an index of teenage feelings

Marx’s argument amounts to this: any project to deliver a classless society, with wealth distributed according to need, must be based on the most advanced technologies and organisational forms created by capitalism itself. It can’t be based on schemes originating in the heads of philanthropic bosses or philosophers. And you can’t return to the past.
— accelerationism (from paul mason, why it’s kicking off everywhere)

(Source: nsrnicek)

There are rare exceptions, of course, but they are rare for clear reasons; Susie Cagle has been covering Occupy Oakland since the very beginning, because she’s an Oakland based reporter and because she wanted to. As a result, she has the deepest and most complete and most contextually rich version of the event. But no one has paid her consistently to do this, and that’s exactly the point: because the NYT (and even the Oakland Tribune) can weave together a story from OPD press releases and quotes from twitter, why should they pay someone to, you know, actually be informed about what’s happened? When Susie wrote her story, she didn’t know if she’d have anyone to pay her for writing it (whereas all the paid journalists who would write stories about what happened were either absent or had their eyes closed).

dear,

how do you write anxiety into a love letter?

best.

dear,

i wonder what it must be like to not see stars or feel the fear of standing in front of a line of police one day and to later be recognized in the taqueria or at the corner store, which is to say i wonder what it’s like to not know the feeling of inhabiting policed space, a space where you are known and observed, daily.

at any rate, once you realize you don’t need to prove your capacity to devastate, you’ll undo us all.

best.

dear,

these are the things:

- spend the night with me

- let’s take a trip, but not for too long

- i love to see you so frequently

- one day, you will wake up and i will not be so close

best

the particular kind of intensity that comes from potentials welling up in one’s fingertips.

your sounds came out of my mouth, but i only missed you briefly.

i need to get back to the place where i’m bigger than my body is.

i was supposed to feel good and tipsy and have fire in my cheeks while whispering in your ear, “it’s okay to fail. let’s forget the battle. let’s set our sights on war.”