#Proletarian Venus

[apixellife]

It's the little things

FREE Gestures to lock and unlock your avatars ankles using a key press (defaults to F12). Includes FREE full permission priority 6 animation. Includes notecard with the gestures and animation embedded, so you can share it with your friends by just passing out the notecard. No HUD required.No Scripts required.Does not and can never cause LAG.Does not waste an attachment point.Works with…

[milkboydotnet]

there are so many comrades, so many kasamas, that i barely know, but i see often enough to have been able to witness some of their growth. i see some of the ways they are letting themselves be challenged, i see them taking up more tasks and becoming more confident in the movement and the people and the analyses developed through decades and decades of global struggle, and i see their growing creativity and the ways they bring class struggle to every venue and platform. growing in collective life, growing in proletarian discipline, growing in class love. i see them becoming more and more taken by love for the people. you can see it in their eyes, too. and it gives me hope, for myself and the people. thank you, kasamas, for giving your life to the people. i hope you can see what i see in you all, and i hope it also gives you faith.

[deafeningwastelandllama]

THE ROCK BAND

ATTENZIONE – ATTENZIONE - ATTENZIONE ***** AND IF YOU DARE TO HIRE THE DANGEROUS ROCK BANDS FOR YOUR MASSIVE EVENTS, YOU WILL DAMAGE THE BRAIN TO ALL THE PUBLIC ATTENDED THE VENUE AND INNOCENT LIKE A BABY IN ARMS BECAUSE MANY THIEVES ALSO GO TO STEAL AMONG THE CROWD, WHILE THEY ARE DISTRACTED LISTENING TO THE SHIT OF MUSIC THESE SEMI MUSICIANS PLAY WHO SHOULD WORK BETTER OF PROSTITUTES TO OFFER THEIR SERVICES ON THE STREETS. ***** AND MUCH LESS TO LAT – RAN – XXX - VES – TRI – ONE THE FIRST AND TROUBLESHOOTING SINGER OF EL PHERI SÁNCHEZ Rock and Band BECAUSE A COUPLE OF DAYS AGO SHE WAS BETATED BY THE INTERNATIONAL MAFIA AND FOR THE BIG TANTRUTTER... … … ***** LAT RAN XXX VES - TRI ONE ***** MADE… HER MENSTRUATION WAS DELAYED CAUSING BIG AWFUL PAINS IN LABOR THAT NOT EVEN YOUR MOM IN FULL SPRING WOULD HOLD BREATH AND FOR THAT REASON LA DIVA WILL NO LONGER PLAY ANYMORE AT YOUR FUCKEN CONCERTS BECAUSE HER MUSICAL PROPOSAL ATTENTS AGAINST EVERYTHING ESTABLISHED BY THE NEW ORDER WORLDWIDE TO THE EXTENT THAT THE SEX PISTOLS LOOK LIKE BEAUTIFUL ANGELS FALLEN FROM HEAVEN COMPARED TO THE AGGRESSIVENESS OF LA-TRANXXX WHO BECAME THE PUBLIC ENEMY NUMBER ONE AND THAT'S WHY THE PRETTY GIRL IS NOT A PUNK. ***** Firstable, because LAT – RAN – XXX - VES – TRI - ONE is the firsth singer of EL PHERI SÁNCHEZ Rock and Band as El Caballero Águila, who was born in 1820 and is still so active in the streets of El Distrito Federal México, but since she does not have La Mini Sinfónica to quiet the beasts it was because the fucking musicians abandoned her and went on a political tour to The United Mexican States of the North, formerly called the (usa) and for these reasons she was forced to sing the songs of EL PHERI SÁNCHEZ alone like an-out-of-tune-macaw and I wonder if after these damn recommendations YOU still give the opportunity to The Goddes of Darkness to perform on your stage completely free of charge, but she will never do it, that's why we will never thank you with our hearts in our hands and what do you say ladies and gentlemen, AURRERA (which means YES) or NOPALONG CASSIDY (which means NO) , but for now we wish you a Merry Christmas in 2023 and a Happy New Year in 2024 and thank you very much for your kind attention, sincerely. El Robert M. Sánchez ¡!!! ***** And no one could imagine why LAT – RAN – XXX - VES – TRI - ONE changed an entire male world to become a degenerate woman who suddenly jumped from The Hippie Movement to The Punks Bench only because she realized that at the dawn of the counterculture the protest songs were going to end contaminating themselves with anarchy, something that the proletarian society quickly became frightened of the cock and hugged from the balls seeking refuge in sin and then burning The Divas in green wood, alleging to The Judge more than singing to The Sacramented God it seemed that all the songs of EL PHERI SÁNCHEZ Rock and Band as El Caballero Águila dedicated them to The Devil Himself. ***** And as the last beggar threatens THE BLACK AND WHITE RECORDS tells you that in the immediate future la-tranxxx will never play again in The United Mexican States of The North, nor in The United Mexican States of The South, nor in Europe and much less in The United Kingdom because these three countries are the most unfaithful that the ex former hippie has trampled.

[connorthemaoist]

“Various proletarian-socialist, anti-imperialist, and democratic parties representing peoples from across the world gathered from 14 to 15 October 2023 in Amsterdam, the Netherlands for the Theoretical Conference on Imperialism and War convened upon the invitation of the National Democratic Front of the Philippines (NDFP).

The two-day conference provided a venue for proletarian-socialist discussions on burning theoretical issues with urgent political and practical significance. This aimed to help form the basis of common understanding in the forthcoming period of great turbulence in the global capitalist system.”

[renposter]

I actually wanted to share this batshit insane sequence of events from RAF Japan's Wikipedia page. This is hilarious to me, like, the idea that no police or anything were involved in this University leftist beef. Like, the fact that they had this whole battle with counter-attacks and stuff is crazy.

At this time, the "Kansai faction" of the Second Bund, based out of Doshisha University in Kyoto and led by Kyoto University philosophy major dropout Takaya Shiomi (塩見孝也, Shiomi Takaya), comprised the far left wing of the already far-left Second Bund.[2] Around June 1968, the Kansai faction began calling itself the "Red Army Faction," and began making plans for a violent uprising in Japan, originally intended to coincide with the 1970 Anpo protests.

The main theory of the Red Army Faction was that by first carrying out a successful armed proletarian revolution in Japan, Japan would become the headquarters of a worldwide revolution against the United States of America and its allies, and the Red Army Faction would become the leaders of that revolution.[3]

Finding the rest of the Second Bund unamenable to the cause of immediate, armed revolution, the Red Army Faction signaled its open split from its parent organization by launching an assault on the Bund's National Congress held at Meiji University in Tokyo on July 5, 1969, briefly seizing control of the venue.[4] The next day, Bund students from Chuo University launched a counter-attack, kidnapping Red Army chairman Shiomi and others, and imprisoning them for three weeks in a stronghold on the Chuo University campus, where they were subjected to threats and torture.[4] Although Shiomi and the others eventually managed escape by descending from a third floor window using a makeshift rope constructed from a curtain and a hose, during the escape Red Army Faction member Jо̄ji Mochizuki fell and hit his head and would die from his injuries several weeks later.

There's also this excerpt:

On September 21, 1969, members of the Red Army Faction threw molotov cocktails at three police boxes in Osaka, in an incident grandiosely recollected by Faction members as the "Osaka War." Similarly on September 30, Faction members threw molotov cocktails at the Motofuji police box in Tokyo, which they then declared to have been the "Tokyo War."

JS Kongō (DDG-173) firing a Standard Missile 3 anti-ballistic missile to intercept a target missile launched from the Pacific Missile Range Facility, (2007)

From the Japan Self-Defense Forces Wikipedia page.

I was awestruck at the quality of this photo. I don't like posting military content - fictional stuff aside - because I think that people who glorify war and military stuff are losers, but I was shocked at how high-quality this photo was and how, well, you hardly ever get to see a photo of a missile being launched from a boat.

I got to this page from perusing Wikipedia articles about the RAF. No, not the Royal Air Force, but instead, the Red Army Faction. No, not that Red Army, either.

The Red Army faction was a group of communist, anti-fascist and anti-imperialist forces operating in Germany and Japan throughout the 20th century. I'm currently half-way through a movie based on the RAF's Japanese division, and about how this hypothetical group collapsed to sexual decadence and in-fighting. It's called Ecstasy of the Angels. I get distracted from movies easily, which sucks, because I love movies.

