Schwarzfahren ohne Schwarzfahne

One self-proclaimed anarchist calling another a nihilist reminds me of the American Democrat calling an anti-war progressive isolationist.

Anti-Statism aside, lefties who see the Democrats for the irredeemable spectre that they are simply cannot be put into one chest of drawers, let alone one drawer and, in this regard, cannot be expected to agree upon functional action. And different folks with entirely divergent investments in life cannot be expected to see the opportunities and risks involved in going forward in the same light, let alone same reality tunnel.

For some, the most radical question is whether or not the formation of a third party to challenge the establishment is tenable. Others are convinced that voting is a waste of organizational energy which can only lead to more of the same, irrespective of the ideals of the party in question.

Yet, still, the latter of those two cannot agree upon just what it is that constitutes effective and positive, substantive change when it comes to putting an end the status quo. There is this nagging “engagement versus withdrawal” straw-man of a question.

I personally find the observation that when one withholds from the official economy one’s labor and fruits thereof that one is “damaging the commons and those who don’t have the luxury to do the same” to be so wide of the mark that it is difficult to know how to respond.

Indeed, because it seems obvious to me – just as obvious that the American president is not battling Republicans, but doing the will of big money – that one must choose which commons one wants to be a part of. Paying my taxes on time will do no more for a poor family in Detroit or Guben than voting for a Democrat or the SPD will.

As a matter of fact, the oft touted benefits of voting for “the viable alternative” as bulwark against the “ever-increasing scary faction” are but an infectious side-effect of their corruption and mendacity; likewise, any penny I place over the table is as likely a part of willful oppression as it is poverty’s diminishment.

One can do no better for the working poor than to tell them to go cold turkey. Fuck that commons. Regarding the mother who cashiers at Aldi – running to and from stocking the shelves every time another customer brings his booty to the checkout: No matter how I choose to live my life, I couldn’t deliver unto her the privilege of choice any better than I could convince a Democrat to vote for Cynthia McKinney, or an SPDler Sahra Wagenknecht.

Or maybe I could. But it sure as hell ain’t gonna be by shopping at mother-fucking Aldi or forming a union. The union makes us strong, but what about those who aren’t us? Has this strength led to the ability to more effectively share the same? If the movement from FDR to LBJ was so empowering, why does it have no critical mass? Why is it not sustainable?

While I’m grazing the subject of the byproducts of indirect democracy: the aforementioned former Georgia congressperson and Green Party candidate for the Presidency of those United States has, not for the first time, noted the Libyan lie and how Bo Rama’s policies are not good for Africans or African-Americans. But to get any kind of press she had to go on “a pro-Khaddafi television station” and the medium became the message of that story – with the mumbling implication of the black on black on black nature of her criticism.

But as Fred Hampton would tell Ms. McKinney, had he not been murdered in his sleep by American law enforcement for the crime of not being the state: Putting a Black man in the White House don’t mean shit. Not that she doesn’t recognize this as self-evident; I imagine it was just her way of lampooning post-racial politics.

If you don’t believe the obvious truth that the first and foremost and most probably exclusive reason to drop bombs in Africa is to enrich the financiers at the top of the pyramid, then you probably believe that the snot trickling down from Mister Moneybags’ nose will lead to a better society as long as “the middle class” gets its greedy paws on it first.

There doesn’t have to be an Illuminati to make this so. The simple fact is: the most powerful, official governing bodies on Planet Earth are throwing their weight behind “the Libyan rebels” in the same fashion that the Carlyle Group and associates (or the not willing to disassociates) ordained Hamid Karzai successor to the Taliban – and as a consequence the newest breath of freedom to endure.

In short: It is not even a remotely tenable argument that “at least it will result in ending tyranny”. What is happening now in Libya and what will emerge from it is quite exclusively and intentionally all-inclusive collateral damage. If democracy arises from the ashes, it will be taxed to fund more collateral.

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As anyone who reads my other pages knows already, I’m off to Tuczno. Come along if you can find the way and ‘re into that sort of thing. I’d bring a waterproof tent.

Goldener Tschüss der Weinführerin: a heroine’s guide to heroin

Too many supporters of the decriminalization of marijuana take the wimpy route when it comes to harder drugs. Needle exchange programs are a political taint, no matter how well they achieve their aims.

But hard drugs like smack and crack don’t create hard criminals; the criminalization of drugs creates them. Sure, many cokeheads and/or junkies are assholes you would rather not be around, but drunks aren’t exactly good company either.

And don’t tell me about your best friend who stole from you to support his habit. If the shit had been available at the liquor store for the price of a bottle of Jim Beam we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Just imagine the CIA having to make deals with the likes of Nestle as well as Afghan farmers.

