#Communist commuters

[nando161mando]

Communist commuters

[yellow-yarrow]

thinking about Steban's long commute to campus, of course he's not attending classes

[garset-grocery]

I don’t usually make vent posts like this but I need to scream into the void about this right now and my friends don’t want to hear it anymore.

Tomorrow I have a doctor’s appointment about an hour’s drive away. Unfortunately, I don’t have a car because I just paid for school and insurance would tear me apart.

Outside my building is a train track that goes right up to the edge of the property. It’s hidden by a fence, but every time a train goes past it’s like a continuous rolling clap of thunder that you feel in your inner ear. Naturally, one would assume that there would be a train station in town. One would be dead wrong. There isn’t a train station for miles in any direction, and the only way in and out of town is through the highway.

Looking up bus routes on google maps shows me several with the same rough timing: SEVEN HOURS. Somehow, taking the bus is more time than it would take to bike all the way there (six hours). Even with all the stops a bus makes, you would assume that once it got on the highway there wouldn’t be much of a difference. But if it takes me FOURTEEN HOURS to see the only doctor that does HRT nearby, then that’s simply not viable. I have free time, but not that much. Not that much.

Of course, I could take an Uber. At this point it seems like the best option. Pay hundreds of dollars for a drive that would normally cost <$100 for gas, while stranding a complete stranger in an entirely different town. An Uber driver once told me that if they drove out of a certain area, they would have to drive all the way back to it before they could pick up more riders, which wastes their time and their money. If I order an Uber, I’m asking two separate strangers to make a two hour round trip drive in which they’re only allowed one rider at a time. Just an absolute dogshit thing to do to another person.

I live in Ontario, which is supposed to be Canada’s number one industrial powerhouse. We have the highest population of any province in the country, mostly in one dense area along the US border. Every year the government spends millions of dollars to maintain the roads and highways connecting all these places. And not one, NOT ONE train station in my whole fucking town? You’re telling me there’s enough money for the roads and highways and all the streetlights and fuel for transport trucks and construction. But it’s just not in the budget to lay down some fucking tracks and make commuting without a car fast and affordable? Really?

I guess if everyone just buys a car then that’s good for oil companies and insurance companies and car companies and… you know, all the people that get rich off covering everything in pavement and waiting for people to die. But for people like me who don’t have a car and need to get somewhere an hour away? Well, I guess we can just go fuck ourselves. It’s our fault for not having enough money to buy our own personal 3000 pound death machine.

Look. I get it. People like driving their little metal boxes around. It’s fun. Whatever. But human beings have been laying railroads (not like that) for literally hundreds of years. The industry my country loves so much was built on railroads. We KNOW that trains work, we KNOW that they’re fast and easy and they get people places on time, and we KNOW that they can transport WAY more people than a highway while taking up way less space. SO WHY THE FUCK IS THERE NO TRAIN STATION IN MY TOWN. WHY IS THE ROAD THE ONLY OPTION. WHY AM I STUCK USING BUSES AND RIDESHARING AND SHITTY HALF-MEASURES TO GET AROUND THIS OBVIOUS GAPING HOLE IN OUR PROVINCE’S AWFUL INFRASTRUCTURE. STOP ADDING MORE LANES TO THE GOD DAMN HIGHWAYS AND GIVE US A WORKING TRANSIT SYSTEM. JESUS FUCKING CHRIST.

[zvaigzdelasas]

On my commute, I pass by a house that recently put up a flag that appears to be the South Vietnam flag with a guy's face in the middle. Is there some South Vietnamese government-in-exile or something?

It's a communist government of course there is and of course its based in the US (specifically Anaheim) lol

Assumedly this guy? Đào Minh Quân

English Wikipedia:

Then one notable difference from the Việt wikipedia page is for "some reason" the English one doesn't mention the part where he's not only the self declared president of the Republic of Việt Nam but also the self declared Emperor

On June 19, 2022, Đào Minh Quân, supported by his political party, declared that the republican government would merge with the monarchy as "Emperor of the Empire of Vietnam". However, due to disagreements with other Vietnamese political parties in the United States, the organization was reorganized in early November 2022.

They've been trying to overthrow the Socialist Republic for years but have ramped up recently, don't let US strategizing around attacking China in the region lead you to believe they're not going for everywhere they can lol

[just-rogi]

“I DO NOT DREAM OF LABOR” this “LATE STAGE CAPITALIST BRAINROT” that- well I do. I do dream of labor. Idleness makes my hands buzz and my eyes glaze over. Of course I enjoy rest (what little of it I get with my job) but ultimately, yes, I do dream of labor. Labor is what I dream of most in fact-

I dream of creating : of having time to knit and sew and embroider my own garments, rather than let my yarn collect dust in my closet. I dream of creating poetry and art and spending hours illustrating something beautiful and having the time and energy to focus only on that.

I dream of biking the back roads of my town with my brother again collecting litter that we see and filling up plastic bags to sort into recycling and trash (two summers ago was the last time we biked together- the litter is building up now in the ditches).

I dream of tilling the soil in my mothers garden and watering the tomatoes and peppers and zucchini and Persian squash in the garden until I can harvest it. I dream of watering my neighbors garden and feeding her chickens every morning and every evening while they are away on vacation for a week. I dream of driving to my grandmothers house twice a week and bringing her fresh fruit bread and vegetables and cooking for her while she sits in the sun eating tomato salad I made.

I dream of mowing my mothers lawn and making my brother lunch and baking treats for the teachers room at work.

I dream of academia and dedicating hours to research to archaeology and anthropology and spending long hours on dig sites and in the lab as that was when I was the happiest in college.

I am one of the few people who can say that I really, truly, from the bottom of my heart, love my job and come home from work feeling a sense of fulfillment and pride in my work. I am a teacher and I dream of spending hours teaching children to read, teaching ancient civ and history, of reading texts on effecting teaching methods and finding interesting assignments for them. I dream of teaching them to draw during their free periods. I dream of taking them to the library to practice reading and language comprehension skills- of taking the time to sit with middle schoolers with learning disabilities and dedicate my time and energy to teaching them how to be functional adults and making their lives better. I dream of labor, yes, and I would bet that most of the tiktok communists who say “I do not dream of labor” fucking do to.

