mossetti-eng
Resistance is an Electrical Property: On Desertion
Confessions of a Troll - master-slave dialectic in the times of Facebook
1. Self-profiling.
A few days ago a friend of mine wrote to me: "I heard that you had a Facebook fight with ****, a rising star of Italian journalism. Be careful, it might be dangerous for your career."
My friend was right. I don’t know how many times I told myself: be more cautious, post a comment only when necessary. Click "like" only when it's not compromising. Avoid acid and polemical language.
It never worked. Most often, compulsion prevailed.
My only cold comfort is to know that I am not the only one afflicted by this weak spot. Another friend of mine once confessed: "When I read most online newspapers I get a surge of anger... Sometimes I can't help to speak out my mind, to do sharing, sometimes to insult. But for my job it's embarrassing. Sometimes I create fake profiles. Or I keep myself anonymous."
Solidarity in ruins. A reflection on the Freedom bookshop bombing.
Much has been said on the coward aggression Freedom bookshop was victim of. Founded by Charlotte Wilson and Peter Kropotkin and based in Whitechapel since the 1970s, Freedom was the oldest anarchic bookshop in the English-speaking world, home of the renowned Freedom Press - which sent into print names such as Clifford Harper, Vernon Richards, Colin Ward and his 'Anarchy' magazine, Murray Bookchin, William Blake and Errico Malatesta. It was already attacked by fascists in 1993 and since then metal bars were installed on the windows and the entrance door.
All major publishers, bookshops and leftist groups promtly expressed their solidarity, especially because Freedom Bookshop wasn't exactly a steady market competitor, but - like many anarchic organisations - a volunteer-run entity, struggling to survive. A spontaneous 'clean-up' soon followed, and many sincere militants, armed with broom, took part in this Red Aid intervention.
Ironically, with all due respect to those affected by the bomb -no one was hurt-, we could look at the bombing as exciting news for anarchism: for once, radical literature wasn’t confined to the spider webs and dust of academia. Not just another talk, another conference of self-boosting egoes and parboiled lectures. Most importantly, not another publisher whining about censorship before billing their authors as 'dangerous' on the back cover of their books (dangerous for whom, and how?). It was, surprisingly, a physical target to be physically attacked.
Django Uncharted: Stirner, Obama & The Good Ol’ White Guilt
The Legend of a St.Entrepreneur
"He lives! He lives! He lives!", those hashtags accompanying the virtual coffin of Steve Jobs seemed to repeat, like a white lie. You could have memorial candles left outside Apple stores, but #iSAD, #Thankyousteve and whatever else was trending in those hours of grief on Twitter were the true keywords following the dead, joining the endless wake where the body of the Martyr was carried from hand to hand, reduced in millions of pixels, re-tweeted from fingertip to fingertip. And as the corpse of the mahatma – “great soul” – was driven through the immaterial crowd, everybody tried to stretch a finger and make contact with him. Everyone had something to say: “You’ll be missed”, typed a 14-yr-old Chinese boy. “Gracias”, typed a Mexican girl studying in Chicago. “Merci”, typed a DJ from Senegal.
