Left Unity: The Politics of a Soldier’s Grave

It was about 11pm when the key source for the article I had been writing told me the lynchpin of my story, nearly 3,000+ words typed up and ready for editing, was not entirely correct. My deadline was 1am. There was no salvaging the story and if I was to rescue anything of the encounter I’d need to sweat out some major revisions.

Things did not look good.

So I drank, wondering what the hell I’d write about instead, when I saw a meme claiming that Anarchists and State Communists shouldn’t argue until “after the revolution.”

Inspiration struck and I spat venom at the concept of “Left Unity” until 4:15am

Anarchists, whose goals don’t include replacing the ruling class with a fairer boss or a better party, find themselves lumped in with “comrades” far more grotesque than a Casey Anthony Babysitting Club.

Marxist-Leninists support the imperialist struggles of anti-imperialists provided their war-crimes are against the United States; Maoists attest that the Chinese Communist party, home to actual millionaires, is leading its pollution-choked lumpen proles towards Marx’s grand vision; primitivists decry every human life as a murder while calling for a “peaceful” culling of the herd; Syndicalists assure me freedom is no farther away than a worker-owned McDonald’s exploited by majority vote.

I don’t want any of those futures, nor would I fight for them, yet because of the place they hold on some imaginary scale I am to regard them as “friends.”

Check it out here.

 

 

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It’s Time for Anarchists to Pick Up A Gun

 

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Imagine for a moment you’re at a bar and there’s an immigrant in front of you.

He’s quiet, but not antisocial, casually dressed but not sloppy. He seems just like anybody else except he isn’t. What you don’t know is he’s been working as an aviation programs engineer and even helped design fly-by-wire planes, in which manual controls are entirely replaced by computers. Smart guy, very talented, “high energy” as Il Duce might say; a success story from India and right out of American mythology.

Now, behind him, a new sound; old, fearful, you hear a hellish cry: “GET OUT OF MY COUNTRY!”

Who the fuck was that? There appears to be a bit of a scuffle in the back, some guy hassling the immigrant you were just studying, but the bar manager seems to take care of it. The man, who appears to be just some old white dude, looks pissed. There’s something about him, but you can’t seem to place it. The man leaves, but in a few minutes comes back through the door. Perhaps he left something?

He shoots 3 people, two of them Indians who he mistakenly took for Muslims.

Maybe you’re at a protest this time, holding your sign and feeling the electric current of hundreds of other bodies joined in solidarity. A man emerges from the crowd, egging you on to hit him. He spits at you like a diseased raccoon and curses like a fucking sailor. Maybe he’s drunk you figure, or at least too high to really know what’s going on. Someone else pushes him away.

He pulls out a pistol and shoots them. He’ll only be charged with assault.

This is just the tip of the iceberg. We’re not even a full year into the reign of a new emperor and already the political climate has become practically poisonous, a vile and noxious cloud not only choking the most at risk in our communities but the people seeking to defend them. People have called for Antifa to be declared a terrorist organization; state governments are writing bills that allow protesters to be run over and have their property stolen from them.

It’s a situation not unlike the one faced by French Illegalists at the turn of the century:

“Against us, all arms are good; we are in an enemy camp, surrounded, harassed. The bosses, judges, soldiers, cops unite to bring us down.”

To be a thinking person in this country of barbarians is to be a criminal and with ever-increasing fervor the tribes loyal to the new Emperor aim to make war upon us. There are millions of people sitting in front of televisions as I type these words that would see nothing wrong with a few hundred lives sacrificed every year to “keep people in line” and you can be sure that folks like you and I will be among them. The cops don’t stop them, they exchange racist texts with them; they console men who kill unarmed black children and tell them what they did was just.

To be an Anarchist, a Communist, an Anti-Capitalist or Intersectional Insurgent is to be potentially marked for death. This is not a metaphor. This is real life.

If you roamed the streets of Syria with nothing but a baseball bat you’d be thought to be suicidal; if your “war against the State” consisted of nothing but flames and gasoline every fire station in the country would be well enough equipped to handle even your most daring of raids.

The people who overwhelmingly support the policies and politicians that want to see you stuffed into a coffin are getting rather shooty as of late. I ask a simple question: do you have the tools to protect not only yourself but the people you care about?

The Great Misfortune

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Let’s not kid ourselves: “radicals” are about as far from “revolutionaries” as turkeys are from the T-rex. Somewhere along the line the Left stopped being dangerous and almost went extinct. After the IWW was broken in the 30’s and Labor’s power was smashed, after the ALF-CIO denounced communists and dropping acid was a stand in for revolution, the only place you could find the same current that scared the living piss out of emperors and presidents became smoke-filled college dorms or momentary marches down half-way empty streets. In essence the Left’s ideas about human liberation from the chains of capital were so heavily hunted in the physical world it ran back into our heads; like Ivory-Billed Woodpeckers the Left was thought to be extinct, the sight of a Hammer and Sickle more like the discovery of a dinosaur bone that any kind of political statement.

But times ain’t what they used to be.

Enraged by Trump’s actions and betrayed by the Democrats, the specter of radicalism has returned like an angry ghost hellbent on revenge. Millennials are tired of capitalism yet Bernie’s “political revolution” failed to deliver on anything worthwhile. Non-violence has shown itself as only a great way to get arrested.

Yes, the militant Left seems to be emerging from the ground like cicadas in the Florida summer, hisses and noises slowly building to an unshakable chorus. Signs from the previous generation still remain on the still wet wings of these new militants however. Black Bloc is back but we’re still battling over protests, people joined arm in arm around buildings are generally just a nuisance and not a blockade.

The Anarchists and Militants of all stripes have become neutered, putting us in a dangerous predicament not faced in other countries. Republicans are twice as likely as Democrats to be members of a gun-owning household and about six-in-ten gun household members (64%) say they “often feel proud to be American”; roughly half of all the guns in this country are possessed by just 3 percent of American adults; many of the cheapest firearms to produce (ones with open bolt actions) are specifically banned under the NFA and the Hughes Amendment, effectively keeping self-protection out of the hands of the working class.

This is not Europe, this is the United States of fucking America, a morose fiefdom where people can walk into a goddamned Starbucks with 30 rounds of armor-piercing bullets.

What this amounts to is a tangled web of dark implications too dire to think about, a hidden threat of wealthy and well-to-do patriots fully armed and very capable of destroying any gains a revolutionary movement might make in a matter days. They can afford to laugh at riots because they know when the chips are down any effective means of self-defense are firmly in the hands of one class and one ideology.

There is no specter haunting any continent besides the FAI and even then only in small spontaneous camps. Cops and Nazis alike(but I repeat myself) have stormed protests and proceeded to beat the shit out of whoever they like because they pose no threat to the ones doing the beating. Police still want to go home at the end of the day; the minute they are faced with somebody more than capable of inflicting even worse harm they can commit they suddenly become negotiators and peacemakers. Recall the inbreds at the Malthur Wildlife Reserve were treated like honorable enemies because they had fully automatic weapons that could slice a pig up in a matter of seconds.

