The punk rock slogan of my teenage years ‘ no nations, no borders. all systems dead’ still resonates with the buried romantic in me who has been digging her way underground shouting ‘ ‘destroy power not people!’ as she tunnels horizontally in the catacombs just below escaping the scrutiny of academia. There is something undeniably beautiful however about the raw, unprocessed quality of the saying, even as these ideas get co-opted unceasingly by ‘the system’. A bodily feeling of immanent emancipation. (a reductive notion of power and overcoming perhaps but still… the sound of the word… e-man-ci-pa-tion. [sigh of satisfaction] some say it’s good for the soul – whatever that may be) Yes, micro-power, rad difference, flux, contingency, counter-hegemony and all that enticing jazz. I admit, couldn’t live without that. But still.
I continue to dream about being outside the system while the naive existentialist in me retreats from my post-structural bullying. I am phenomenally comfortably in my dadaist fantasies where I can find the portal to my surrealist plane. It feels free. unchallenging, but so comfortably free. a fantastical dreamland into which i can escape the responsibilities of materiality through an intimate trip with material itself. I miss the feeling of paint, the sensation of color, the auditory texture of good jam – pre-textual, pre-discursive. humanism is nice.
Anyway, on with situationist militancy and my rhizomatic shelter.