Labor is fulfilling. Humans dream to create and do something worthwhile- otherwise we lose our minds! But we are at such a late stage capitalism here in the west (specifically America) that we associate labor with exploitative labor.

I love my job- but I do not dream of skipping my lunch break. I do not dream of working 8:45-4:00. I do not dream of staying after work until 4:35 unpaid. I do not dream of small classrooms with little supplies. I do not dream of understaffed schools and overstuffed classrooms forcing teachers to stretch themselves too to pick up the slack. I do not dream of sending emails after working hours. I do not dream of forty minute unpaid commute due to dysfunctional public transport. I do not dream of coming home and crying from stress every night. I do not dream of my feet and ankles swelling and hurting so badly after a full day of work that all I can do when I get home is shower and sleep with my feet elevated to lessen the pain enough to slip my shoes on the next day. I do not dream of the pay being such that I have to live with four roomates in the city I live in, AS A CITY EMPLOYEE!!! IM A FUCKING PUBLIC SERVANT!! I WORK FOR THE CITY BUT DONT GET PAID ENOUGH TO LIVE IN THE CITY!!

I do dream of labor fuck I love labor but exploitation has made me resent work which I should love, and has taken up so much of my time that I have no energy to garden or to clean the roads or to knit gifts for friends and family anymore. I know that there are people who dream of being truck drivers and baristas and grocery store employees. I know that there are people who would feel fulfilled by being garbage men and construction workers and dishwashers, but who can’t because the abuse would kill them and the hours are too long.

I dream of labor I’m a world where I am not abused and where all my basic needs are met - I dream of labor in a world where labor isn’t the price of being alive, but rather one of the many joys of it.

[lil-tachyon]

Noticed that you take socialist banners as inspiration on your art and that made me curious about your political views, Are you a socialist or Marxist? Os just kinda left leaning?

I really enjoy your blog btw

I’m glad you’re into what I do! I appreciate the very direct question so I’ll try to give a very direct answer.

I would consider myself an anarcho-communist. At least, that’s the kind of society I’d like to live in. I genuinely believe the abolition of private property, states, and hierarchies is a real (if very difficult) possibility and is in the best interest of the vast majority of people. That said, I’m an anticapitalist and a socialist first and I’m broadly (if critically) supportive of most movements that have had any success fending off capital. I’m not so naïve that I ignore the real historical failures of anarchism to create alternatives to capitalism on the scale of the USSR,PRC, Cuba, etc.

My politics are still evolving and I only really became radicalized in the last couple years. But anarchism still makes the most sense to me.

That’s what I’ll say for now. I try to be transparent about the things I believe but also I’m literally a guy who draws robots on the internet. Nobody who follows this blog needs me to lecture them on politics lol. If anybody reading this wants more detail about my views you can send me an ask but depending on the question I may not answer it publicly. An email (tachyonart@gmail.com) may be better.

To keep this somewhat relevant to what I normally post about, here’s the New Jersey ancom flag I drew a little while back:

And some articles about socialist experiments in the Garden State:

-“The Anarchists Who Took the Commuter Train” about the Stelton Colony in what is now Piscataway.

-“Uncle Sam’s House: Anarchy in Piscataway” same topic but more focused specifically on the Goldman House (no, not that Goldman although I believe she visited the colony at some point), one of the last-standing and most distinctive structures from the Stelton Colony. Plus I’ll take any opportunity to plug Weird NJ.

-“Jersey Roots: Looking for Utopia in Colt’s Neck” on the Fourierest North American Phalanx Community.

-“All About the Utopia That Was Once in Perth Amboy, NJ” about the Raritan Bay Union, founded by dissatisfied former members of the North American Phalanx.

Also if anybody has the original newspaper article that talks about Peter Kropotkin visiting Jersey City, please send it my way. I’ve seen it referenced in a few places but I can’t track it down.

Peace,

Logan

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

Am I the asshole for not covering a shift?

I work in a very small store, five employees including myself and the owner. This means that often when someone is sick or has to call out, there’s very few people who can cover, and we all know it’s a matter of going in or closing the store.

This week, both my boss (K) and coworker (E) have been sick, leaving just myself and two others (J and N) available. N is the manager and has a full 40 hour schedule, so he often can’t take on extra shifts, and J has another job, which makes me the last line of defense currently.

This weekend I covered three shifts for E, very suddenly, and outside of my regular available hours, because of the emergency of it. E has another shift scheduled tomorrow, but she’s still sick, so our boss K asked who was able to cover it. N is already working and J has a shift at his other job. Which leaves me. But I have therapy appointments and plans with my housemates tomorrow, making me unavailable for the shift.

I initially said yes to the shift because I forgot about the appointments and thought that my housemates would be able to go without me, but then I realized I was the ride and they couldn’t. Then I remembered my appointment which gave even more conflicts.

I told my boss K this and she asked if there was any way I could come in for just an hour, as N’s shift ends an hour before closing, and if no one can cover the shift we’ll have to close the hour early. This really annoyed me, because… it’s just an hour. Who wants to do an hour shift? It seems more reasonable to close the store at that point than even ask.

I reminded her that I live 20 minutes away, and that I didn’t want to commute to work and back for a single hour. She said “oh right” and that she’d figure something out.

I’m really annoyed with her for trying to squeeze me into the shift, but I also know how annoying it must be that I said yes and then back tracked. I feel like a jerk for not being able to come in, but at the same time the little communist in me is screaming about how stupid labor is and I just…. Grrr!!!!

Am I the asshole?

What are these acronyms?

