“We know the way back to the [Tahrir] Square”

“We know the way back to the [Tahrir] Square”[1]

Physical space, broadly conceived, is intertwined with power and its negotiation. What Asef Bayat named the nonmovement movement of everyday resistance is the slow transformation of the status quo through minute direct action, largely learned and adapted within public space. “Collective action by non-collective actors”[2] defines the daily negotiations of power, and people’s relationships to each other within shared space. That power’s manifestation and concentration in space is a function of social structures and their symbols. Notions of space’s governance and ownership are social outgrowths of political and economic moments and evolutions through time. That power is articulated and negotiated in space was central to the revolutions of the Arab World, beginning in late December 2010.

The late Muhammad Bouazizi’s passing tells a story of space, citizenship and power. It was in the street where he’d sold fruits out of a small cart fully immersed in a public space within Tunisia. It was within the public space of the street where he’d been brutally beaten and spat upon by the police, had his scales confiscated, his small wheelbarrow thrown aside. Confronting power in its Tunisian state government offices, Bouazizi demanded the return of his scales on the basis of bogus charges and economic repression. If they did not return his scales, or stop harassing him, Bouazizi said, he’d light himself on fire. And he did so in the public streets of Tunisia, becoming a symbol of public outrage at a shared status quo of a power’s control, and the space he in which he did so became the site of uprisings in Tunisian public space began mere hours after Bouazizi’s self-immolation.[3]

Space articulates an intersection of regulation. In the context of public space as denoted by a modern world system, space is politicized, itself subject to the forces of polity and governance. That Tahrir Square became synonymous with liberation is more than a coincidence of its name. Tahrir (in English, Liberation) Square was of course the site of convergence and occupation for some millions of Egyptians over the course of the Egyptian revolutions during 2011. The transformative use of its boundaries, the usurping of its regulatory logic was an anticipation of the changes which were to follow on February 18^th, with the resignation of the autocratic Hosni Mubarak. It was at the square’s periphery that activists against the regime, be they April 6^th Youth Movement, Muslim Brotherhood, or unaffiliated activists would create and protect barricades to protect their fellow protesters within.[4]

Here was a rise of a new, competing sovereignty with a new, anti-authoritarian negotiation of ownership. Citizenship to the space of Tahrir Square became hyperpoliticized, though it now represented a coup d’etat. The regime’s/Hosni Mubarak’s forces had attempted to reclaim the square in the name of the regime that ruled the Egypt beyond the barricades, but its heart had already been taken by the protestors, its boundaries demarcated by the struggle[5] at the periphery of a newly revolutionary Egypt. One which stood for a new, democratic politics divorced from the many iterations of the old guard, its state-terrorism in the form of Emergency Laws, its corruptions, its post-totalitarian logic.[6] The Egyptian people had returned to Tahrir Square to become liberated once more, as they had done in 1952 against King Farouk I and in 1919 against British colonialism. When asked about the uncertainty of the future of the burgeoning revolution, one protester simply responded, “We know the way back to the [Tahrir] Square”.[7] Tahrir Square lives once again as not only a symbol of liberation, but a space of social and political transformation.

This is no cry for attention,

it is, in fact a howl for the butterfly’s wings

(will be incorporated into a future piece)

Promised Land

It is Jan. 16^th and the sun is shining on sleepy Santa Barbara in the way it always does, and here I’ve come to take part in the annual Martin Luther King march. I arrived at De La Guerra Plaza at 9:57 sharp, precisely three (3) minutes before the march is scheduled to begin. But I’ve missed them.

“They’re down State, marching to the Arlington”, says the man coiling XLR cables, and off I go.

By the time I catch up with the crowd, they are stopped at Victoria st.. I hear children singing old spirituals, I see banners for the Santa Barbara Interfaith Initiative, fists raised and hands held together in spirits of solidarity.

“Lift every voice and sing.” they’re singing flat, like Lindsey.

I’ve been here before many times marching for freedom, justice and liberation, but none of those past marches felt quite as subdued as now.

