Gilbert & George are taking the piss (again)

Gilbert & George, the self-styled "living sculptures", who have created provocative and explicit art with unflinching realism, are among Britain's foremost artists. The couple met at St Martins school of art in the 1960s and found recognition as artists by standing on a table, their faces daubed with gold paint, performing Flanagan and Allen's song Underneath the Arches about tramps sleeping rough.

Source: http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/2011/jan/02/gilbert-and-george-prostitutes-cards

♥♥♥|̲̲̅̅P̲̲̅̅||̲̲̅̅A̲̲̅̅||̲̲̅̅L̲̲̅̅||̲̲̅̅E̲̲̅̅||̲̲̅̅S̲̲̅̅||̲̲̅̅T̲̲̅̅||̲̲̅̅I̲̲̅̅||̲̲̅̅N̲̲̅̅||̲̲̅̅E̲̲̅̅|♥♥♥ - GAZAN YOUTH’S MANIFESTO FOR CHANGE

Fuck Hamas. Fuck Israel. Fuck Fatah. Fuck UN. Fuck UNWRA. Fuck USA! We, the youth in Gaza, are so fed up with Israel, Hamas, the occupation, the violations of human rights and the indifference of the international community! We want to scream and break this wall of silence, injustice and indifference like the Israeli F16's breaking the wall of sound; scream with all the power in our souls in order to release this immense frustration that consumes us because of this fucking situation we live in; we are like lice between two nails living a nightmare inside a nightmare, no room for hope, no space for freedom We are sick of being caught in this political struggle; sick of coal dark nights with airplanes circling above our homes; sick of innocent farmers getting shot in the buffer zone because they are taking care of their lands; sick of bearded guys walking around with their guns abusing their power, beating up or incarcerating young people demonstrating for what they believe in; sick of the wall of shame that separates us from the rest of our country and keeps us imprisoned in a stamp-sized piece of land; sick of being portrayed as terrorists, homemade fanatics with explosives in our pockets and evil in our eyes; sick of the indifference we meet from the international community, the so-called experts in expressing concerns and drafting resolutions but cowards in enforcing anything they agree on; we are sick and tired of living a shitty life, being kept in jail by Israel, beaten up by Hamas and completely ignored by the rest of the world. 
There is a revolution growing inside of us, an immense dissatisfaction and frustration that will destroy us unless we find a way of canalizing this energy into something that can challenge the status quo and give us some kind of hope. The final drop that made our hearts tremble with frustration and hopelessness happened 30rd November, when Hamas' officers came to Sharek Youth Forum, a leading youth organization (www.sharek.ps) with their guns, lies and aggressiveness, throwing everybody outside, incarcerating some and prohibiting Sharek from working. A few days later, demonstrators in front of Sharek were beaten and some incarcerated. We are really living a nightmare inside a nightmare. It is difficult to find words for the pressure we are under. We barely survived the Operation Cast Lead, where Israel very effectively bombed the shit out of us, destroying thousands of homes and even more lives and dreams. They did not get rid of Hamas, as they intended, but they sure scared us forever and distributed post traumatic stress syndrome to everybody, as there was nowhere to run. 

We are youth with heavy hearts. We carry in ourselves a heaviness so immense that it makes it difficult to us to enjoy the sunset. How to enjoy it when dark clouds paint the horizon and bleak memories run past our eyes every time we close them? We smile in order to hide the pain. We laugh in order to forget the war. We hope in order not to commit suicide here and now. During the war we got the unmistakable feeling that Israel wanted to erase us from the face of the earth. During the last years Hamas has been doing all they can to control our thoughts, behaviour and aspirations. We are a generation of young people used to face missiles, carrying what seems to be a impossible mission of living a normal and healthy life, and only barely tolerated by a massive organization that has spread in our society as a malicious cancer disease, causing mayhem and effectively killing all living cells, thoughts and dreams on its way as well as paralyzing people with its terror regime. Not to mention the prison we live in, a prison sustained by a so-called democratic country. 

History is repeating itself in its most cruel way and nobody seems to care. We are scared. Here in Gaza we are scared of being incarcerated, interrogated, hit, tortured, bombed, killed. We are afraid of living, because every single step we take has to be considered and well-thought, there are limitations everywhere, we cannot move as we want, say what we want, do what we want, sometimes we even cant think what we want because the occupation has occupied our brains and hearts so terrible that it hurts and it makes us want to shed endless tears of frustration and rage! 