Recall also they were all aquitted by juries and served almost no jail time.

Compare that with the protests at Standing Rock, where State forces have literally blown people’s arms off without any repercussions besides being prayed at. The camp, now in shambles, is done. The DAPL will be built, the people have failed, and all they have to show for it are bruises and injuries.

But what if the cops hadn’t been so eager to permanently maim protesters, or rush into camps? What if they had been afraid? What if Anarchism and Anti-Capitalists really were something to be afraid of again?

What if the resistance was armed?

The God That Lied

Source: happinessforall.files.wordpress.com

Source: happinessforall.files.wordpress.com

Modern protesting, a hold over from liberalism, assumes a few things:

  • The people in power care about what their livestock have to say.
  • There is some imaginary field surrounding all of us called “human rights” that these people feel morally obligated to respect.
  • The Enemy can be persuaded or guilted into giving up all its power to form some grand utopian cabal that spans the globe without any violence.

These ideas are ridiculous, some religious fantasy stillbirth from the 1960’s dragged around and paraded at every “demonstration” as if they were some patchouli-soaked Christ-child sent to heal us. It’s all lies. All of it. Just ask any black person.

These concepts are nothing more than implanted fictions given to you by the State to keep you docile and obedient, and were recognized as such one hundred years ago. Do bosses care about the food or shelter of the workers they fire? Do the police wonder if someone’s “rights” have been violated when they beat them with batons or shoot them on sight? They scream to you about non-violence while they steal almost every dollar you generate with the threat of force and starvation looming above you.

Rights are a fiction, a spook, and the sooner you realize the only “rights” you have are those you are willing to enforce the sooner you can join the rest of the planet in what we call life.

Enzo Martucci wrote:

“The freedom of an individual ends where his power ends.
If I want, and my power permits, I can command others. But in this case the power exercised over them is not authority because they are not bound to recognize and respect it. In fact, if they would rebel and use their power to impede my attempt at domination then all would remain free without anyone threatening to lord it over them.”

Anarchism has in effect relied on coercion: we will not work unless you do this, we will not stop rioting unless you give us this.

We can impede power plenty of ways, and lord knows radicals have learned an assortment, yet we never seem to make the idea of attempting domination a dangerous one. We walk the streets naked everyday with the sincere hope in our hearts that our weakness be respected as if our frailty was a virtue.

We protest laws that allow people to run us over and smash our skulls underneath one-thousand pounds of steel; we beg that the same people smashing us with batons eventually respect us; we don’t demand dignity, we whimper for permission to be treated as if we had any.

Is this the Anarchism we want, a tradition of asking to be human rather than demanding it? The majority of what passes for “direct action” nowadays is nothing more than calling upon the Enemy to be a better ruler instead of making ourselves ungovernable.

This tactic has never worked and the idea that any people, themselves surrounded by violent men and women defending imaginary lines carved from the corpses of millions, would believe them speaks more to strength of mass hallucination than any matters of politics.

As I write this a cop has pulled somebody over outside my window, his flashing lights a silent roar that he has caught his prey. If he does not forcibly detain his victim he will at least rob her to pay for the use of his protection racket. We will drive by, even if he beats or punches this young woman with sandy blonde hair because we are too weak to live without him.

If he killed her right now what would happen? Why shouldn’t he? What’s he got to lose? What would he even risk if he spread her brain matter everywhere in an orgy of foaming neurons and shark tank adrenaline? Nothing from her, nothing from the community around her. The slave cabins will remain quiet and after the protests are over he’ll be right back on the job.

Because he, and his entire department know they have nothing to fear. That we rely on them.

Pick Up YOUR Weapons and Declare YOUR War

Source: Pinhouse. Patch available for purchase here

Source: Pinhouse.
Patch available for purchase here.

I’ll say it plainly: an armed person is in command of themselves. They can not only defend themselves and thus be free from the “protection” of the police but move to enforce their own values on the world around them. When a cop tells you to take off a shirt he finds offensive(say, a Black Lives Matter t-shirt) you obey because the mere threat of violence and death is enough to make you comply. You are not sizing up the cop and wondering if you can out box him or pin him to the ground because you know no amount of muscle will stop a 9mm hollow point from ripping through your face like chemotherapy in a cancer patient.

There is no reason Anarchists can’t do the same.

Klansmen get awful scared at the sight of a loaded rifle, Nazis seem less likely to flex their muscle when they know a .357 is set to demolish in 2 seconds what took 2 years to build. To point a gun at a cop is a death sentence(unless you’re white of course), yet the mere idea that a shootout could occur is often enough to keep them on their best behavior.

Robert F. Williams was a classic example of this tactic being put into action.

“Robert F. Williams would become the leader of the Mabel, NC chapter of the NAACP and organized a black militia to fight against the Klan, much to the dislike of moderates in the Civil Rights movement. Williams was a WWII veteran and shared the skills he accumulated with his fellows to fight back against the violence of the Ku Klux Klan and the White Citizens Councils. This was shown to have quite a high level of efficacy; by simply being armed black militias were able to scare Klansmen out of action.”

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Where the FUCK did THAT kind of politics go? When did we start asking for anything instead of taking it? Why have we let the enemy dictate what is acceptable for us? Why have we huddled together in weakness when we can proudly stand under our own authority?

“Revolution and insurrection,” said Max Stirner, “must not be looked upon as synonymous…The Revolution aimed at new arrangements; insurrection leads us no longer to let ourselves be arranged, but to arrange ourselves, and sets no glittering hopes on ‘institutions.’” 

When we begin to make ourselves free we pave the way for the freedom of others.

Guns may be the great leveler: they don’t have to be expensive, they don’t have to be fancy and they can be wielded by the sick or healthy, young or old, by any sex or gender. Anyone can use them to arrange the world around them.

Firearms are Anarchism in action, a tool that instantly frees you from relying on hierarchical authority. YOU can repel a burglary, YOU can stop a rape, YOU can keep racist scum from even showing their face in the neighborhood either individually or collectively; no authority is involved, no 911 to call or infrastructure to uphold, effectively making the State obsolete without relying on the spooks of “rights” or “laws” or some religious belief that “deep down everybody is good.”

When it becomes clear that threatening the life of an Anarchist by driving a car through a protest or pulling a gun at a rally becomes potentially deadly the aggravation will end. When police know they risk much more than a two-week paid vacation when they rampage through a neighborhood the harassment will cease. When it becomes clear that a rapist won’t live long enough to beg for mercy from a sympathetic judge the patriarchy will retreat.

Every anarchist with a gun in her hand is Anarchism made real, a potent force capable of holding the world accountable and demanding autonomy, the same world currently hidden behind walls, fences, badges, and uniforms that you and I have built for generation upon generation with our bare hands only to have it stolen from us by the diktats of the “markets” and the owners who treat us like cattle!