[dustedmagazine]

Sleaford Mods — Spare Ribs (Rough Trade)

“Nudge It” and “Mork n Mindy,” two of the tracks the Sleaford Mods initially released from their excellent new LP Spare Ribs, feature barnstorming vocal contributions from Amy Taylor and Tor Maries, respectively. Maybe the decision to promote Spare Ribs with those tracks (and the videos in which the women strut their powerful, performative stuff) was motivated by the Sleaford Mods’ generosity of heart. The Nottinghamshire band may have wanted to use its increasing rep and visibility to tune listeners in to the young women and their bands: snotty punks Amyl and the Sniffers, and the proletarian pop experiment that is Billy Nomates. One likes to believe that the Mods walk it like they talk it. Resources are increasingly scarce, and if we’re going to make it as a collectivity, we’ve got to share what we’ve got. Or maybe there are other things at work. So much of the Mods’ music concerns — or rants and fulminates about — authenticity: the distinctions between real, intentioned speech and vapid online bullshit (“Blog Maggot,” “Tweet Tweet Tweet,” “Just Like We Do,” and so on); between real economic struggle and superficially convenient appearances of class consciousness (“Fizzy,” “Rich List,” “Carlton Touts,” and so on). The band’s hot-and-cold relations with the Labour Party and the much-discussed spat with Idles have only intensified the public imaginary’s association of the Mods with a sharp-elbowed working-class sensibility, grounded in lived experience. Taylor’s and Maries’ voices complement and accentuate that sensibility, with impetuous, youthful verve.

Sleaford Mods aren’t young men. They’ve been working at their craft for quite a while now, and as Jason Williamson and Andrew Fearn have noted, on recent tracks like “OBCT” (“I just fantasize / In a house three times the size of my old one…”), the terms of the game have changed for them. The fact that they might contemplate using their music to showcase younger, lesser-known talent means that the Mods have influential reach, and the forms of capital that go along with it. It’s great that the band has enjoyed such success; this reviewer is pretty delighted that more and more people are digging the Mods’ music. But what are the stakes of the social mobility the band is experiencing? They operate in an ambiguous space, and the songs seem aware of it. “Elocution,” another track from Spare Ribs, starts with Williamson speaking in a stilted, “cultured” tone, parodying artists who “talk about the importance of independent venues” so they can attract the audience and cred to “be in a position to move away from playing independent venues.” As Williamson notes, it’s not just what you say, but how you say it: “I’m no good with elocution / To get myself into the institution.” Which one? The Royal Albert Hall? Downing Street? The Executive Director’s suite at Lloyds Banking Group? If you want to gain access to the institution, you generally need to speak its language, with the right words and tones. 

A number of songs on Spare Ribs worry over the qualities of voice and its relations to identity: “Top Room,” “Thick Ear,” “Nudge It.” The Mods’ music has frequently foregrounded and thematized Williamson’s strong, East Midlands accent (see “Out There”: “Let’s git Brexit fooked boi an ‘orse’s peeenis”), its lack of polish and the social consequences of speaking that way. Of course, Williamson’s voice is compelling (and successful) exactly because his characteristic sprechgesang delivery — the runs of obscenity and the rough-and-tumble vernacular lyricism — carries the audible signature of region and class. The key to grooving with it may be understanding that the continued presence of that signature doesn’t limit or dictate the Mods’ real, material position. They have earned, through the force of their creativity and sweat, access to new places and social spaces. But even as some of their songs explore what’s newly possible in those spaces, the Mods remain deeply interested in the places from which they came. 

Two of the best songs on Spare Ribs, “Mork n Mindy” and “Fishcakes,” situate the listener in quotidian sites: a desultory cul-de-sac of rundown houses, a cramped and steamy kitchen. On “Mork n Mindy,” the band may be flashing on the 1980s, its toys and television shows, or they may be placing us inside of housing projects that haven’t been repaired or meaningfully updated since then. In either case, the environment is decidedly unhappy: dinner plates fly as couples fight, and the song’s most consistently worked image is the stink of dirty bodies, dirty rooms and industrial pollution. Maries’ terrific contribution to the song provides a narrative of downward mobility, of “crash landing” in a squalid apartment and the psychological and linguistic displacements accompanying that bewilderingly awful experience. Additionally bewildering is the song’s seductive pulse, and Fearn’s keen sense for when to drop in some Casiotone-quality beeps and boops. The tune is a lot of fun; the song is not. 

Fearn’s beats and basslines are as compelling as ever, and this time around, he builds on the music’s effect with a good deal more analog-sourced sounds. But his work on “Fishcakes” demonstrates the appeal of keeping things simple, even spare. A drone and an anxious throb quaver under Williamson’s singing. And Williamson sings on the track — not at all a new event on a Mods record, but his vocal turn on “Fishcakes” verges on vulnerability. Like “Mork n Mindy,” the song suggests retrospection, a memory of a lost Midlands. And as ever, the theme of austerity, and its effects on real lives, invests the lyric with potent poignancy: “Second-hand, but I don’t mind / Scouring the papers at Christmastime.” The sweetness and sadness of Williamson’s singing add to the mixed feelings evoked by the smell of cheap fish frying in cheaper cooking oil, by a long walk to work. At least there’s a job — but it’s a soul-sucker. That ambivalence is summed up in the song’s chorus: “And when it mattered, and it always did / At least we lived.” Little lives matter, working-class lives matter. Of course they do. But the “at least” and the need for its inclusion are pretty devastating. “Fishcakes” is the last song on Spare Ribs, and it’s both a wistful tribute and a gut punch. The Sleaford Mods can land one like no one else. 

Jonathan Shaw

[newproletarians]

new proletarians

Alright, so I’m feeling a few things. I’m angry and confused at the world and my place in it, and I don’t want to lose sight of my heart. The reason that’s even on the table is that I feel—in a very real, day-to-day sense—the urge to just let it callous over with grey boogers, or whatever callouses over the hearts of Squidwards everywhere. Regular old life can do that to a devastating degree, but so can the usual suspects—things like real trauma and tragedy. I’d like to say I’ve experienced a little of both at this point in my young life, but I’m still fighting the calcification of my heart. Let’s hope that in just throwing my brain at the proverbial wall, some things stick that are worth sticking. Maybe my clarity can also be yours, reader. Maybe we can snuggle up with ourselves tonight, content that we know what the fuck is going on in the world, and smugly abstain from that which our friends could never imagine abstaining from, and which we’ve known we’ve needed to abstain from for decades. Whatever. It’s wordy. It’s a fucking blog, future me. They’re supposed to contain words. Also, maybe, if I’m writing a blog where the over 50% of the audience is myself, writing it is supposed to feel at least a little similar to masturbating.

Where to begin? Well, let’s start with this: I am a college-educated youth who attended what’s commonly referred to as the best public university in the world. I received a rolled up piece of paper symbolizing a degree on a stage with other students and professors a year and a half ago. So it’s recent. And right off the bat, in my young adulthood, I have a chip on my shoulder, having that big qualifier of “public.” I went to the world’s fanciest college... for the proletariat. What does that mean? For me, this brings to mind a lot of issues having to do with the distribution of wealth in the United States, in addition to what the hell is going on economically here and in the world—but that’s something to get into later. The more pressing issue is what the hell the role of a college-educated young person is today. DFW pretty succinctly laid out an idea of what that could be in his famous address. His point was basically that college (specifically, a liberal arts education) gives you the critical thinking skills necessary to be able to get through life under capitalism (or whatever you want to call the current regime) without going crazy. I think we can do better than that. Also, fuck it, I’m giving myself permission to be temporarily pissed off, because fuck that, dude. I know that rage isn’t always an indicator of fruitful conversation, but I gotta let some steam out somewhere. I’m sure that it’ll only lead to me being better down the line. God—I am pissed. About how we’re deciding to go about talking through issues we’re having as a society (on Twitter, but also in comments sections and in NY Times articles). I have so much anger, I’m just now realizing, and I need to process it without stupidly burning myself out on it. It’s a subject for later, and not what we’re talking about right now. Right now, we’re talking about the role of the college-educated youth today. I think we’re getting somewhere, too. I don’t think the role of the college-educated youth in today’s scenario is to correct their friends and families, nor is it to Tweet about how embarrassing, vulgar, or otherwise horrible stupid people are—however embarrassing, vulgar, or otherwise horrible they may be. The role, to me, has to do with learning this stuff. Learning about systems of power, systems of abuse (many of which hum merrily along in universities—looking at you, Searl. [My anger, you guide me, but you also lead me astray]).Staying ON POINT. The way it has to do with these things is that today’s C.E.Y. needs to notice them, understand them, then DO something about them. There are, for instance, things that we learn about privilege and prejudice in university that we may be tempted to hurl at our elders back home as insults. Our jobs, as young students, are to be sexy, fashionable, charismatic stewards of the new age. Instead of yelling at our parents about being racist, we should, say, intervene in a subtle way that guides rather than punishes. That preserves trust and connection in relationships while simultaneously doing our best to right centuries-old wrongs. But this is about so much more than that. Our role is about how we conduct ourselves as the nations intelligentsia. But that’s a question. I’m not answering it here, try as I might. I still don’t know how I feel about it. It stretches into all corners of life, this role. For instance, into several things in my life I’m mad about.