[polaroidcats]

I WANNA HEAR ABT ANTIFA WOLFSTARBUCKS

YAY! okay so the wip is a continuation of my last antifa wolfstarbucks post, idk if this will ever be a proper fic or if it will just live in tumblr posts forever but it's the morning after and remus woke up to his alarm (still at sirius & james's flat) for his weekly moss graffiti watering round, here's a snippet:

His mind is racing.. he's in bed with two incredible, funny, hot anarchists and he would love nothing more than to just stay there with them, in their cosy flat, and sleep and cuddle and maybe even fuck some more before he eventually has to leave. But... his moss friends are waiting for him and when Remus thinks about how sad and disappointed moss Karl Marx would look, waiting for Remus to appear like clockwork every sunday morning, waiting and waiting and seeing people go by, coming home from clubs, going on their morning runs or commutes, and none of them stop to spray his luscious green beard with a little water spray bottle? None of them stop to admire how beautifully wild his moss-hair has gotten? None of them gently stroke his beard and whisper lovely words of affirmation towards him, how he's the most beautiful moss portrait of a communist Berlin has ever seen, and no one, not even Friedmoss Engels will ever be as beautiful as Karl Moss? That thought makes Remus so sad, he can't disappoint his little moss buddies like that, both the plants and Karl deserve better than that. And if he only got 2 hours of sleep and his legs don't work as well as he wants them to, well so be it. A true mosslover and communist would never leave his mossy comrades to wilt just so he can cuddle with his lovers. Remus sighs and gently nudges James, hoping the man hasn't fallen asleep yet. James makes an incoherent noise which is enough for Remus to speak to him, softly, so they don't wake Sirius up as well. "I'm so sorry James but that alarm was for my moss graffiti round.. I really need to go and water them." 

[rootbeerrex]

saw this ad and had to do a double take because I saw the word "commute" and my brain auto filled the rest of it as "iced coffee makes you communist" and so naturally I assumed it was Karl Marx in the background but. it wasn't. so yeah. that happened to me. anyway do you think a loving god really exists or is a god that condemns his children to eternal suffering inherently evil

[metrotransitposter]

good morning to everyone EVEN the WOKE METRO TRANSIT COMMUTERS from HORRIBLE WOKE LIBERAL SOCIALIST state of MINNESOTA in the BEAUTIFUL MIDWEST how does it feel to know you WOKE TWIN CITIES TRANSIT RIDERS are DESTROYING our BEAUTIFUL and GREAT AMERICAN pastime of being stuck being steering wheel and miserable in our GREAT BIG BEAUTIFUL morning traffic in your RADICAL LEFT buses and trains and COMMUNIST BIKE LANES RETAKE YOUR CITY AND MAKE MORE GOOD AMERICAN EXHAUST FUMES

[azurdlywisterious]

The Brainless Ones (part 4)

Okay so it's been a few months, but hopefully this has been worth the wait! This time we're going from Beagle's perspective! Hopefully it won't take me another five months to write part 5 haha.

Word count: 2.5k

CW: body horror played for comedy (idk how else to describe sir’s empty head), very unethical scientific practices, mentat laced water, technically attempted suicide? viewer discretion is advised

“Okay,” Sir begins to summarize. “It looks like you got ‘commuter’ confused with ‘communist.’ A reasonable mistake, really, if you’ve never had anyone correct you.”

I don’t know what she wants me to say in response to all this. Her voice is fascinating to listen to, though. It’s choppy and mechanical, about as deep as mine yet strangely melodic.

I take a swing of whiskey from my flask and ask her, “You’re, like, some sort of powerful supercomputer, right?”

“That’s one way to put it,” she answers honestly.

“Does it bother you that I don’t know everything like you?”

“Why would it?” She tilts her bald head to the side. “Having a wide variety of perspectives and backgrounds and skills from a large variety of different people is the best way to keep statistical outliers from gaining a false prominence.”

I blink a couple of times, overwhelmed by her verbose vocabulary.

She continues, “Does that make sense?”

“I think?” I admit sheepishly.

“Think about it this way,” Sir adds on, “I know about communism and can explain that to you, covering that blind spot in your lobotomite data bank. You know how to make those smoke rings, covering a blind spot in my human one.”

“Those don’t seem very equivalent, Sir.”

She smiles brightly. “I disagree. All knowledge is valuable. To me at least. You might not think that knowing how to make those smoke rings is very valuable, but it says a lot about the people around you. It helps paint a more vivid picture of the environment where you grew up.” 

I feel my throat get tight, but do my best not to show it. I shove my hands deep into my pants pockets. 

“Yeah,” I reply, focusing solely on keeping my voice sounding smooth and steady, “something like that…”

“Also, we will be arriving at the NCRCF very soon,” she informs me. “What is the plan to, and I quote, ‘clear it out?’”

“You’re good at killing things, and there’s a lot of people there that need to go. Easy as that.”

Upon hearing that answer, Sir stops dead in her tracks. The constant hum of her fans cease for a few seconds before picking up at full speed. “‘Good at killing things?’”

Fuck. 

I try and salvage the conversation, starting, “Look, uh, what I meant-”

Her eyes constrict, staring daggers into me with her pinpoint sized pupils. “I was created by the Think Tank in order to explore and gather research on the outside world. I am not your killing machine.”

“That’s not what I meant!”

“Then what did you mean? How else could you manipulate this data?”

“Oh, manipulate?” I stare at her incredulously. “Is that what you think of me?”

“Better than being told you’re no more useful than a lobotomite.”

I can feel my blood start to boil. “Oh, of course! Why didn’t my stupid lobotomite brain think of that!”

“Lobotomites kill for no discernable reason. You are proving my point.”

“Those guys killed my sister and brother-in-law!” I yell louder than I should in this desert where everyone wants me dead. I grip the inner linings of my pockets, hoping that she won’t see me tremble. All my mental fortitude gets devoted to keep the cracks in my being from showing. 

And all she asks in return is, “Are all lobotomites this brutish and myopic?”

I grimace, running my tongue over my teeth as I try to find the right words.

She sighs, as if somehow knowing thatI wouldn’t have an answer to her question. 

I end up spitting out, “Let’s just keep going.”

As we walk, she keeps peppering me with questions about my family and the people at the NCRCF, but I just ignore her. If I answer any of her questions, I’ll start bawling like a baby. 

I can feel my eyes stinging. All I can do is hope that it’s just sand. 

She eventually stops asking me questions, instead choosing to chat with those disembodied voices that chime in occasionally. Just as well. I don’t feel like talking.

Once Sir has visual on the place, she stops the chattering and crouches down. I follow suit, holding my pistol out in front of me. 

I look over at Sir, distracted by some movement in her direction. I watch her as she points her fingers and thumbs in various directions. 

“What?” I whisper. 

She sighs and asks, “Are they hostile?”

“I have no reason to believe they wouldn’t be.”