Well comrades, will you continue to let them steal from you? Will you continue to live as a peaceful and pacifist herd? Will you continue to let the State and the bourgeoisie steal your value, your time, your bodies, and your lives all while they ransom your safety for continued obedience?

Or will you begin to steal them back, one by one…

…at gun point?

If you can steal no other property from the State…

…at least steal back yourself.


Gonzo journalism at no cost is my gift to you. Want to help keep me from starving to death or buy me a beer? Do me a favor and make a donation of any size and I’ll promise not to haunt you when I die.

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No Soros Required: An Anarchist Letter to an Occult Author

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Sometimes I can’t fucking help myself. With recent revelations that the CIA has declared war on Trump some fucking idiots authors of note have been spouting the ridiculous lie that Antifa and other organizations are fake.

So, filled with piss and vinegar and drunk on Sailor Jerry’s I decided to pen a response.

Recent leaks have indicated that the CIA successfully infiltrated all of the major French political parties leading up to and after the 2012 elections. While cause for concern, nobody in their right mind would consider French politics a “creation of the CIA,” as if the entire country was nothing more than American spies donning fake mustaches and berets in an elaborate ruse to get what they desire. The riots due to the recent “accidental” anal rape of a black Parisian by police have less to do with American empire and more to do with the scandalous idea that cops can violate someone’s anus with a baton so violently it requires surgery and get away with it.

See? No Soros required.

But that’s the trick, isn’t it? You have to live in the same world those people do. If you live in a world where police simply “are the good guys” he must have done something to deserve that; if you can’t possibly imagine a world beyond the peaceful protests of the 1960’s, the call for riots has to be the work of some secret Chinese agents. There must be some hidden motive, some grand scheme by the Jews Illuminati, just like Capitalism CAN’T be the problem because it’s worked so well for you and all your tech company buddies. And so you look outward onto the writhing mess of forces currently mauling each other and pick whichever one you don’t like the most as the REAL enemy.

Because it has to be simple. Because you cannot allow thoughts or ideas that might quite possibly shake your ideological foundation to exist.

And above all it of course cannot be Capitalism. Certainly can’t be the same thing that you’ve benefited from and that’s killed millions or crushed their souls in mind-numbing tedium.

Check it out here.

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Your Concept of Reality is Fake News

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Dry air, crisp and imbued with heat. With the strong breeze its beautiful, though wild cactuses hint come August few and far between will be the visitor to drink it all in. Dead pines stand like abandoned sentry posts, silent watchers burned alive a few years ago. The wind brings with it the rustle of palmettos though at one point it sang through trees. Wildfires took the dirt away from the forest and gave it firmly to the prairie.

This is a place outside of time, or at least I’m being told that. My vision shifts off of the cornmeal poured below me and into my Wizard sight.

“Can you tell me what this place is for, what power it holds?”

The voice of the land slithers into my head, parched and barren. “I cause things to be dry, thin, and brittle.” It’s speaking of gates, boundaries. I’m told that this strange clearing is betwixt worlds, and given the right words and rattles can be opened to other realms and experience. Special attention seems to be paid to the night sky, as if the stars themselves were keenly aware of this place.

What had the shaman said at the party? “Something’s out there alright, something’s out there…”

The most often lobbed insult at radicals of all stripes is the notion that the world they desire “sounds good in theory” yet never seems to work on paper. There is this idea that whatever happens to exist now is natural and good and anything that might come after is doomed for failure because the idea is “flawed.”

We look upon the world around us, ruled by notions and concepts ingrained in us since childhood, and figure we’re pretty sure how things “really work.”

I counter that more often than not what you think “reality” is exists as nothing more than a convenient fiction in your head. Take gravity for instance. Everyone can agree that we at least understand how gravity works. It’s a constant force, right?

The oldest of the constants, Newton’s Universal Gravitational Constant, known to physicists as Big G, shows the largest variations. As methods of measurement became more precise, the disparity in measurements of G by different laboratories increased, rather than decreased.

Between 1973 and 2010, the lowest average value of G was 6.6659, and the highest 6.734, a 1.1 percent difference. These published values are given to at least 3 places of decimals, and sometimes to 5, with estimated errors of a few parts per million. Either this appearance of precision is illusory, or G really does change. The difference between recent high and low values is more than 40 times greater than the estimated errors (expressed as standard deviations)…..

In 1998, the US National Institute of Standards and Technology published values of G taken on different days, revealing a remarkable range. On one day the value was 6.73, a few months later it was 6.64, 1.3% lower. (The references for all the data cited in this blog are given in Science Set Free/The Science Delusion.)

In 2002, a team lead by Mikhail Gershteyn, of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology, published the first systematic attempt to study changes in G at different times of day and night. G was measured around the clock for seven months, using two independent methods. They found a clear daily rhythm, with maximum values of G 23.93 hours apart, correlating with the length of the sidereal day, the period of the earth’s rotation in relation to the stars.

Gershteyn’s team looked only for daily fluctuations, but G may well vary over longer time periods as well; there is already some evidence of an annual variation.

I assure you this is not the only rogue in the scientific record. The rabbit hole goes mind-numbingly deep: proof of nuclear war on Mars, CIA psychic spies, people vanishing under circumstances similar to the fairy stories of old, and of course phone calls from the Dead.

But you don’t think about these things. You’re busy believing in a theory called “reality” that sounds good on paper but turns to absolute shit in the “real world.”

Take for instance the Moon. Every night we look up at a foreign object that not only seems to influence the rhythms of life(both occult and mundane) but that rings like a bell, is far older than Earth, and may very well have structures on it. It is a gigantic enigma that we can barely explain, one we’ve actually visited yet seemingly stay away from.

All of that tosses everything we know about “history” and how the world works out the fucking window. The most you’ll get out of some people is a shrug.

Question: how does your fucking Anarchism, your magick, deal with THAT?

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Pictured: modern politics in a nutshell.

We have been indoctrinated with a new kind of religion, one as inescapable and foolish as the teachings of the Catholic Church were back in the day, that tells us what history is and how human beings supposedly get along.

They’ll tell you(making very clear they are NOT referring to Original Sin) that humans are flawed creatures who can barely keep from killing one another; that we are deranged cattle gnawing on each other’s backs, fit only to be ruled lest we destroy one another.

But that’s just a story isn’t it? Fake news run amok. The truth is something you don’t see regularly.

Shanidar Cave’s most famous second inhabitant is an elderly Neanderthal male known as Shanidar I, or ‘Nandy’ to its excavators, who displayed a mosaic of health problems and deformities. He was aged between 40-50 years, which was considerably old for a Neanderthal, equivalent to 80 years old today, displaying severe signs of deformity.

