“The roadblocks of a stubborn and guilty bureaucracy.”

Director Michael Verhoeven’s film The Nasty Girl is the story of Sonja (Lena Stolze). Raised in the small Bavarian town of Pfilzing, she attends convent school as her mother doesn’t want Sonja to mix with “anti-social kids and socialists.” Apart from the odd flash of naughty behaviour, Sonja has a very conventional upbringing. She’s the epitome of a good girl. Considered a “teacher’s pet” she’s obedient, tidy, quiet, and studious, so it comes as no surprise when she enters an essay competition and wins first place. With her model essay Freedom in Europe Sonja wins a holiday in France. Later, Sonja is encouraged to enter a second essay competition, and her next topic is My Hometown During the Third Reich. Sonja’s mother admonishes her to concentrate on “positive things,” and considering exactly what Sonja uncovers, well this little hint points to the conclusion that many people in Pfilzing had a damn good idea exactly what happened in town during WWII.

Sonja begins to research her paper with the idea that her focus will be how her town and the Catholic Church resisted the Nazis. Sonja is one of those characters who’s always been petted and accepted by those in power (she’s even given the examination questions in advance by the convent school nuns). She’s such a favourite in town that she fails to realize just how cosseted a position she has, and she has no idea what it’s like to be a subversive or a radical. Brought up to conform and obey, it’s a sheer accident that she stumbles on the town’s secret Nazi past. Motivated by naïve curiosity and a desire to discover the truth, Sonja refuses to give up her quest for information. She’s pressured not just to give up her research but also to return to her role of being a good little wife and housekeeper. Her stubborn streak carries her forward through a corrupt bureaucracy, ostracism, violence and death threats.

Over time, Sonja discovers that the Nazis executed a Catholic Priest–he’s a very acceptable icon for the town to remember, but when Sonja attempts to discover why Father Schulte ended up in a concentration camp right outside town her problems begin. In Sonja’s naivety she fails to recognize that she’s offended people in power who may be harmed by her investigation. It takes her some time to understand exactly why she keeps running into brick walls as she digs into the past. And this is one of the film’s ironies–Sonya thinks she’s discovering a story that no one knows, but the reality is that all the old-timers know exactly what she’s going to dig up if she keeps looking.

The Nasty Girl is based on a true story about what happened to Anya Rosmus as she researched her town’s past. The fact that old Nazis still run Pfilzing made me think of the Red Army Faction’s argument that many old Nazis were alive and well and still running the country in the 60s.

The film’s delightful, light ironic style certainly works for most of the film, but at times style undermines the message. Several scenes are surreal, and parts of the film appear in a docudrama format. The film’s powerful ending makes a tremendous statement regarding radicalism and society–sometimes to maintain integrity one must eschew awards, nominations and medals. The film shows that these trinkets are just another way to hijack and recuperate fringe-dwellers and subversives in their “fearless struggle for the truth.” There’s nothing like awarding someone a cheesy medal in order to maintain the political and social status quo; It’s a way of bringing you back into the fold. Makes me think of U-2’s Knight Commander of the Most Excellent Order of the British Empire “Sir” Bono. Considering the British Empire’s history with Ireland, you’d think he would have told them to shove it. Oh well.

The Nasty Girl is in German with English subtitles

Everyone loves a holiday, whatever it may be. Some like it for an excuse to have a bbq, others for the opportunity to make a little extra cash. I happened upon a few pics of Easter related scenery, viewable at the next click.

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I got paid to write the following piece for some magazine but they decided not to use it, going with something else instead. The full text is after the jump, in case you want to read about gentrification in Highland Park. I kinda don’t want to keep the money anymore, it just doesn’t feel right, but I sure as hell ain’t giving it back! I’m thinking of spending it on something interesting, something you readers might enjoy, like maybe a round of fine beers, a tamal tasting expedition to the Eastside, or a free taco for three hundred mouths. I’m not sure what to do, thus I’m asking for your suggestions on how to creatively spend this ill-gotten money. I encourage some good ideas, the crazier the better. But please don’t suggest I donate it to some well meaning charity or cause, that just won’t do. C’mon now, how hard is it to spend other peoples money? Don’t make me use it for rent!

Click ahead for the text.

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From Infoshop - By Stirner123

Words, in and of themselves, do not exist; at least not as anything more than ink on paper, characters on a computer screen, or auditory vibrations. Words do not contain ideas, but merely express them. To say that words “have meaning” is to say simply that they express the ideas that are swarming around in my head. What, then, is this thing that we call thinking? Nothing more than the internal movement of the mind – your mind – within the range of possible meaning that it has created for itself.

Are you feeling frustrated or confused by what I have said so far? If so, I am not surprised. If not, don’t be so quick to tell yourself that none of this matters. Our entire Civilization is built on the assumption that ‘ideas’ exist as ‘things’: as ‘objects’ that float through the air like dandelion spores. His fascist sympathies notwithstanding, Martin Heidegger was right about one thing: human beings have forgotten what it really means to think. (Heidegger, 3) As anarchists and radicals, we are no exception.

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From News Advance - By Chris Dumond

RUSTBURG — A Campbell County man was convicted Wednesday of carrying a gun onto Rustburg High School’s parking lot in spite of his arguments that the government has no power over him and “is a fiction.”

Edward Royal Martin Jr. was also found guilty of possessing a vehicle whose identification number had been removed — a felony; and possession of a concealed weapon, driving without a license, and operating a vehicle without tags, all three misdemeanors.

