Property destruction is not violence in any substantive sense. To use the same term for vandalism as direct physical brutality is an Orwellian pollution of language that cheapens real violence and suggests that people are equivalent to things. Obviously destroying people’s inert possessions is usually not ethically justifiable–but the bar is much lower than with real violence. Civil disobedience, like blocking a port, can incur costs in the millions of dollars, while other actions widely accepted as ‘non-violent’ like pouring fake blood over draft cards or mortgage records can amount to incredibly costly direct property destruction. Breaking cheap windows may look scarier to some, but appearing intimidating is hardly an atrocity.
—“You Are Not the Target Audience” from Human Iterations (Anarchism Blog)
Just captures the zeitgeist so well.
(Source: the-soul-provider)
America is not a young land: it is old and dirty and evil before the settlers, before the Indians. The evil is there waiting.
—William Burroughs; Naked Lunch (via chelseanow)
“I don’t apologize for my blackness and your fear!” - Sign at a Trayvon Martin rally
(Source: princessofkings)
“Slut” is how we vilify a woman for exercising her right to say “yes”. “Friendzone” is how we vilify a woman for exercising her right to say “no”.
I’m gonna need to think about this for a very long time. I’m very guilty using both.
—
(via thechocolatebrigade)
BOOM.
There it is.
(via goddessofcheese)
(Source: angels-and-angles, via thatneedstogo)
In Sinchon girls in high heels or with their Minnie Mouse sweatshirt just out of the dry cleaners would bend parallel to the street and text and puke and cry all at the same time. It’s a primordial scene; everyone running around in unfathomable self-contained drama. It would also all fit on a glossy and tasteless post card. An endless hubbub of honey cats and poodles, part Venus part Mars buzzing in the bee-hive and wrapped up in distressed leather and urban denim. Baseball caps turned backwards, plastic flowers in hand, and everyone in the grilled smells—the porked and the unporked. Sinchon might never get hip but that also means that it never rests to reinvent itself. Sinchon: no one has ever called it boring and I for one never will.
—Three Wise Monkeys blogger talking about Sinchon, where I lived in Seoul in 2009-2010.
Slowdive on a cloudy morning is just like whooaaaaa.
Rengoku eroica 1970 - Director: Yoshishige Yoshida
Naho Kimura
(Source: retrografix.blogspot.com)
Ah, White Supremacy Culture, the greatest troll of them all.
In between steps (Reeses Puffs Cereal and Soy Milk)
I missed home today. Ironic, i live in the internet these days where everything is Leftist and catty—I found myself longing for that small town so fascist and sleepy at the same time. I had microwave corn dogs today just to remember how they taste. Funny, I’ll eat the shittiest quality meat but never order a burger. My vegetarianism is only sometimes and self-destructive/ill-informed when it’s “On.”. I can’t even commit to not eating meat these days, February is going to be a throwaway month between partial and full employment. In the middle of soy milk and Reesees puffs cereal I felt the strongest pit in my chest—the familiar pull of homesickness.
I miss a series of people because I learned a long time ago that for fortune or lack there of I am an individual who will never call once place home. I don’t miss a house or school building, not the small town streets or the fact that I never had to parallel park before the age of 20. I missed how my friends built me a backroad monument out of stolen construction barrels when I went to China. I came back and just got a text message “Hey, we built you something, you know where to look.”. That’s still the most meaningful gift I’ve ever gotten. If I were a theist I’d pray they know that made the best of the worst summer of my life.
I miss running into 60-hours a week feed mill employee, best friend from first day of kindergarten but person I saw the least of in high school, Jay Pirkel. Saw him at a bar a year ago and he was genuinely interested in what I’ve been doing for the past four years. It’s rare anyone cared/remembered what I A) majored in, B)want to do with my life, C)where I studied abroad. He wanted to know all of it and offered amazement instead of the usual criticism or doubt I usually find. He’s going for a record of consecutive 60 hour work weeks, “I’m in second, the Mexicans always beat me.”. His words not mine.
Passing my old Church I simultaneously think fondly of the congregation and am hateful towards an evangelical ex, as well as the shame I felt thinking God would judge every sexual endeavor I had. Fuck the amount of shame theists put on me for being a human. No man is an island but damn, you burn a lot of bridges when you come out as an atheist, leftist, vegetarian, queer ally, antiracist, ____________, etc. And yet, folksy or “volk”——I miss my fascist little hometown.
Maybe LA’s getting to me.
It’s like I told Michael before he went back to Madison “I won’t answer shitty questions. If you ask me ‘How was it?’ or ‘When are you leaving?’ or ‘What are you doing again?’, you weren’t paying attention or you forgot.”. When he left I told him, “People are going to want to know everything and nothing about how LA actually was.”. We’re on the same page, “I will only answer good questions,” he gets it.
And when I look to the ocean, in between iPod tracks she draws water in, sloshes it back out—-all of the water in the world is sloshing in a tidal bowl—-I miss Seoul even more. Home #3 (I guess Madison is Home #2). If I make it there again I might kiss the ground. The place I discovered Home #1.5 in between headphones. A city of millions breathes, but so desolate. So beautiful from the mountains, so discouraging, but living in the punks, skinheads, hardcore kids, crust punks, Itaewon, the sickly mass of people fleeing a failing economy into a corporate cronyism unrivaled. It’s beautiful and deadly, that Korean home. I want to be lost in that concrete hymn, the footsteps home at dawn drowned out by the heaviest music I can find. Fall still smells like Fall when sifted through pollution, anyways.
I’m in between steps. Home #1-4 (LA must be 4), roll the dice, it lands Korean. I’m leaving in March, and I guess I’ll find what I’m looking for—>never lost it, just reconciling the difference between Smalltown, WI and the last 4 years.
