Einladung zur Demonstration in Potsdam, 8. MÄRZ INTERNATIONALER FRAUENKAMPFTAG

Wir, FLT aus Berlin, rufen euch auf die Forderungen von Women In Exile
(WIE) zu unterstützen und mit uns nach Potsdam zu fahren. Seit Jahren
haben auch wir für autonome FrauenLesbenTrans Demos am 8. März gekämpft.
Dieses Jahr haben wir uns anders entschieden, ohne grundsätzlich FLT-
Organisierung und Aktionen in Frage zu stellen.
Wir finden den
gemeinsam erarbeiteten Kompromiss gut. WIE geht vorne im FLT Block +
solidarische Männer gehen am Ende der Demo, FLT bestimmen die Inhalte
und halten die Redebeiträge.
Mit der diesjährigen 8. März Demo startet WIE+Sisters+Friends die Kampagne:
„Keine Lager für Frauen! Alle Lager abschaffen!“
(womeninexile.blogsport.de)
bitte weiterleiten


Einladung zur Demonstration in Potsdam
8. MÄRZ INTERNATIONALER FRAUENKAMPFTAG
Keine Lager für Frauen! Alle Lager abschaffen!
Mit FrauenLesbenTrans* Block
Solidarische Männer sind außerhalb des FLT*-Blocks willkommen
Auftakt: 16:30 Uhr
Rathaus Babelsberg – Rudolf-Breitscheid-Straße/Karl-Liebknecht-Straße

Der
8. März wird seit 1911 international als Kampftag für die Interessen
der Frauen gegen Unterdrückung, sexuelle Gewalt und Krieg, für das
Frauenwahlrecht, für bessere Arbeits- und Lebensbedingungen, für
Gleichberechtigung und gegen Kapitalismus und Rassismus verstanden.
Auch
heute noch verdienen FrauenLesbenTrans* weniger als Männer und
verrichten den Großteil unentlohnter Tätigkeiten. Wir fordern nicht nur
gleichen Lohn, sondern kämpfen zugleich für die Abschaffung
kapitalistischer Arbeitsverhältnisse sowie sexistischer und
rassistischer Arbeitsaufteilung, die auf Ausbeutung und Ungleichheit
basieren und diese permanent reproduzieren. Die Verhältnisse sind noch
lange nicht so, wie sie sein sollten, weder in der deutschen
Gesellschaft noch weltweit. Wir wollen in diesem Jahr mit einer
Demonstration in Potsdam gegen diese bestehenden Machtverhältnisse und
insbesondere gegen die unerträglichen Lebensbedingungen von
Flüchtlingsfrauen protestieren.
An vielen Orten in ganz Deutschland
wehren wir uns mit Streiks und Protesten gegen unerträgliche
Lebensbedingungen. Das Asylbewerberleistungsgesetz schreibt fest, dass
wir in Deutschland unter schlechten Bedingungen in Flüchtlingslagern
leben müssen, von Sachleistungen der Behörden abhängig gemacht werden,
keinen ausreichenden Zugang zu Gesundheitsversorgung haben und gezwungen
sind, mit weniger Geld als dem ALG-II-Satz auszukommen. Gleichzeitig
wird uns das Menschenrecht auf Bewegungsfreiheit durch die so genannte
„Residenzpflicht“ aberkannt. Diese und weitere rassistische
Sondergesetze bilden gemeinsam die rechtliche Grundlage für
Unterdrückung, Isolation und sozialen Ausschluss.
In Brandenburg
leben wir mit unseren Kinder über Jahre hinweg in „Sammelunterkünften“
in der Regel auf engstem Raum zusammengepfercht (die Mindeststandards
der Landesregierung sehen sechs Quadratmeter pro Person vor) ohne
Privatsphäre oder die Möglichkeit, unsere Lebensgestaltung selbst in die
Hand zu nehmen. Die lagerähnlichen Unterkünfte liegen oft außerhalb der
Ortschaften. In der gesellschaftlichen Isolation werden wir, die
Frauen, schutzlos und häufig Opfer von sexuellen Belästigungen oder
Vergewaltigungen. Wir leiden unter den schlechten hygienischen
Bedingungen und der Perspektivlosigkeit unserer Kinder.

Wir fordern:
Keine Lager für Frauen! Lager abschaffen, Wohnungen für alle!
Keine
Unterdrückung, sei es aufgrund von Geschlecht, Aussehen, Herkunft,
Alter, sexueller Orientierung oder Mobilitätseinschränkungen!
Durchsetzung gleicher Bezahlung für gleichwertige Arbeit! Verbot jeglicher
prekärer Beschäftigung!
Kommt alle, seid laut, bunt, kreativ und kämpferisch!