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From Anarkismo - by Hamza

Anarchists in Jordan... theory and activites

Finally after more than 50 years of communist activism in Jordan the anarchists started to gather… Most Jordanian anarchists are artists who work in music, film-making, and graphic design, one of our comrades is finishing his master's in gender studies… some comrades are Jordanian and others are Palestinian refugees living in Jordan.

Most of us come from a Marxist background so theory has great importance for us…Two comrades finally found an Arabic book that talks about anarchism… actually we found three more books but with different Arabic words for “anarchism”

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From Anarkismo - By Gregor Kerr - WSM

This year’s event kicked off on Friday night with an informal get-together in the Teachers’ Club attended by anarchists and libertarians from across the country and from abroad. Old friendships were renewed and new ones made. Pints were drunk, music was listened to and there was plenty of chat and debate until the early hours.

Despite a day-long downpour, Saturday’s Bookfair saw over 800 people pass through during the day. 13 different meetings were held discussing topics as varied as the Health service, the Lisbon treaty, climate change, feminism and class, trade union organisation and many many more…. Several thousand Euros worth of books and pamphlets were purchased from stalls operated by Workers Solidarity Bookservice, Barracka Books, Just Books, Anarchist Federation, Irish Socialist Network, Oxfam Bookstore and others. Pamphlets and leaflets from a vast array of campaigns and political organisations including Revolutionary Anarchafeminist Group, Shell to Sea, Residents Against Racism, Choice Ireland, Seomra Spraoi and Justice for Mumia Abu Jamal were distributed.

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Below is an article I’ve written for the upcoming issue of Imminent Rebellion, published by Rebel Press:

For revolutionary struggle, not activism

By Asher

“We need more people!” “If only there were more anarchists…”

These phrases and others like them are all too common amongst our anarchist communities across Aotearoa (and no doubt the rest of the world). But in themselves, they betray a fatal mistake in our goals, in how we see our role in moving towards a revolutionary situation.

An anarchist revolution will not come if we simply seek to convert more people to anarchism. Rather, more people adopting anarchist theory will be a by-product of successful anarchist organising and solidarity. There are a few issues we need to examine in order to best understand the role of anarchists in capitalist society.

Who will make a revolution?

An anarchist revolution cannot be made by a vanguard, by an elite group of activists, politicos or anarchists. A truly libertarian revolution, which all anarchists seek, can only be made by the great mass of the working class, in a broad sense of the term. This revolution will not magically appear the day we manage to get 51% of the population to call themselves anarchists, but rather by constantly seeking to expand upon the consciousness and militancy of the working class.

Genuine revolution will not be created by a specialist group of “professional revolutionaries”. While many anarchists have a sound critique of groups such as Greenpeace, SAFE or Amnesty International in that they posit themselves as the experts on activism, who the majority of people can pay to do political work, anarchists frequently fail to see that much of what they are doing is exactly the same, except they’re silly enough to do it for free! A large chunk of activism done by anarchists in Aotearoa in the last few years has been of this bent – we call the marches, we show up (perhaps with a few others, but rarely from outside of the wider activist circles), we hand out leaflets to bemused onlookers (who either ignore us or laugh at us, but certainly wouldn’t join in), then we go home. Ongoing organising be damned, we’re making a stand!

What are we doing?

Almost all anarchist activity in Aotearoa falls into two broad categories – activism (covering protests, single-issue groups etc) and propaganda (infoshops and publishing). It is activism that I will deal with here.

Activism deals primarily with issues far removed from the everyday lives of most people in Aotearoa – NZ troop involvement in overseas invasions, coal mines on the West Coast, a meeting of rich countries on the other side of the planet. In focussing on this type of issue, we ensure that we remain invisible to the vast majority of the working class, and out of touch with the very forces that can create the revolutionary situation we so desire.

In activism, we separate ourselves from the majority of the populace – protesting, marching, direct action etc are activities undertaken by “activists”, a specialist cadre of experts on social change.

Of course, there is no continuity in our activism, no real ongoing organising. Just jumping from protest to protest, deluding ourselves that we are having any effect whatsoever. Even our ongoing campaigns (for instance anti-war, or Save Happy Valley) are generally little more than semi-regular protests, with the odd press release in between. Almost nowhere is there any long term, strategic, grassroots organising taking place. Almost nowhere do we seem to acknowledge that things do take time to come to fruition. Instead, we bang our heads against a brick wall for a while, then move round the corner to the wall made of concrete, deceiving ourselves into thinking that we’re making progress.

Our activities are primarily oriented to other radicals, both in Aotearoa and overseas. We go to protests with each other, then head to a computer and post reports and photos on Indymedia, so our activist friends around the country can see what we did. If the demo was especially interesting, we might even all go together to a flat so we can see ourselves on the evening news! We are an insular collection of people, and even when we have the appearance of interacting with the public (for instance, on a march), we still ensure that we are separate from them, the “normals”. We don’t engage in conversation, just hand them a flier then move on, and after a while retreat back to the other radicals, safe behind a line of banners.

Against a subcultural orientation

The anarchist community in Aotearoa is thoroughly mired in subcultural politics. The punk and hippy subcultures between them supply the bulk of self-identified anarchists, with most of the remainder coming through the “alternative” liberal (ie – Green Party, fair trade, organics etc) community. That’s not to say that none of those people are working class, but rather that they are getting involved because of their subcultural identity.

There is a huge difference between a working class movement that is oriented to working class struggles and therefore attracts working class people, and a subcultural community that is oriented to specific subcultures and therefore attracts people from those subcultures. One of the above options could lead to a revolutionary situation. The other keeps us in our self-built ghetto.