For instance, I kind of hate my closest loved ones. Oops. That’s where I’m at. Am I supposed to ignore these feelings? They’re there, they’ve been there, and if I know anything about our brains, it’s that feelings shouldn’t be ignored. That’s what dumb ass patriarchs think. The funniest/saddest part of that is that they, said dumb asses, tell themselves that suppressing their feelings is the manly thing to do. It’s honestly just the cowardly thing to do. Men are so afraid of confronting their feelings that they would rather go their entire life wearing a life three sizes too small than mention a thing about it. Anyway. They’re conditioned to feel this way by their surroundings. This—this is a great point that I would love to be a major takeaway here. The thing about being educated is that you’re aware of systems, that systems need to be changed. Fault the people who can change the systems, if anyone, but really, even they are just products of the system. The good thing is that, as a powerless mass of atomized society, we have been created by these systems knowing SOME things that are wrong with it. Now we, the crumbs of dust living in and created by the gargantuan grandfather clock of life, have the sentience necessary to band together and make switch out some gears. Picture a big hand of made of dust, fixing the clock. That’s us. That’s what the role of college educated students is today. But that’s not so much the point of this paragraph, so much is the fact that I kind of hate my closest loved ones—which feels so good to say. My best friends, for instance, are really rough individuals. One is an obvious, obnoxiously insecure, compulsive liar. He’s not super tall and weighs almost 300 pounds. It’s not nice to say this stuff, but the purpose of life isn’t to be nice about everybody all the time in your own head, or on your own anonymous blog. He alienates everyone I bring him around with his bizarre persona. His insecurity is so deep that I shit you not, almost a majority of the interactions I’ve had with him would very reasonably get a “come on,” response from anyone. He has to create little talking points to make his life feel acceptable. He’s one of those people who constantly refers conversations back to their insecurities, and how they feel so secure about them, for this reason and that reason. It’s like, Christ, man. Come on. I feel a lot more ways about this, but I’m a little scared he’ll see this some day. I’m worried he’s going to die young, because he is extremely overweight. His doctor said he’s a few months away from a heart attack/stroke unless he takes immediate action, which it seemed like he was taking initially, but it doesn’t really seem like it anymore. I don’t know. The whole situation feels extremely choked by our inability to just communicate with our fucking words. And yes, I am sounding angry, I’m not actually this angry, but consider these the bubbles from a can of soda that’s been shaken. What will be left is the only-slightly-bubbled soda. That’ll come soon. For now, there are bubbles. New paragraph.

The point that I was trying and failing to get to in the previous paragraph is that I don’t like this guy. He has a lot of great qualities, and he’s certainly not a bad person to have in one’s life—as in, he’ll never cheat on his spouse, and he’ll always go the extra mile for his friends in a certain sense. But I don’t. I wish I could just talk to him about this weird, bizarre, fucking deal breaking shit, but I just can’t. Our communication is choked. I don’t think it’s his fault, though. I think it’s to do with overlapping systems of culture that make it difficult. Maybe. Maybe that’s not the point here, and the real point is just that I feel stuck in that situation. Moving on.

(TW: sexual assault)

Another friend is a fucking bona fide sexual assaulter. He practically got #metoo’d, on a personal level. His gf broke up with him because he sexually assaulted the female half of their best-friend-couple. He fingered her while sharing a bed with her and his gf, for some confusing reason. We talked about it and he gave me this wordy, bizarre, incongruent tale of what happened. It involved a LOT of details and qualifiers. When I talked to the dude half of the couple, the guy who was (and still is) with the woman who got assaulted, he said that my friend just straight up did a ton of nonconsensual shit. He also said that when his gf told other people, more people came forward saying this guy had been creepy to other women in their friend circle. This friend absolutely has a history of gaslighting and successfully avoiding trouble by forcing his way. I need to talk to him, but again, fucking choked. I have no ability to have any kind of “real talk” with him. We do not have a venue, and the prospect of confrontation is absolutely debilitating to the average WASP-y dude. Which brings us to our next situation.

I have a great friend I met in undergrad. She is very well-liked, and while I definitely don’t agree with everything she thinks, I really value her friendship. Her boyfriend is a fucking nightmare. Not really, honestly. There are actual nightmare boyfriends. This boyfriend is more of a waking nightmare. The kind of nightmare that becomes worse because it’s so hard to call out. It just keeps going. I’ve kept CLOSE track, and every SINGLE time I’ve hung out with them as a couple, this guy crosses the line. He says condescending, mean, weird, bizarre, shit that... there’s just no better way to say it than he crosses a line that normal people don’t cross. I haven’t counted, but we’ve probably hung out close to 30 times. Every time it happens, every time I give him another chance. I got a little counseling about this situation from a friend’s mom, just in casual conversation, and her advice was to figure out what in me upset me about this guy. At that point, I realized that what Eric Andre said is true: advice is stupid. Also, that I am not going to run my life based on what this person, who I previously looked up to in a god-like way when it came to relationships, says. I am going to figure it out on my own, because it seems like everybody’s solution to relationship issues is to never talk about them, or to have some kind of inner-peace solution that makes getting abused not suck so bad (looking at you, DFW). Ugh. Okay. Moving on, again. Because yep, there’s so, so much more. Again, asking questions here, not answering them.

Also, if you’re reading this and thinking “damn, bro, your life is boring,” that’s my point. This is just normal life. These are just normal people. This is the water we’re swimming in. It’s fucking tense, man. Living in the United States is tense.

I’m running out of steam at this point, but God damn it. My brothers are dick holes. And we’re great friends. They are guys who don’t ever cause a fuss, avoid confrontation at all costs, and are nothing but rewarded for it. Sometimes I think I have something to learn from them in that regard. But is that really the life we want to live? Just don’t communicate your issues? It’s just frustrating. They act superior to others, but are categorically unable to have an honest, undiplomatic conversation. They act superior to others, and are treated as superior. It feels a little like talking to robots, talking to them, decoding what they’re saying to ascertain how they may actually be feeling in a given moment. I have no idea how they feel about me. Or anything. I don’t even think they know or care. I think they just get by, and they’re rewarded for it.

Alright, moving right along. My dad. Damn do I want to not talk to that guy. I can’t talk about anything real with him. It’s like playing ping pong where the other person can only hit the ball if it goes where his paddle already is, and his paddle’s made out of glass. 

This is a sample of some real life issues I am dealing with, spoken as honestly as possible, as is evidenced by the rampant spelling and grammatical errors. College works into this as the thing that has given me recourse for dealing with this stuff. As a college educated youth, I can approach life in an informed, good way. This is life. Etc.

What am I walking away with? Well, I now know for sure that I have a lot of shit to work through. MAYBE more than one Tumblr post. Also, I guess I am proving that people still Tumbl in 2021. I am starting to really understand what the questions I have are. I think part of my issue stems from some feeling of being “out of the loop,” or having some natural, in-set outrage about not understand what’s going on, which was founded by years of being the same height as the people around me’s knees, being the youngest person in my family. Everyone around me were skyscraper people with adult conversations happening way up there. It’s a little imposter syndrome, I think, too. It comes from being the youngest, I think, too. Mixed with a natural sensitivity that I’ve noticed people like me have. 

My goal is to get better at living my life. That involves understanding how I want to live, it involves understanding what my values really are, thinking through them a little, and more. I think it’s really worth it. In the meantime, I am not a work in progress. I am a fucking careful, cool, bright, talented guy who is not perfect, but is working on it. And I am going to postpone making any big decisions about my personal life until I get some clarity.

I thought I’d get more to the subject of the new proletarians, which is something I was thinking about today when listening to Harmontown and asking myself questions about what college is for if it just makes us unemployable, debt-ridden, twitter douchers. Anyway. We’ll get to it again sometime.

This was nice. Let’s do this again sometime.