He was one of four reasonably complete skeletons from the cave which displayed trauma-related abnormalities, which is his case would have been debilitating to the point of making day-to-day life painful (Trinkaus et al., 1982, 61). At some point in his life he had suffered a violent blow to the left side of his face, creating a crushing fracture to his left orbit which would have left him partially or totally blind in one eye. He also suffered from a withered right arm which had been fractured in several places and healed, but which caused the loss of his lower arm and hand. This is thought to be either congenital, a result of childhood disease and trauma or due to an amputation later in his life (ibid.). The arm had healed but the injury may have caused some paralysis down his right side, leading to deformities in his lower legs and foot and would have resulted in him walking with a pronounced, painful limp.

All these injuries were acquired long before death, showing extensive healing, with little or no sign of infection. The condition of Shanidar I is particularly notable because it suggests that Neanderthals cared for their sick and elderly, often prolonging their lives beyond their usual age expectation and making allowances for injuries and illnesses that would have left them huge burdens on the social group

A person that few survivalist groups in the US would bother to keep alive for one winter was cared for till a ripe old age in the kind of conditions that give Green Berets a hard on. Human nature, so glibly thrown about by both the Right and the Left, what do they know of it?

How much do we really know about this world, this world with ancient lunar structures orbiting societies based on currency that have worm holes to other realities hidden away in public parks?

By the gods, how much was missing from our equations?

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Any talk about “Green Anarchism” makes me laugh. Have they heard about zero-point energy? How about fusion energy, the same currently being funded by the world’s wealthy? Orgone energy and William Reich? The radicals of the world are carrying a history they’ve been handed, a mythology they’ve been told, and a technology they’re openly sneered at for believing in.

Maybe this is where we wizards and witches come in, we hidden few who act like deep-sea divers into realms only vaguely hinted at in folklore.

“Of course you should set up the protest camp here! This is on a ley line! We’ll hang voodoo dolls from the trees and get to crushing red brick dust in the ‘morn.”

And so it goes, or at least it should.

What makes me laugh is the same people who can tell you details about worlds and beings they may never have touched have a hard time believing that the world they live in every day might not be “good.” They believe it’s impossible that maybe their boss DOESN’T actually care about them, that maybe this entire fiction of realty properties they threw a fucking flag on isn’t worth dying for; the sheer thought that everything they’ve been told to believe is good and right in human affairs is actually nothing more than an implanted tumor lodged at the base of their fucking spirit all to get them to serve somebody else goes against everything they know.

They are sure, just as sure as every Catholic and Baptist is in the literal divinity of Christ, that the world of Capitalism and Big Macs didn’t just “arrive” but is sanctioned in some way, perhaps even ordered. Everything that is must be. Tweaks are possible here and there but sweet Jesus, who will pave the roads?

The world that you think exists, even at is weirdest, is but a fraction of what’s really going on.If there is one thing you CAN be sure of it’s that everything visible is a god-damned lie, a costume for the world to wear.

And just like any other piece of clothing it can be changed, altered, or thrown in the trash.

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Gonzo journalism at no cost is my gift to you. Want to help keep me from starving to death or buy me a beer? Do me a favor and make a donation of any size and I’ll promise not to haunt you when I die.

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We Are Past the Tipping Point

society_and_the_unicorn_by_lora_zombie-d68ll9p

Time for more gonzo goodness over at Gods & Radicals!

This isn’t just an article, this is my attempt to articulate what could very well have been our Reichstag Moment.

Questions of whether I would be allowed to fire high-caliber revolvers within village limits were met with disdain; I was as equally put-off by discussions of “forming a corporation” and paying locals “more than they’d usually make, but not too much” for domestic servitude.

While I puzzled over what madness might inspire someone to found a tree-top ayuhasca compound in a country who’s president compares his slaughter of drug users to the likes of Hitler the Trump Train kept on rolling.

Sean Spicer defended Bannon’s appointment, noting it was perfectly normal to have one’s Chief Political Führungsoffizier on the Reich Cabinet, plans were being drafted to scrap what little regulations existed on big banks and overtime pay, and a little farther down the line legislation would be introduced that would effectively kill Unions once and for all.

But the big shock came on the night of January 30th, when Trump fired his acting Attorney General and acting head of Immigration Enforcement for not being loyal to him and having the audacity to question the legality of his actions.

My head practically exploded when I heard the news.

Abject terror and shock filled the room. This was it. This was the moment when everything went wild and nobody knew what to do. Power had been seized and its limits being tested. He was popular with the police, the military. If Trump went further who would stop him?

Check it out and come to terms with the new, dark, and horrible 80’s sci-fi we are slowly marching towards!

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“First-Class Ticket Straight to Hell:” The Meaning of Trump’s Victory and its Resistance

rosewood-1

New piece over at Gods & Radicals, and it’s chock full of GONZO GOODNESS! Lord knows it’s already causing quite the ruckus! Check it out!

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THE DEATH THROES of the Republic, however cathartic, were now over. Donald Trump was set to take the highest office in the land and by all reports it was to be a horror show of epic proportions. Infowars and Brietbart were practically pissing themselves in the lead up to the inauguration, fears of violent Anarchists overwhelming the police and establishing a People’s Autonomous Zone so real that hundreds of “Bikers For Trump” rode out to do battle.

“Connors said Bikers for Trump riders will not seek confrontations, but he is “absolutely” prepared for physical conflicts.

“We have made the decision that when those people come, we are going to stand face-to-face with them, eye-to-eye, toe-to-toe, shoulder-to-shoulder with my brothers,” Connors said….

Even so, riders have promised to create “a wall of meat”, between protest groups and Inaugural events….

“They’re not getting past us,” promised Connors.

It was my kind of politics and I had loaded up on ammunition to help in the ensuing violence. Falling back on my knowledge of the usual Floridian behavior I was pretty sure we could expect open combat for at least three days, a general uprising starting in the trailer parks as Il Duce took office mixed with large amounts of low level skirmishes in the following weeks. I had taken to walking everywhere with a 9mm and was practically itching to use my new Rock Island Armory revolver in the lead up to the inauguration.

“You just say the word,” I had told my friends and neighbors of color, “and I will be over here faster than a coke dealer hearing the port of Miami is cop-free. I will put down a Klansman faster than Rick Scott fires teachers, harder than the coquina rock over in Saint Augustine; I will kill, maim, or literally evaporate anybody that tries to harm you, and if you know any rich people we can fuck them up too.”

That was the hope at least, that the facade of decency could be dropped, even for a moment, and open combat finish what could only be hinted at in the halls of power. Lord knows everybody wanted it.

One could easily imagine the scene: a smoke-filled corridor is burst through by young Anarchists decked out in black, swinging trench knives into the kidneys of Bikers as police desperately attempt to regain order. Screams and guts pour onto the streets as homemade bombs send limbs flying everywhere. Grenades rock the Lincoln memorial, pieces flying off widly in a haze of shrapnel. Mortar shells fired from inner city neighborhoods fall on DC police, now coated in blood yet still waiting for the “Hot and Ready” sign at Krispy Kreme to turn on.