For struggles of everyday life

If we are seeking to expand the consciousness and militancy of the working class, we need to stop focussing on battles which for most people appear to have little relevance, and are totally unwinnable for us few anarchists in Aotearoa anyway. We need to move away from the WTO and towards the workplace, away from the coal-mine and towards the community, away from the spectacular summit demo and towards the struggles of everyday life.

We need to stand in solidarity with workplace struggles that are taking place – standing on the picket lines and engaging with the workers taking part. We also need to be agitating with our workmates in our own work places. There are always grievances, it is our task to do all we can to promote collective action to fight for better wages and conditions, of course without any illusions that this will ever be enough in and of itself.

We need to be engaging with our own communities, whether they be geographical, ethnic or otherwise. In our geographical communities, we need to agitate with those around us and build a sense of purposeful connection now, so that when attacks come, we already have a base from which to struggle. When city councils attempt to impose extra charges (such as bin taxes or water metering), destroy community facilities such as libraries or swimming pools, or raise rents on council flats, we need to stand with our communities in opposition and fight.

This type of organising around the struggles of everyday life isn’t easy, it isn’t quick, and it isn’t sexy, but it is vital if we are to build a revolutionary movement against capital and state. The more we struggle, the more we build our bases in our workplaces and communities, the better chance we have of winning, and the broader and more interlinked our struggles will become.

For the broadening and intensification of struggle

“I am an anarchist not because I believe Anarchism is the final goal, but because I believe there is no such thing as a final goal. Freedom will lead us to continually wider and expanding understanding and to new social forms of life.”
Rudolf Rocker, a German anarcho-syndicalist

It is the task of anarchists to always be broadening the terms of any given struggle, and to fight against its recuperation. In workplace struggles, we should be wary of union attempts to sell out workers. In community struggles, we should be wary of NGOs and community groups who may seek a swift resolution without the meeting of all demands.

We must always seek to bring to light the systemic roots of what we are fighting against, and to link our struggles with others happening within our communities and around the world.

We must also realise that the odds are stacked against us, and, for a long time, we will likely lose more than we win. This doesn’t mean that we should stop fighting, or retreat into our activist ghettos. For if we fight, we have a chance at creating a better society, but in giving up or retreating, we lose any chance we ever had.

Further Reading

The Myth Of Passivity by Toby Boraman
The Myth Of Passivity documents the class struggles against the neoliberal policies of the 1980’s, such as the Employment Contracts Act, “Ruthinasia”, and “Rogernomics”. It takes a critical look at the way major Unions opposed these policies as well as looking at resistance from groups such as Maori, the Unemployed and Anarchists.
Available online at http://libcom.org/library/myth-passivity-class-struggles-neoliberalism-aotearoa-toby-boraman or order from http://katipo.net.nz/product_info.php/products_id/194

Beyond Resistance: A Revolutionary Manifesto by the Anarchist Federation (UK)
Beyond Resistance is the Anarchist Federation’s analysis of the capitalist world in crisis, suggestions about what the alternative anarchist communist society could be like, and evaluation of social and organisational forces which play a part in the revolutionary process.
Available for order from http://katipo.net.nz/product_info.php/products_id/357

The Lessons Of The Bin Tax Struggle – Interview with Dermot Sreenan, Workers Solidarity Movement
The opening years of the century saw a mass community based struggle against the shifting of taxation further onto the working class in Dublin, Ireland. Thousands of households were paid up members of the campaign and tens of thousands refused to pay this new tax over a period of years despite prosecutions, media hysteria and the jailing of over 20 activists.
Available online at http://libcom.org/library/the-lessons-of-the-bin-tax-struggle

Poll Tax Rebellion by Danny Burns
The gripping inside story of the biggest mass movement in British history, which at its peak involved over 17 million people. Using a combination of photos, text, and graphics, and drawing from the voices of activists and non-payers, it describes the everyday organization of local anti-poll tax groups and chronicles the demonstrations and riots leading up to the battle of Trafalgar. It shows how the courts were blocked, the bailiffs resisted, and the Poll Tax destroyed.
Available for order from http://akpress.com/1996/items/polltaxrebellion and see a review at http://libcom.org/library/poll-tax-rebellion-danny-burns-reviewed-wildcat-uk-1993

Also see the history, library and organise sections at http://www.libcom.org

This is an update on the anarchists that were recently arrested during the March 19 protest in SF. They were in jail for 3 days and are now facing ridiculous charges. They were targeted by the police solely for wearing black.

I was there and heard no forewarning. Nothing. The cops singled them out - this is obvious. Prior to them being tackled to the ground, the police pointed at the anarchist. There was also an announcement on the radio to TARGET anarchist. The statement said '..bats and hats for all anarchists..'. 'Bats and hats' is their code to indiscriminately detain.

I have also been going to the trial and keeping updated on their current situations. As anarchists and people opposed to the current institutions of control and domination we have to show solidarity - whether that be through action or being at one another's trials (obviously solidarity is more than these two things).

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I started this piece while reading "The Professional" by W.C. Heinz. The writing in Heinz's novel about a boxer, is terse and reminiscent of Ernest Hemingway. I wanted to make my writing simple and cut out a lot of the extramenities. I don't think I remembered that in the later entries and I defaulted onto my regular writing style. If I went through and edited again I might be able to retain my original stylistic desires.

There were two main points to this story, one was to describe locations around where I live and the other was to talk about Friedrich Nietzsche. A friend of mine had recently bemoaned my apparent lack of enthusiasm for Nietzsche after I "made such a big deal of him." Caving into peer pressure I decided to write a little about Nietzsche. I included some of his writings in this piece. My friend has completely ignored my writing.

