Tag Archives: socialism

7th of April 4th, 1984…

– On Social Equality and Production –

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“Capitalism is the legitimate racket of the ruling class.” Al Capone

Unfortunately, life as we know it, seems to have never been at the ideal stage of what today would be called “individual, self-sustaining” economy.
Individuals making virtually all of our world’s societies, “belong” to states, or state controlled institutions, being branded from cradle to grave as “citizens”, free by definition, slaves by all means.
As previously discussed, it would take approximately from 24 hours to a week’s time, to make everyone on this planet rich; from toddler to centennial all could be rich by just tipping the world’s financial balance on behalf of the working masses. Struggle to live would become a historical past, consumption would soar, skyrocketing over our wildest dreams, to last nevertheless only as long as the last item on the last shelf would go into someone’s basket. On that dreadful day, any such a utopia shall turn into an Armageddon competing Apocalypse…
Mankind would quickly realise that behind the empty shelves there are no more labourers to fill them back, no one to dig out or harvest the raw materials, no one to turn them into consumption goods, no one to stock the warehouses, with the last cashier to have long left to spend their life-sufficient fortune on a paradise island, where right in the middle of a spa treatment, the masseur would have left to pack for a life of cruises around “infinity and beyond”…
Cliché words like “financial market”, “economy”, “money”, “bank account” and others alike would turn into dust, to be blown by the winds of a terrible, lurking nightmare… Unnumbered hoards of long-faced shadows of formerly rich people scavenging for a daily bread no one’s available or able to bake anymore…
So what are we supposed to do?
Anarchism, revolts and revolutions are useless…
Today’s revolutionaries are always tomorrow’s dictators.
Bloodsheds of viciously holding to power, just to be swapped for something similar, of a slightly different political “colour”.
As someone has wisely said, revolutions carry within themselves the seeds of their own destruction, same “…isms” with something attached at front.

– to be continued… –

Castro vs. Guevara…

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It was hard to decide a nominal primacy in the title; as hard as any attempt to do “justice” in times when simple concepts as “justice” have long lost their original meaning, if at any moment of their history, any… In the end, I left it to my musical ear to decide, and it looks like some “justice” has been done, to the alphabetical order as well.

For those of you with an interest in this foremost classical example of mediasaur-free politics, who have never seen Steven Soderbergh’s “Che”, starring Benicio Del Toro, please do so, if you would want to emotionally grasp my tittle’s depth of what same-ideology adversity means… Because the lives of these two ideology giants were so identical, yet completely different, like the life of a Cuban cigar…

You see, a Cuban cigar (or any other cigar, even if no other tobacco leaf roll seems to be worth truly of the “cigar” title) has two, vitally important ingredients: Cuban tobacco leafs and fire; and while both are necessary for the rich smoke to tickle the smoker’s fancies, it’s only the leaves which would ever come into an intimate contact with the addicted lips, leaving the passionately burning tip at a desirable safe distance.
This has been the case for Castro and Guevara: both burnt passionately, yet only one of them remained to kiss as long as allowed, their beloved island country’s battled shore-lips.
Of course, a comparison is not, and it should never be an end in a political profiler’s tool box, being nevertheless -if properly managed- a versatile ally, in our case a means of understanding a core issue of -probably- one of the world’s most socio-politically controversial countries.

It is very unfortunate for any nation’s historical future, that their most passionate ideologists seem to never learn the use of sanity-dictated limitations to their burning, either because they may think such limitations could quench the driving force of their dedication, or simply because they are incapable of such. It’s always them who will fall victims to the inescapable cleansing/purging mechanisms of any revolutionary process, either by internal means, as it was the case of the French or Russian events, or external, as in Guevara’s case, because one of the seldom to be found qualities of a revolutionary genius -so badly- should be some self-imposed limitations, without which their passion turns into an all-consuming, ultimately destroying blaze.
Revolutions are mighty fires, and fires must be controlled in order to remain useful. Otherwise they will invariably destroy the very achievements their passionate heat have ushered in.
What do I understand by limitations? Well, exactly what “limitation” conceptually covers, a deliberate set of boundaries, implemented in order to make the difference between order and chaos, sanity and anarchy.