[gnetophyte]

something something essays i don’t have time to write... i realized today while on my run that what i really really search for in theatre is dispossession. i think the Modern theatre emphasizes self-possession and ultimate consciousness, all the way from hamlet where we’re invited to explore autonomy and conscious choice, to brecht where we’re asked to develop class consciousness towards a self-possessed and depropagandized proletarian (i realize im bastardizing both shakespeare and brecht there; sorry to this man). 

but in the wake of the little existential crisis i had a few days ago where i thought maybe theatre (as it is) is incapable of provoking any meaningful change in the world, i was thinking about the theatre pieces that have stuck with me, and i realize that a common thread in all of them is an indescribable sense of being gripped. that moment when the air electrifies and you are so sensorily, emotionally, psychologically, and aesthetically engaged that you exist, for a moment, outside yourself. it feels like transcending, like you are intimately connected with the rest of existence (forgive the purple prose). it happened in the finale of iphigenia in aulis, it happened (sorta) at hoodoo love, it happened when i saw yerma, it happened in voyeurs de venus, in polaroid stories, and it even happens very occasionally when i see movies (hereditary and portrait of a lady on fire). it happens a lot at drag shows. 

i think what i crave, and what i hope to curate in the work i do, is dispossession. that sense of no longer being burdened by the self, of being totally and utterly open to the entire world around you, this profound and existential bridge where the boundary between you and everything else is erased. that’s where i (we) make really significant discoveries, and i think when an audience is taken to that point they can be truly truly transformed. this state can be induced with ritual, with dance, with music, with a theatre practice that borders on religious; that’s why i’m so up grotowski’s ass all the time and why i love greek theatre so much, because it necessarily involves a cracking-open of the self into the world beyond. maybe this dispossession can be considered catharsis?? idk- that would have to make me rethink my entire stance on catharsis and im not ready 4 that rn. i crave this dispossession both as an audience member and as a participant- my favorite roles are ones where i get to completely lose my self and feel like im part of something greater. this dispossession is why the best actors are the ones who give to their scene partners, whose goal is not to better themselves but to give selflessly to everyone else. this mediation between the self and the world is why theatre tends to be a narcissistic profession, it’s because we’re trying to study that boundary-line and often end up navel-gazing.

to get into some philosophical mumbo jumbo, this dispossession is what i believe love is. of no longer possessing the self, of the self being bounded both internally and externally and become shared/universal. which is terrifying! that is the ultimate act of vulnerability, to uncover the self and share it totally with someone else. but it’s those moments that connect us to oneness and to the universe and to ourselves. we live in these snail shells called ego, which are really useful and great most of the time because they shield us pretty effectively from harm; dispossession means being let out of that shell to feel the sun on our little sluggy-slimy backs for the first time. yay 4 vulnerability! ok ive been getting progressively drunker throughout writing this so i think ill stop for now. if u read it thanks if not i wouldn’t either so dw

obliterate consciousness! annihilate the self! destroy the Essential!

[chiseler]

Zontar: The Thing From Venus

Writer and director: Larry Buchanan

A study in microscopic paranoia, Zontar is one of the more outrageous products of mid-sixties UFO Fordism. Its roadkill ‘plot’ shoulders on Body Snatchers territory: An absurd papier-mache creature plans world domination by zombifying the Military Industrial Complex, beginning with a lonely SETI outpost in the Mojave. Most of the inaction takes place in clapboard rec-rooms, abutted to stock footage of missile silos and pans of a stark desert moonscape (the latter is actually a suburb of Dallas, according to the scholars). Inside their pre-fab hells, the inmates mix drinks and threaten each other, occasionally erupt in spasms of wild emotion, then settle down again to the demands of stage-bound budgeting and the confines of a constant medium-shot frame. In a performance that must have been deeply influenced by Milgram’s torture experiments, Tony Huston is especially manic and perplexing as Zontar’s first human dupe, a NASA egghead called Keith. There are hints of a deep-seated nihilism behind his near-hysteria, but seeing that he also wrote the script, maybe it’s just the glee of a strange and lonely pride. His foil is John Agar, an actor who always seems to take on the attributes of the furniture around him. He is a practitioner of Taoist wu, the necessity of presence – neither more nor less.

Zontar finally arrives on earth and sets up command and control in a cave, where he cuts a touchingly vulnerable figure. As he is quite immobile – perhaps because Agar’s salary ate up most of the budget – he is assisted by strange airborne skeet-creatures who zombify the local servicemen and townspeople by stinging them. Repetitive shots of these cardboard demons flying over telephone wires, suburban bungalows, and stalled trucks look like captures of today’s drones haunted-up in memorial black and white. This is indeed skeletal filmmaking at the margin of afternoon fever-dreams, and it has a genuinely purgatorial atmosphere of cramp and marginal reality. Zontar of Venus looks splendid: a Duk-Duk fetish, proud and pitiful in glaring fabrication and bad lighting, an abandoned nightmare decaying in front of overgrown children, waiting for the end like a Mormon angel.

Huston soon realizes that Zontar is an intergalactic fascist whose plans are not liberation but human slavery. In a climax more desperate than thrilling, he rids the universe of both Zontar and himself with something called ‘plutonium ruby crystal’ – yet one feels a terrible certainty that the ‘story’ will repeat in a never-ending informational loop. The living and the dead will again assume their places and carry out their tasks once more, until the last flickering of recorded time. This sense of cyclical production is perhaps the ghostly product of Zontar’s eternal run on rosy-hour TV for the last half–century, as if the film itself had taken on the substance of its own interminable repetition. Zontar is cousin to Milstar.

The film has an occult undercurrent of loathing and cynicism that is strangely difficult to convey or qualify to the uninitiated. Line-readings are deadened but feel deviously mannered when taken as an (un)dramatic whole; the dialogue ignores Victorian ideas of psychological depth in favor of old-world Manicheanism, typified by Agar’s Augustinian pronouncement of the seduction of evil ending in “death... fire... disillusionment... loss”. The awful boredom of endless scenes in interchangeable rooms is eerily hypnotic, resembling the cycles of Bioy’s Morel or a Marienbad motel. These interiors form a wheezing geometrical figure that holds the participants hostage rather than leading them to any dramatic resolution, despite the conspiracy and murder of the goings-on. It seems fruitful here to ask whether Zontar is a reactionary film. Is this Brechtian dramaturgy really a right-wing Modernism á la Marinetti and Lewis? Is its indictment of middle-class complicity with alien martial entities just xenophobia demanding a military coup?

Robert Alcott’s savant camera captures the séance-like proceedings in the naive manner of an ethnographic documentary, and the film is not so much edited as chronologically interrupted. I hazard that Larry Buchanan, the auteur behind this and other narcolepsies such as The Eye Creatures and The Naked Witch, may be the last unexplored property in the American cult terrain, perhaps because he is seen as the most unexceptionally wretched – if he’s seen at all. There are some encouraging signs that this has been a major critical miscalculation.

As evidence prima facie in the case, consider the film’s similarities to post-war German cinema: both Fassbinder and Buchanan are obsessed with the traumatic scars of inertia; Zontar’s documentary camera predicts Thomas Mauch's and its cheap look resembles Kluge’s futurist Marxian epics; the ensemble nature of Buchanan’s films puts him squarely in the avant-garde, while his workmanlike ethic is pure proletarian. The picture was actually made for television, which goes some way toward understanding its rat-like, neurotic presence, but not the choices of a director who embraces each limitation as a mark of personal obsession. On top of the humiliation of being small screen, Zontar is also a remake of Roger Corman’s junker It Conquered the World, churned out ten years earlier. So Buchanan’s film is therefore a de facto critique (but of what??), as well as a revision.

It is entirely beside the point that Zontar is a ‘terrible’ film, just as it is obvious that bourgeois questions of formal unity, technical proficiency and diegesis do not apply here. Rather, its 80 minutes are hard to forget and give, for my insomnia, more pure unheimlichkeit than any of the more respectable fantasies of the period. It also offers far more to us today than say, The VVitch or Heredity – to name two recent neoliberal swindles made by people who once read about art in college and dress groan-inducing ideas up in murky Silicon Valley blues.

by Martin Billheimer

Postscriptum:

The abysmal quality of copies of the film only add to its mystique, as if it has projected itself forward in time to wallow in its own pixilation. For example: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-e9Cs87gbwg

Excellent proof of this can be found here: https://www.braineater.com/zontar.html

[nahrsuada]

The Lady in Waiting

--

The stone roads of Boralus had won endearment from the bard who seldom was romanced by architecture and forceful squalls driving her strides onward. But this port city was familiar enough without the droll of Stormwind’s unfettered pomp and circumstance. Even the upper echelon of society, the opulent rings linked amongst one another seemed far less incestuous. Her mixed breeding seemed less out of place, finding kinship among the porcelain flesh, filigreed lotus collars, proletarian accouterment. It was a home where reticent elegance nuanced within the modest seams of woman’s attire were no longer rebuked or menaced by implied insecurity.

Within the cityscape’s labyrinth, desultory intent landed her strides into an unfamiliar part of town whilst mapping her way home once more. There was no urgency to her pace, nor her destination. Leathern spats enfolded upon petite ankles, kept sturdy atop the piked, low heel deriving quiet clicks upon the stone. As she ventured toward the walked intersection, carriages running perpendicular slowed when passing the overflow of patrons staggered outside a single building. Having returned from the city’s blue-blooded heights, the hardened case consuming her violin was cradled now by the taut vice of gloved digits. A brass moniker scripted the name: Ladies in Waiting in shadowed relief.

Innuendo was hardly lost upon she, duress contracting her breaths, lungs staggered upon an impact which bludgeoned the often indomitable air about her resolve. Memory’s ghost abruptly waxed her fine, freckled complexion as she plummeted her stare downward, unable to even register the cause. Pressing chine upon corrugated brick the bard stoned. The way a skirt flew, exposing familiar tawny flesh, the carefree titter of feminine guffaws and feigned modesty. Breaths hitched, remembering a scarlet ribbon which dwelled now, torn within the velvet coffin of her gifted instrument. The walls of her mind easily plunged into the horror of familiarity.