The animals and the shadow in the story talk about Nietzsche's idea of the eternal recurrence. Their short speeches are pieces lifted from "Thus Spake Zarathustra." The eternal recurrence was one of Nietzsche's central concepts. It can be summed as this - "If anything in the world recurred, including an individual life or even a single moment within it, then everything in the world would recur in exactly identical fashion." This idea would serve as a litmus test for the strength and personality of an individual. Nietzsche thought that strong people would live without regrets, or would create their lives in such a way that they wanted an identical life. To exuberantly say "This is life! Once More!" To acheive a life worth living over involves action, getting over mistakes, as well as a constant reinterpretation of life already lived.

I think the title is rather poor but given that these stories are more writing exercises than anything else I don't care that much.

I put my name in quotes, because I am probably going to change it soon.

Anyhow, I am posting one of my more important anti-militarist pieces from 2007. It's especially relevant in the current context of increased chances for war against the Iranian nation-state. Though, I imagine the Bush admin. would insist they'd merely be targeting the evil Iranian government.

Just don't pay attention to their talk of using tactical nukes, and you might find the above to be a good defense.

Friday 10 Aug 2007 Make the Phones Ring Off the Hook and Fill the Inboxs

I was feeling increasingly pessimistic about the prospects of warding off the potential campaign of mass murder being planned against Iran, yet a post by Arthur Silber led me to realize that there might still be hope.

To quote the post:

Perhaps people think that nothing they do at this point can alter what seems close to inevitable. It may be that even large-scale, continuing public protest would change nothing — but we don’t know that. Since it hasn’t been tried, it is impossible to predict what the effects might be. And permit me to offer a recent example, an instance where activism on the part of a large number of “ordinary” Americans did in fact change an outcome of some significance.

In terms of substance, I view the example as a profoundly unfortunate one, for it has to do with the defeat of the immigration bill. I viewed that bill as a terrible one, but for reasons directly opposed to those offered by its loudest opponents — for their opposition was obviously racist in nature. Of course, they denied their objections were racist, but they all finally resorted to discussions of “demographics,” and what they viewed as terrifying changes in our “culture” and to “way of life.” Such coded words fool no one, and this kind of viciously disapproving attitude toward immigrants has a long and awful history in the United States.

But with regard to the following observations, I am not concerned with why opponents of the immigration bill fought it so vehemently: I am focused only on the fact that they opposed it so strenuously, and that their opposition had the intended effect. I’ve mentioned that I listen to far too much talk radio, in part because I don’t have television. I listened to a number of conservative talk radio shows during both recent periods when the immigration bill came up for consideration: Limbaugh, Hannity, Al Rantel here in Los Angeles, Mark Levin, and several others. On both occasions, all of the shows talked about the immigration bill all the time. They discussed what they viewed as its inevitable awful results, why it was “unAmerican,” how it would destroy our country, and included the other standard rightwing talking points on this subject.

And they all did something else: they told their listeners to call and email people in Congress, and to call and email various Republican organizations, including the Republican National Committee, and to take all these actions repeatedly. They provided phone numbers and email addresses, and they indicated the general message that should be conveyed. They didn’t do this only once in one show: they did it throughout their shows, on every show, for over a week both times. The message was unceasing and unrelenting. It was repeated over and over and over. You couldn’t listen to one of the major conservative talk shows without hearing it within five minutes of tuning in. It went on all the time.

One part of the message deserves particular note, and all of the shows I heard made the same point: they condemned those Republicans, including Bush, who supported the bill without mercy. They told people to inform the RNC and all the appropriate Congressmen and Senators that they would receive no further support of any kind, including financial support, unless the bill was defeated. In their view, support of the bill was a betrayal of core conservative principles. They therefore maintained that any such alleged “conservatives” did not deserve to be in office. As one, they said that these betrayers of the conservative faith should not hold power any longer — and that the principles they believed were imperiled were more important than the continuation in power by the Republican party.

Why not encourage a similar campaign when it comes to the Democratic base? Or anyone who is concerned about the prospect of military action against Iran. The idea would be to try planning some kind of sustained series of mass emailing, postal mailing, and phone calling days. It would be even better to see if enough people could be convinced to do these types of actions on a daily basis. I’ve decided to speak to as many individuals as I can in an effort to get them to take part in the above. I’ll ask them to speak to as many people as they can and see if some kind of chain reaction could be sparked. I also intend to devote more blogging time to the issue, so I can reach those who are not already convinced of the need to deter such an attack. I am asking anybody else reading this to do the same. It may be possible to deter the gang in Washington from another act of aggressive war via this kind of leaderless grassroots resistance.

Some other ideas:

- The college students reading this could try to see if they could organize some kind of teach-in on campus.

- The anti-war/left-libertarian/progressive/anyone concerned about this issue blogosphere could advertise these mass action days.

- The Center for a Stateless Society could publish op-eds that encourage opposition to war with Iran while simultaneously tying its origins to the existence of the nation- state. I have a piece started that will make such an argument.

The present context of horrific approval ratings for the Bush administration is ripe for a sustained information and call to action campaign. It would be positively and wonderfully dialectical! : -)

The link to the contact information page for the Senate is here, while the listing for the House of Representatives is here. It’s also possible to use this page to contact the folks in Washington. It’s never too late to start letting the governing class know that your electoral support for them is jeopardized by their heinous policies. They may not care about the victims of the warfare state, but a threat to their power is something that would be a cause for concern to them.

