on point

correctly measured dose

73 notes

A strange delusion possesses the working classes of the nations where capitalist civilization holds its sway. This delusion drags in its train the individual and social woes which for two centuries have tortured sad humanity. This delusion is the love of work, the furious passion for work, pushed even to the exhaustion of the vital force of the individual and his progeny. Instead of opposing this mental
aberration, the priests, the economists and the moralists have cast a sacred halo over work.
Paul Lafargue, The Right To Be Lazy (1883)

(Source: workers-against-work, via foucault-the-haters)

1,105 notes

scalesofperception:

The GuardiansVladimir Antaki

These places are sometimes magical, overloaded with elements, colours and stories, guarded by these characters who are sometimes touching, funny, quirky, and at times frightening. 

The photos that I take are often the only memory that this “Guardian” will have of him/herself in their daily environment. This photo can be the only visual record of the existence of this place, the only photographic memory.
 
People pay less and less attention to their environment. They are always in a hurry, they don’t take the time to spend time with one another. Unfortunately, these places will one day no longer be around. This is one of the reasons that compelled me to want to document these “guardians”.

SoP | Scale of Work

27 notes

What we don’t want or need is a group of authoritarians leading the working class, and then establishing themselves as a centralized decision-making command, instead of “withering away”; Marxist-Leninist states have perpetuated authoritarian institutions (the secret police, labor bosses, and the communist party) to maintain their power. The apparent effectiveness of such organizations (we ‘re just as efficient as the Capitalists) masks the way that “revolutionaries” who pattern themselves after Capitalist institutions become absorbed by bourgeois values, and completely isolated from the real needs and desires of ordinary people.
Lorenzo Kom’Boa Ervin, Anarchism and the Black Revolution (via madrantings)

(via nihilist-queers)

573 notes

thepeoplesrecord:

Gaza, a poemBy Nisha Bolsey
I’m walking and a man says, “If the Palestinians would just love their children more than they hate their enemy, the violence would be over.”Yes.If only.If only they would love their children.If only they had chosen the four corners(so they would die)or kept them in the middle(so they would die).If only they would have brought four-day old Noura back to life.If only they would kiss their children’s dead mouths and breathe life into them.If only they would raise their arms to the sun to block the bombs with the palms of their hands.If only they would dry the rivers of blood in the streets and pour them back into the hearts of their daughters and sons.Why don’t they?Why can’t they just pull out their own lungs and stick them into their slaughtered children’s chests?Why can’t they just sing, 24 hours a day, louder than thunder, to prevent their ears from hearing the sound of bombs?If only they would love their children, and carry their bodies up into the air, above the siege, past the blockade, into freedom.If the Al-Batsh boys’ parents had really loved them,they wouldn’t have let their insides be wrenched apart by the bomb that fell.They would use their hands to hold their limbs together so that they could stay in one piece.If only they would stop the vibrations which create sound,the sound which crashes and bleeds through their children’s ears.If only they would stop all light from traveling, so that their children wouldn’t have to see their sisters, cousins, fathers, brothers.Dead on the floor.Their house turning to rubble.Their family turning to dust.Their family turning to nothing.Their world disappearing.And why doesn’t their love sustain their children more than food?Heal the wounds from the weapons?They had seconds to leave before the bombing began.They should have thrown their children out the window,knowing they would take flightwith the wings their love had created.If only they loved Mohammed, Ahed, Zakaria and Mohammedenoughto rise above their soccer game and changethe magnetic forces of the Earth,to pull away the bomb,headed for the beach.

thepeoplesrecord:

Gaza, a poem
By Nisha Bolsey

I’m walking and a man says, “If the Palestinians would just love their children more than they hate their enemy, the violence would be over.”
Yes.
If only.
If only they would love their children.
If only they had chosen the four corners
(so they would die)
or kept them in the middle
(so they would die).
If only they would have brought four-day old Noura back to life.
If only they would kiss their children’s dead mouths and breathe life into them.
If only they would raise their arms to the sun to block the bombs with the palms of their hands.
If only they would dry the rivers of blood in the streets and pour them back into the hearts of their daughters and sons.
Why don’t they?
Why can’t they just pull out their own lungs and stick them into their slaughtered children’s chests?
Why can’t they just sing, 24 hours a day, louder than thunder, to prevent their ears from hearing the sound of bombs?
If only they would love their children, and carry their bodies up into the air, above the siege, past the blockade, into freedom.
If the Al-Batsh boys’ parents had really loved them,
they wouldn’t have let their insides be wrenched apart by the bomb that fell.
They would use their hands to hold their limbs together so that they could stay in one piece.
If only they would stop the vibrations which create sound,
the sound which crashes and bleeds through their children’s ears.
If only they would stop all light from traveling, so that their children wouldn’t have to see their sisters, cousins, fathers, brothers.
Dead on the floor.
Their house turning to rubble.
Their family turning to dust.
Their family turning to nothing.
Their world disappearing.
And why doesn’t their love sustain their children more than food?
Heal the wounds from the weapons?
They had seconds to leave before the bombing began.
They should have thrown their children out the window,
knowing they would take flight
with the wings their love had created.
If only they loved Mohammed, Ahed, Zakaria and Mohammed
enough
to rise above their soccer game and change
the magnetic forces of the Earth,
to pull away the bomb,
headed for the beach.