Suddenly sniper fire rings out from the rooftops. Trump, sweat pouring from his brow, calls in nuclear strikes as Russian and Chinese planes air-drop crates of assault rifles into liberated territory. The UN calls an emergency meeting but the security council vetoes it, nothing stopping the seizure of lands by those with the determination to take them. Rolling blackouts shut down security cameras, everything not nailed down up for grabs. Landlords thrown into the street, private schools razed to the ground; stock brokers hang from lampposts as the John Brown Militia issues a proclamation that Bank of America has closed forever. Death has come to the American Aristocracy, and it rides a pale horse, entire cities burning for days…

Jesus Christ, did I write that?

I must still be under the influence. Only an absolute madman would desire such a thing…

“I Have Not Yet Begun to Defile Myself…”

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9:30 am. I’ve downed a glass of water infused with LSA and already killed two beers. I’m grinding up Star Anise, Anise seed, and Frankincense and heating up some charcoal. Cornmeal is poured from my already shaking hand into a glyph shown to me deep in trance several days earlier, the signature of my guiding spirit and aide for this terrible yet uncanny day. As I pour the incense over the red-hot coal smoke engulfs me, its spiritual properties causing my eyes to widen and go without blinking for the remainder of the ritual. My head feels like a door has been opened up and I begin to rattle around the ritual space.

I would need augmented eyes to fully take in the significance of this strange and terrible day, to watch the lewd public fuckery we called an Inauguration take place. The plan was pretty simple, or at least it seemed so in hindsight: load up on LSA and magic, sit down and scan the news and see what weird shit might pop up. There was no doubt in my mind that this final orgy of pomp and circumstance carried within it spiritual significance.

Of course maybe it was a some masochistic urge to see this thing through to the end, to watch what I couldn’t believe unfold so out of my mind it might take days to put the pieces back together. I still have no idea where the blood came from…

(Read the rest here)

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Fight Back! Three Dreams to Help You Bring Class War to Your Boss

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NEW YEAR’S EVE, somewhere in Florida. My host has finally slipped into his mushroom trip, meaning the tribal drums are being brought out. A fire the height of my hat rages in the center of the circle as we swap sacred stories inbetween shots of whiskey and bottles of beer. Calls, shouts, we make as much noise as possible to draw the spirits to us. The first hands hit the skins and I keep time with my harmonica, alternating between a climbing beat and a freight-train wail. The ball is beginning to drop but no one is watching, some strange energy pouring down from the sky and spreading its tendrils into our souls. My vision splits, prayers in an unknown tongue slip from my host’s lips, and my wife breaks into sporadic dance. 5, 4, 3, 2…

The alarm goes off on my phone. I groan, slapping the vicious machine that has torn me from what little sleep I managed to get. I am thrust back into the world of the living, the grey world of working stiffs. Still half-drunk I drag my corpse  into the shower, hot steam reminding me I fell asleep with my bandanna still on.

Not hours before I had reveled in spirits both liquid and etheric with a backdrop of flames, music, and prayer; now I would spend the next eleven of them shoulder to shoulder with people who went to sleep at 8pm every night and got “toasted” off two “hard” sodas.

“Mother-of God….” I mutter.

In 15 minutes I slam coffee made the night before, a crude attempt to pacify the voice in my head demanding more sleep and more rest, a liquid riot cop beating the piss out of my circadian rhythm and forcing me to adapt to a world set by someone else’s clocks.

How had I wound up here, I wondered, how had I managed to wake up before the sun even rose over the fucking horizon to sell my labor to those that didn’t deserve it?

Why couldn’t I be like Mario, my manager, a greasy rich-man who boasted of paying nothing in taxes and blowing ten thousand dollars on a two day blackjack binge?

“The key to blackjack,” he’d often muse, “is all in the bankroll. If you lose, double down. Let’s say you lose $20, bet $40. $40? Bet $80. Keep doing that until your cards start to come up. One time I was eight grand behind at a table, won it all back and then some. You gotta have balls and bills to play blackjack, and I got both!”

With the same breath in stories like these, as he parades around the sales floor like some peacock promenanding, he’ll bemoan how much the poor abuse the system, how anybody that sells food stamps should be thrown in jail, and that the problem with this country is that people don’t want to work hard anymore.

I slink home at 5pm, collapse into bed and let my aching legs compel me to sleep. My mind fried, I’ll slip in and out of hypnogogic states, sometimes learning spells or speaking with spirits who can’t wait till my next ritual. Often I hear and see stories, epic dramas or tall tales alike, packed with hidden wisdom and lessons for the wise, characters I’ve never heard of and a few I make up teaching me things I have no way of knowing.

These dreams, smuggled and stolen from a world not so unlike our own, bring me joy and strength; carefully analyzed they often show practical occult means to fight a guerrilla war against those that live vampirically above us.

On days like this where the power of the Ruling Class is so naked, where the reality of just how much your life is owned by somebody else stinks like a dead pelican in the middle of August, these tales of rebellion and witchcraft come strongest; as my bones ache and my mind reels, sweating on thrift-store blankets in clothes that reek of grease, spirits come and offer tips to change fates and defy the odds….

(Read the rest at Gods & Radicals)

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Stop Pretending the Rich Care About You

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One of the terrible things about being a lone bastion of bomb-throwing, fire-starting, up-against-the-wall-fascist-killing type of Anarchism is you have to mingle and jive with the enemy. Like a Seminole off the reservation and walking into the Hard Rock Casino for the first time your nerves and mind are almost assaulted by the sheer idiocy of what we call modern living. I speak of course of the fake empathy held by rich “left” liberals and their kin.

Take for instance the Meryl Streep acceptance speech, widely being lauded as…well, nobody really seems to say what it is besides some rich lady getting up on stage and talking about somebody she doesn’t like. Everywhere I look online the words “heroic” are being used, how the speech was “everything.”

Why?

Because some Hollywood actress who supported a widely acknowledged War Criminal feels salty that her personal team of bourgeoisie didn’t win an election? Because she “bravely” stood up at a catered event in a dress that cost more than you or I make in a month to tell other rich people how “persecuted” they were?

I heard the speech, actually sat down and watched it. No where is she saying that the United States is some fascist superpower, that we’ve fucked up the world and Donald Trump is set to make it even worse; she’s merely upset it’s not bombing the ever-living shit out of Syria with silk gloves on.

These people are not your goddamn comrades, they are not far away intellectuals that only need to read “the bread book” to figure out where they’ve gone wrong. These are the same people who RALLIED around a woman that called Black children “super-predators” for godsake!

These creatures, these slimy denizens of far off nooks and crannies filled with champagne and $100,000 fundraisers are absolutely wedded to the same system that produced Donald Trump in the first place. They are not looking to rock the boat, they are not feeling sorry for foreign-born people and outsiders when they declare anything not on TV as “fake news” from spooky ole’ Russia and casually muse how many megatons it might take to wipe Moscow off the fucking map.