Correction: I don't think Bush has stated that the use of tactical nukes is being considered. It's an allegation made by journalist Seymour Hersh. You can read the article by clicking on this link.

Source (greek only): http://www.e-tipos.com/newsitem?id=30146

3 o' clock in the morning and a group attacked a subsidiary of Emporiki Bank at Varnalis street, Peristeri (Athens). They broke the glass window and threw around 10 molotov cocktails inside the bank, destroying it totally. Also a near by kiosk had some damages.

Αναδημοσίευση από: http://www.e-tipos.com/newsitem?id=30146

"Εμπρηστική επίθεση πραγματοποίησε στις 3 τα ξημερώματα, ομάδα αγνώστων, στο υποκατάστημα της Εμπορικής Τράπεζας στην οδό Κώστα Βάρναλη 12, στο Περιστέρι.

Οι δράστες έσπασαν το τζάμι της Τράπεζας και πέταξαν στο εσωτερικό της βόμβες μολότοφ με αποτέλεσμα να προκληθεί πυρκαγιά που κατέστρεψε ολοσχερώς το υποκατάστημα.

Μετά την επίθεση από την αστυνομία έγιναν 10 προσαγωγές υπόπτων οι οποίοι όμως αφέθηκαν ελεύθεροι αργότερα γιατί δεν προέκυψαν στοιχεία σε βάρος τους."

Σύμφωνα με τον ΑΝΤ1, το εσωτερικό της τράπεζας καταστράφηκε ολοσχερώς από περίπου 10 κοκτέιλ μολότοφ, ενώ ζημιές υπέστη και γειτονικό περίπτερο.

Activists threw paints on a billboard advertising the "Mont Parnes" Casino at Parnitha mountain (Athens), lifted a banner and threw leaflets with the slogan "The casino out of Parnitha". Note that, after the summer 2008 arsons that destroyed a larg part of Greece's forests and wildlife, as well as Parnitha, the Casino was unaffected and the state even donated to the casino a former forest area! When activists protested against the casino throwing some paints at its infrastructures, police mobilized helicopters with thermal radars to hunt them in the forest, arrested 27 persons and tortured them!

Source: http://athens.indymedia.org/front.php3?lang=el&article_id=843752

Ακτιβιστές πέταξαν μπογιές σε διαφημιστική πινακίδα του καζίνο Mont Parnes, ανάρτησαν πανώ κι έριξαν τρικάκια με το σύνθημα "Εξω το καζίνο από την Πάρνηθα".

Μπορείτε να διαβάσετε ένα κείμενο πάνω στη συγκεκριμένη ενέργεια στο: http://athens.indymedia.org/front.php3?lang=el&article_id=843752

The bicycle was blue, like a summer sky. Its handles were black from the grip tape. The components were a mixture of metallic silver and black. It weighed about 17 pounds. I could pick it up with one finger. Being made of aluminum made it light. It had been hit by a car yet its structure was undamaged. It was a strong bike.

The rainy season had ended. It had not rained in over two weeks. The sun was rising earlier in the morning and setting later in the evening. The morning's were cloudy but the sun would burn through the clouds by early afternoon. The temperature was slowly rising, day by day. But like in the winter it was still warmer in the sun. I stood in the in the sunshine on the corner of 40th and San Pablo. I held onto the top tube of my bike so it would stand motionless next to me.

The traffic wasn't heavy. It was 2 o'clock in the afternoon on a Wednesday. There were a few people walking up and down the street. Most of the pedestrians were either coming from or going to the Oaks Card Club a block up from the intersection.

The card club had been around for over 20 years. The building was shaped like a cube and made of brick. Outside people would smoke cigarettes and talk about their losses. There was a security officer in a small hut by the parking lot. The parking lot was west of the building. The officer's hut was 50 meters from the building.

I could see the security officer from where I stood in front of Black and White market. The officer looked bored. The market was a liquor store. It sold a variety of microbrewed beers, chips, cigars, and magazines. Most of its sales came from malt liquor, lottery tickets, and the last minute beer purchases. It sold liquor later than any other market in the area. The market would sell alcohol until 1:45 am. Law dictated that purchasing alcohol ended at 2am Monday through Sunday. Most markets stopped selling alcohol at 1:30 am or were closed by midnight.

I waited another five minutes at the intersection then checked the time on my cell phone. At 2:15 pm I got back on my bike. I rode down San Pablo. San Pablo is a major north-south route connecting Oakland, Berkley, Albany, and El Cerrito. The buildings this far south on San Pablo were beaten. The brick buildings on the west side of the street were run down. The occasional shop on the east side of the street looked liked they'd seen better days.

My pace was slow. I was in no hurry. The air was clean, despite being so close to downtown Oakland. I breathed in evenly. My legs moved in an regular cadence. There is no bike lane on San Pablo. I rode five feet away from parked cars, far enough that I could avoid getting doored.
I rode without purpose. I'd been bike riding for 3 hours. I'd ridden down to Alameda, up to the Albany Bulb, east into Rockridge, and then south into West Oakland. I was trying to ride myself into exhaustion. I didn't sleep the night before. I wasn't sure that I wanted to sleep.

As I laid in bed the night before I heard a small creaking at my window. My window is right above the head of my bed. The window was slightly ajar and let in the cool night breeze. The window gasped as if it was being opened even more. I checked the window but it was unmoved. I shut it after my examination. I wrapped my blankets around my cooling body. The room seemed to get colder. I felt a weight fall onto my chest. It was the heaviest weight imaginable. As my body began to grow heavier I began to feel hotter. I threw off my blankets as my body began to lightly sweat. I didn't feel sick, but the room was on fire. I tried to sit up in bed but failed. I scooted myself up a little so I could look around the room. The room was dark with night. The weight seemed to get only heavier. I saw a shadow by my bedroom door flicker. It was darker than the other shadows in the room. It moved back and forth.