Unterzeichner_innen:
Women
in Exile (WIE) ist eine Gruppe von Flüchtlingsfrauen und ehemaligen
Flüchtlingsfrauen, die sich mit den Flüchtlingsproblematiken aus der
Sicht von Frauen identifizieren und Gesetze bekämpfen, die gegen
Emanzipation von Frauen und Kindern gerichtet sind.
(Womeninexile.blogsport.de) 2011 startete WIE sisters and friends die
Kampagne „Keine Lager für Frauen. Alle Lager abschaffen!“
[a] antifaschistische linke potsdam – [www.antifa-potsdam.de]
Antisexistische Aktion Potsdam* (ASAP*)
Revolutionärer Sozialistischer Bund / IV. Internationale

VISDP: Bündnis 8.März

Libya and Germany

Politicians across Europe must now be hurriedly purging their photo albums, removing all the handshakes with Gaddafi they've had taken over the past decade of rapprochement. Because it's Europe, not the USA, which has most vigorously supported the Libyan dictator, and which should be most ashamed at how they put business above human rights. Germany, sending civil engineers to develop Libya's infrastructure. France, selling weapons and buying oil. Italy, trying to stop the arrival of migrants across the Mediterranean. And Britain, mainly through Tony Blair's peculiar compulsion to embrace every dictator available.

Here I'll pick on Germany -- not for being the worst, but because the German media is so far showing remarkably little awareness of the country's complicity with the Libyan regime.

Let's go back to 2004. The four countries above had secured the lifting of the EU arms embargo against Libya. Denmark and Sweden had mentioned human rights, but the general feeling was that, by abandoning its biological weapons program and renouncing international terrorism, Libya had conceded on all the truly important issues.

No sooner was the embargo lifted, than German Chancellor Gerhard Schröder landed in Tripoli with an entourage of 25 businessmen. In passing he praised what he called the 'political change' in Libya. But his main reason for visiting was the promotion of German business. Openly so, and with the support of much of the German political spectrum, from his own center-left SPD, through the pro-business FPD to the conservative CDU. So he shook hands, made introductions, closed deals. He was photographed in an elaborate tent, and at an oil well, looking equally out-of place in both locations.

What didn't emerge until four years later was that, alongside oil and engineering negotiations, Schroeder was fixing up a deal whereby elite German commandos would train the Libyan security services.

This caused controversy when it emerged in 2008. Not as military support for a dictator -- the €43m of German jammingelectrical equipment* bought by Libya in the last 2 years has raised few eyebrows -- but because it was being provided by German security personnel, and thus involved sharing state military know-how with a potential enemy.

In fact, the Byzantine structure of the deal shows everybody knew they were bending the rules to breaking point. The German officers would receive €15,000 each, paid by a private security firm which in turn got a €1.6m cheque from Libya. They would take time off from their elite anti-terrorist unit. Their superiors thought they were vacationing in Tunisia, though the German embassy in Libya knew their real purpose. The officers set up shop in a barracks in Tripoli, where for 6 months they taught their Libyan counterparts how to storm buildings, board ships and operate out of helicopters.

Training can't be identified in the same way as you might see 'Made in Germany' on a used shell. But it's no less real; we can be sure that a hundred or so of the Gaddafi loyalists struggling to keep control of Tripoli have been trained by the German security forces.

[There's much, much more to say on this theme, a whole decade of shameful behaviour that wasn't even kept secret. How Europe, terrified of refugees, wanted a well-armed authoritarian regime as a buffer-zone against African migrants. How weapons shipments were banned simply through fear they'd go to Sudan, not from any concern about Gaddafi having them. How Switzerland tried to punish Gaddafi's son for assaulting his staff, enraged Libya, and was brought into line by other European states desperate to keep trade going. But it'll all have to wait for tomorrow]

* The figure of €43m of 'jamming equipment' was taken from the EU Observer. They in turn got it from an EU report. However, as far as I can see the original source refers to electrical equipment in particular, not specifically jamming. Sorry about that confusion, especially since the €43m for jamming equipment now seems to have spread throughout twitter.