She starts moving her hands in various patterns some more before giving up. “Just… wait here. I’ll handle it.”

“I can’t just let a lady go in all by herself.”

“If you think I’m so good at killing, then you should be fine with me walking in alone,” she says, steadying my shaking hand with hers. Her skin is cold and kinda tingly. I can feel my hair stand on end a little bit. 

I pull out my tape recorder to take notes as she works. 

“Sir is stealthily making her way towards the front gate,” I start. “There are a few Powder Gangers on the towers above, but they don’t see her. She walks up to the front gate without cover. I fear that this might be the end for Sir. She’s talking to one of those Powder Gangers stationed at the entrance. I can’t make out what she’s saying, however her posture has changed. I see her hold her hands out to them palms first.”

I stop narrating as a loud buzz emanates from her hands. I’m far enough away that it doesn’t bother me, but the guards at the front collapse. By Jove, I think their ears are bleeding. 

I continue, “Sir managed to neutralize the guards with some device I can’t see. It emitted a loud noise that caused the men to collapse. I think their ears are bleeding. I’m going to move in closer to see how things are going.”

As I slowly crawl my way towards the gate, I can hear Sir tearing it up on the inside. Gunshots ring out, but are quickly silenced by the loud buzz of whatever Sir’s weapon is. I take another swig of whisky before crossing the gate’s threshold. 

I see her standing in the middle of a pile of dead bodies, all of which have blood spilling from their ears. She looks rattled. As I get closer, I can hear the sound of her fans overclocking. Her skin glistens from sweat as she pants. She moves like she’s in slow motion, or drunk.

Sir turns around sluggishly and slurs out, “Beagle?”

She tries to stumble forward, but ends up collapsing. I dash forward and catch her just in time. She’s much heavier than she looks. Must be all those computer parts. 

Her skin is feverishly hot, so hot that it almost burns mine on contact. I have to get her somewhere out of the sun that’s safe. Good thing I see a building right in front of me. 

I sling her over my shoulder, not even taking the time to ask what’s wrong. Lord knows we don’t have time for that. 

Upon entering, I see that I had chosen wrong and that we aren’t alone. Four Powder Gangers aim guns at us while one runs upstairs. 

I hold my free hand up, trying so hard not to jitter and shake. 

My hands start to tremble a little as I allot focus to keeping my voice level enough to ask, “Truce? Please?”

“That’s the bastard that killed all our men!” The one closest to us answers, gun still trained on me. 

“Sir?”

“What?” He snaps. “You think that being a kiss ass will keep me from pumping both of you full of lead?”

“Please, I-”

From the doorway, a voice booms, “Marky, stand down.”

He nods as a tall man with a hardened exterior makes his presence known. His straight brown hair is slicked back. There’s an evil glint in his eye. He paces over to me, a sadistic smile dancing across his lips. I try to back away on quivering legs, but I don’t get far. 

“Silver hair,” he says as he plucks the worthless badge from my chest, “and a deputy. I think I’ve heard of you.”

“I think you might have the wrong person, uh… officer?”

He chuckles darkly in response. “Officer Eddie, I like that. Maybe I’ll let you live, George Beagle.”

I can feel my stomach drop when he says my name. Sir tries to move, but I can tell that whatever’s wrong with her hasn’t been fixed. She’s tragically dead weight on my shoulder right now. 

He continues, “Scooter over there told me all about your kidnapping and ransom. I’d try and make a deal with you; but, from what he told me, I doubt that you could even pull a trigger on yourself. I mean, you certainly couldn’t as that lovely couple got murdered one room away.”

I feel my heart burn as hot as Sir’s skin still is. “What? Want me to prove it?”

He snort laughs at the idea. “Sure, why not? If the little pissy crybaby can kill himself like a man, then I’ll let him live.”

As Eddie continues to laugh, I hear Sir wheeze, “Beagle… this is a bad idea.”

Focus, Beagle, focus. Eddie offers me his pistol. Hands shaking, I take it. 

I press the gun to my temple. By Jove, what am I doing?! Sir is right, this is a terrible idea. 

Unless I can pull this off. 

As fast as I possibly can, I change the aim of the gun to have it point at Eddie. I land a few shots before he goes down. 

Hellfire rains down as the other guys realize their leader is dead. 

Without thinking I run back outside, doing my best to shield Sir from the gunfire. A few bullets nick me, but nothing fatal. 

I high tail it out of there as fast as I can. My lungs and legs are on fire, but I’m not going to leave Sir behind. 

I hear her camera eyes click occasionally as I run. Eventually, I find some demoed buildings far away from the facility to hunker down inside. 

I do my best to fan Sir with my hands. Anything to cool her down. I notice that her camera eyes are shut, but I can still hear her wheezing over my own. 

Once I see her sit up and open her eyes, I collapse from exhaustion. Maybe a bit of blood loss. I don’t know. My head feels kinda fuzzy. 

“Wow,” I hear her say. “You’re lucky you’re still alive.”

“What?”

“There’s at least three near misses that would have been fatal had they actually hit their mark.”

“Don’t tell me where,” I tell her as I reach for my flask. 

“Strange, but alright.” She snaps a few pictures with her camera eyes before asking, “Do you have any disinfectant on you?”

“Disinfectant?”

“Yes, like alcohol, heat, or radiation.”

I sigh deeply and hand her the flask. 

“Alcohol, Beagle,” she clarifies, “not water.”

“Whisky’s alcohol, right?”

She opens the flask and waves her hand between the opening and her nose.

Finally, she comments, “That would explain your poor hydration levels.” 

“I’m doin’ fine, Sir,” I reassure her as she opens up her head to get me a bottle of water. It’s weird that I’m getting used to that. 

“You really should be staying hydrated out in this desert heat.”

“I could say the same to you,” I retort as I accept her bottle. 

“What happened earlier was because I had to overclock my systems. It was either that or die.”

I take a sip of water as she talks. It tastes kinda funny, sweet but chemically; but I don’t question it. 

After a few sips, something clicks inside my head. 

“I never told you why we were heading to the NCRCF before our argument.”

“Oh.” She grimaces at the memory. “Yes. Our argument.”

