“Poverty is not fate, it is a condition; it is not a misfortune, it is an injustice. It is the result of social structures and mental and cultural categories, it is linked to the way in which society has been built, in its various manifestations.”
— Gustavo Gutiérrez (via anarcho-queer)
(Source: mikeqj, via dendroica)
9:34 pm • 26 July 2014 • 3,206 notes
It’s getting there, there’s less need to be opaque. I don’t know what to say these days as the recipient of so many liberties, working rights, the position of a peaceful nation, exports to the United States and protected agriculture. There’s nothing I can say about Palestine, except Deleuze got it right by saying it comes down to jurisprudence; if there is no history of human rights, if it’s all a creation of political struggle in the West then there’s no defense for besieged populations.
It doesn’t cause me distress, it causes me a certain spiritual disarray and I recognize that these things that we thought we possessed are not our own like they were; even our working rights have been short circuited and industrial labour exported to China. There isn’t a position of defense, there is only another push to intense areas, this profound moral injustice that is taking place especially in the Middle east impossible to intervene in because we just have no muscle.
All that we could do in this situation is disrupt the system, boycott its entire function. This requires clarity, something of a general ethic, a consistent set of human rights and ecological standards which would elevate humanity. Not this kind of capitalist violence, the appropriation as selling off, but agglomeration, a joining together of many systems. I read that a bishop said that the Muslims of Palestine who had lost their Mosques could pray in the Churches. This cross-territorialization, this new necessity to systematize our conflicts to develop natural zones of movement and power.
9:26 pm • 26 July 2014 • 1 note
One time someone gave me a book by John Green, and I swear by it, I never saw such a piece of trash filled with platitudes and disguised emotional manipulation. Ever since then I just bristle when I hear this author’s name. Such weary, commonplace explanations, like a colonialism of the spirit. It’s just so God-damned awful.
9:07 pm • 26 July 2014 • 3 notes
“When you go,
if you go,
And I should want to die,
there’s nothing I’d be saved by
more than the time
you fell asleep in my arms
in a trust so gentle
I let the darkening room
drink up the evening, till
rest, or the new rain
lightly roused you awake.
I asked if you heard the rain in your dream
and half dreaming still you only said, I love you.”
— When You Go Edwin Morgan (via ifloveisnotenough)
9:25 am • 26 July 2014 • 21 notes
When a clatter came,
it was horses crossing the ford.
When the air creaked, it was
a lapwing seeing us off the premises
of its private marsh. A snuffling puff
ten yards from the boat was the tide blocking and
unblocking a hole in a rock.
When the black drums rolled, it was water
falling sixty feet into itself.
When the door
scraped shut, it was the end
of all the sounds there are.
You left me
beside the quietest fire in the world.
I thought I was hurt in my pride only,
when you plunge your hand in freezing water,
a bangle of ice round your wrist
before the whole hand goes numb.
— Norman MacCaig, Sounds of the Day [from The Many Days: Selected Poems of Norman MacCaig (Polygon 2011)] (via corvuel)
9:22 am • 26 July 2014 • 4 notes
It was in this spiritual twilight, quick contact with the living lights in the sky, all living and alive. It is said that some stars are dead but maybe their light is a necessary blackness, not so much a retreat from sight but a more vivid being in the very depths of conscious being. This death drive, death instinct, the pleasure of being profoundly lost to another, is another way of saying: I am found to myself. This mania, this delirium of the night which we all titillate ourselves with my the wistful looking upwards, O I could never quite understand this wistfulness. Perhaps a territorialization of the night, a facade of surrender, when we would truly be looking at the empty spaces. It is not the brightness of the stars that releases light, but the blackness, infinite withholding of the night, of the cosmic black. Radiance is cause of sores and worn ankles toiling in the bracken earth, you cannot say so much for it as the keen breath of twilight’s fresh air. These perplexing moments, those of shared wistfulness, but really a splendid voicing of what is libidinal; if you have ever been on the receiving end of the perpetual night, uncoiling into itself, revealing light as a notoriety, a kind of bereavement of silence, then you will ache to know that these creatures of light are twisting like so many hungry chlorophyll, merely grasping with a sort of vested desire, a visceral need of life, of the life that only derives from light, even if it were the lamplit concrete below, it would suffice for those whose gains are to see their own solidity, their own self-idolatry. No, not this ray of powerful light, but the unfolding of dark matter and the ether, the in betweens, the tiny causalities of movement and light. O, to get beneath, to not stutter out platitudes, metaphors, signs and images of a desired thought, a thought which does not edge towards the schizophrenic. But without night, we would not for one moment be able to clarify the thoughts that we have, falling into waking hallucinations, the over-abundance of images and self-reflection that comes from this thick, cerebral matter. Time, rather, to celebrate the thin escape of the soul, which we know we all have, and refuse to blurt it out, as if it were a contamination of order, of the idea of a mutually understood territory. And yet the territories now become blank, articulate to the point of sterility, the language we use territorializing over the language that insists beneath the surface. Phrases such as genetic modification, repeating triumphs of the intelligence piercing matter, but not finding itself any more intelligence. Intelligence that stems from matter, finds its access in this substance, this perpetually cut through being. The true, the triumphant, the actual, the verity of a thought that has civilized life. Nothing of it. This death, this blackness, is not necessarily a positive force, but a well from which we must make a return. In order to understand that to be shot through, contaminated, to bring into fruition the multiple, the release; this is the necessity. No theory, no boundaries; the only thing we were lacking was the ability to form such a consciousness that would be capable of both rendering joie de divre and the death instinct patently absurd. The hard surface an atrocity, the pierced through a travesty, what else is there to say that if the plane of consistency for being can be evolved, that our means of being without having, but without releasing ourselves from the mortal coil at the very gravest moment of desperation.
Let’s neither be idealists nor tragedians.
6:11 pm • 25 July 2014 • 3 notes
“I remember when I was younger and I wanted to be beautiful; now I’m older and I want to be intelligent. I want to burn hearts with brilliance and engulf souls with compassion. I want to be loved for my thoughts and nothing else.”
— (via radicalteen)
(Source: substvncia, via stability)
5:51 pm • 25 July 2014 • 104,800 notes
“[T]he destruction of human life on a large scale has been a structural component of capitalism from its inception, as the necessary counterpart of the accumulation of labor power, which is inevitably a violent process.”
— Silvia Federici, The Reproduction of Labor Power in the Global Economy and the Unfinished Feminist Revolution (via foucault-the-haters)
2:37 pm • 25 July 2014 • 62 notes