“Strange to see someone taking notes at a march”, one gentleman in a suit says to me. “I felt inspired”, I respond, thinking about Martin Luther King, the man of the hour. I’m thinking about his last speech. Something about mountain-tops. Something about a promised land. Something about a dream.

Let freedom ring, and here we are on the streets of bourgeois Santa Barbara, our marches for liberation bounded by police officers, well-manicured store fronts of State St. and smiling, wide-eyed observers on all sides.

“A minute or two and we can cross the intersection,” one man announced.

This is, surely, civil obedience.

I see an old friend now city council woman Cathy Murillo holding hands with 3^rd District Supervisor Doreen Farr. I see my friends, some of them students like myself, most of the radicals, we’re all here in solidarity. It strikes me that I’m probably hanging out on the most diverse block in the county at this moment

Adele plays from somewhere, and there is dancing under the canopy of the Arlington.

I am sure somewhere there is a picture of me, misty-eyed, scribbling thoughts in my little blue notebook while high schoolers play music and sing in a crowded atrium, surrounded by babies and children, adults with young sprits, invigorated teenagers and aging baby boomers in what must be the most excited group of white folks for miles.

The Bible is God calling out to man.

The Bible is man calling out to God.

In search of holy calling.

And what’s left is the garbage of unanswered questions,

and unquestioned answers.

unfinished business

for an unfinished life in unfinished Bibles

unobscured nonsense

unheard, unseen, unfelt holy revelation,

return to holy insanity.

11/13/2011

I do worry about the future,

but very little concerning my place within it

(for M. Sallstrom) 10/19

I have been waiting for this moment all my life.

Holy revelation of holy insanity.

holy body, holy elements in what else, holy nonsense.

And holy self arise from unholy sex,

or no, maybe sex is holy too.

Search for our temple of

holy guidance, to find

holy purpose,

seeking God, love and home.

In holy place, emotional space,

and those old jubilant mental states

of existence and celebration.

O holy nonsense, show me home.

10/ 20/ 2011

Reminiscent of time and space

Reminiscent of time and space

today is a ship, tomorrow is a sail.

The Earth is here, there and everywhere I’ve seen

and beauty is here, there without me, there without.

But today I am

(in) wonder and wander at once

space between convergence and meaning

while our ship precedes, and time

escapes,

but just as we come to know

it

then

now

tomorrow

***

the static Earth inspires.

static dynamic

vibrant elusive and here is a game, revisited.

***

Today will be a day to return to

from the infinite reasons

possibility, impossibility of to morrow.

God bless us.

that we may see the sun’s rise,

its set, its darkness, its light.

The good with the bad,

from darkness may shine the smallest brilliant light.

may the endless pages one day end, too.

(this, too, shall pass)

11/ 12/ 2011

Parallel Stories that Go Nowhere

This is meant to be read as part of a series (with “Professor’s Return”), which it parallels. It shares some of the spirit of the original, but in a more adventurous way.

Allow me to begin by saying this: You are not living life properly if you do not mindfuck yourself every so often. Comfort zones get claustrophobic, and because of this, there is growth through crisis.

(for R. Atapour)

And allow me to add, if you do not mindfuck others as well, this growth is introspective, invisible and utterly useless. It is, most simply, a veil.

The professor made complete his return from reason, knowing full well that from crisis is born insight, and yes, that comfort zones are not meant to be home, but to be recognized, understood and subsequently abandoned in the most callous of ways. That much I have learned from observation, and realized it appears in dialectic, that of construction through un-construction. And maybe that’s all just word play, linguistic tunnels of reality, or semantics of perspective, but I believe it, because it means something to me.

That was the gift of the professor, now gone again.

He made complete his return from reason, knowing full well that now his students needed him more than ever. And he returned, and when he returned it was in a state of ecstatic ramble, a coherent speaking-in-tongues, and it was about flowers, poisons and medicine.

And he believed it, because it meant something to him.

And slowly it became comfort. And I believed it, and I believed in him, and I came to believe in nonsense just as I had predicted. And I came to understand that there is at once no harm in nonsense. Or maybe there is and I just can’t see it. I am, after all, lost in dream. Kings,

And crowns

And classrooms.

