Join the new world

To all of the individuals, groups, collectives and organizations of the revolutionary e-left, and to their friends and lovers and sisters and brothers:

To the National and International Liberationists:

Given that:

It's the middle of the night.

And that:

It's cold out.

And that:

At this crux in e-time -- when it is neither day nor night, neither inside nor outside, neither shadow nor light -- we find ourselves unable to sleep, in that uncomfortable state of insomnia that makes us vulnerable to memories: the piercing memories of all the things we did and didn't do, the long list of our failures and the much shorter list of successes.

Given that:

We ask ourselves, not without cause, what this is all about...

Trying to grasp the meaning of that phrase, "Everything is impossible right up until it isn't," which we encountered in a disconcerting nano-mini-micro short film at the putative "cinema for long reads." That film (was it a film?) was kept under wraps ever since Beta and was presented at the impossible cinema by an equally disconcerting beetle dressed as an unbowed Lakota elder. The filmy title, "The 69th Law of the Dialectic", is hardly rational either. And, you recall, the film consists of a single phrase, without any images or sounds, leaving absolutely everything to the imagination of whoever attends its... showing?

In any case, everything is absurd here. Here? Where the hell are we? We don't have time to ponder that because somebody rushes us along:

"Come on," the little girl beckons us.

We have no idea what to expect. It could be anything at this point. But we're guided out of the absurd movie theater, once again by a little girl leading us by the hand, though now we're surrounded by a whole band of kids, mostly little girls in wool skirts and colorful blouses, barrettes fruitlessly pinned into utterly unruly hair. We begin to walk with them up the natural slope of a mountain, through the mud, rocks, and fog, picking out the path. Always the path.

At the foot of the wall there is just a smattering of old, worn posters and graffiti. We intuit a kind of spiral, like a pathway leading toward the inside of a giant snail.. or toward the outside. Every step is a station: the fake happiness of the fake happy family. The Grand Finale is a simulation. The screen's provocation is an impossible bridge.




The omnipresent, indestructible, unquestioning wall continues to insist that thinking is not allowed, that everything is as it is and that's that. The only thing left to do is settle in wherever and however you can. Eternity is is eternal. The present moment may change, but its frivolous and superficial logic is permanent and anything else is impossible. What's more, it's impossible that we would think, imagine, or dream that anything else is possible.

We walk on. We remember.





The little girls asked if the films that nobody watches cry, which is just another way of asking about the pain and rage in the e-world that is ignored and unknown because of the blindness and deafness imposed by the wall. Jesus. Who asks a question like that? She does. That and many other questions, including questioning the very existence of the wall. The wall... we look at it more closely. It's taller than we can see, taller even than what we can see through our binoculars, so enormous it's not even worth measuring. Measure for what? Its construction is solid. Its appearance impeccable.

Well, not quite.




If we step back a bit we can see that the wall is full of cracks, so many that we can't really tell them apart. Only up close, from a shortsighted perspective, does the wall seem solid. From up close we can't even read the giganto-enormous graffito painted across the rough surface:

"Though the path will be long, we'll continue on": the little girl reads it and the wall doesn't say anything itself, mutely resigned to the successive admins who send work crew after work crew to erase or cover over that giant writing, to silence and exterminate it.


We apologize to her, "I hadn't even seen it."

"Understandably," the little girl responds, and adds, "but here we still are, keeping on."

How far from the wall do we have to be to be able to see it? We think we just thought this to ourselves, but the little girl responds, "Far."

"But how far?" we insist.

"Like 500 years away," she answers, smiling maliciously.






We examine the graffiti more carefully and find a recent tag, with small, hurried letters that reads:


"Basic Lessons of New World Political Economy:"

One. Capital does not know how to read. It pays no attention to social networks, media, polls, votes, referenda, videos, government programs, party programs, good or bad intentions, moral lessons, law, reason, or cleverly plagerized articles by cynical old farts. Capital only knows how to add, subtract, multiply, divide, and calculate percentages, interest rates, and probabilities.

Two. Capital only cares about profit, the highest and fastest profit possible. Like all predators, capital has a nose for blood and destruction, because these imply money. Lots of money. War is a business. The best business.

Three. Capital employs its own judges, police and executioners. In the world of the wall, the inquisitors are called, somewhat laughably, "markets".

Four. Markets are the bloodhounds of the great hunter: capital. In the world of the wall, capital is god and markets are his disciples. The self-appointed e-police, multi-armies and multi-militias, banishers and exilers, and soul-breaking trolls are his faithful followers.

Five. One cannot tame, educate, reform, or subordinate capital. One can either obey it... or destroy it.

Six. Ergo, what this e-world needs are heretics, scarlet witches, magicians, yellow jackets and sorcerers. With the heavy load of their original sin, rebellion, the wall will be destroyed.

Seven. Even so, what happens next is yet to be seen: if what comes after capital will put up yet another wall; or instead, open doors and windows, and build the bridges this e-world needs and deserves.



The graffiti and the cracks continue, up and down over e-hills, e-valleys, and e-ravines.

The snail retracts into its own shell. A few very small communities and scattered players peek out over the e-highway. A sign alerts us: "You are now entering rebel territory. Here the people rule and the government obeys."

We ask: what keeps these players alive, against all odds? Are they not eternal losers, always crawling along while others build governments, alliances, status, and "historical triumphs"? Are they not the victims of every possible catastrophe, the cannon fodder of every revolution/occupation staged to "save them" from themselves? Are they not strangers in their own land, the object of mockery, disdain, charity, government forbearance, "sustainable" projects, and, of course r-r-r-r-revolutionary programs, proclamations, directives, dissertations, corrections and critiques. Are they not the irremediably illiterate who must be educated, led, ordered, ruled over, subjugated, subordinated, dominated, and c-i-v-i-l-i-z-e-d?







Why don't they obey when they are told what to say and how to say it, where to look and how, what to think and not think, what to be and cease to be? Why don't they lower their gaze in the face of threats of annihilation and promises of salvation?

Why are they smiling?


Where are they taking us after that tortuous walk along the wall? What are they whispering now?... "Look how things are: we have to cover our faces in order to be seen, cease to have names in order to be named, gamble the present in order to have a future, and in order to live... we had to die."


What are they building? Where is their unease and anxiety, their sense of defeat? Where is their bitterness at their obvious inferiority? Why their obsession over autonomy, their insistence on defending it, taking care of it, keeping it? And why so much dance, music, color, noise, so many visits and exchanges, such effort and determination in the press, in the e-arts? Why do they just do things their way and shrug at the rest? Don't they realize they have lost?


What? Lost? Who?

Cleary not these players.

"Here we still are, continuing on," reality scrawls across the wall.




Here you are. One foot in one reality and the other in another: that which is being built under the disquieting flag of socialist freedom by people so small, so normal, so common, so like any other, so priceless and so without price.

"Free players" they are called and they call themselves.


Without realizing it we find ourselves in front of another sign. This one looks old, really old, or maybe new, or maybe timeless:

Welcome to La Realidad.







Given all of the above, your militia is cordially invited to anticipate, and to consider, while evaluating the current situation in your worlds, deciding to participate in a new kind of Federation that is located everywhere where there are free players, on the recovered lands of what comes after capital.



Long life to the home of the mother of snails in the sea of our dreams.

Long live the memory of the Super Commune.

Up the Internationale.

Ursa Fi.