How about that speech to a bunch of bankers where Hillary makes clear her support for a no-fly zone over Syria would end up turning its people into hamburger meat?

“They’re getting more sophisticated thanks to Russian imports. To have a no-fly zone you have to take out all of the air defense, many of which are located in populated areas.  So our missiles, even if they are standoff missiles so we’re not putting our pilots at risk—you’re going to kill a lot of Syrians.”

Where was the concern for foreign lives then?

Hollywood “care” for the most “at risk” is merely an act, a feigned empathy that is designed to make you forget that when push comes to shove they will make sure their money in tax-free offshore accounts stays safe rather than fund homeless shelters or soup kitchens.

They are as deceitful and treacherous as their cousins on the Right are stupid and violent. They are the Athenian merchants hailing their own empire while criticizing the growth of Sparta.

“Disrespect invites disrespect. Violence incites violence,” says Meryl, clutching her pearls amid other American aristocrats whose lives depend on the ongoing exploitation of millions. I looked twice to see if the fucking Romanovs or Marie Antoinette had possessed the woman but alas, she was spirit free. She is so out of touch she seems bewildered that anybody might disagree or even dislike the esteemed patricians she’s speaking to.

From where exactly does Meryl think the rage of the Red States comes from, their desire for change at any cost? Could it be the strip-mining of American manufacturing?

“The story changed dramatically in 2000. Since then, the U.S. has shed 5 million manufacturing jobs, a fact opponents of free trade mention often…

Since the 1960s, manufacturing has always paid substantially more than the minimum wage. Even today, the manufacturing jobs that remain average $20.17 an hour. That’s nearly three times the federal minimum wage.”

The fall in American standards of living?

“Today the average worker makes $8.50/hour — more than 57% less than in 1970. And since the average wage directly determines the standard of living of our society, we can see that the average standard of living in the U.S. has plummeted by over 57% over a span of 40 years.”

The obscene growth in CEO profits while Millennials earn less than their parents did?

“U.S. CEOs of major companies earned 20 times more than a typical worker in 1965; this ratio grew to 29.9-to-1 in 1978 and 58.7-to-1 by 1989, and then it surged in the 1990s to hit 376.1-to-1 by the end of the 1990s recovery in 2000. The fall in the stock market after 2000 reduced CEO stock-related pay (e.g., options) and caused CEO compensation to tumble until 2002 and 2003. CEO compensation recovered to a level of 345.3 times worker pay by 2007, almost back to its 2000 level. The financial crisis in 2008 and accompanying stock market decline reduced CEO compensation after 2007–2008, as discussed above, and the CEO-to-worker compensation ratio fell in tandem. By 2014, the stock market had recouped all of the value it lost following the financial crisis. Similarly, CEO compensation had grown from its 2009 low, and the CEO-to-worker compensation ratio in 2014 had recovered to 303.4-to-1, a rise of 107.6 since 2009.

“Single young people are getting poorer compared to the average population even those with dependent children, with stagnating disposable income and onerous living costs pressing down on prosperity.

New data accessed by the Guardian reveals that singletons aged 25 to 29 in eight rich countries – the US, UK, Australia, Canada, Spain, Italy, France and Germany – have become poorer over the last 20 years compared with the average population, and unattached young adults are finding it harder than ever to set up on their own.”

All facts conveniently left out of Meryl’s hard-hitting critique. The Left abandoned the working class for 50 years in favor of upper-middle class kids in college who spent more time dying their hair than reading Marx or even Stirner. NAFTA, a hellish neo-liberal agreement that looted Mexico to fatten the profits of American corporations, was drawn up not by some scary Republican tyrant but the “cool” Democrat and blowjob-aficionado Bill Clinton.

“During NAFTA, Mexico has had the slowest rate of economic growth than [with] any other previous economic strategy since the 1930s. From 1994 to 2013, Mexico’s gross domestic product per capita has grown at a paltry rate of 0.89 percent per year.” Additionally, “During NAFTA, Mexico’s economy grew much slower than almost every Latin American country. So to say that NAFTA has benefited the Mexican economy is also a myth. It has boosted trade and investment, but this has not translated into meaningful growth that generates jobs. One of the problems that NAFTA has generated is basically an exporting economy for transnational corporations, not for the Mexican industry per se.”

It turns out that not only did NAFTA, “flood Mexico with imported corn and cheap grains from the United States,” but “it also destroyed Mexico’s own industries,” according to Perez-Rocha.”

Where THE FUCK was Hollywood for that? For Libya? For Fast and Furious? For literally any of the ongoing despicable behavior this godforsaken Imperium has exported to millions of innocent human beings across the globe for the last eight fucking years?

Meryl Streep, and the millions of well-to-do liberals like her, want to live in a world where every McDonald’s is turned into a Panera, where every Wal-Mart blossoms into a Target. Sure you still work there, and you have no organizing rights and your pay is shitty, BUT at least your owners give money to gay charities and recycle!

Hooray ethical consumption! Never mind the suicide nets around those factories, did you know for every shirt you buy we’ll give $5 to help feed silverback gorillas? I mean, we don’t know how it works, and we can’t really say HOW we feed them but…but you can feel good about the shirt!

These people are only allies in the sense that they discredit our other enemies. Anybody that wants to shit on Donald Trump has my blessing but to pretend that they actually desire anything close to an increase in economic quality is a farce.

They are merely rich people that don’t want to feel guilty about being rich.

Don’t worry Meryl, as the US economy continues to take a shit and standards of living race to the bottom, more and more of us will be more than happy to help you overcome your feelings of guilt.

By seizing and redistributing the excesses that vex you so.


Gonzo journalism at no cost is my gift to you. Want to help keep me from starving to death or buy me a beer? Do me a favor and make a donation of any size and I’ll promise not to haunt you when I die.

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No Man Will Shake Me From This Land

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The spirit of my people is wedded to this land.

The bones of my Ancestors lie in a small churchyard in rural Kentucky, a place without cell phone reception and filled with people who may have never seen a plane fly over their heads. There, among those secluded stones, rest nearly every one of my Kin that walked the clays, sand, and dirt we now label the United States.

Generation after generation, all brought to one place, and practically holding hands in union. I can remember setting eyes on it that first time, walking up a hill 860 miles from home to witness the collected essence of the streams my heart rowed upon.

My family is an old one, migrating from Germany to Pennsylvania in 1650, nearly fifty years before the Seminoles ever set foot in Florida. In one generation they moved to the hills of Kentucky, becoming farmers and staying put until my own Grandfather became enamored with palm trees and bright, sunny weather.

We would fight in the Revolutionary War, one of the many families that believed enough in a life without England to kill for it. We would soak the roots of the Republic in blood again in the Civil War, fighting on the side of the Union to break the back of the Confederacy.

One of my greatest joys is to remind my fellow Southerners that my grandpappy whooped their grandpappy’s ass. Regularly.