Would the Cuban revolution have been the same without any of it’s two giants?

I don’t know, but if you’ve got the privilege of holding with your mortal lips a Cuban cigar, never forget asking for the fire…

Social poem 1

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They’re all gone now.
Swallowed down by windy pipes gone by…
Some hairy brushes sinking low below
Those every seconds left untouched.
Where’s time now mum?
Where is it m’am?

So fond of words, so fond…

Label me life; label me as you would label toes…
Dead, cold, as the reminder of an unpaid day to mourn.

See me; sea’n me…
Fortunate as the disaster happening across the street of someone else’s feelings.

When I will swap the day with night’s attire,
And messages will rot in bottled sand;
My love for maximums should set a fire
Even to Scaevola’s one, unburnt hand.

“De Profondis” seems so shallow now
When mankind’s only hope is Ridley Scott’s
Imagination gone to save us please from evil…

Ta ra ra Bum ta ra, ta ra ra Bum ta ra…
‘at’s it milord, ‘at’s it…
Lift ’em skirts to blow’n the wind of Dylan’s fights
with Don Quixote’s every windmill…
Have you seen ’em ma’?
All those how many roads I’ve traveled all to find you…
and all’s alone
so welcome to the great ol’ party of deliverers,
all welcome…
scum.

Have you ever dreamed of flying tied onto a dropping bomb
of sorrows and delusions
never to reach earth
forever falling like pink floyd’s massacre of every folly?
No?
Try this you m**** f*****,
try flying fond of all those every coming days when eyes
are open yet to see another mirror’s scoff:
“You dirty little f****** bastard, you ain’t no wings
you hear me!
You ain’t no wings and ain’t no wings to grow you out of ’em
for(n)ever! Do you hear me?”

“Mother should I run for president?”

I know why I love English: it is the only world where I is never little,
nor ‘t is belittled by and by, by every Little…

Allow me to exist until I don’t deserve to suffer anymore for
who the f***’s sake…
me and my children born to my shame’s utter follow…
arriving every time precisely at the six o’clock’s
of every three and nine’s barking of disgust
for we don’t, you don’t, they don’t
Have.
But daddy, isn’t it there?
And you work!?
It’s true my love but see you, they just suck…

And as a matter of fact,
I remember being told that grand-grandpa left his all
with all his all
never to return
because some Arian f***** rode into his town upon a white horse
and he ain’t really fond of any chopped dick’s spawn…
So grand-grandma went nuts, and auntie was joking
in the camp when someone farted under the common lousy blanket:
“Keep it in, it’s central heating!”
F****** funny that is, f****** funny…
And grandma never gave us yellow lentil soup,
but only mixed with tears…
bloody tears:
“don’t make me cook this love, we ain’t got any other food for years….”

And mum…
She was born where I wouldn’t have allowed here to be,
but no one asked me:
boy I’m getting funny, ain’t I?
It was the end of April First of May you know and war…
Auntie just weaned of the same dry breast to barely need a bra
or any other something like that…
and the f****** Christmas came:
O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum wie grün sind deine Blätter…
Wrong side of history grandma…
grandpa left you desolate for another piece of non-kosher pussy…
and only thin baked beans under the tree.

And mum got dad and they got me and bro…

Crazy years they were, I swear to Jodie Foster’s Contact!
Beautiful years of it’ll get better by the day and never…

“I wanna know what love is…”

Isn’t there anything more than just ever-festering regrets of
this is not the f****** train I hoped to have had hopped on…
And this is not the bloody f****** life I’ve spawned my offsprings for…
Because they haven’t signed up for it either…

“Mother do you think they’ll drop the bomb…”

It’s raining.
I guess it’s just the slowly running water from above
Pouring down
To drown
Everyone.