-

The young girl, hardly within her teens with a form as dimensional as the planks lining a dingy venue for the carnal employment and lavish flaunting of feminine whiles, slowly began to uncoil from her seated station moments prior. For one so premature in adult sensibilities, the den of inequity was a curious locale. The sumptuous forms and bawdy attire allowed her performance to simply live within the air, amplifying the joviality and ample patronage of those whose lecherous trade flourished. She was but a decoration upon hearth’s mantle.

Twilight’s cutting gusts had forced the doors to a close, a single nobleman nursing his cigar watched the elven adolescent in her premature departure, having shrugged a furred poncho over narrowed shoulders. The woman who had toyed with his curled tresses for hours, tormenting the stirred excitement upon sheathed mast could seldom break his stare from scarlet curls. Each time he arrived, not a single coin outside his wine spent until the production of harmonious ballad came to a close. He abandoned his charge, levying a gloved palm to lay heavy upon Nahrsuada’s shoulder. “Madame,” asserted his pastoral resonance. Pivoting upon her booted heel, a swan-like crane revolved her nape, allowing his hand to veer upon its base. Glass ribboned upon her spine, impaling from the inside of her flesh where his palm dwelled. But it was him who excited the omen within, but the mortiferous rivets sunken in the woman’s irises that stalled her breaths. Her glare no longer lingered upon he, but its new destitute host. Paralyzed from toe-to-tongue, an ironed smile fixed upon tense aperture, sealing her lips closed whilst never denying acknowledgement. “I wish you to join the cast of Ladies in Waiting for my wife. Her brilliant sensibility is woefully lacking in artistic endowment.” With the heel of his palm riding each vertebrae, blazing digits of lupine affliction boiled as they ensconced the stubborn line of her jaw. The innuendo in his possession spoke beyond a simple offering; a youthful concubine groomed beneath his thumb. His index brazed her pout whilst steering her entire silhouette to square before he by one, tethering tug beneath her chin.

“I would be honored,” came her benumbed reply. Lashes dimmed, knees dipped in honorific curtsy. All while such mechanized affectations flourished beneath his scrutiny, amassing a fiendish simper from him; the courtesan watched with inflamed ire.

“Excellent. Your patron knows of my residence. See that you are sent there a candlemark before noon,” proclaimed his distinctive baritone before a velveteen cloak brandished from its dormancy as he yanked the heavy door open. She need not allow it to close, the danger of snuffed hospitality ever encroaching. Where he traipsed left, she trotted right. Lighter, chaotic footsteps vaulted in her wake, swallowing the ground beneath with effortless anguish enveloping the other.

Soon, manicured nails buried within the girlish, blush ribbon tying her bun with a heavy bow. Nahrsuada’s next stride ricocheted from the stone, landing her within the bowels of a desolate alleyway. “You cunt,” spat rasped vitriol laced in feminine venom. With fibrous vice barely hovering her scarlet crown an inch from the ground, her leather violin case flung toward the ground, split open to expose a fractured, mahogany neck. Gilded aurums snapped open, lips hung ajar in silent plea for whatever travesty can be spared. Knuckles met temple, vision faltered, bleary and liquefied. No face, just the harried breaths of spent outrage, years of isolation, torment, rejection now raining from its victim to the unsuspecting girl, a sympathy unspent.

Screams swallowed as serrated steel first sliced the ribbon of its pristine tie, leaving it to wade within the silence wind and lay upon the ground. Locks of crimson and curls spilled in its wake. The other, the obscurity born of woe weaved in a bustle and bodice soon framed her webbed victim’s jaw ‘tween index and thumb. Force her throat into a crane, the sadistic smile painted deep violet flashed muddied tiers framed with neglected plaque. “You’re pretty in the bar, you’re pretty when you’re scared,” she started, the ellipsis tailing looming threat when steel lay upon the bard’s gullet. “You’re pretty when you sing..” continued the backbitten silk of her whisper. Just as a scream courageously mustered from the girl, blade plunged. With a single swipe of her forearm, torrential life blasted from the incision. Ear to ear, the woman allowed Nahrsuada’s desperate, pleading moments to be spent with her own hands tightening upon the gaping fissure rendering her helplessness mute. She sank upon the corroded wall, knees jamming upon brick, obsidian pits rolling back for the lunar whites to soon disappear beneath tear-stricken lashes.

“You’re even pretty when you’re dying,” observed the echoed, hollow tone as the woman procured the sliced ribbon from the ground, neatly tying it upon her malleable, bloodied canvas. With a bow wrapped upon gruesome fatality, footprints disappeared.

She felt the minutes fade, blur as one, she now slumped with the coagulated blood slowed from its initial tidal pour. Droplets within her sleeve, not an ounce of effort left for her breaths. A grim gift lay waiting the passing surgeon whose routine stalled him at these very walls, awaiting the girl. The grisly wound masked until his silvered hues found the lurid source. The haste, the chill, the macabre bred to avenge willed her eyes to open days later.

-

A leather glove, all of her own design gently cradled the modest, pearlescent pendant upon a burgundy ribbon, breaths seeping once more from her lips with the gothic gables once more coming into focus. She could feel it still, the raised flesh marring sublime porcelain. Another way, instructed the coo within her mind. Rather than face the laugh once more, she but retreated down the road from whence she came.

@holtandthornetradingco

[salty-dracon]

small town happenings

a lot of weird things happen in lily’s little town that no one notices until you examine the context

Val’s room, after the kids are finished filming a video

*post video thing that the ace kids think no one will notice* 

Val: Hey, Brid, you doin’ okay?

Lily: Yeah, you don’t look so good. 

Brid: I don’t know. 

(Lily places her hand on her neck) 

Lily: You’ve got a serious fever. You should go home. 

Brid: My mom made me go to school. I have a 2 degree fever, but I  had a test... 

Val: That’s not good. Come on, I’ll- Lily, get some orange juice. I’m gonna get some Advil for her. Come on. 

(They both leave the room, Angel walks in) 

Angel: Heard you had a fever? 

Brid: It’s only two degrees. 

Angel: You’ve been over a hundred degrees all day and you came here anyway? ... Not that the boy couldn’t use some immunity, considering his eating habits... 

Brid: Sorry. 

Angel: You said you went to school too?

Brid: I told my mom I had a fever, our thermometer wasn’t working, she didn’t believe me... *Angel hugs her from behind* Hey, what are you doing? 

Angel: I can kill them for you. 

Brid: That’s nice, Mr. Perch, but-

Angel: No, really. I can. If things ever get bad... you let me know. I’ll take care of them, and I’d be happy to take you in one the deed’s done.

Brid: Not now. Can you let go of me?

Angel: Sorry. *lets go of her* I’ll call your mum. And don’t hesitate to talk to Val, either. He’s not as fundamentally lacking as he looks. 

(Val and Lily burst back in with orange juice and Advil)

Val: We got the sip!

----------------------------------

Julie’s backyard, and their chickens

Julien: So here’s Athena, enjoying her lunch- come here, darling- *hugs chicken* The whole flock’s been doing pretty well, I think. *footsteps* Oh, uh-

(Brooke stomps in and sits down on her back porch)

Julien: Hey, Brooke. 

Brooke: ... I just made. The fucking stupidest bet. 

Julien: What’s wrong? 

Brooke: So you know how Grey wants to introduce me to the pastor at the Rastafarianism Something-or-other?

Julien: Rastafarianism is an African religion, I thought you told me he was-

Brooke: So, I was complaining to him about how my stupid fucking precalc teacher wants to give a stupid fucking test about stupid fucking derivatives, even though she hasn’t taught shit. So I was complaining about that shit to Grey, and he was like, ‘so you’ll be studying on Monday’ and I was like, yeah! It wasn’t going to be fun, but yeah!

Julien: Fuckin’ hate precalc. 

Brooke: So then, I start yelling about how fucking stupid the test was going to be, and then he was like, “the Lord can’t get you out of your contractual obligations” and I was like “well I sure as hell would like to hang out with a lord that COULD”-

Julien: Oh dear. 

Brooke: -and then he said, “Then I’ll let him know, in exchange for you meeting him if the test is cancelled or postponed.” which is basically code for him taking me to his Proletarian church to meet his pastor because I’m a good girl or something-

Julien: Proletarian is a reference to Marxism. I think you’re trying to say-

Brooke: I’m a BAD GIRL! I’m a BAD ASS BITCH! 

Julien: We know, Brooke. We know. 

Brooke: So I walk into class today, and my teacher fucking tells me that the test has been postponed. Because she accidentally scheduled a date on the same day and had no time to make questions. So she held a review session. 

Julien: Holy shit. 

Brooke: And I’m like, great, how am I gonna weasel my way outta this one? And I get home, and Grey already knows. Like, he’s like, ‘hey I heard from a friend that your test got postponed looks like we can go after all and you still get to do your test’ and then like ‘the lord is happy and so am i’ and I was like no fuck you and I left. 