The writing on the chalk board was that of the king’s, and it said, the queen is dead, and here I am, wake up you mindless scum of the earth or I’ll cut off your balls, but the king was nowhere to be found. Only his devilish spirit remained, as it had come: testing us, seeing once again how aware we are. I am sure that’s the sort of exit he’d want to make after keeping us awake allthrough the night: leave a note on the board, just to fuck with us, see who we’ll accuse, see who might understand, who has been paying attention, show us you can experience a presence without its prerequisite. That is to say existence; disembodied poetics of a person not yet dead.

He may, or may not, have been there all along, and that much I am sure of.

And then that one day I awoke from my stagnation, and wrote something nobody would understand. I guess I wanted nobody to understand in my own, comforted way.

And maybe he came back to teach me something.

Or teach me that I myself have grown. Or that the nature of being is that idols are smashed, even when they need not be. Perhaps it’s true that we are all others, in a world of others, and there’s nothing to do about it.

Perhaps it’s truer now more than ever that logic and reason won’t take you far without a bit of nonsense.

Maybe my idols are smashed now, or maybe they’ve just been smashed all along and I am just coming to find the pieces. Or maybe I’ve been too busy thinking I’ve been smashing other people’s idols when I’ve only been smashing my own, or maybe belonging and idols was a false logic to begin with.

So, you are not living life properly if you do not mindfuck yourself, and perhaps now others every so often. Comfort zones get claustrophobic, and because of this, there is growth through crisis.

And now it seems true to me that we are here, there and everywhere at once, and fuck the professors, kings, crowns and classrooms, because they’re just idols too.

And thus I have demonstrated that even with the mindfucking of others, this growth is still introspective and utterly useless, perhaps nothing more than a veil between us. Maybe it just sounds like parallel stories that go nowhere.

Professor’s Return

A very close friend of mine, Max (who writes and records under the pseudonym Professor Cuddlecore) made a surprise return to Isla Vista after a long trip to Prague and China. Having had a vague notion that he might soon return, I decided to write something to him, whether or not he was in fact on his way. This was written throughout the day on Monday, and he did in fact surprise us that night.

Allow me to begin by saying this: You are not living life properly if you do not mindfuck yourself every so often. Comfort zones get claustrophobic, and because of this, there is growth through crisis.

(for R. Atapour)

***

The professor made complete his return from reason, knowing full well that from crisis is born insight. That comfort zones are not meant to be exploited, but rather to be recognized, understood, and subsequently entirely, thoroughly, absurdly rejected, made alien, thrown out, to be replaced with new insight. Creation through un-creation.

So the professor made complete his return from reason, knowing full well that now his students needed him more than ever. And he, and they, now knew he had something to teach them.

Perhaps I’m being presumptuous but the professor may or may not have landed yesterday, May 15th, at 3pm in some airport on the West coast, from China, or Prague or god knows where, because I’ll be honest that last night, I felt a shift in the air.

I couldn’t sleep.

Well, I did, for a bit. but I had one of those annoyingly repetitive dreams, and it was about kings and crowns and classrooms.

And so maybe he’s here, or maybe he isn’t, but I’m convinced either it was the cough medication or the fucking professor’s words that kept me awake at night, or both. I am sure that’s the sort of entrance he’d want to make: trick us first, test how aware we are, leave a half-eaten tofu Korean barbeque burrito on our kitchen table just to fuck with us, see who notices, show us you can experience someone’s presence without them actually being there to begin with.

But he may, or may not have been there all along, and that much I am sure of. That is, he may, or may not have been here all along.

He may or may not storm in at some point in the night, unaware that the hours of bean night have shifted to later than what was usual, he may or may not storm in during someone’s first performance, who wouldn’t understand the significance of this one gout-ridden professor of spirits and nothingness, now from China, possibly making clicking sounds as he enters, but probably not cuz that joke’s really fucking old by now.

Perhaps he’s back to teach us something, or simply to let us know we have grown, upon his return from reason, that old far-off land he’s been.

