Got 55,000 Problems but a "Local Project" ain't One

To whom it may concern,

Revolution is not a risk management endeavor. It is, in many ways, a slight alteration of everything that gives life meaning, the fear of the fragility of our bodies included. Insurrection is not a game—even if it uses game-theory. Insurrection—not a military campaign, not a movement for democracy—is the contemporary method for revolution because it combats the productive process of the pacified citizen-subject. It makes everyone and everything into a device of revolt. Insurrection returns risk to eros, and meaning to love.

Whereas its good to learn from experience, we learn nothing when fear of experience is paralyzing. Now is not the time to lose courage, nor is it the time to grind our teeth against walls. It's been said by one that we ought think of revolution as the development of small businesses. You invest this here, you get this benefit there. If the I had $55,000, the I would invest it in more security and comfort for its existing franchises and political allies. Don't be fooled by the investment-anarchists, there is no project or other group that should be prioritized that requires our hasty deployment of resources. We do not have a collective pool of money that can be deployed at any time; only at the right time. On the other hand, wouldn't it be cool if we did? The only project that should be prioritized is the refinement of the practices and material solidarities that constitute a partisan warmachine of insurrection. Without access to the networks of legal aid and deception that are abundant within the false mobilization of activism, a partisan warmachine can quickly expend its resources.

Money is not a substitute for emotional support, but paying the rent of your comrade who has been traumatized by the police, in order to have more time to collectively strategize reveals a material solidarity that links friends and comrades into a singular event. It has been said that insurrection requires that its proponents accept a criminal nature of their existence. To really become present to this existence, we will need far more than the Four Star Anarchist Organization's imaginary $55,000, and as has been proven, sometimes in the art of war having a few good contacts is better than having many bad ones.

We mean it: Now is not the time to lose courage. Now is not the time to fear experimentation. Solidarity means—does anything not mean attack?

With insurrectionary love,
Liam Sionnach

For our beloved friends

War
as a form of life
is messy.
Count up
the habeas corpus,
walk softly
on shards of glass.

Honest, fearless,
communication
an assault on meaning
in the utopia of meaninglessness—
is punishable by
a different frequency of
social death.

The polite police officer says
“I understand your frustrations
and we can talk about it now if you'd like to,
but your father...
when we gets home...
I just don't know.”

We're sitting
legs crossed
clutching cigarettes
holding back tears—holding it together
sipping thick black coffee
hoping to traumatize
our strange fragile bodies—
to override their emotive functions.

Soft rain, sharp plateaus of wind
enter through the little holes
in our ears
interrupting the lack of speech.
Words drop from our lips,
nothing is conveyed.

If the phone rings
we won't be any safer
but if the phone rings
we'll be able to
not-sleep calmly.

We know the script
the most savory excess is revealed.
The violence of the process
through which subjects are made
is exposed.
Through the deployment
of authoritative voices,
the rhythm of this violence
extracts this or that practice,
excluding history from
the workday, leisure, holiday
and restores a false unity
of vacant time
with infinite little atoms bouncing
off police batons.

If the phone rings
the script is confirmed
but we'll be able to
not-sleep more calmly.
An annotation
a note
in the negative space
oscillates the thought
that takes us
from the script
to a new meaning.

Take a perverse pleasure
in the torment
let tears harden
into diamonds
and coal

The violence of
discipline
marks our fungible
tissue
traces new scars.
Without innocence,
sensuous debt,
history.

Let the blood
roll down
into the crevices
at our hips and
in between our fingers,
feel it dry
and crack
dark red.

Share its accursed
taste
with those we
keep loving.

Touch the crevices
and veins
and take pleasure,
take time
to let those we
keep loving
spit
dark red
tar
against the open lips
of Grampa
on life support.