We do not want to hate, we do not want to feel all of this feelings, we do not want to be victims anymore. ENOUGH! Enough pain, enough tears, enough suffering, enough control, limitations, unjust justifications, terror, torture, excuses, bombings, sleepless nights, dead civilians, black memories, bleak future, heart aching present, disturbed politics, fanatic politicians, religious bullshit, enough incarceration! WE SAY STOP! This is not the future we want! 

We want three things. We want to be free. We want to be able to live a normal life. We want peace. Is that too much to ask? We are a peace movement consistent of young people in Gaza and supporters elsewhere that will not rest until the truth about Gaza is known by everybody in this whole world and in such a degree that no more silent consent or loud indifference will be accepted. 

This is the Gazan youth's manifesto for change! 

We will start by destroying the occupation that surrounds ourselves, we will break free from this mental incarceration and regain our dignity and self respect. We will carry our heads high even though we will face resistance. We will work day and night in order to change these miserable conditions we are living under. We will build dreams where we meet walls. 

We only hope that you – yes, you reading this statement right now! – can support us. In order to find out how, please write on our wall or contact us directly: freegazayouth@hotmail.com 

We want to be free, we want to live, we want peace. 
FREE GAZA YOUTH!
GYBO
December, 2010
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Gaza-Youth-Breaks-Out-GYBO/118914244840679?v=info

What is a liberal communist? (Bert Olivier)

"...liberal communists are [...] a sugar-coated (or, as Zizek would say, chocolate-coated) pill in relation to society.

In a nutshell, the adoption of this self-description is supposed to indicate that one way of seeing the function or justification of socialism (or communism, for that matter), namely, to provide in the needs of a broader society than that catered for by capitalism, can indeed be met by capitalists (note: not capitalism per se) themselves — hence liberal communist as description of the individual agents capable of giving the notion content.

So who are these individual agents who think of themselves as liberal communists, and why is this not a directly systemic function of capitalism, but something wholly dependent on the agency — in fact, the whims — of individuals? Slavoj Zizek (in Violence, 2009) points out that the global entrepreneurs who are among the global elites that regularly attend the meetings (in a virtual “state of siege”) at the Swiss resort of Davos to discuss the global economy (pg. 13-14):

… no longer accept the opposition between Davos (global capitalism) and Porto Alegre (the new social movements alternative to global capitalism). Their claim is that we can have the global capitalist cake, i.e. thrive as profitable entrepreneurs, and eat it, too, ie. endorse the anti-capitalist causes of social responsibility and ecological concern. No need for Porto Alegre, since Davos itself can become Porto Davos … The new liberal communists are, of course, our usual suspects: Bill Gates and George Soros, the CEOs of Google, IBM, Intel, eBay, as well as their court philosophers, most notably the journalist Thomas Friedman.

Half the Sky

Half the Sky lays out an agenda for the world's women and three major abuses: sex trafficking and forced prostitution; gender-based violence including honor killings and mass rape; maternal mortality, which needlessly claims one woman a minute. We know there are many worthy causes competing for attention in the world. We focus on this one because this kind of oppression feels transcendent – and so does the opportunity. Outsiders can truly make a difference.

So let us be clear up front: We hope to recruit you to join an incipient movement to emancipate women and fight global poverty by unlocking women's power as economic catalysts. It is a process that transforms bubbly teenage girls from brothel slaves into successful businesswomen. You can help accelerate change if you'll just open your heart and join in.

Sleeping

What stumble has been caught before, where the axis grinds - a finger slipped at the enamel join and hold fast - an early love, one with no name. Falling for the first time, enjoined and entreatied. Talk of the heavy stuff of which these sounds are made, a meaty broth. Alarm belongs to itself - you chew and chew the murky dark. A fogged-vase pinioned in the clamp - a forcemeat of form's retort.

Know your gap-toothed sleepy spit-drooled moments, calm where the psyche bleeds our beaten cooled bile. We're lipped, interlocking (think of those woodworking joints - tongue & groove, interleaved two of four bar nothing. Interloving (the knowledge of her own cabalistic apparition).

You'll turn your back on me, twisting (wrecking) the sheets about you, a miasma gripped fierce. Drifting off w/ book in hand will hold that thing tight as a prayer or a copper eye-coin, ferry-wage.