The shadow whispered to me. At first his voice was light, then it turned into a screech, then back into the original airiness. The changes in voice were not changes in volume. It was always a whisper. The shadow said to me:

"This life as you now live it and have lived it, you will have to live once more and innumerable times more ...All the events in your life that have occurred will occur again. Every pain, every failure, every humiliation. Will you not throw yourself down and gnash your teeth and curse me? Or have you once experienced a tremendous moment and so when you answer me will you say: 'You are a god and never have I heard anything more divine.'

I laid in bed for hours after the shadow left. Slowly the room was brightened by the sun's rays. I didn't have to work and at 10 am Irose from my bed. The weight was no longer on my chest, but its heaviness lingered inside of me. My movements seemed to be in slow motion. Everything was happening at once, and also retrospectively. When I opened my bedroom door into the bathroom, my hand moved, and I also saw my hand open the door as if it was a shadow of the present. As my feet moved into the bathroom I saw not only my feet moving, but having moved. It was like having double vision. As I urinated into the toilet, the double vision, the sense of being both present, and in the past, evaporated. I flushed the toilet and looked in the mirror.

I'd turned 25 two months ago. At some point I'd turned from a boy into a man. I wasn't sure where that point was. Perhaps it was when I stopped having to pop my zits on a daily basis, That was when I became satisfied with my pock scars. My face had a slight shade to it from three days of stubble. I splashed water on my face and brushed my teeth. Today I counted the number of times I stroked my teeth's enamel with the brush head. I made it to 126 strokes before the toothpaste filled my mouth preventing me from brushing any further. I spat into the sink and cupped my hands under the running faucet. I drank a bit of the water and swished some in my mouth. I gargled and spat back into the sink. I decided not to shave and went back into my room.

I sat down and looked at the clock. It was a small analog clock. I'd bought it a long time ago near a Walgreen's or Long's on Telegraph and 30th. The second hand was moving slowly, revolving around the center of the clock. The minute hand crawled as the second hand pushed along. The hour hand seemed to be at a stand still. I began to think of my college earth science class. There were two things I remembered about the class, this cute girl who sat an aisle in front of me and the professor's lecture on the expansion of the universe.

The girl had brown hair. She would put it into pig tails and wore baggy raver pants. She had a severe lack of fashion sense. She was white, and had a slim body with wide shoulders. When she smiled she showed a slight gap between her two front teeth. A friend of mine would always call her "The Robot Girl." I think it was the raver pants or maybe it was because of some shirt she wore. I couldn't remember.

The professor's lecture was boring. He explained that the universe is limited in extent and contains a finite amount of matter, Matter is constantly changing, creating different situations within the extent of the universe. Time, however, was infinite. This means that at some point the same situation would occur given enough time. He talked about how the universe was expanding. At some point it would begin to shrink back to its original nothingness. After returning to a point of void the universe would begin to expand again in the exact same sequence. After that I began to daydream of the Robot girl walking to her chair in the lecture hall thousands of times in the exact same way, at the exact same time, in the exact same place. That would mean that I would be sitting in the exact same way, at the exact same time, in the exact same chair in the hall.

took San Pablo to the intersection of MLK and San Pablo. I veered right down on MLK passing the greyhound bus station and the social services building. I ran two lights and when I reached 14th street I took a left. I was in downtown oakland. The downtown area had a mixture of restaraunts, mainly cheap burrito, or chinese, and office buildings. In contrast to the other areas of oakland the buildings were large and well maintained. I rode past the Bart station, which is at the intersection of 14th and broadway and continued on towards Lake Merrit. If I continued east on 14th street I would end up in east oakland but I ended up getting on the sidewalk and riding around the lake. I rode my bike clockwise around the lake. The weather was nice and a large number of joggers, walkers, and sightseers were making their way around the lake. I stopped at a small bench about a third of the way around the lake. I gazed at the lake. It moved slowly, the water slightly bobbing. Nearby me ducks, geese, and the occassional sea gull walked about on the grass shore. I sat staring at the lake for twenty minutes thinking about the slow movement of the waves. My eyes shifted towards the ducks that were pecking at the ground. One duck looked at me and said:

"Everything goes, everything comes back; eternally rolls the wheel of being. Everything dies, everything blossoms again; eternally the year of being. All things recur eternally, and we ourselves too; and we have already existed an eternal nuimber of times and all things with us. Bent is the path of eternity."

I stared at the duck for quite a while after its speech. It was a black duck, with now webbing between its toes. I wasn't sure if it was actually a duck, my knowledge of birds being limited. It waddled around for a bit then dove into the water. I wasn't sure if the duck had actually said anything to me, or if I had assumed it had. I was becoming more confused with both my surroundings and the recent events. I thought I was overtired and picked up my bike and began to ride home. Perhaps sleep would cure me of these hallucinations.

I got back on my bicycle and started north towards Grand St. Grand st. runs along the north part of the lake going from west Oakland into east Oakland. Above the lake, Grand st. is composed of a few small apartment buildings and small shops. There is a tacqueria or two and some corner stores. The apartments are occupied by young business professionals, their partners, and their dogs. Thee immediate residents can often be seen circling the lake for their daily exercise.

