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Resistance is an Electrical Property: On Desertion

“When you are away from the coast, to escape is often the only way to save the boat and the crew. Moreover, you will discover unknown shores appearing on the horizon of the waters, once the calm returns. Those unknown shores will be forever ignored by those who have the illusory chance to follow the route of cargo and oil tankers, the safe route imposed by shipping companies. Perhaps you know that boat called "desire"
 
Henri Laborit,Éloge de la fuite (1976)
 
 
There was a time, approximately twenty years ago, when topics like exile and escape were addressed in generous and original ways in the Italian culture. There was the cinema of Gabriele Salvatores (Mediterraneo, Marrakech Express) "dedicated to all those who are running away", and that of Mario Martone (Death of A Neapolitan Mathematician,War Theatre), filled with characters defeated by life. There were bands like 99 Posse, Almamegretta, Daniele Sepe & Rote Jazz Fraktion who celebrated the roots of militant anti-fascism, while suggesting desertion from Western society. And then, the nomadic literature of Pino Cacucci (Puerto Escondido), the anti-militarist comics of Sergio Bonelli (Tex, Dylan Dog) and Hugo Pratt (Corto Maltese) and overall in any field of the arts you could feel the influence of post-1977 counter-culture. In very different ways, those voices were describing a generation unwilling to enter ‘capitalist’ adulthood and to finally become ‘bourgeois’. They were talking about virile friendship, human cowardice, disgust for the so called ‘return of the Private’ (or ‘Reflux’) of the 1980s.
 

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

America, 1858. Two individuals, an ex-doctor and a freed slave, turned into bounty-killers. They have zero concern for the welfare of their society and seem to be irreconcilable to each other but actually, as the tradition of spaghetti-westerns wants, they are associated by practical, monetary and private reasons. A true 'union of egoists' in the Old West, as Max Stirner would put it.
 
This was the intriguing subject of films as the Dollar Trilogy or Butch Cassidy, to which Tarantino owes more than a reference. “Egoistic unions” Leone-style have emerged, in fact, as an opposition to the lovely “liberal unions” of Traditional WASP Western movies – where the autonomy of action of the Lone Gunman, even when motivated by personal issues, was only a replacement of an evanescent State. On the contrary, in their temporary alliance, the bounty killers keep a healthy distance from an oppressive Society: they don’t respect it – they only utilize it. They transform the Law into their own property and their own creature.

The Legend of a St.Entrepreneur

Today, we celebrate the first glorious anniversary of the Information Purification Directives. We have created, for the first time in all history, a garden of pure ideology — where each worker may bloom, secure from the pests purveying contradictory truths. Our Unification of Thoughts is more powerful a weapon than any fleet or army on earth. We are one people, with one will, one resolve, one cause. Our enemies shall talk themselves to death, and we will bury them with their own confusion. We shall prevail!
- 1984 (advertisement)
 



"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. 
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