--Dan

Ten Minutes Flight: from Ejik's new February Stories collection

Ten minutes to midnight. It’s the time when cleaners go to the window to see if the pumpkin coach lands on the meadow downstairs. The time when worms hide because of the high-heel shoes’ rain. Frogs disappear, those who do not want to become princesses. And whales preemptively start burping – just in case. Ten minutes to reach the bunker or meet eternal luck! Each of those minutes weighs as candle light – or plumb. It runs away as fast as blood into the veins. I was looking for my dress in distress. Where could it be? Where was it last time? I run through the rooms of the castle while time drops on my hands like spring rain. My heart thuds as fast as my fingers leaf through the cloths hanging in the wardrobe. My beautiful velvet skirt – where is that? Oh – I’ve been tripping over my braces for days and now that I need them – I cannot find anything! It’s already five to midnight and I’m still naked in front of the avocado plant, looking for a shirt in the closet. Tyrannical time! I wonder what will be happening when midnight strikes. If that was an appointment I could miss it – but I’ve none – that’s why I must absolutely be ready. It wouldn’t be fair – to arrive late for hope. Can I? Three minutes – only three minutes to midnight. I’m barefoot in front of ten pairs of shoes. On top of the table I deposed several socks of many different colors. I should at least match socks and shoes. I run to the window to see if the pumpkin coach is descending – but I see only a deep purple sky. Stars gleam here and there painting a trace. Oh my Love! I must get ready. Two minutes, only two minutes to midnight. I run in front of the mirror and brash my two teeth. I clean my face with cold water and comb my hair so-so. One minute. I’ve got only one minute. I’m still naked in the middle of the bedroom looking for my dress under the pillows, even under the bed. Too late. It’s midnight. I glance at the window and there’s neither sparkling light nor the giant, ripe pumpkin, let alone the prince. I hug my blue frog puppet hiding my sorrow in a tear. When the tear touches its big mouth, the frog talks to me and says: “My lovely silly one, it’s ten minutes I’m looking at you. Haven’t you learned to put things away yet? Look on the second drawer, under the books and you’ll find shirt, skirt, socks, braces and even shoes.” I look at my frog puppet with fright, it’s talking! “I would suggest you don’t wear any of those though.” The puppet’s shape is changing in the middle of a blue stain. “You have been hugging this puppet every night” he tells to me. I can see it’s not a puppet anymore rather a real giant blue frog: “why did you suppose I would come with a coach driven by horses then, you silly one?” Only now I recognized my love. “And then, monkey! Haven’t you learned yet how fast I am?! Maybe a pumpkin coach would have arrived at midnight!”

The day I became a woman...

Click here to read the story, or look out below!