Heaven’s not empty.
It’s just that no one’s there anymore;
but all those molecules of water,
following a never-ending plan
of a never to be found hourglass master
who returns only to turn his sinister
water filled, strangled test tube.

Don’t worry folks,
if you’ve escaped this time,
you’ll drown anyway
at Heaven’s turn…

When your mind is in the wrong place…

-A short essay on Nazim Hikmet…-

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“at the age of fifty found his mind in his heart”
Nazim Hikmet

How strange… Of most people it would be expected to have been mentally settled by the age of fifty; how wrong…
I have found my introductory quote within the opening thoughts of an -until now- unknown (for me) Turkish writer’s “Don Quixote”…
Fond of Cervantes’ Don since my windmilled childhood, it wasn’t though the lone rider’s quest for Dulcinea which struck my senses -as I have found my own, two decades ago-, but Hikmet’s absolutely elemental statement, which at the beginning of this 2013th year of my becoming half a century old/young, bears a rather stormy significance…

It’s been a week before Nazim Hikmet’s passing away on the 3rd of June, 1963, when I came into a world from which he was about to leave… If I would have known everything he knew at the time, I would have rather stayed… My mother’s womb’s darkness would have been a better place to die than this despicably hopeless world, made just a bit more bearable by my Dulcinea and our four love buds…

Nevertheless, it’s Hikmet’s own discovery which bought me on my own writer’s knees, realising that it might not be long before being too late of using my mind from the place where it always should have been…

Oh, for long have I been seeking understanding from a place bearing nothing else than about 1,5 kg of fat-like tissue, good enough to add up the groceries and play with quantum physics, but uselessly hopeless when it comes to understanding why some idiotic “celebrities” never seem to understand that the problem with helping the “third world’s” starving children is not only the small quantity of candy bars they are offering in front of heavy-cash paying paparazzi’s, but the shamelessly shining Rolex watches on their “charitable” hands…

I’ve always been a leftist, genuinely believing that socialism, stripped of its parasitic “leaders”, is a much better option than the so called “democracies” where “vox populi” is just the number of votes needed every four/five years by an elite ruthlessly playing the usurped “vox Dei” on their behalf…

In fact, about 25 years ago, I was advised to quit a political school I just begun, because of an essay in which I wrote a critique of Romania’s “Animal Farm”-type socialism, based on heart-felt and yes, wept over memories of Engels’ “The Condition of the Working Class in England”, which I have read when I was about thirteen…
Of course, I was totally convinced, as I am today, that it’s not philosophy to blame, but it’s poor grasp and (mal)practice in a world where -more or less political oligarchies- have long taken over all aspects of life, to their own mercantile interests…

Back to my mind…
It’s hard to have found it’s real place, when I wasn’t even aware of what “mind” is, and even less what “heart” is, acting on a rather instinctive range of ethics, spreading from personal to herd…

Well, it looks it’s going to take another -hopefully more than just a- few decades to learn how to properly use my newly found software in its newly found hardware…
Oh, but which is which?
Uh, the min(d) is the soft(ware), because it’s min(e), and the h(e)ar(t) is the hard(ware) because it’s very har(d) to find it in the first place…
But then, why should be something which is mine, soft?
Is it just because it’s made of soft, fatty myelin?
Derp…

How long, and what will it take to learn Hikmet’s value of one’s every moment of good so scarcely left to him in this life?
Without claiming much similitude with his tormented existence, I’ve fled myself my homeland because the “gentlemen” of the day were just the “comrades” of yesterday, pathetically painted over, and some people started to accidentally fall into allegedly malfunctioning elevator pits…
Yet I still haven’t learned -how could have I, with a misplaced mind- the true value of even the smallest good given and still with me, even if only “until evening”…

I can’t do any better for now than hope to have found at least some… hope after all, by quoting Nazim Hikmet’s verses from his “After Release from Prison”:

“Who’s lying at your side?
Not loneliness, but your wife,
in the peaceful sleep of an angel.
[…]
What time is it?
Eight.
That means you’re safe until evening.
Because it’s the practice of police
Never to raid homes in broad daylight.”