Chi town clown

Lets see how Rahm handles it.

fuck (wrong)Rahm 

http://cnsnews.com/blog/paul-wilson/magazine-calls-occupiers-come-chicago-tradition-1968-rioters%20%20

*********

Random mull

No variable is ever locked, no declaration is ever global, the cosmic layer cake is glazed with the fierceness of  little minds, the balance is always shifting, and no form is absolute, the shaman slings agglutinative spells towards the spirit vines and the shabono of our enemies, ordering unstoppable transformations, adding new movements, new routines, new preparation, new resonances to the stock of our communal knowledge. We remain as we are, at least for a little longer, because we are strong. We fight with spears, we are poets. You are a gluttonous office-mule and we have enough curare to paralyse all the clowns of destruction you order our way.

We take what we need and that is that, our gardens are in splendid state, the roundhouse needs sweeping. Imported tools, heavy metal machete, makes work lighter. Because of it we have more play time and more vision time. We are hunters and we live by what we can SEE and HEAR and SMELL and TASTE, but we are ambitiousness too and we want to see beyond what we can see, we want to see the inside of that what makes see and hear and smell and taste. We go beyond the interface, or, as the shaman said: “You must realize, my friend, that the deeper we go into this, both written and spoken words of formal language become less and less adequate as a medium of expression. If I could arrange it we would have a session of visions ourselves and then you would understand. But that would take time. Meanwhile we will continue with indifferent words and inflexible modes of expression."

Opampogyakyena shinoshinonkarintsi; you have long suspected us of apathetic sadness, you think of us as mute victims of progress, asylum seekers from the stone age. You hate our silence and you are deaf. You waste the night with sleep, we take naps when we need them. We chat and we rave. We drink real ale – home-made, spit-fermented from the finest manioc in our gardens and take all the time we need to tell the story of the sleep-inducing tree, of the girl who married a jaguar and of the boy who lived with the fire-ants. We have video-equipment we film ourselves and then watch it, over and over again. Even the sloth can't sit still when it hears us dance our ghost dance.

A howler monkey trades its song with eternity, our shaman's tonic evokes the infinite in a pool of vomit like the sun is hidden behind a thundercloud, the liana sing with bitter-sweet, hushy voices, a spell is cast and a terrible disease will come over you. Assaulted by sorcery, a snake in your hammock, a poison in your lizard-soup, a enchanted hairy spider has been reprogrammed to haunt you. A shaman who doesn't want to be found can't be found. The paint on the face tells of the hardships endured, the ascent through the spiders web, the GPS tells me you have crossed the line. Go away. No one owes us a living. This is our world.

We do not like you, you are unable to make decisions for yourself. You are loyal to a chief you have never met and do not trust. A real chief is a chief in silence. Your presence is not enough to declare us 'contacted'. You have seen nothing yet. We are not a tribe, we are a self-help group. We are splitters not lumpers, we are not like the others cannibals. With enough time we can face everything the world outside puts in our way. You are not your own boss and who are you talking to anyway, chattering all day long into that phone, asking for answers while the problem you have are right here in front of you.

Our world is not a wilderness. We live in a garden of complexity and peculiarity that has grown above our heads, canopy high, and this is the way it should be. Evolution is the generative survival of the singular as a part of the plural and the result is a red queen's race between the weirdest and the monstrous. We, in the largest definition that holds us in time and place, have created the forest in our own image. The forest is our art and our science.

Our belongings are functional, we do not inherit objects. Incrementation goes wild in the obfuscations of everyday life. We have stripped our language from all ornament. We have nothing. Our language has nothing. We do not need anything. For days we do not eat because we want to become strong. Gringo comes. Gringo tells. Gringo fuck off. No time. No recursion. No future. No bindings. No new libraries. We are savages. Everybody says so. The world is good.

-deoxy