“Sir, I’m sorry for what I said to you. I don’t how I could make it up to you aside from promises, but I know you like information. I can give you that in recompense.”

“Information on what?” She asks me, her expression softening.

“Anything you want, really. I could tell you about why it was hard for me to tell why I wanted to clear the NCRCF as badly as I did.”

She smiles slightly, the keyhole scars under her eyes morphing a bit. “I would like that.”

I sit up next to her, propping myself up against a wall and pull out my tape recorder. I scrub through until I find my recordings from that night. 

I pass Sir the device as it plays so that I can take another swig of whiskey. I got you, Barb.

Once the tape has finished playing, Sir sets the recorder down and shuts her eyes to think. I take the chance to pull out my handkerchief and dry my eyes without her noticing.

Her eyes shift open as I put my handkerchief. 

The first thing she asks me is, “Why a voice note? I notice that your hands shake, is that why?”

The question catches me off guard. “I guess? I’ll be honest, I’ve never thought about it that much.”

“Was this what prompted them to kill your sister and brother-in-law?”

“You ask a lot of blunt questions,” I laugh quietly through the pain, “but yeah, I’d assume so. After I was rescued, I went back to their house. I guess there was a part of me that still believed that they would be alive when I got back.”

“Grief is… odd from what I’ve researched,” Sir comments thoughtfully. “Not the actual act of grieving, but what can result from it.”

“It was easily the worst day of my life,” I muse and take another swig of whiskey. “It felt like-”

I take a second to gather my thoughts as Sir stares at me.

I give her a sad smile. “Like my world got set on fire. And I was left to sift through the ashes.”

“Fascinating,” she chirps.

I go to take another swig of whiskey, but find that I’ve run out.

“My turn for a question.” I ask, “Do you have any more water?”

She nods and picks up the half full bottle I set down next to me.

After I take another sip of that chemically tasting water, I ask her, “Say, what’s in this water?”

“Is it not just water?”

“Take a sip,” I offer, handing it to her.

She tastes it, ponders the flavor. She hands it back to me and casually replies, “It tastes like Mentats. It must be from Dr. Mobius.”

I pause for a second, weighing my options. I shrug, deciding to take another drink. At least it’s not got dust particles floating in it.

I fall asleep easily soon after. I trust that Sir could keep me safe during the cold desert night.

[orpheuslament]

Hi! I adored your poem so much that I got excited and had lots of thoughts about your lovely writing. So one thing led to another, I wrote some notes, and I thought it might be a fun experience to share my thoughts with you. So here are my notes on Sharing a Cigarette with Joan of Arc. This isn’t nearly everything that there is to say about this piece, I just wanted to gush about my favorite aspects of my initial reading (which may or may not have happened when I was drunk, I will admit). 

(Also, sorry if it’s a bit confusing, there are lots of grammatical mistakes and lacks structure. I mostly wrote/adapted this on my phone this morning while commuting and English isn’t my native language. I’m so sorry if I’m not quoting you right too, I’m mostly doing this from the top of my head)

As a queer person myself, I am very familiar with feeling small & vulnerable, grasping at the straws to figure out who (what?) I am, stuck in limbo, which is probably why I love it so much that your barebone characters melt into one another, the mirroring and entanglement that lasts only for a moment but isn’t any less significant. I loved the metaphorical give-and-take between the reader and Joan (a conversation that never happened between past and present. A revelation of sorts? Euh, I can imagine that) echoing the banality of sharing a cigarette with a stranger at the bar (Joan borrows your lighter but she rolls your cigarette and you’re sharing the same experience). I loved the economy of words, the graceful dryness of the writing. There’s no need to say too much for us to see what we’ve been looking for; your poetry is a mirror (I don’t remember what was the first piece of you that I’ve read, but I thought it was cruel; demanding & merciless. I loved it).

I love the parallels between the scene and the content, the characters are standing in between spaces (religious & secular space, masculinity & femininity, freedom & constraint, etc…) both figuratively and literally  (‘the emergency exit of a Parisian bar”). More generally; I love the back and forth between temporalities, the inside & outside, the person & the saint.

Ok, here’s something interesting; the figure of Joan of Arc is very ambivalent. She’s revered as a martyr and a Catholic saint (she was beatified in 1909 and then canonized in 1920 if I remember well, so that’s pretty recent, and an interesting political move) but she’s also considered a feminist icon, and a national symbol,  so as far as historical figures go, she is associated with various movements and currents of thoughts. Joan is a figure of antithesis. During World War I, her image was used to fuel the French national sentiment, and during World War II, she was simultaneously a symbol of Pétain’s France of Vichy, a symbol of the Résistance under de Gaulle's leadership, and of the Communist resistance. This is kinda crazy when you think about it because nowadays she’s mostly associated with the monarchists, and more generally the  French far-right (every year the RN celebrates JoA on the 8th of May. There’s a funny story to it). Her legacy is rich and contradictory, and it tells you exactly nothing about who she might have been; because she had no say in how her story was recorded, and the chronicles of her life were written by people who had lots of stake in how future generations would interpret her actions (& their inaction). We know nothing about who she was; “ I don’t want them to keep me. As a saint you lose all autonomy, your body is not yours to bury.” But that’s also what makes her so fascinating, right? I personally very much love the ambivalence of Joan's image; because to me as a French person, she’s deeply associated with a sense of identity (Joan’s sense of self is her divine right), but she’s also a symbol of individuality, transgression & defiance against social norms. That’s why I loved the ideological scope of your poem so much; a reinterpretation of the myth that reconciles every one of these facets. I love her for what she tells me about the loneliness of the struggle; the push to action; the jaded resilience and determination. (On a side note, did you know The Second Coming of Joan of Arc by Carolyn Gage or  I, Joan by Charlie Josephine? I’m kinda betting that you do cuz you seem pretty well-read, but if that’s not the case, those might be interesting and right up your alley) “In poet’s tongues & in the tip of the artist’s fingers. In the sound, a young girl’s hair makes when it falls to on her shoulders, in the way a boy creates himself with a pair of kitchen scissors & his parent’s dismissal. Patron saint of non-conformists, angel of the oversized sweater, of the buzzcut & the transsexual.” Those are my favorite lines, you have no idea how much i'd wanted to hear that.