Before Dame Winehouse’s autopsy results are revealed, we cannot say for sure whether her death was an overdose. I will state with no uncertainty before the fact, however, that even if she did take the golden boot out, that it was just as much the alcohol part of her addictive personality that ultimately did her in.

Scan a list of those famous for substance abuse and you’ll find a lot of them having drowned face-down in water or face-up in puke. And nary a one wasn’t drunk first. Talk about a waste: I cannot imagine anything that would ruin a perfectly good heroin high than being all liquored up.

The other common denominator you’ll find on the Fiend of Fame is old junkies who wouldn’t die. William Burroughs isn’t the only one to live into his eighties. And though Del Close died in his sixties, emphysema killed him, even if it was a morphine drip that put him out of his misery. As a matter of fact, the list of junkies who kicked alcohol to live into retirement is a hell of a lot longer than the number of rock stars who croaked at 27.

die Fälschung

Allusions to conflicting interests and the press’ willingness to play along, framing the debate thus: Merkel finds Kozy’s planned 0.0025 percent tax on all European banks’ assets risky and would rather not have taxpayers carry the brunt of the next Greek bailout.

In case fractions aren’t your thing: Twenty-five ten-thousandths is two-and-a-half one-hundredths or, twenty-five cents for every hundred euros.

Merkel’s pretend implication has to be that the banks would just pass the cost along in the form of an additional fee to their customers, because the argument that it has anything to do with freeing or seizing up credit is by now laid bare: Lenders lend when they wanna, whether or not they have the money. It’s one of the perks of being a lender.

So Kozy plays all “We gotta make those darn banks share!” while Merkin counters with “But that would hurt Mom & Pop!” while no one with any decision making authority dares to say that it is all the same money either way: Otto and Else Normalburger, happening along, are not going to be able to pick the shell with the pea under it, even if they get three tries.

So we gotta spare the banks the imposition of investing in their own future. Care to guess how much they’re getting in return for the last “rescue package” – Greek Tragedy, part I? Really, just take a guess; because the answer you’d get from a ruling parliamentarian would be “That depends.” or “It won’t be that bad.”

How bad? Let’s just say that that quarter-on-every C-Note that was bandied about as a way to achieve half of the capital needed to keep the Greek Isles from going the way of Atlantis – and, as a result, knock the Earth off its axis and send it careening into a big black hole – is forty times less than the pile of profit that’ll be divvied up come bonus time – whether the money is actually there or not.

You do the math. As if.

From the Bottom of My Heart (you’ll find my liver)

Classic about this pic: I didn’t black out his eyes!

I always tag these as “fotos von davidly”, which is misleading because that category includes both photos I have taken myself, as well as those I have found and altered for my own amusement.

I stole drug&dropt this one from Arianne OnLine®, who in turn, I assume, is paying the organization who paid the photog who had the guts to stare long enough into Rup’s soul to capture an image of it.

Summarizing: I only give credit where due credit has been given in a manner that I recognize.

Relevant link: Rupe Apooligizes

In Dependence of Despair; and of the Image Nation

Life, at least the living of it, is but bureaucracy as far as I tell. I don’t recall signing the contract, though I suppose one might say that forgetfulness of the law is no excuse. And I furthermore take into consideration that, with every vague undertaking, I’ve established some implied consent.

Therefore, herewith, and henceforth, I would like to inform the authorities that I do not consent!

I awoke today – not with the intention of living life to its fullest. Quite the contrary. I awoke today with a singular, aching desire, insofar as desire is a part of anything other than my most primal instincts. Better stated, I awoke today with an aversion. I awoke today not wanting to have to bother with life and all that the living of it brings with and against it. As a matter of fact, that is how I awake every single, dreadful day.

Lest it go unnoticed, I view every single day as dreadful. So the implication is certainly true, that there are no days upon which I awake with any other feeling than that of a feeling of dread and despair.

Let it forthwith be here so noted that this has been issued in writing.

Yet life would have me believe that I have a choice in the face of this nagging dilemma. And that choice involves carrying to the likely conclusion the question that is. That is, that most-dreaded question, even more dreaded than waking up on yet another dreadful day: of whether or not to be. But the problem is: I already am!

And I wanna see the contract! Even if I don’t remember signing it, which I don’t, I should at least be able to refer to its contents so that I know what my responsibilities are.

Now, of course, with that request I have peeled the red seal from the can of worms. That is, after all, what life is, idn’t it?

O say, can you see,
Life is bureaucracy,
Of a contract you signed
One you think you’d remember?

Though it’s implied each day,
As you appear to stay,
Through the thick and the thin
From New Year’s to December?

And that dread and despair,
Insofar as you care,
Hides truth of your plight,
End it all? You don’t dare!?

O say, does this body of
Matter still crave
O’er life a victory,
Or into it to cave?