So, Professor Cuddlecore, king of the idiots, weirdos and nothing in particular, you have no idea what you are, and neither do I. I’m not quite sure whether you exist outside of my head, and this is by far one of the most abstract, stream of consciousness pieces I believe I’ve written, but it seems fitting that it should be dedicated to your return from reason. Or perhaps, it is my turn to return, from reason and into disorder, illogicality, subconscious, unconscious and dreams.

On Dillemmicality

Michael challenged me by writing my name down for bean night when he knew I’d only half-finished this. The second half was written between the beginning of bean night and when my turn came.

This is the first piece I’ve written entirely on a computer, which was because ideas were flowing particularly quickly for this:

On Dillemmicality

The fifth of may last week was many things. Among them, it was Cinco de Mayo, which was the last time Europeans tried to colonize Latin America (for those of you who didn’t realize); it would have been the birthday of Karl Marx, godfather of Marxism, Anarcho-Marxism, Marxist-Humanism, Communism, the Pink tide and assholes who say everything is a dialectic; this year, May 5^th was a night of “Lucha Libre” at the Biko co-op, but not even that kind of display of wrestling I don’t know what is why the 5^th of May, 2011 is so notable to me. May 5th was the night when Michael Sallstrom, my roommate whom I love so much, a little more than somewhat drunkenly invented a word to define a particular instance of the human condition of awkwardness now known as dillemmical.

As a fellow awkward soul (and I suspect this is a major part of why Michael and I get along so well), I immediately understood what the heck he was talking about. Dillemicality, but of course! That very human way of navigating social encounters through dilemma, the nauseated existentialism of Jean-Paul Sartre; the condition of amusing ourselves to death of Aldous Huxley; and perhaps most famously (if not outright destructively,) the debates about free will, salvation, and predestination in Catholicism, Calvinism and all that. As a Jew, I admit, I can’t be sure about that last part, but rest assured, we have our Talmuds and Mishnahs, so you Christians are not simply out there on your own.

With intelligence, no, reflexive intelligence, that violently human capacity for self-awareness, we are enlightened to the choices of behavior, and not the stimulus-response patterns of the so-called lower species of animals. The choice of how to respond, that dillemmicality of the human condition is at the heart of the double edged sword of intelligence. We are somehow gifted for our ability to decide and learn based on past experiences, and shared knowledge, but as Sartre himself said, we are condemned to choose.

So, we are the poor awkward souls always stuck in a dillemmical existence. We are ALL the poor awkward souls stuck in our dillemical existence.

And what about that?

Are we condemned to always ask, “where to go from here?” Well it might be so, or you might choose, ahem, choose to say I will go, and then figure out where I am, and act upon that, but who knows.

What is leading you, then? And does it worry you if the answer is elusive?

Well, if there are the knowable and unknowable elements of the self. If you acknowledge that there are those parts of you who guide silently unknowingly, unconsciously, subconsciously. I’m talking about what could be the obscured origins of gut reaction, an unwavering impulse, imagination and dream. What guides them, what do they reveal to you about yourself, and how the fuck can you ever learn from them? Perhaps I’m asking the wrong questions. Perhaps these questions are unsuitable for those strange crevices of minds that seem to despise and subvert logicality, linear perception.

And what about that?

Logicality is fully, thoroughly, violently over-rated. Sure, some of it wouldn’t hurt you, but for god’s sake, there’s so much more to life than preoccupation, obsessing your poor little incredible capacities for prismatic reinterpretations and reimagination of all that you’ve found luminous. You can so easily miss the joys of what is before your eyes if you are so lost in decision, in indecision, in a word, in awkward dillemmicality.

Or you could realize that life is full of knowns, unknowns, and it’s ok to be guided by forces you don’t fully understand, because they are indeed a part of you, and FURTHERMORE they are the forces of nature, and that nature has yet to fail us. And, oh, believe in nonsense. From nonsense arose nature, and the patterns we interpret as ‘order’ and there is proof of this everywhere.

You are not alone and the choices you make are not ones made on your own, through your unique circumstance of dillemmicality, but rather you are a part of a greater dillemmical process that is always evolving and you are big but your problems are ultimately very small and the best you can do is do the best you can for yourself, for us, because realize THIS! We are one in the same, and I am he as you are me and you are she and we are, yes, all together.