From there we would serve in nearly every conflict the American flag called for: we died in a cloud of poison gas, went island hopping in the Pacific, helped to establish the DMZ, came back from Vietnam alive, and even aided our first misadventure in the Middle East.  The women in my family would inject much needed education and sophistication all throughout, as well as an Italian passion to smooth out the rougher edges of a farmland upbringing. My great-grandmother brought her children a love of Spirit and a taste for intelligent discourse, a gift my grandfather was kind enough to foster in me.

To say my family, my Ancestors, are tied up in the history of this Nation would be an understatement. We made this country, in every sense of the word, and plowed the farmlands of Kentucky before it even existed.

Which is why I plan on being here long after it’s gone.

There are those I know that have made a calculated decision to leave these shores due to an increasingly oppressive political atmosphere sprouting up like ants at a picnic. I cannot blame them, and the benefits they’ll gain from joining other societies or continents as refugees are very real: better healthcare, cheaper living, and a much needed repose from the violent, chaotic existence we call American living.

Let me preface all this by saying I do not look down upon those who relocate. For many the risks are too great, the rewards too good, and the history not worth saving.

Who could argue? A cursory view of the United States leaves the eye wondering just what should be spared from the torch.

But there will be plenty of beautiful words and vibrant essays written for those on the way out and those soon to join them. As my kin did in 1650 so shall theirs, and their names will be perhaps whispered in tones of wonder. How brave were these immigrants, to leave all they knew in the hopes for a better life? New songs, new words, fresh fashion. There will be, if the migration is ever large enough, entirely new cultures born from the communities of these immigrants just like the colonists of old.

Further may I say these words are not a song of praise or hope for the tottering giant we call the United States, a nostalgic look at the Stars and Stripes that once spread across two oceans and threatened the world with nuclear apocalypse. Unlike my forebears I view these relics of civic religion with nothing but disdain, symbols of a sport I never liked and never planned to play.

But I’d like to take the time and perhaps share my feelings on the matter, for my own peace and those like me who either stay by choice or by gravest necessity.

My people didn’t just hold anchor in Kentucky because they were fond of hills and good green earth. Until the end of WW2 rapid relocations to far-away places, while fashionable, were not widespread. My Grandfather relates a tale from his time owning a car dealership in Florida.

“I was heading out with these two guys from Lakeland to Sarasota to check out some cars, and the whole time they were just looking around like they were in another country. I thought it was the damnedest thing. Eventually I asked them what the hell they were looking at and they ended up telling me they’d never been out of Lakeland. Ever. Can you believe that? Sarasota is just 60 miles away and they had never been. Families lived their whole lives that way.”

When my wife and I ended up making the pilgrimage to the Ancestral burying ground we encountered the same thing, folks that had never seen a mixed person let alone anyone quite like ourselves. We were aliens, creatures from some distant planet, and spoke in foreign dialects that immediately marked us as outsiders. Many people, due to economic neccessity, cannot go anywhere. They must stay because where there are is all they have. Generation after generation may remain in the same town, content to see the starlight pour through the same trees it did one hundred years ago.

When I think about all my Dead up in those hills, and that it was only in the last 60 years our blood ever meandered outward it boggles the mind. In a way I’m an immigrant too.

My Grandfather’s schooling as a Louisville lawyer certainly rubbed off on me, but my soul sprouted up out of the barren sands of Boynton, not blue grass; my spirit jumps much quicker at the sight of swampland then any sign of elevation. I love oppressive, Jurassic heat and consider anything below 60 to be the most vile of torments. Mushroom Teachers have revealed to me Florida is the land my body was designed for. I am as much a part of the natural environment as a gator or garfish.

Even if I one day were to magically become independently wealthy it is this sense of place, this kinship with the land, that will always keep me here.

Sense of Place, something far removed from modern Leftist thinking. If I followed the theories currently in fashion I’d dispense with every piece of me deemed “provincial” to be like the others, to better fit in with the collective. But why? Stirner notes “In uniqueness [Einzigkeit] the contradiction is solved; the national is my quality. But I am not swallowed up in my quality — as the human too is my quality, but I give to man his existence first through my uniqueness.” To deny the ecosystem that defines my magic and erase the history that flowers on my Ancestral altar is to dispense with a part of me, a part of my Unique. I can revel in it and not be bound by it, no more threatening than my preference for biscuits over cornbread.

I can’t pretend I’m not tied to this continent like kudzu vines on oaks in Ocala. So I won’t. Because I like me and I like here.

I like the sound of gun fire and how it makes my hands shake, I like the strum of a blues guitar made to whine with a broken bottle neck, I like the smell of pork jowl cooking with greens, and I damn sure love the taste of alligator tail served with fresh swamp cabbage. I like the climate, the wilderness, and the spirits that whisper between them. I like the bright color of the sun as it hits the top of the pine trees over the plains of the State’s interior and I like the darkness of a thunderstorm straight from the sea as it swallows the skyline like an angry fist.

Everything about this Land I love, just as my people have since before it was the United States. My magic weaves and flows from the dirt under my feet. That magic will continue to exist long after I and whatever political machine might claim to own me disappears. My family has outlived administrations, watched corpses of neighbors and friends pile up, and even killed for the ability to be here. I do not intend to leave.

Perhaps many of you feel no kinship for the land around you, but remain out of necessity. Maybe a tree is a tree to you. But for those of you that must stay I invite you to take another look. Go down to your nearest forest and smell it, take in the plants that grow there and feel them in your hands. Just like you they share a unique existence, a spirit all their own. Softly ask to get to know them and in your quiet places you will hear them speak.

Attune yourself to the passage of the seasons, the dance of the clouds and rains as it pertains to your locale. Consider what food you enjoy that might be alien somewhere else and summon up energetic memories locked tightly in the cells of your lungs.

Breathe the land around you, take it in, and feel it’s spirit come alive.

That Spirit has existed before this country and will continue to do so long after we are all dead.

Look into the histories of your Ancestors and drop whatever colonist narrative you might have been told to adopt. Consider for a moment most of these people came here fleeing something, the same thing your brethren now wish to do. Touch the tears on your grandmother’s table, drink the words of your grandfather written in ball point pen on the back of a photograph. Look onto your past as a living river coursing the landscape. How did these interactions shape them, you, and whatever future actions you might undertake? If you can’t move away I advise you to become acquainted with the natural neighbor you may have never bothered to meet, the silent friend who watched your family grow for generations.

What trees heard your grandmother sing, what waters put fish on the table when all else failed?

All this is to be surrendered because of one man, one threat, even one ideology?

The future is indeed as bleak as it is uncertain, and easy answers are as difficult to come by as home-grown apples in Miami. There is health, family, and a host of other issues to consider and many of us would not wake up on this continent if some distant forebear hadn’t made the same decision many will make today.

I have no movement, no leader, and speak only for myself. I am a Florida Conjurer who has not yet traversed the globe or sat under redwoods on star-lit Pacific nights. I cannot claim to have seen it all, done it all, or even so much as touched all of what I aimed to say with these words.

