Anarchy of despair or anarchy of infinite hope? The existent is puncture-proof. Hope depends on others hope gives humanity one objectivity one ethical life. The Bet will always lose and the individual will always pay. Hope is easy to avoid Here, what about despair? The existent as a unified subject to be argued against Is an easy fallacy. To avoid hubris, accept your portion and then sit on top of The World.
Not all blacknesses are created and then maintained by descendentts
a “Liberation Struggle” (Jesus Help Us)
Fueled and leaded by
a personal craving for glory.
Cans, still have a positive effect on the wider world – –
Provided it stops short of making ‘trans-ethnic”
a Viable Option
How is solidarity possible in a world where strangers can never talk to one another? That is the world I live in.
I know that solidarity requires that there be communication between groups of people who seem to have nothing in common. According to the standard version of American “liberalism,” individuals are defined by their age, religious affiliation, sexual preferences, “race,” gender, “socioeconomic status,” regional identity, country of origin, political “party,” etc.
I have learned what solidarity means as a descendant of unwelcome immigrants and poor southerners; as a service industry worker; as a student; as a friend of lesbians; as a sexual partner with bisexual women; as a neighbor; as an anarchist; as a lover of punk rock; as a lover of hip-hop; as a resident in Black neighborhoods; as a worker in majority-Black workplaces; as a resident in recent immigrant neighborhoods; as a patient in locked psychiatric wards; as a cyclist in cities with no bike lanes; as a minimum-wage-earner in psychiatric facilities where my job was to use my lived experience as a “mental health consumer” to help other “mental health consumers” manage their symptoms, learn about recovery, and navigate the social service system in Chicago so that they can achieve stable housing, a stable source of medications, etc., etc.
I have never felt solidarity with “White people,” even though according to the genetics website 23 and Me I am 100% European. I have never felt solidarity with “heterosexual men,” even though I am certainly a heterosexual man. I have never felt solidarity with “real Americans,” even though I have ancestors who have been here since 1640. I have never felt solidarity with the Stars and Bars, even though my ancestors owned slaves and colonized Mississippi.
Every time a giant automobile nearly runs me over, I curse at that automobile. I would rather not curse at it. What I would like to say instead of “FUCK YOU” is, “Pardon me, but have you ever had your brain hit the front of your skull so hard that it completely and permanently severed all of your olfactory nerves? No? Well, I have, and it was a giant automobile that did it. If I still had a sense of smell, maybe I would have realized that you were headed in my direction earlier. Isn’t that something?”
It’s impossible to have a conversation with a moving vehicle. A moving vehicle objectively has more killing power than an unarmed human being.
Every time I am walking down a sidewalk in the dark and I encounter a small woman walking a giant dog and talking on a cell phone, I want to say, “Pardon me, I know that I am six feet seven inches, 225 pounds, and dressed all in black. I am not an aggressive person, and I accept most of the conclusions of radical feminism, despite being a heterosexual man. I have been bitten by dogs twice while walking down sidewalks in Chicago. If I stepped in your dog’s poop, I might never even realize that everyone smells shit on my shoe when I walk by. The thing is, you are walking slower than I would like to walk, and I hesitate to pass you, because that would be frightening.”
It’s impossible to have a conversation with a person talking on a cell phone. And so I walk slowly, and cross to the other side of the street at the next intersection.
A giant dog under the control of a distracted person is objectively more dangerous than a big smelly bastard in the dark.
Once, a middling kingdom was ruled by a square-head King, the Heir of which was Graced with a hexagonal chin, his mother being a Queenly bundle of Pentacles. Of middling quality, the realm’s scope was not large. Of smallish area, its peasants were coarse, their brows lined with milled earth, their hearths black-baked and mottled. The King’s beard had quit pushing some four years before. Then his masons had planted a cubed icon in bronze on a pyramidal plinth, an effect so alluring the King had at once churned to burp:
“And so our Reign can be never changed –
I must keep myself Curtained,
One rock my True Face,
Engraved Laws my Sole Speech.”
The King’s four bronze faces kept the peasants on watch.
At the edge of one side, a bare fountain.
Stone flowers, clear streamlets of well-water for washing.
Only girls seemed to bother
with that, as boys dusted their hats, the women crouched over pestles of seasoned clay, the men’s grime slipping, and salting, that day’s batch with clean sweat.
The Queen? She was there; er,er,er::; ,,“Over There” ,rather, still middling Fair, but Willful and Ill-Nourished. Since the King had ceased moving it had become unbecoming to be seen to eat, so as not to Risk Swollen Pentacles. Her Prince had a Firm nose which came to a Point, when Cocked from the Tower, and seen from below. In this way his Fine Chin was obscured, in fact it was Positively Triangulated:
“Look at them all!” he declaimed in discovery,
“A fine thrum! Ha! Let’s call them ‘thumb-faces!’
“What do you think of it, Squirrel?”
“Fine meat-minds, from here at peace
Those Easy Least,
Brining their hidings
In those ruts
Withall Lax Eyes
And Dull Snoots
Rooting Round in the Refuse”
The Squire nodded squirrelly.
“You’ve a way with words, my lord,” spoke the Tutor with gravity.
The Prince bellowed:
“I shall paint them! Let us grant them a Picture –
Yes, our Point of View on Top of Our Battlement.
Wait till Father dies! Yes, it shall be a Framed Jubilee.”
This ” ‘Aesthetic Totality’ “ was what deposed Him from His Arch, down the crooked-bricked whirl of stepped lime, past Charwoman, past Fletcher, and finally past Groom, beneath the sharp rust of the Gate, across Drawbridge and out, with the Sun past its Height, a stretched canvas wedged as by a studied insouciance under the Thinned Joint of a shoulder, and a Horsehair Brush in the Belt of his Tunic, across the Parade Ground past the Smith’s open shop.
“Your Highness, I hail you,” the Smith promptly said, and then,
“Boys! Halt the bellows!”
“We have noble company!
Fetch me the water-pail,
My ember needs quenching.”
And so the boys did.
The pail threw white steam.
The Smith drew his hand back.
He threw his hammer one hand’s breadth.
The canvas was loosed.
The horsehair was curled, then it bent.
“Quickly spent! Just another Bothered Bosh
Boiled off into a pink Bit of Burning,”
said the Sexton.
“Nothing personal, Prince, you had a Fine Skull once. Not as Square as your Father’s. Easy Come, Easy Go. So Says the Queen.” “Which Queen?” “The Black Queen.”
Drain the moat, boys and girls. Show’s over.
Now bend your knees.
Now stand up.
CLOWN: WHICH CAME FIRST, THE COCK OR THE ROOSTER?