I love the use of religious imagery in this context; the run-on pattern of light and fire that is so pervasive within the Christian mythology that’s associated here with the cigarette, which simultaneously joins the images of fire, smoke, and ashes, and defines the temporality of the piece as well; that transient moment of sharing a cigarette & chatting with a stranger at a bar (watching a small fox chasing a butterfly). Of course, Jeanne was burned at the stake so the association with fire is pretty commonplace, but what I love most is how you’ve capitalized on so many aspects of the symbolism of light and fire at once, be if within the Christian mythology and some sort of collective imaginary driven but many other influences, a rich network of associations feeding into one another. For instance, fire is often used as a symbol of God's presence in Christianity (‘ to be touched by God is to be destined to early fire’). In the New Testament, Jesus is the one who brings fire to the earth, and the Holy Spirit is the "tongues of flame" (in this case, I love the idea that there are so many readings available to your poems because your art is also a revelation, this is also your language,  ‘in poet’s tongues & in the tip of the artist’s fingers’) In Joans’s hands, the cigarette becomes an object of worship, much like in Christianity, the worship of fire was preserved through ritual candles (‘omens of a future in which her name is constantly lit by candlelight’). Religion and sanctity are simultaneously the conditions that make transcendence possible and the reason why Joan’s freedom is constrained. Fragile and illusory (the angel is parallel with a bird, a butterfly chased by a small fox. Which almost feels like a warning. Being seen is a point of no return. Doesn’t mean it’s not worth it). More generally (I’m thinking of Bachelard’s book, The Psychoanalysis of Fire, but I’m pretty sure any dictionary of symbols might say the same), and maybe more crucially, fire is associated with change, passion, or inspiration. Fire is the element of conversion in alchemy because everything that touches fire is irreversibly transformed, and often changed beyond recognition. But I kinda imagine that it’s not so much that fire has the ability to change something but instead fire reveals the underlying form of an element. Something that was there all along, a potential. As an element, fire has also mixed symbolism because it represents vitality and destruction, life and death, the lights of heaven and the pits of hell, a force that can be helpful when controlled (a candle, the cigarette), but volatile if left unchecked (the early fire; the pyre).

Association between the reader (you) and Joan, threading both into the same thoughts and experiences, creating a sense of belonging and understanding. I love the reference to physical transformation as liberating and cementing your sense of self and identity. Also, the repeating sequences about the hair reminded me of Patti Smith’s poem, “jeanne d’arc” which is also a subversion of the myth though she’s exploring a different alley. I love these lines, “got no hair / weighing me / cut so close / scalp is nicked”. I never knew it was such a universal experience, cutting your hair real short for the first time. I used to be so scared.

I love the choppy rhythm of your prose, the use of asyndeton that was kinda taken to the extreme, with the short sentences, you often dropping the subject clause, speech melting into thoughts into memories. There’s something organic about this that’s not quite like the usual stream of consciousness. Your poetry is like being out of breath.

Moreover, the dynamics of the passing of time are really neat in that piece, because you get the feeling that time stops, and freely moves backward (recollections; but also Joan’s presence - a sweet apparition) and forward (anticipation, and our knowledge of history, the cost of transgressing social norms throughout the past centuries. How far we’ve gone and how far we still have to go), which allows the reader to connect the dots on their own and retrace the underlying stories that transpire between the lines (Joan’s past, her fears, and doubts, her aspirations, etc… everything that makes Joan her own person before she is a Saint dispossessed of herself), gradually revealed in a smooth mix of inner dialogues, more distant thoughts & flashbacks, every aspect of the events connected to the characters and their journey. How brilliant.

On a side note, I am often reminded of Angels in America reading your poetry, mostly because you’re very similar in how you’re queering religious spaces (that is using religious motifs to express ideals, devotion, while simultaneously criticizing religious institutions & the dangerous hypocrisy of their tenants). You’re more radical tho, and I love your writing for that.

Alright, I'm done rambling. Good evening & take care!

THIS IS SO FUCKING COOL IM GOING TO CRY i loved Loved LOVED reading your thoughts about my poetry im always stunned when people take the time to analyze something ive written. sometimes you guys figure out things i didnt even know i was doing!! its such a cool way to discover things about myself + my writing. ill admit that sharing a cigarette is not the best thing ive written but seeing how it resonates w people fills my heart with joy. also i cant believe youre comparing my work to aia that play was extremely formative for me ive read it three times i think!! thank you sososososososo much!!!

[brookstonalmanac]

Events 4.19 (after 1940)

1942 – World War II: In German-occupied Poland, the Majdan-Tatarski ghetto is established, situated between the Lublin Ghetto and a Majdanek subcamp. 1943 – World War II: In German-occupied Poland, the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising begins, after German troops enter the Warsaw Ghetto to round up the remaining Jews. 1943 – Albert Hofmann deliberately doses himself with LSD for the first time, three days after having discovered its effects on April 16, an event commonly known and celebrated as Bicycle Day. 1956 – Actress Grace Kelly marries Prince Rainier of Monaco. 1960 – Students in South Korea hold a nationwide pro-democracy protest against president Syngman Rhee, eventually forcing him to resign. 1971 – Sierra Leone becomes a republic, and Siaka Stevens the president. 1971 – Launch of Salyut 1, the first space station. 1971 – Charles Manson is sentenced to death (later commuted to life imprisonment) for conspiracy in the Tate–LaBianca murders. 1973 – The Portuguese Socialist Party is founded in the German town of Bad Münstereifel. 1975 – India's first satellite Aryabhata launched in orbit from Kapustin Yar, Russia. 1975 – South Vietnamese forces withdrew from the town of Xuan Loc in the last major battle of the Vietnam War. 1976 – A violent F5 tornado strikes around Brownwood, Texas, injuring 11 people. Two people were thrown at least 1,000 yards (910 m) by the tornado and survived uninjured. 1984 – Advance Australia Fair is proclaimed as Australia's national anthem, and green and gold as the national colours. 1985 – Two hundred ATF and FBI agents lay siege to the compound of the white supremacist survivalist group The Covenant, the Sword, and the Arm of the Lord in Arkansas; the CSA surrenders two days later. 1987 – The Simpsons first appear as a series of shorts on The Tracey Ullman Show, first starting with "Good Night". 1989 – A gun turret explodes on the USS Iowa, killing 47 sailors. 1993 – The 51-day FBI siege of the Branch Davidian building in Waco, Texas, USA, ends when a fire breaks out. Seventy-six Davidians, including 18 children under age 10, died in the fire. 1995 – Oklahoma City bombing: The Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City, USA, is bombed, killing 168 people including 19 children under the age of six. 1999 – The German Bundestag returns to Berlin. 2000 – Air Philippines Flight 541 crashes in Samal, Davao del Norte, killing all 131 people on board. 2001 – Space Shuttle Endeavour is launched on STS-100 carrying the Canadarm2 to the International Space Station. 2005 – Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger is elected to the papacy and becomes Pope Benedict XVI. 2011 – Fidel Castro resigns as First Secretary of the Communist Party of Cuba after holding the title since July 1961. 2013 – Boston Marathon bombing suspect Tamerlan Tsarnaev is killed in a shootout with police. His brother Dzhokhar is later captured hiding in a boat inside a backyard in the suburb of Watertown. 2020 – A killing spree in Nova Scotia, Canada, leaves 22 people and the perpetrator dead, making it the deadliest rampage in the country's history. 2021 – The Ingenuity helicopter becomes the first aircraft to achieve flight on another planet.