Julien: And now you’re here. 

Brooke: And now I’m here. 

Julien: Some lord, huh? 

Brooke: No, I refuse to fucking believe that. That ASSHOLE somehow knew that I’d get that test postponed. Like, he’s famous, okay? He must have made a call or something. 

Julien: Did you jump out the window again? 

Brooke: .... No. 

Julien: Wanna help me feed the chickens?

Brooke: ... Yes please. 

------------------------------

Adrian is hanging outside with Larkspur

Adrian: Okay, this fucker, who’s basically my cousin’s beta, thinks he’s a real fucking vampire. 

Larkspur: And this child, who still lives in his mother’s basement and forgot to apply to college twice, thinks he is also a real vampire. 

Adrian: I haven’t aged since 16, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about. 

Larkspur: Mentally, maybe. 

Adrian: Fuck you. 

Larkspur: I do age, Adrian, but I maintain my youth. Plus I’ve nearly got my degree. 

Adrian: In what? Bottoming? 

Larkspur: Accounting.

Adrian: Fucking boring. 

Larkspur: Well, at I’ll never be unemployed. Unlike someone. And the world needs good accountants. When the Nazis take over again they’ll need good accountants, and I’ll already be long dead by the time Star Trek happens, so... 

Adrian: ... what the fuck. Okay fine what’s the integral of 2x+5 from 0 to 1?

Larkspur: Six. 

Adrian: Shit. Okay, what’s the integral of 1/x from 3 to 5?

Larkspur: Log of 5/3. 

Adrian: What the fuck? 

Larkspur: Hit me with something harder

Adrian: Intregral of x^3 + x from 6 to 2! 

Larkspur: ....

Adrian: See, that one’s-

Larkspur: -336. You said 6 to 2, so the correct answer’s negative, just so you know. 

Adrian: ... are you shitting me

Larkspur: Accounting just requires adding numbers and memorizing rules and formulas, not integrals. 

(edit: fixed a lot of math)

-----------------------

(Lily is eating cookies with young Ares and Venus)

Lily: God I wish I was you.

Ares: Why? High school’s fun, right? 

Lily: Well... yeah, I guess... 

Venus: Do you wish you were me too, Lily?

Lily: .... Sure? 

Venus: Yay! I wish I was you!

Lily: No, kid, no you don’t... 

Val: You say you hate kids, and then you get along so well with them. 

Lily: Nah, you can just talk to kids, and they’ll give you wisdom. They’re pretty smart in some ways. 

Ares: She’s right. 

Val: What the frick. 

Angel: No swearing around the boys. Alright, the four of you can enjoy some fruit punch-

Ares: It’ll be three if you’re not careful.  

(Everyone drops dead silent) 

Angel: Three? 

Ares: Because everyone dies, right? 

Lily: Damn, he’s a baby goth. 

Ares: But you won’t die. 

Val: ... what do you mean

Angel: ... yeah what do you mean

Ares: They’ll find you someday.

Lily: I am going to... turn off this recording now... 

----------------------------------

(Tommy and Narin are hanging out near a pool at nighttime)

Narin: We’re going skinny dipping! 

Tommy: And no one’s stopping us!

Narin: And I invited friends! 

Tommy: Wait, what friends? 

Narin: Mai-Mai, Adri, Tawny, and Drake!

Tommy: ... the monster hunting club?

Narin: They’re not real monster hunters-

(They turn around, there’s a set of glowing eyes behind the chain link fence)

Narin: What is that. 

Tommy: R U N

--------------

(AN: Angel has killed and is currently looking for an excuse to kill again, Grey has the ability to chat with the heavens, Larkspur is a real fucking vampire but Adrian isn’t, Ares has the ability to read minds and knows that Angel wants to kill Val even though he can’t quite put it into words, and one of Narin’s friends is a werewolf)

[suzylwade]

Alfredo Volpi Alfredo Volpi (1896-1988) was one of the most important Brazilian painters of the 20th century. He achieved a synthesis between fine art and popular art; figuration and abstraction; and European tradition and Brazilian modernism. Born in the Italian city of Lucca in 1896, Volpi emigrated with his family to Brazil at the grand old age of 2. The Volpis’ settled in a working-class district of São Paulo called Cambuci, where Alfredo would spend most of his life. His early jobs saw him working as a woodcarver, a bookbinder and a painter-decorator for São Paulo’s upper class and bourgeoisie. As an artist, he was entirely self-taught, though his initial work shows he managed to absorb the influence of both ‘Impressionism’ and ‘Expressionism’. In the 1930s, he formed part of a collective called the ‘Grupo Santa Helena’ a set of São Paulo-based artists loosely united by imagery with proletarian themes. Volpi, for his part, was fond of depicting street festivities. In the 1940s, he made regular visits to the coastal town of Itanhaém where he became friends with the seascape painter, Emidio de Souza. Volpi produced several scenes of Itanhaém and his art - under de Souza’s influence - underwent a marked, stylistic shift: he began to simplify his forms considerably. In 1944 Volpi had his first solo exhibition at 'Galeria Itá’ in São Paulo - and was one of 70 Brazilian artists who contributed to that year’s ‘Exhibition of Modern Brazilian Paintings’ held at the ‘Royal Academy of Arts’ in London (as well as seven other UK venues). Six years later, in 1950, Volpi returned to the country of his birth for several months, participating in that year’s ‘Venice Biennale’ and taking the chance to see as many artistic masterpieces as possible. He visited Giotto’s fresco cycle at the ‘Scrovegni Chapel’ in Padua no fewer than 18 times. (at São Paulo, Brazil) https://www.instagram.com/p/CaozI4jMgnc/?utm_medium=tumblr

[minisoc]

i'm sorry how exactly do the working classes in China exercise control over the state?

dont be sorry this is a great question! how does any class exercise control of a state in order to manage their interests and suppress the interests of other classes? there are a number of ways both formal and informal.

the US bourgeoisie has representatives which make up the bulk of the membership of the parliamentary structures, codified laws that represent their interests, venues for prioritized redressing of grievances, ISA which perpetuate their ideology through society, etc. informally, we can also look at the actions (and inactions) of the US state to see its class character. what was the last worker oriented action taken by Congress? even things like leadership nominations to institutions that are blocked or aren't made to begin with demonstrate bourgeois control over the state.

the same thing exists in China but for the proletariat. massive proletarian membership of the ruling party, with the bulk of the elected representation at all levels being proletarians. laws that explicitly restrict the growth and power of the bourgeoisie and international imperialist power within the country. programs and institutions which promulgate Marxism Leninism as the ideology of the proletariat throughout society (education, propaganda organs, etc). looking at actions and inactions we see the massive growth of social welfare programs for the former, and for the latter lax or non-existent punishment for workers who overstep legal bounds in representing their own interests. the difference is like night and day

[onwheelsxyz-blog]

First Drive: 2021 Audi RS 6 Avant 2021 Audi RS 6 AvantBrian Harper / Driving MALIBU, Calif. To a casual observer, the view from the second-floor patio of the Surfrider Hotel provides a glimpse of the state of personal mobility in and through Malibu, home to many of Hollywoods elite and featuring some of the most desirable and expensive property in the state. Directly below the patio is the Pacific Coast Highway (better known as the PCH, or more formally, State Route 1), this four-lane stretch of tarmac through the city sees almost as many Porsches as Priuses, with Teslas clearly the wheels of choice for a good percentage of the moneyed locals. The occasional Rolls-Royce glides by, ditto Maseratis, Range Rovers, Volvo SUVs and various models of Mercedes, among far more proletarian product. But not a single Audi RS 6 Avant until today.A rare ride even in Europe, where the ber-sportswagen has achieved iconic status among the performance cognoscenti, the RS 6 Avant will finally reach North American shores in late 2020, a year after it shows up in Europe. Replete with Audis highly regarded Quattro all-wheel drive system, an eight-speed automatic transmission, and a twin-turbocharged 4.0-litre V8 with a 48-volt mild hybrid system and 592 politically incorrect horsepower, the sleek yet muscular Avant wears sheet metal no crossover or SUV can out-sexy. A family hauler for the Fast and Furious set? Or, considering the venue, the ultimate surf woodie, minus the wood? Yes and yes! This Avant is the

[txwitchery]

God/desses and Festivals A-F

This is the first part of a summary list of god/desses of the Roman pantheon and some of their celebrations and festivals.

Acca Larentia: prostitute foster mother of Romulus and Remus and benefactor of Rome. Her festival fell on 23 December in the Velabrum, where she was said to have been buried. This festival was also dedicated to the Lares, household gods. An invocation may be found here.

Aeternitas: the goddess of eternity and the endlessness of beneficial governmental rule (as Aeternitas Imperii). In her hands, she holds two heads, one in each hand: these are the Sun and the Moon. On her head is a circular diadem. No set festival was celebrated for her, but she was honored in thanks-giving when an Emperor survived a conflict or hardship.