The day I became a woman

The day I became a woman, I was a cat at the time. I wore long, beautiful moustache and such a fur from ears to tail! My prints on the snow would look like edelweiss: there would be people in love with me and terrified mice – about whom I’ve heard talking – but never seen one – so much they were terrified. My claws scratched even diamonds – oh – on my eyes star dust! A regiment of mixed animals – who could stand on their two posterior legs – came to me that dull day with the aim of teaching me what I should have already learned by now – they said – although it seemed to them that I hadn’t yet. And – as far as I understood – that was a problem. It was time – they said – I learned to walk erect showing up my boobs and some dignity at once. Exactly – they said – like it befits any woman – since I was one. The latter point stirred so much my curiosity that I immediately asked what was this thing they said: woman. No one expected my question. They started pointing each other and myself out, repeating “woman, woman, it’s a woman, woman…” but, apart from this extensive demonstration, they seemed poor in contents. I’m not pretending being a philosopher, and there was no attempt on my side to discover the essence of woman: I just wanted an idea of what was this woman I was. It seemed a reasonable question on my part, wasn’t it? They also felt compelled to show their erudition in this quite banal (but important!) theme and in all honesty I can say that they did the best they could. That is, they sat with me and got ready for a serious, loving conversation. My point was quite simple and clear: if I were a woman (as they said) why did they tell me that I was not like one? Cats might not be so subtle as these two-legs animals, but not so fool not to see that a fish cannot not be a fish. As easy as that. So, if I were a woman I couldn’t not be a woman at the same time, quite clear, isn’t it? But you see – that’s what happens with this bunch of two-legs animals every time. You talk and talk abstractly about being or not being and the possibilities of being and you never get to the thing. What was I or was I not or should or needed not… But who cares! What was this thing woman?! This I wanted to know. A member of the group kindly proposed: “Why don’t we go to eat something all together and continue this conversation in a more relaxed atmosphere?” Fine. That was fine with me. It was fine also with everybody else. Actually I was getting hungry and already quite tired of so much nonsense. At least I could eat something now. I climbed on the chair and licked my moustache. In front of me lay a giant tuna-salad whose smell filled the entire room! “Here you go, it’s for you!” “Thanks” I replied and now they could talk about whatever pleased them – I was fine, so fine! “Slurp slurp!” “Darling,” one two-legs said “you see – you are not supposed to eat like that.” I almost choked. I wanted to rebuke that they had invited me out. But it wouldn’t have been polite, since they had invited me, and so I apologized spitting out the tuna in my mouth. “I thought it was for me. I’m really sorry.” “Certainly my dear! Of course it’s for you! Eat, eat darling!” I looked up with some perplexity. The two-legs continued: “I only meant to tell you that that’s not the way a woman eats. But eat, darling, eat!” Of course I wanted to eat, such psycho! But how was I supposed to eat now? I looked at the plate and swallowed my saliva. “A woman wouldn’t eat with his face on the plate. He would use forks or sticks – that depends on the region, the provenience, the house or restaurant where he’s eating and also on what he is eating” – he explained in detail and then, out of his kindness, added: “Well, it also depends on what you have at your disposal – that makes everything easier! – if you see a fork, you use the fork, if you see sticks, then you use sticks” and smiled with complicity as if, telling that, he were cheating. I don’t know. That looked complicated, with or without cheating. I looked around me and this bunch of two-legs were actually all eating under some form of constriction and pain. They used their arms as if they couldn’t stretch, their chewing was so silent that it seemed that not them but cows on a meadow afar were eating grass. On top of all – I noticed only now – they would look down and – somehow – smile up. There was something contorted about all that. And almost my appetite went away. There was simply too much to think about. I valued that it was a topic moment for a compromise, so I said: “Yes, I understand something more now, I also see that there’s much to learn and I’ll work on that. I’m hungry now” and I jumped with face and paws on the appetizing pieces of tuna. The two-legs were clearly disappointed but could see that learning takes time and appreciate at least a good will. It didn’t take longer than three minutes for the tuna-bites to disappear. Meanwhile some two-legs were arguing that it’s not so difficult really, it’s natural.” Many liked the last observation which would make all easier – and that cat (a woman, they meant) all the more stupid. Of course no one would have said that aloud – not even among themselves – but it was pretty clear that they were facing the typical “problem guy” situation (a woman, they meant). And then, how to teach what’s natural? Obviously the only way is giving the good example and that poor cat (a woman, they meant) must have had a difficult childhood – certainly was rejected, maybe even abandoned in a bin. All these unexpressed thoughts brought some heaviness on the lunch-sharing. No one was talking anymore, only salad chewing (from far away cows on a meadow far away) was still to be heard and I was getting bored, tired and also a bit lunatic. “My dear” – one of the two-legs interrupted the silence: “would you like to live in a warm house with a pretty room only for yourself where there are many games and lot of love?” I looked up suspiciously: “Do you mean there are other cats?” I asked. “Well, darling, not now – but with the time I might get you a cat.” – “Are there mice?” The two legs didn’t like the question, since he had hoped to express all his generosity in front of the company and show how many “yes” he could say all in a row – and yet he had to say another no. Irritated by this and irritated by the question he burst up: “No, of course not! There are not and there will never be mice in my apartment!” At least on this point he got the appreciation of the other two-legs; of course no mice in an apartment! The case was a difficult one in any respect. “I don’t want to live with you” finally I commented since it didn’t sound interesting whatsoever, quite the opposite and I had also realized now that I would have to live with one of those two-legs that were repeating to be each a woman and that I also was one. No, it didn’t look fun. Not at all. It was time to leave. I jumped down from the chair and stretched my paws. “But! Darling… you didn’t eat your salad, the tomatoes, all those delicious olives…!” I turned then and asked: “Are there women who like tuna?” “Oh yes, certainly there are” they replied. “Well, I’m one of them” I answered, since, I thought, there wouldn’t be anything else they could understand. Then I left mumbling by myself: “Whatever woman is, I hope never to meet one.”

BelvinO (aka E.S.-N.)


The day I became a woman is also the title for a marvelous film! (relation?)
Editor, Belvi-nA (aka M.S.-N., with hope..)