[zvaigzdelasas]

The IB affair (Swedish: IB-affären) was the exposure of illegal surveillance operations by the IB secret Swedish intelligence agency within the Swedish Armed Forces. The two main purposes of the agency were to handle liaison with foreign intelligence agencies and to gather information about communists and other individuals who were perceived to be a threat to the nation.[...]

The story was immediately picked up by many leading Swedish dailies.[3] Their revelations were that: •There was a secret intelligence agency in Sweden called IB, without official status. Its director Birger Elmér was reporting directly to select key persons at cabinet level, most likely defence minister Sven Andersson and Prime Minister Olof Palme. •The Riksdag was unaware of its activities. People with far-left views had been monitored and registered. •IB agents had infiltrated Swedish left-wing organisations and sometimes tried to induce them into criminal acts. •There were Swedish spies operating abroad. IB spies had broken into the Egyptian and Algerian embassies in Stockholm. •The IB co-operated extensively with the Central Intelligence Agency and Shin Bet, in contrast to the official Swedish foreign policy of neutrality.[...]

In the following issues of Folket i Bild/Kulturfront the two uncovered further activities of IB and interviewed a man who had infiltrated the Swedish movement supporting the FNL, Vietnamese National Front for the Liberation of South Vietnam - at this time the FNL support network was a backbone of the radical opinion - and among other things, visited Palestinian guerilla camps in Jordan. The man worked for IB and had composed reports that, it was surmised, IB later passed on to the Israeli security services which resulted in the camps being bombed. [...]Swedish authorities claimed they were unable to locate him to stand trial. In 2009, he released an autobiography of his years in IB[...] He also confirmed that he had been transferred from IB to the Mossad, an Israeli intelligence agency, immediately prior to his exposure.[...]

The magazine had information from a previous employee of IB, Håkan Isacson, who claimed that IB had broken into the offices of two political organizations: the FNL Groups, a pro-North Vietnamese organization, and the Communist Party of Sweden, a Maoist political party. This concerned a Jordanian citizen and a stateless citizen. A wiretap was installed in the latter case. After this uncovering, the defense minister did admit that IB engaged in espionage outside of Sweden and infiltrated organizations within Sweden, including wiretaps. Evidence was put forth in 1974 that IB had built up a large network of agents in Finland, which included the Finnish foreign minister Väinö Leskinen. This network's main mission was to gather information regarding the Soviet Union.[...]

In November 1973, Prime Minister Olof Palme denied any link between IB and the Social Democrats. However, according to the memoir of ex-security service chief P.G. Vinge, Birger Elmér had regular contact with Palme and made his reports regularly to the Social Democratic Party secretary, Sven Andersson.[...]

Jan Guillou, Peter Bratt, Håkan Isacson and the photographer Ove Holmqvist were arrested 22 October 1973[2] by the Swedish Security Service on suspicion of espionage. On 4 January 1974 each was sentenced to 1 year in prison. Bratt and Guillou were both convicted of espionage; Isacson was convicted of espionage and accessory to espionage. After an appeal, Guillou's sentence was commuted to 10 months. The Swedish Supreme Court would not consider the case.[4][...]

In 2002 an extensive public report, named Rikets säkerhet och den personliga integriteten (Security of the Realm and personal integrity), was published on the operations of IB. This report clarified the details of the case, but it did not have any legal impact. To date, no member of IB has ever been indicted, nor has any politician or government official, despite the revelation of widespread extra-constitutional and criminal activity.

[grits-galraisedinthesouth]

The January 6th riots were obviously a national embarrassment. The January 6th theatre we’ve witnessed since is a global, historical, unadulterated farce.

Yesterday’s partisan committee hearing on January 6th was nothing short of a national embarrassment. No doubt the January 6th riots were, too. Had pipsqueak Pence done his job, the country would look far different today. But two wrongs don’t make a right. How Democrats continue to abuse their power for the partisan persecution of their political opponents will remain a stain on America’s body politick for generations to come.

The most humiliating moments – especially for the audiences watching from around the world – saw all four “stars” of the “show” crying for the television cameras.

Crying over havoc.

Harry Dunn, Adam Kinzinger, Aquilino Gonell, and Adam Schiff all boo-hooed on international television, signaling nothing but weakness to America’s adversaries. But why should they care? These men are more concerned about climate change activist shaman than they are about the Chinese Communist Party. More on that, later. Schiff, recall, was once the latest in a string of purported titans who were set to “take down Trump,” in the failed impeachment proceedings. Yesterday, he reverted to his natural state of sobbing little manlet, keen to play up his “human” side for the cameras. A crock, if ever there was one. ‘The Worst Attack EVER!’