Angerona: often pictured with a finger to her lips and her mouth bandaged, asking for silence, especially in regard to the sacred name of Rome which should not be spoken lest it draw the attention of its enemies. She drove sorrow and disillusionment from people’s hearts. Her festival was Angeronalia or Divalia, on 21 December, during which sacrifices would be made on her alter, in the temple of the goddess Voluptas, of pleasures and delights.

Angitia: ancient goddess of healing through witchcraft and sister of Circe and Medea. She is a charmer of snakes who also has the ability to cure snakebite. She was a master of healing with herbs and charms, and could kill a snake with a single touch. 

Anna Perenna: lunar goddess of the circle or wheel of the year, and of the proletarian struggle. Public sacrifice and prayers were offered to her in order to secure a happy end to the old year and a healthy beginning to the new. Tents and bowers were erected at her festival, in which young couples would make love and pray that the goddess would give them as many good years as they could drink cups of wine. Her festival was held on the Ides of March, or 15 March, or the first full moon in the new year. It was held at the first milestone on the Via Flaminia.

Aurora: goddess of the dawn who flew across the sky to announce the coming of the sun, and mother of the four winds. She was later associated with Mater Matuta, whose festival, the Matralia, was celebrated on 11 June, attended by single women or newly-married women who offered prayers for their nieces and nephews.

Bacchus: god of wine, intoxication, ecstasy, and freedom. His festival orgies, the Bacchanalia, were held at night from 16-17 March, during which attendees would partake of wine and sex freely, mirroring the habits of the hedonistic god. These celebrations were so intense that eventually the Senate stepped in to legislate how they should be celebrated in order to maintain public welfare. Sacrifices of raw meat and wine were given to Bacchus.

Bellona: the consort of Mars, this goddess represented war and bravery, pictured brandishing a bloody spear or sword and wearing a military helmet. She had two festivals: one on 3 June, a feast day in her honor during which war victories were celebrated, and the other on 24 March, the Dies Sanguinis, on which her priests would shed their own blood from their arms or legs as an offering to her.

Bona Dea: a goddess whose true name is a mystery, who protects the women of Rome and whose symbol is a snake. She also was associated with virginity and the use of healing herbs. Only women were allowed at her festivals. Her secret rites were held on 4 December and hosted by the wife of a prominent magistrate. The semi-public festival (still with no men permitted) was held on 1 May. Here, the sick were tended to with herbs in the gardens of her temple. 

Cardea or Carna: Goddess of the hinges of the door, and by extension, the axis of the Earth, and guardian of the vital parts of the body such as the heart. Her festival, the Bean-Kalends, was held on 1 June, and refried beans were given as an offering to her.

Carmenta: a goddess of childbirth, prophecy, invention, and midwifery. She was said to have invented the Latin alphabet, and the wearing of leather was forbidden in her temple. Her festivals, Carmentalia, were celebrated on 11 and 15 January, and were observed mostly by women. She was worshipped as both Postvorta (looking into the past) and Antevorta (looking into the future). 

Ceres: the goddess of grains, agriculture, fertility, and motherhood. Mother of Proserpina. She had twelve helper gods all associated with various acts of planting and harvesting. She protects women through all transition periods: adolescence, marriage, birth, and menopause. Pigs were often sacrificed to her, as well as poppies and grains. The Cerealia was a seven-day festival in her honor some time in mid-April (12-18?). It was opened by a horse race, and an event involving the fixture of lit torches to the tails of foxes. Part of the festival involved the Ludi Cereales, or the Games of Ceres. 

Clementia: goddess of mercy, redemption, absolution, forgiveness. Pictured holding an olive branch in one hand and a scepter in the other.

Cloacina: goddess who presided over the sewer system of Rome-- as an aspect of Venus, protector of sexual intercourse between married couples.

Caelus: god of the sky, especially at night in contrast to the Sun. Castrated by Saturnus, his severed genitalia would fall upon the sea and from them would ruse Venus, goddess of love. 

Concordia: goddess of harmony, agreement, and stability (especially in marriage or government). She was depicted in a long clock, holding a patera, cornucopia, or caduceus. 

Consus: a chthonic god who oversaw the harvest and storage of grain. He had two festivals, the first on 18 August, during the harvest, when games and chariot races were held, and the second on 15 December, at time of storage of the grain, when his shrine was finally uncovered from underground. Equine beasts of burden (the mule was sacred to him) were exempted from work and covered in garlands of flowers.

Cupido: a winged god who was the child of Venus and Volcanus. He embodied desire, both for power and sex. He carried two types of arrows, one which would attract love and one which would repel it. His symbols include the bee, the palm branch, and the bow and arrow. 

Dea Dia: ancient goddess of growth often associated with Ceres. Her festival was the three-day Ambarvalia (beginning 29 May), at which her twelve priests, the Fratres Arvales, made prayers to the goddess while leading three sacrificial animals-- a bull, a sow, and a sheep-- around a cornfield three times to bless the harvest. On the second day, the sacrificial victims were slain in the goddess’ grove. On the third day, another procession was held, with hymns and prayer.

Dea Tacita: the silent goddess of the dead. She was called upon at Feralia on 21 February to stop ill-meaning tongues from speaking. Feralia was a festival of pubic mourning to appease the spirits of the dead. Wreaths, grain, salt, wine-soaked bread, and violets were left at the graves of the ancestors. No marriages or other joyful ceremonies could take place on this day.

Deverra: a goddess whose symbol was a broom used to sweep away evil influences and prepare the temples for worship. She also protected midwives and women in labour. 

Diana: major goddess of chastity and nature, represented by the moon, oak groves, and the deer. Twin sister of Apollo, she also presided over hunting and pregnancy. Her festival, Nemoralia, was held on 13 August, upon which her worshippers would come at night bearing torches and decorated with garlands of flowers to Lake Nemi. Hunting was forbidden on this day, and offerings of fruit (especially apples) were given alongside votive images of stags or of body parts in need of healing.

Dis Pater: ancient god of the underworld, and of fertile land and mineral wealth. He was celebrated alongside Proserpina in a festival held once every hundred years, beginning in 249 BCE. It was held from 31 May to 3 June alongside the Ludi Saeculares. His altar was buried underground and only uncovered for his festival. 

Disciplina: goddess of discipline in study and living according to the law. She embodies self-control, determination, education, and practice. She was especially worshipped by soldiers.

Discordia: goddess in opposition to Concordia, ruling over strife and discord. Closely associated with Bellona.

Dius Fidus: son of Jupiter, and god of oaths. Associated with Hercules.

Egeria: minor goddess and guide of the king Numa Pompilius. As she is said to have dissolved in tears into a spring at the news of Numa’s death, springs are sacred to her.

Empanda: an ancient goddess who ruled over helping the needy. She gave bread to the hungry and opened her temple door to all who needed protection. 

Endovelicus: ancient god of public health, safety, and oracles. He would give his divine protection to all who venerated him, and if one were to sleep in his temple, they would be visited by him in a dream wherein he would give advice and tell about the future.

Eventus Bonus: a minor god of success and good outcomes, especially in agriculture and government.

Fabulinus: a minor god who watched over infants and was to receive an offering when a child spoke its first words. 

Fama: a goddess with many tongues, ears, and eyes, with feathered wings and a trumpet. She brought fame and renown to those she favored and gossip and scandal to those who incurred her wrath.

Faunus: god of wilderness and fertility and giver of oracles. Protector of cattle, especially from wolves. His wife (or sister?), Fauna, held sway over many of the same things he did, especially prophecy. As the protector of cattle, he was celebrated throughout the Lupercalia, on 15 February. A male goat and a dog were sacrificed by his priests, the Luperci, and an offering of salt meal cakes was also made. The new goatskin was cut into thongs and upper-class men would run naked through the streets, striking people with the thongs-- especially women, as it was believed to increase fertility and bring a smooth pregnancy. His second festival was observed on 5 December, when rustic offerings were brought by the poor to his temple.

Febris: goddess who both protected from and embodied malaria and fever.

Februus: ancient god of purification, riches, and the underworld. Closely associated with Faunus.

Felicitas: a goddess who was the embodiment of happiness and productivity. On 9 October she received a sacrifice on the Capitoline Hill, likely on a shrine she shared with Honos (Honor) and Virtus (Virtue). A sign was found on a bakery in Pompeii that bore the image of an erect phallus with the inscription ‘hic habitat Felicitas’ as a sign for good luck.

Feronia: ancient goddess of wildlife, abundance, fertility, and health. She also granted freedom to slaves and rights to the downtrodden. Her shrines were found out in the wilderness, far from the city. Her festival, Feroniae, was held during the Ludi Plebeii (the plebeian games) on 13 November.