Love Teacher Architect

(German English Space)

To read the story click here

no name no end

It was early afternoon when he returned home. He lived on the fourth floor of a relatively new building – not so new to have the small windows still working, nor old enough to have good, wide working windows. Neither did it look modern, if you understand with it some plastic construction refined with black glass, nor was whatsoever similar to a house meant to last. It puffed up during one of those time folds, when you have to save your poverty somehow somewhere. This building was one of those “where.” He climbed the fourth floor and stopped on the threshold with the key in his hand. The door looked pale grey, it had always been grey, nothing new about that, but this tonality made it look different from the lightness it previously seemed to have. He was tired after many hours of work and a long journey to the airport. He turned the key and entered the short corridor. Paleness disappeared into the dark space. He automatically took off his shoes and the jacket, he deposed gloves and hut on a stool nearby. He stood in the hall for a few moments. It was dark, yes, it was dark. Downstairs the sun had still some meters to walk downhill. Such obscurity was not justified. It’s still day – he thought. But you never know when the card is turned face-to-table. It was dark in the kitchen. Even darker in the other rooms. He needed some plants to bring the colors of time inside. He needed some colors.

Call of Work

“L’Appel!” – Emmanuel Lévinas
“Der Be•ruf…” – Max Weber

To read the story click here

XYkyY and the Dratalgogneseiki Language

For Italo Calvino?

Click here to read the story

Saint Valentine's Day

For Oscar Wilde

Click here to read the story...

Between a Story and the Next

INTERLUDE

_ Dad, why are never there women in your stories?
_ Because you’re my only little one, cutie.
_ Dad, I’m a boy!
_ Well, don’t make assumptions about my characters then.
_ Yes dad.

(Silence for a while)

_ Dad!
_ Yes cutie.
_ But why are never there women in your stories?

Chronos Jr.

Click here to read the story.

A Bastard (Solitude)

Written on the 11. of February. Bad stuff.
Click here to read the entry.

Morgengebet

fuer Edmond Jabès.

It reads:

Die kürzeste Geschichte wurde von einem Liebhaber für seinen verreisten Geliebten geschrieben. Bevor dieser heimkam, war die schon vollendet worden.

To read the story, click here

The happiest story

One morning the white tigerrabbit woke up and the sun had filled up the snow. He stretched, his paws and his big strong arms. He was thinking of his beloved porcupine and kissing him in his mind over the ocean. Although the ocean was big, and white tigerrabbit had not seen his love for almost a week, he knew exactly where his love is and how long it takes to get to him, how he smells and how much he kisses him every day. So he was happy. He wanted to hold his porcupine in his arms more than anything, but he also knew a secret of time. According to this simple secret, he knew that the dialogue between him and his porcupine was all kisses.

First he made some very bad coffee because his mother did not have any good coffee and only coconut milk. Now coconut milk is supposed to be the best, but in coffee it is not so good after all. He had a million more things to write down, but he knew perfectly well that his love the porcupine had their secret happiness under the bed and it was only that he sometimes pretended not to see it to taste its sister deepest sadness. So, he decided to continue on to bed, as he was quite tired already and jump into porcupine's dream arms.

So, till soon.

The saddest story of all...

The saddest story of all has never been written. Certainly it was never read. It was about a porcupine – whose only joy was writing short but thorough stories for his beloved, the white rabbit. White rabbit had gone for a long journey around the clock and crumbs porcupine was waiting for him to come back. Everyday he would sit at his desk and imagine handful and colorful words to knot together into a narration. Every day the knot would be firm and strong was a day less to recount before white rabbit’s return. But that day, February the 11th, crumbs porcupine could not think of any story. A day without a story is not a day and this lack of fantasy would keep white rabbit away. Crumbs porcupine spent the day at his desk. Old memories would enter his narration and there was neither a beginning nor an end with them. Only a story could have cuddled his love to sleep, only a story could bring the day away. In fact, the secret of a story is joy: a drop of thought into the crystalline substance of desire. He criss-crossed his legs many times, drank many cups of tea and preened his needles for a very long while. He was trapped in the cage of the day. He stood up and cleaned the apartment. Then he went for a walk. Only sadness coming from afar filled his mind and he could not focus on the wonder of white rabbit’s return. Crumbs porcupine was endlessly sad because he couldn’t write any story for his beloved. He imagined writing a story about a very sad porcupine, who wouldn’t find any story for his beloved – that would certainly be the saddest story of the world.