The narrative has suggested that January 6th was “the worst attack” on the United States since, like, ever. The moderate position appears to be that it was the worst attack since my people (the British) burned the White House down. And yet, anyone with even a cursory knowledge of American history would righty guffaw at such claims. Hell, anyone with a functioning memory should be able to see through the pantomimish postulation. Consider 1954, when four armed Puerto Ricans took positions in the gallery overlooking the chamber of the House of Representatives and opened fire. They wounded five Members of Congress: two Republicans and three Democrats. It was a pretty heinous attack. Of course Jimmy Carter commuted the terrorists’ life sentences later on.

Or how about in 1971, when a left-wing protester planted an actual bomb that actually exploded outside the Senate.

“The Congressional reaction was generally restrained,” the New York Times reported at the time. No such luck this time.

Or consider 1983, when a massive blast tore through the Capitol building, luckily killing no one, but leading to the modern identification requirements needed to enter the building. In a way, this attack killed the openness of America’s legislature, which had been almost totally open to the public prior. The culprits – Laura Whitehorn, Marilyn Buck, and Linda Evans – were all radical Marxists.

Whitehorn served 14 years and is now a lauded figure on the left. Buck served 25 years before being released to die from cancer a month later. Evans served 11 years, got parole, and then had her sentence commuted by Bill Clinton.

You could also take the 1915 bombing, carried out by Harvard University professor Frank Holt aka Eric Muenter. Or perhaps more contemporaneously, the storming of the Senate by hundreds of left-wing activists intent on stopping the confirmation of a Supreme Court judge.

Over 60 Secret Service personnel were assaulted and injured when far-left activists descended on Trump’s White House in 2020, frustrated at the then-President’s seeming cruise to re-election. Shortly after, Democrats would abandon plans to “storm” or “besiege” the White House and fixated their efforts on changing election laws around the country, as The National Pulse originally reported. Of course, there are a number of similar incidents, none of which attracted the condemnation nor the committee hearings as January 6th.

(Hat-tip to Yossi Gestetner on Twitter for assembling this list of incidents).

Friends in High Places.

Much like some of the Marxist revolutionaries who found comfort in the arms of Carter and Clinton, some of yesterday’s characters have friends in high places, too.

Police officer Harry Dunn, who spent a not insignificant amount of time in yesterday’s hearing ragging on America and “racism,” appears to be represented by long-time Democrat lelgal creep Mark Zaid.

Zaid, if you recall the name, is the guy who very much enjoys frequenting Disney Land alone, as a grown man. His YouTube contained videos such as “Top 10 prettiest disney channel stars” and “Selena Gomez from child to women.”

(Zaid’s creepy YouTube page.)

Zaid – who once declared that a “coup” against President Trump was underway – is one of the most critical lawyers in Democratic Party circles. But he’s nowhere near as important as Dunn’s other mates: Nancy Pelosi and Jamie Raskin.

Raskin was another of the Democrats’ failed impeachment managers, against Trump. Pelosi, we all know, is drunk Satan.

Crooks and Dunn.

It boggles the mind how lawmakers and police officers can cry about feeling threatened during a committee meeting, but then make their partisan preferences so abundantly clear. No Republican on Capitol Hill could possibly feel safe again, after yesterday’s display. Not least because Dunn appears to be an ardent support of a Marxist movement, linked to the Chinese Communist Party. Black Lives Mao-tter.

Dunn’s Twitter page is adorned with BLM propaganda.  He doesn’t even try to hide it.

The same group that terrorized Washington, D.C. including the Capitol Hill neighborhoods Dunn is supposed to concern himself with is one of Dunn’s faves.

After they burned St. John’s Church, besieged the White House, lay waste to businesses across the Capitol, and injured and killed dozens across the country, Dunn endorsed BLM. Who’s the real danger to America?

(Dunn and daughter pose at ‘BLM Plaza’.)

But Dunn’s links to the group aren’t just concerning given their recent, domestic terrorist activities. BLM is a front organization for radical communists inspired by and working with the Chinese Communist Party. In other words, hostile foreign actors now have guns on the ground on Capitol Hill. Refresh your memory, if you need to, about the hardline Marxist authoritarian goals of the group: from praising mass murderer Mao to launching blatantly genocidal attacks on Israel. Forget just Republicans feeling unsafe around Dunn. Jewish Members of Congress and staffers on the Hill should probably watch out, given his subscribed ideology and thought leaders. Critical race theory proponents have also been on Chinese Communist-sponsored trips, as reported by The National Pulse.

Crying-on-Crying-on-Crying.

Naturally, in response to my live online commentary about the farcical nature of yesterday’s events, left-Twitter went mental. Again. Especially Luke O’Brien – himself a Chinese Communist-linked researcher who attempted to intimidate me by giving away where I like to drink in Washington, D.C., which is hardly a secret but O’Brien was obviously dog-whistling to his violent followers. In other words, their response to the children crying on television yesterday was to cry at me some more on Twitter. Truly a meta-pathetic American altercation. I hesitate to say it since this country has been so kind to me, but folks, the whole world is now laughing at you. From your Women’s Soccer Team celebrating a 3-0 loss, to your athletes winning awards for dropping out of the Olympics, to your elections being an evident farce, to your lawmakers and elected officials crying on television. This isn’t the America anyone from abroad falls in love with. This is a national and international embarrassment. And it’s only just the beginning. Full Fraud Farce.

We know the full fraud farce is coming into full effect. As I posted to GETTR at the unreasonable hour of airport-o-clock this morning, “One of the most deeply concerning parts of the political establishment’s stupidity-arrogance complex is how easily fooled they’re going to be when nefarious actors and foreign agents plant fake, malicious “evidence” about political adversaries writ large. The state will rush to deny their own citizens the most fundamental rights. Trump/Russia was a very basic test case and US institutions totally failed.” Not only are Democrats willing to take the knee – even when they’re draped in the cloth of literal slavers – they’re willing to use the apparatus of state to aggressively and violently persecute the opponents of foreign, Communist, hostile powers.

China doesn’t need to start a war with the United States. They’ve started a war within the United States.

In search for intellectually unachievable omnipotence, Democrats are more than willing to fight it for them.

The January 6th riots were obviously a national embarrassment. The January 6th theatre we’ve witnessed since is a global, historical, unadulterated farce.

[flourescencia]

this system does not need to make me work 8 hours a day + 3 hours of commute but it does so because otherwise I'd use my free time to get involved with communist collectives to expose how democracy and freedom don't exist