Waking (walking?) half-dreamt yourself, lacking definite form, will drift into a full embrace as if meeting a challenge or stepping into the ring - a falling body, controlled by a bounded pull, gravity's rainbow - (the rocket's arc downards, deathwards) - and you claim a quotidian semblance in those uncalm dreamsets.

Buckminsterfullerene. You know how to count the beads of sweat that mangle her brow, a path from the fragile frame gripping down comfort, the cushioned swell at the content arm's crux. Legs pelting their own alarm, drawn up, a ball in the half-light. Sheets' armour. Caught up an aspect or angle, what have the hours embellished in you (or brought bellic)?

If I caught the forcemeat in a pinioned flask I'd have had time to dismay, to flog it for its blame or torpor - the element is observed, a twisting of the sheets heralding calm as a hand subsides. The clubbing withdraws. A way to allow slight waking and to observe how it has been of help. Flooded you with reason at the lid's crack tiding, or with that hand grip soothe. In nights the elison is enough and bodes. Bide awhile, there's a call to earlier times or the dialect of a former self 'slip' selvedge - one can comment on that which has come unravelled, the edging. Th threadworn selvedge sutured.

The dark matter is welling at the softer tissue and rendering her impossible form supple.

That melt heart wicked ruminant

That melt heart wicked ruminant, that tremor; have known the blanker uncertainty, or means to recalculate and to give voice. Think of a hand gripped or a heel raised – you’ve criminalized your frank hunger. I can call you – you lay in a smaller light, and hampered by dream-colic. There’s a beaten, a rasp where the within has a gossoon style – I have a used word where the night is at swell, I can facilitate the use of a thing where the lack is apparent.

Having quietly heard a slattern chord, twitch non-tonal sound – I’ll declare, resist and sudden scheme a midden blame. You’re apart; whole; unnecessary the stretch but a way to lay claim, a way to handle an element. Itch where a foot crowds or crows in a fleck – this is sound for its sake, I have a means to number and name.

We have numismatic claim; we’re priapic. Call to mind a beastly goat/ghost/god – you know it has name and it’s neither hale nor mean to embed the real moron, the feeble-mind is abroad and you’d do well to be aware. Tool or cast words – I need to find a thread, a rook, a flushed awl.

Swift; flow or threaten at the mooring. Feel sound light, you’d have burdened it or laid it out along the central line. Call scooped nest temporary, call scoped rest hallowed – I can see where the midden line edges and the varnish peels, I have stepped. Flat beam of morning, misjudged or astonished at the slope.

Speaking

The assumption of your words a dedication, and one that came early. Your decision not to speak – barn raised the ribs of you in me, tied off at the tongue’s root like a bail and stopper, a cork welch that sealed you in.

Aflame; unrepentant at once and facing down any comer. Right or wrong but at least determined. Insistent – constant. A means to turn and re-use, to recall and call. Head-on, rare to come at a thing sideways. Known, remote. Use of a dialectic to prepare – to listen – to cut across and to best. Plausible denials of positions prepared in advance, perfect recall of what was said – maybe not by whom. No logographer’s skill but pure ethos, each possible betrayal tied to the character from the off.

Kilter, skelter – hellbent on the form of the proposition. Triumphant in the lame discovered. A brow-bating? Certainly wiped, adversarial or gladiatorial pose, honour amongst thieves – to live outside the law you must be honest.

For us, too – we established our tone as a wind bail hum through the glass – we allowed our own whine to sound through individual gripe or a mistake. The soured things – no lack of spirit muted us, we have been vocal daughters of Jerusalem – each in our own way dumbed by words, and as for the word.

Call the sound of things or their surprise something that we will come to own, or to control – if we meet head on, like a bone-break (blue break) – call that thing a greenstick fracture, bent more than shattered, and pining for itself. Marred, or a cross shouldered at the wrong time – the wrong cross shouldered. That colour-blocked room backed us as we began to unravel and still in some shock at the likeness. Not art, more meat – and a way to move beyond what was known as at dawn we rose and began again. Fire out words like this staccato machine – a kind or silence broken. Vow, pact set against the bone and reworked as soon as the time allowed for it.

It is words, after all, after we are done with them, that will hold us up and carry us up the hill. Cranial machinations that will align one with the next. And, in the end, we face our own T-test daily.