Grand intersects telegraph avenue six blocks from the lake. Telegraph is another major north south thoroughfare like San Pablo. The shock troops of gentrification, hipsters and artists, have long established claims on areas of Telegraph. Around 22nd and telegraph is a bastion of this progress. A small, dingy cafe called "Mama Buzz" sits on the eastern side of the street. A hundred meters south of the cafe is an art space called "Paper, Rocks Scissors." Fixed gear bikes, and chain smoking twenty somethings litter the outside of the cafe and art space. The two house trendy, dirtbag, hipsters who excrete art. Moving further north is an Asian section composed of sushi restaurants, karaoke bars, and Korean market.

It took me about 15 minutes to ride from downtown Oakland to the upper edge of Oakland. Oakland turns into Berkeley around 67th street. Somewhere after the White Horse, the east bay's gay bar, is the border between the two towns. After riding past the gay bar, and the liquor store with the same name across the street, I stopped at the Whole Foods that is a few blocks below the intersection between Ashby and Telegraph.

Despite my sleepy and delirious state I wanted to pick up a few things. My housemates (I have two) and I share food but one of them had recently eaten all the avocados. For the last month or so I'd been making all my sandwiches with avocados. I enjoyed the thick, creamy texture of an avocado in my fake turkey sandwiches. It provided a nice compliment to the other sandwich ingredients:fake turkey, lettuce, tomatoes, and mustard.

The Whole Foods is mid sized and unlike the Berkeley Bowl, the other "organic" market in the north Oakland/Berkeley area, is frequented by a more bourgeoisie crowd. The prices are slightly more expensive and the ambiance more sophisticated. There are more gourmet cheeses, pastries and meats than at the Berkeley Bowl. The staff is composed of regular working class folk with a decent spattering of tattooed, and pierced hipsters. I picked out a few avacodoes and some pico de gallo flavored tortilla chips.

The cashier was an inch or two taller than me at 5'8" with shoulder length brown hair and light brown eyebrows. She had fair skin and was dressed in a nondescript blue shirt and jeans. Her name tag said "Leslie."

"How are you?" she asked.

"I'm fine."

"It will be $7.86. Do you want a bag?" she said.

"No. I can fit in my bag."

I stuffed the groceries into my messenger bag and walked toward the exit.

"Have a nice day," she said.

I made no reply. I'd locked my bicycle to the handicap sign immediately outside the grocery store. I unlocked my bicycle and stuck my small lock into my back pocket. The back of my jean pocket had become worn and loosened after constantly holding my lock.

From the whole foods I went left on Ashby and then I took a right on Shattuck. My house is six blocks north of the intersection between Ashby and Shattuck. My house was located behind Reel Video on Shattuck. It was a large house with four bedrooms and a huge front porch. One of my roommates was dating a rich kid. The rich kid's dad owned the house and charged the rest of us affordable rent. I'd met the roommate randomly by sitting in on a class at UC Berkeley on creative writing. We'd become friends after the class. A few months later my roommate said that she was moving in with her boyfriend and wanted to know if I wanted a room in the house as well.

I lifted my bike onto the porch and unlocked the front door. The front room is was the living room. There were two sofas sitting opposite each other. I propped my bicycle on the sofa in the living room. There was a television in the corner of the room. Moving forward I reached the kitchen then a few steps more and I had reached the pointwhere the house splat off into the bedrooms. My bedroom was the one on the right after the kitchen.

My bedroom is medium sized. I kept it pretty tidy. It helped that I had a bookshelf for my few books. The books shelves also doubled as storage for my various crap. I kept my spare shoes on the bottom shelf. My bed was a twin with no box spring so it laid low to the ground. I shut my door and laid down on my bed. I closed my eyes. I laid there for fifteen minutes before my clothing started to bother me. I sat up and took off my shoes and pants.

Attached to the top of my bookshelf was a small daddy long legs. The gangly looking spider was crawling down the side of the bookshelf. My eyes latched onto it. It turned to me and spoke.

"To recreate all 'it was' into 'thus I willed it' - that alone I should call redemption... Willing liberates; but what is it that puts even this liberator in fetters? 'It was" that is the name of the will's gnashing of teeth and most secret melancholy. The will cannot will backwards; and that it cannot break time and time's covetousness, that is the will's loneliest melancholy."

I stared at the spider longer. It continued to move down the bookshelf as though nothing happened. When it reached the floor it scuttled away into a crevice. I laid down in my bed and fell asleep.

From the whole foods I went left on Ashby and then I took a right on Shattuck. My house is six blocks north of the intersection between Ashby and Shattuck. My house was located behind Reel Video on Shattuck. It was a large house with four bedrooms and a huge front porch. One of my roommates was dating a rich kid. The rich kid's dad owned the house and charged the rest of us affordable rent. I'd met the roommate randomly by sitting in on a class at UC Berkeley on creative writing. We'd become friends after the class. A few months later my roommate said that she was moving in with her boyfriend and wanted to know if I wanted a room in the house as well.

I lifted my bike onto the porch and unlocked the front door. The front room is was the living room. There were two sofas sitting opposite each other. I propped my bicycle on the sofa in the living room. There was a television in the corner of the room. Moving forward I reached the kitchen then a few steps more and I had reached the pointwhere the house splat off into the bedrooms. My bedroom was the one on the right after the kitchen.

My bedroom is medium sized. I kept it pretty tidy. It helped that I had a bookshelf for my few books. The books shelves also doubled as storage for my various crap. I kept my spare shoes on the bottom shelf. My bed was a twin with no box spring so it laid low to the ground. I shut my door and laid down on my bed. I closed my eyes. I laid there for fifteen minutes before my clothing started to bother me. I sat up and took off my shoes and pants.