But for me and my family the United States, though large, is but a slice of our history; Florida too will have existed under the Spanish flag, one of six,  longer than the American colors until 2050. My family’s roots run deep and are imbued with spirit, each person a byway and gateway of past and present, potential and probability, pecans and persimmons on trees of living memory that have bloomed for generations.

Astra inclinant, sed non obligant: the stars incline us, but they do not bind us. You may have all these things and still walk away.

But not I. No, not for all the money or safety the world could provide. It is here I will make my stand, here I will wage my war.

Not for any country but the dirt of my graveyards.
Not for any flag but the spanish moss waving gently in the breeze.

turpentine_workers_in_florida

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2017: The Year America Looks Like Aleppo?

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From my weekly column at Greed: “No Quarter”

(GREED) – If the movin’ and shakin’s of the Luck Plane are any indication it appears 2017 will be a defining point in the death of large political collectives in favor of smaller and smaller sects, a never ending war of 10,000 fronts fought not for dominance but for vendetta.

Already a major omen has predicted absolute disaster for the year ahead, a failure in a re-occuring miracle that’s correctly warned of everything from earthquakes to World War 2. This alone was enough to set wizards and witches scurrying for cover; not to be outdone the material world has provided its own trends to study.

It was 86 degrees in December, a cool breeze fresh from the shoreline on my face and a voodoo doll in my pocket when I heard about the recent assassination of Russian Ambassador Andrey Karlov in the same nation that shot down a Russian jet in December 2015. This appeared to happen in unison with an attack on Christmas revelers in Germany that killed 12 and injured 40.

The cause? The war in Syria and it’s sectarian battle lines, the killer of Andrew Karlov even giving the one-fingered salute so common to ISIS forces, ISIS itself one rabid pole in the wide field of outlooks fighting for control of an entire religion. Syria’s civil war, a proxy chum-bucket of competing ideologies and religious beliefs egged on by Russia and the US, had spilled beyond it’s borders.

Revenge had been taken not for a government but a city, fought for the interpretation of a religion rather than it’s spread.

It’s a growing trend too often ignored, a zeitgeist that extends beyond one religion or even one region.

May I remind you that a day’s car drive from the quaint shops of Berlin 2,900 explosions were just recently recorded during a heavy battle near Svitlodarsk involving Separatists and Ukrainian nationals using tanks, MRLS, and artillery. It’s a war fought over differing histories, opposed languages, and radical interpretations of just who “the people” really are by folks who once thought themselves countrymen.

This is overlooked aspect, the Global Splintering, is the new normal, a never ending see-saw of State-sanctioned destabilization, armed conflict, and surprise attacks. The world is dividing into smaller and smaller armed camps aided by larger powers. If 2016 is any indication Europe is only the first step, the newest battlefield, in war of attrition with no trench lines and no rules.

It won’t be long before it spreads to the United States, and it’s easy to see the seeds already sprouting.

Donald Trump was affirmed as future War Lord of the American Imperium and will take the throne with the most batshit insane cabinet since President Grant. On a material level things are guaranteed to be bad.

But as any Wizard will tell you it’s the immaterial that shapes events, and already a strange shift has taken place in the minds of the populace. The “wetware” of American thinking has been permanently updated, and much a like a couch made out of cactus it is woefully, shockingly bad.

Take for instance the meme of “Russian Hackers” winning Trump the election. In one fell swoop this meme, parroted endlessly by progressives, has de-legitimized the entire concept of the American “election.” The belief that it is the people who at least get to pick the newest slave master, the entire lynch-pin of the idiotic faith they call “government,” is up in smoke leaving the door wide open authoritarian control to ensure the “right” people get in charge.

The result? Liberals were calling for the most anti-democratic part of the government to veto the popular vote and install their preferred corporate war-monger; the Mainstream Media, now so syphilitically weak and broke they have to rent out office space just to stay afloat, has issued a fatwa against independent voices and declared them “fake news” for daring to challenge the official narrative.

The Age of Discourse has run it’s course, all sides having expended every rhetorical flourish and sound argument thus set down to convince an open debate opponent.

Both Republicans and Democrats want a strong-armed government to punish one another, all that’s missing is the person with the gun to offer them the chance. 2017 will not be a time of debate but verbal and physical war, the media two opposing lawyers who will stop at nothing to make sure their side wins.

The slimy toads are more divided than ever, living in two entirely different worlds determined by the bellows of ideology: before they claimed the opposing team was merely biased, now with the ‘fake news’ narrative in full play they simply do not believe a word the other side says and will look to party-approved news outlets for all information regarding reality.

This is exactly what happened in Iraq.

“The increased sectarian entrenchment of post-2003 Iraq and the broader Middle East was in no small part the cumulative result of two legacy issues. The first was failed nation-building. The second, a counterproductive and ultimately futile attempt to negate sectarian identities in the name of coercively enforced and restrictively defined notions of national unity. This partially explains how places such as Iraq have seen multiplicity – something that exists the world over – turn into division. Different imaginations of what “we the people” represent inhere on individual political and social perceptions to the extent that clearly identifiable and politically relevant opposing narratives of state, society, politics and history become salient enough to be easily activated and utilized in politics….

“The sectarian prism’s ability to color perceptions regarding regional events today can scarcely be exaggerated. Fears of sectarian encirclement are so easily aroused that there have been instances of the Sunni-Shia divide becoming a contentious issue, even to the point of lethal violence, in some unlikely places. For example, in 2013 Egyptian Salafists embarked on a campaign to counter the “spread of Shiism” in Egypt despite the country having a miniscule Shia population…

“Unfortunately, in the places where it matters most, moderate or a-sectarian voices have become increasingly marginalized. This is not because they lack popular appeal but because the empowerment of sect-centric forces has proven self-perpetuating in that it has created the fear upon which it thrives.

The United States, once immune to the shifts of the world by nature of being their cause, is a shadow of it’s former Imperial self. Defeated in Syria, barely holding on in Iraq and Afghanistan, it will slump into 2017 paranoid, bitter, and armed to the teeth. The populace, fleeing the illusion of national identity in favor of equally illusory political or ethnic ones, stands starkly divided on everything from what science is to what gender means.

The Sunni and Shiites of the United States are the two wings of it’s one true religion: monolithic capitalism. How long until requests for “American regime change?” How far away is the same treatment that’s torn hell across the Ukraine, turned Syria into a slaughterhouse, and is fervently being picked up across the country from college campuses to Alt-right forums? We may not know the exacts but we do know this: 2017 will be as stunning and heinous here as 2016 has been everywhere else, a global war towering in the distance, small in meaning and all-encompassing in scope.


Gonzo journalism at no cost is my gift to you. Want to help keep me from starving to death or buy me a beer? Do me a favor and make a donation of any size and I’ll promise not to haunt you when I die.

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