Fides: goddess of trust and good faith. In her temple, the Roman Senate would sign and keep foreign treaties so that she might protect their terms. She is pictures wearing a wreath of olive and a white stola, and holding a turtle dove in her hand. Numa Pompilius instituted an annual ceremony in her honor on 1 October, during which the high priests would be taken in a chariot drawn by two horses to her temple, where they would conduct a service with heads covered and their right hands wrapped in white fabric.

Flora: An ancient goddess of spring and flowers, and by extension, youth and fertility. Her festival, the Floralia, was held from 28 April to 3 May, and included the Ludi Florae (the games of Flora), opening with theatrical performances and closing with competitive events and a sacrifice to the goddess. Beans and lupines, symbols of fertility, were used as a sort of confetti. Prostitutes would dance naked and fight in mock gladiator matches. Multicolored clothing and garlands of flowers were worn.

Fontus: god of wells and springs, and the son of Janus and Juturna. On 13 October, his festival, the Fontinalia, saw the decoration of wellheads and fountains with garlands of flowers.

Fornax: the goddess of cakes and bread, and the divine personification of the oven. During her festival, the Fornacalia, of which the date was variable but likely fell around 17 February, every family in each curia brought spelt flour to be tasted and sacrificed to ensure all bread made in the coming year would not burn. Each curia celebrated on a different day, and so the festival took nine days.

Fortuna: goddess of fate and good luck. Her temple was on the bank of the Tiber, and its dedication was held on 24 June, when celebrants would take a boat downstream to the temple and partake in rituals to honor her.

Furrina: ancient goddess of unknown description, but who was probably associated with water, springs, or perhaps darkness and the underworld. Her festival was the Furrinalia, 25 July, and her rites are unknown, but may have had something to do with prayers for the end of drought.

[merzbow-derek]

POST-SCRIPTUM 747

AGITATION FRITE 2 : DANS UNE GRANDE SOLITUDE, À L’HARMONIUM

Agitation Frite 1, Témoignages de l’underground français est donc sorti chez Lenka lente. Un second volume est en préparation. La forme en est la même : un peu moins d’une quarantaine d’entretiens dont la plupart, cette fois, sont inédits. On en trouvera ici des extraits, régulièrement. Par exemple, Michel Henritzi (Dustbreeders, Discom, Howlin’ Ghost Proletarians)…

EXTRAIT…

Le label historique de Dustbreeders s'appelle Élevage de poussière. Celui que tu as consacré à l'improvisation et créé dans les années 2000 se nomme À bruit secret. Quel est le sens de ces deux emprunts à Marcel Duchamp ?

Au-delà de l’intérêt qu'on pouvait avoir pour le geste artistique radical et iconoclaste de Duchamp, Élevage de poussière s'est imposé à nous (Dustbreeders) du fait qu'on plaçait au centre de notre dispositif instrumental des platines sur lesquelles on jouait des vinyles dans une idée de détournement. On pouvait y voir une analogie avec les ready-made de Duchamp. Qu'est-ce qui ressemble le plus à un élevage de poussière qu'un vinyle oublié sur une platine ? Cela nous a dès lors semblé un nom idéal pour un label vinyle. Il n’était pas question de produire des CD ou des cassettes.

À bruit secret relève toujours de mon intérêt pour Duchamp, mais cette fois, plutôt pour l'aspect conceptuel de son œuvre qui était, à cette époque, en résonance avec ce qui m’intéressait dans la musique improvisée de cette période, et plus particulièrement dans la scène japonaise « réductionniste », même si ses musiciens ne se reconnaissent pas dans ce terme : je pense à Taku Sugimoto, Toshimaru Nakamura, Sachiko M ou Otomo Yoshihide. J’ai fait le choix du CD pour ce label parce qu'il effaçait toute impureté sonore produite par la lecture d’une platine vinyle. Et à considérer cet objet de reproduction qu'est un CD, on peut le voir comme la pièce de Duchamp nommée « À bruit secret », cette petite sculpture dans laquelle un objet non révélé est enfermé et produit un bruit si on le manipule. Le CD est un objet énigmatique en soi, qui ne produit du son que si on le fait tourner dans un lecteur, sinon la musique qu'il enferme nous reste inaudible, secrète. Le nom s'est une fois encore très vite imposé. Duchamp demeure aujourd’hui encore, et pour de nombreux artistes, une boîte à idées.

Une autre boîte à idées, dans ce qui guide tes choix esthétiques, qu'ils soient écrits (puisque tu écris sur la musique aussi), ou sonores (que tu produises les disques des autres ou enregistres les tiens), pourrait être Guy Debord, non ?

C’est à travers ses écrits que Debord a été important pour moi, au travers des clés qu’il nous a données pour comprendre la société du spectacle, notre société. Après je crois que, comme beaucoup de jeunes gens, j'ai pu en avoir une lecture naïve, ou tout au moins une approche purement intellectuelle sans l’éprouver dans une pratique révolutionnaire. Debord m’a plus apporté dans ma critique des musiques, et surtout des musiques dites expérimentales ou radicales que dans ma pratique musicale. Ce que nous apprend la lecture de Debord, c'est que ces musiques qu'on dit extrêmes, radicales, subversives, n'échappent pas au spectacle qu'elles semblent dénoncer. Que la musique dite noise n'est au fond qu'une expérience narcissique et illusoire dans sa critique des musiques mainstream : car il y a une même économie a l'œuvre, un même star system, une même répétition que dans toute la culture marchande. À chacun d'en retirer quelque chose ou non, comme pour n'importe quelle symphonie ou blues. La musique noise n'affirme qu'une différence très narcissique. Je me souviens d'une interview d'Alessandro Bosetti qui posait la question de la radicalité révolutionnaire en demandant qu'est-ce qui était plus révolutionnaire entre une composition de Luigi Nono qui déconstruisait la chanson populaire « El pueblo unido jamás será vencido » ou 5000 personnes qui reprenaient cette même chanson dans un stade de foot. La musique noise n'est finalement que l'écho amplifié du bruit du capital. Pour répondre à ta question, Debord m'a toujours posé problème dans ma pratique. Je me considère juste comme un bluesman, un petit blanc cultivé qui exprime ses colères, ses frustrations, son blues. That's all.

Avant d'évoquer ta pratique, parlons de tes écoutes, celles qui t'ont fait. Tu n'as probablement pas commencé par écouter du blues ?

Quand on a 14-15 ans, on découvre les choses au hasard des rencontres, d’une pochette, sans trop rien connaitre aux styles, genres, enjeux qui s'y jouent.

En vrac, les premiers disques que j’ai achetés, de mémoire : Léo Ferré avec Zoo ; Catherine Ribeiro & Alpes ; Catharsis, Ange, Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Iron Butterfly, Deep Purple, Jefferson Airplane, Can et King Crimson. Tout ça, je l’écoute alors sans hiérarchie, avant la rupture punk que je découvre dès 1976. Ensuite il y a une série d’articles dans la revue Best qui m’introduisent aux Stooges, MC5 et Velvet Underground. Là, c'est le coup de foudre, je sens une vraie connexion avec cette sauvagerie rock. Les pochettes me fascinent : White Light/White Heat du Velvet, comme un trou noir, et les flammes de Fun House.  Un des tous premiers concerts que j’ai vu, et qui m’a marqué, c’est Nico bourrée sur scène, dans une grande solitude, à l’harmonium, devant un public hostile venu pour Magma. Arrivent ensuite les premiers LP punk : Damned, Stranglers, Buzzcocks. Je veux évidemment jouer dans un groupe punk !

Tu concrétises alors ?

Comme tous mes copains de lycée, je voulais jouer dans un groupe punk, mais personne ne voulait jouer avec moi : on me disait que j'étais un guitariste trop nul, ce qui était vrai, mais j'avais cette idée naïve, que pour faire cette musique, on n'avait pas besoin de savoir jouer, qu’il suffisait de faire du « bruit » avec n'importe quel instrument et de « crier » sa rage, ses rêves ou ses colères. Finalement, le punk était déjà un mouvement très conservateur, tout du moins en France. J’ai fait mes trucs, seul, avec un magnéto cassette et une guitare, en passant des enregistrements d'usine, de rue, etc., que je trouvais sur des disques de bruitage pour le cinéma. Mes idoles à l'époque étaient Fripp et Eno, plus que les punks en fait. Jusqu'à ce que je découvre, peu après, la no wave, et surtout Throbbing Gristle, qui m'ont ouvert à une approche différente de ce que pouvait être le punk-rock. Une approche connectée à l'art contemporain et à la littérature. Je découvrais en même temps Burroughs, Artaud, Ginsberg, K. Dick…

Un magazine ou un fanzine t'informait des disques à acheter ?

Jusqu’en 1977-1978, Rock & Folk et Best (comme je disais) orientaient mes achats de disques. Quelques années plus tard, j'ai découvert le monde des fanzines : New Wave, Atem, Forced Exposure et d'autres dont j’ai oublié le nom..., ..., ...

Photos : Natacha Thiery

( Nico, par là )