The Grasswidow

Click here to read the story

Crumbs Porcupine - Home Reminders

A commentary on Walter Benjamin, GS, IV, 1, S. 404 - -
- - with needles

This is the story of crumbs porcupine. No one should raise his expectations since the hero of our story really never behaved as such – but that’s exactly what’s interesting about the story you are going to read. After all it’s not so difficult to defeat a dragon or save the princess – it might be exhausting, need courage and insight but it happened only once and – have you ever heard of heroes who would save a princess a day or fought four dragons in their life time? Maybe that day the dragon had a toothache or the princess had actually just become a Karate black belt, yes, it might just have been good luck, but crumbs porcupine, what he did – he did it daily, with the regularity and precision of a pooping bird. On the other hand: everybody longs for great achievements, great constructions, the foundation of cities or the discovery of planets – but you see what happened with the Americas. Sooner or later the “discover” finds out of being a prick who discovered – as you say – hot water or sand in the beach. Without mentioning the resentment of the discovered ones – who had never wanted – were an option given to them – to discover the discoverer. With the great city founders things are not much different. Wait a week, two weeks and you’ll see someone come to them and claim their territory. The great founder of course will expose the greatness of his realm. But the man who walked ten miles to meet him won’t show having been whatsoever impressed by so much glory and majesty. He will dig a hole under the sovereign majestic palace toilette and find the bones of a cat. “You see that? That was my cat.”
.....
Where is rest of the story? Click here

Prelude: Berlin - New York

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The White Rabbit's Way

Click here to go to the story

Winter and the Hummingbird

Click here to go to the story

replying to: one way world

Yes, Re-Play: play-station... play in the internet... playblog (that's not playboy)

Since i’m notoriously contorted – let’s say: convoluted –I turn my first page – my own – and wonder – aloud – and yet not face to face – what a spectacle is this – of this pubic – decency, please! public I mean – spectacle – living, breathing drafts – an exchange – was it not a secret – mumble then! – promise – like everything that matters – what do you mean? – every word which matters… remains unspoken – the lips can harder and more – are you sucking? – can harder and more – than – ah! you see?! “than” – it will always be its guilt! Writing like this? Writing together. To each other. Together. To each other. So: my question: where is the spectacle? Is it “together” or “to each other”? Surprisingly enough I locate it in the “together” – in this instance – maybe – sure – in this new – again? – shameful personal case. In other words: you always want more words: is the spectacle communication or expression? I would start from that. That also means: I may end up here.

(1)

One-Way World:
Notes on the Society of the Spectacle by “One-Way Street”

First notes and thoughts

“Philosophy, the power of separate thought and the thought of separate power, could never by itself supersede theology. The spectacle is the material reconstruction of the religious illusion. Spectacular technology has not dispelled the religious clouds where men had placed their own powers detached from themselves; it has only tied them to an earthly base. The most earthly life thus becomes opaque and unbreathable. It no longer projects into the sky but shelters within itself its absolute denial, its fallacious paradise. The spectacle is the technical realization of the exile of human power into a beyond; it is separation perfected within the interior of man.”
Paragraph 20

Before I: the art and praxis of appropriation

''This work -- comparable to the method of atomic fission, which liberates energies bound up within the atom -- is supposed to liberate the enormous energies of history that are slumbering in the 'once upon a time' of classic historical narrative.'' W. Benjamin

The words do not belong to Guy Debord, yet, intentionally or intuitively, he might be said to have followed their method in tracing the outlines of society becomes Society of the Spectacle; and yet, they were written before the history of the atomic bomb cleaved history irrevocably. In the failure of democracy, the power of whose definition arises before its possibility, society becomes singularly fragmented. This society feeds on the dissolution of mind: ours.
Some words strike us as doses of truth which tare through the common illusion, the appearances of every-day life which obscure what makes them so, distancing us from ourselves… This separation and alienation is a danger which threatens the fabric of human possibility and desire. This transmogrification of the social self occurs to some extent outside of the rational understanding of its (non)participants. Predominantly, all are (non)participants in a world which moves of its own accord – the key to whose production mechanism appears to be lost.



Notes:
1. help! Think over the possible organization in relation to my thinking including Butler. Mmm…ejik…please rework entirely, including thematic order. One-way street! (rewrite or erase subtitle?)
2. Decide which terms to use, if the spectacle should remain a key term or be replaced by corporatism.
So far illusion, appearance, representation and spectacle function synonymously. Should they be distinguished? Perhaps corporatism (nightmare) should be the dominant synonym for spectacle, while representation is linked to mediation, and illusion and appearance work as dream on the last level where change is already potential?
This would be a translation of Debord’s ‘active waiting,’ as practicing theory, Butler’s appropriation in performativity, Benjamin’s awakening through dialectical images?
3. Method: dialectical images show historical movement, as dialectical movement, one which overcomes opposition revealing further paths…? (historicism?) cultural translation..
Ground: performativity
4. What is the relation between corporatism, bureaucracy and the state?