clamoring for a toast to glorious fuckery
any old kind


Hannah Arendt Straße /Berlin

after this awful stretch of illness, it’s time reconnect with my own thoughts.

Towards a Politics of Radical Love


by June Pan

You might have heard that cliched turn of phrase: “love is all you need.” Maybe you’ve found it to be true, or maybe not. The problem with English, though, is that we only have one word for love — one four-letter word for a concept so impossibly vast. It can mean filial devotion to one’s parents, or affection between friends, or erotic romance, or psychotic commitment to some immaterial abstract.

I’m not sure any of those are actually love. Or, at least, they don’t fulfill what love could be. I think that if we truly understood, enacted, and experienced love — then yeah, love might just be all we need.

But let’s not begin with defining love on its own terms. Let’s begin with its object: the human. And to truly love another person, I think, we have to take seriously the dignity of human suffering.

Hatred is not necessarily the opposite of love. What is, rather, might be termed contempt. Contempt is the dismissal of suffering, and indeed the dismissal of another person’s humanity. 

Read More

Remarkable, June!  I want to write a longer response later about just how radical I think interventions at the level of relationships and especially the self-as-relationship can be.  That was an oddly phrased spoiler-alert, I suppose.  Sorry.

Why Institutional Divestment Might Be One of Our Best Tools For Fighting Climate Change | Mother Jones


"There is a poetic fitness to human history at this juncture. Eons ago, various forms of life became defunct. A civilization then evolved to extract the remains of that defunct life from the earth and turn it into energy. As a result, it’s now we who are challenged to avoid making our own style of existence defunct.

"Is it not uncanny that we have come face-to-face with the consequences of a way of life based on burning up the remnants of previous broken-down orders of life? It’s a misnomer to call those remains—coal, oil, and gas—”fossil fuels.” They are not actually made up of fossils at all. Still, there’s an eerie justice in the inaccuracy, since here we are, converting the residue of earlier breakdowns into another possible breakdown. The question is: will we become the next fossils?”


Italo Calvino

Africa’s First Major Museum of Contemporary Art to open in Cape Town



Cape Town, 19 November 2013 - Today the V&A Waterfront and Jochen Zeitz announced a unique partnership to create a major new cultural institution that will focus on collecting, preserving, researching, and exhibiting cutting edge contemporary art from Africa and its Diaspora. The museum…