Attached to the top of my bookshelf was a small daddy long legs. The gangly looking spider was crawling down the side of the bookshelf. My eyes latched onto it. It turned to me and spoke.

"To recreate all 'it was' into 'thus I willed it' - that alone I should call redemption... Willing liberates; but what is it that puts even this liberator in fetters? 'It was" that is the name of the will's gnashing of teeth and most secret melancholy. The will cannot will backwards; and that it cannot break time and time's covetousness, that is the will's loneliest melancholy."

I stared at the spider longer. It continued to move down the bookshelf as though nothing happened. When it reached the floor it scuttled away into a crevice. I laid down in my bed and fell asleep.

“You have to have a fairly exacting standard in order to be taken seriously” (SCAB collective member Michael).

The documentary Pedalphiles is the background story of SCAB (Skids Creating Apocalyptic Bicycles). SCAB is (was) a Wisconsin-based collective of bicycle enthusiasts whose mission was to promote the use of the bicycle as a “sustainable human-powered” and “viable alternative” to the automobile. Using scavenged bicycle parts, SCAB members created outlandish, ingenious bicycles and then infiltrated mainstream events, such as “Bike to Work Week” (AKA Middle Class Cop-Out Week). But apart from infiltration–with its goal of getting people to look at alternatives to fancy $2,000 bikes, SCAB just had a good time riding the streets of Wisconsin, developing new designs and passing out the word.

The film interviews SCAB collective members, and through these interviews the film explores the formation and growth of the group. Each of its members added their own unique talents, and this is clearly what made it work. Amanda explains, for example, how her welding skills helped the bike-making process. Collective members discuss and display some of their fantastic designs–the Preying Mantis, the Ghetto Way, the Pedal-Phile, the Huffy Nightmare, and…how could I forget…The Anal Intruder.

DVD extras include: Bike photos, and a Where Are They Now segment. This follow-up segment, filmed in 2005, 5-6 years after the original footage, is an essential part of the story. While SCAB is now a thing of the past, in individual interviews collective members all note the significance of SCAB in their lives. In spite of the fact that the collective members have taken different paths, some still maintain relationships, and some are still into bikes.

This energetic, and ultimately optimistic film from Brian Standing takes a fascinating look at how a group of young people with a range of talents and very little money put their beliefs into Direct Action. “Circumventing the whole buy-sale system” SCAB led by example. I am not much of a bike rider, I’ll admit, but after watching the film (which I thoroughly enjoyed, by the way) I started thinking that perhaps I need to break out my bike and start applying some pedal power in my life. A fair number of us realise that our current oil-dependent lifestyle will shortly come a cropper, and we all need to be prepared for that eventuality plus minimize our consumption for the health of the planet.

After the film concluded, I found myself mulling over the lives of these six very talented, creative people. I liked their decision to DO something about their beliefs, and I liked their positive approach. SCAB may well be a thing of the past, but I prefer to think of it as a beginning–not only for SCAB collective members, but also as a beginning for inspiration for those watching the film. Unfortunately, some of us are not lucky enough to live in a community with like-minded people, and so for us loners, a collective is not possible. And that makes the challenge for Direct Action a little different.

To quote collective member Tyson:
“I don’t know if I can even hope for a Utopian world at this point, just something better. And I think that’s just whatever we do in the time that we have.”

Pedalphiles is available at: www.prolefeedstudios.com

by Ron Sakolsky

REVIEW: Anarchy and Art: From the Paris Commune to the Fall of the Berlin Wall
by Allan Antliff, Arsenal Pulp Press, 2007

“Do you believe,” she went on, “that the past dies?”
“Yes,” said Margaret. “Yes, if the present cuts its throat.”
-Leonora Carrington

When I first heard about this project, I was excited at the prospect of a book entirely devoted to the history of anarchy and art. Sadly though, the result is a disappointment. Politically-speaking, the book rides the fence between the anarchist milieu and the authoritative voice of academia when what is needed is a sturdy pair of wirecutters, perhaps a catapult, or maybe even a battering ram. For me, the most positive aspect of the book is that its essays stimulated my critical thinking in response to its arguments. To be fair, attempting to write a history of the confluence of anarchy and art from the Paris Commune (1871) to the fall of the Berlin Wall (1989) is such a monumental project that much of the story will inevitably fall into the cracks of the eight episodic chapters that comprise its less than 200 pages. When I initially skimmed the book, I expected to be writing a basically positive review with my main critique being about the way in which surrealism is handled. However, upon actually reading it with some care, I soon realized that the book is problematic from start to finish.

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To All Concerned,

On March 19th, I was attacked and arrested by the SFPD on Market and Montgomery. I would like to give you all a very brief run down of what happened and what I am facing.

I was standing on Market Street when I saw three pigs heading towards me and my friends. I was several feet away from my friends when the pigs started running towards them. When I saw them attack my friend (who was also arrested), my instincts moved me to try and assist him. Before I knew it, I was myself being attacked by the pigs. I was quickly overwhelmed and taken to the ground.

After being picked up, Officer Wolf immediately accused me of throwing a punch at another pig. He said this occured earlier, when the SFPD encircled the die-in and began randomly hitting people. I know and can prove that I was nowhere near the police line when the encirclement happened. Despite this, Officer Wolf continued to drone on about how I punched a cop and was going to state prison. When I in turn accused him of being the liar that he is, he denied it. But as I kept yelling about how he was lying, Wolf finally told hi superior officer (who I could not see) that he was mistaken in his assertion and that it was someone else who had thrown the punch.

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