obituary

Darko Mathers was not an Eco-Fascist

  • Posted on: 7 August 2017
  • By: Anonymous (not verified)

from: 325 by L (UK)

It’s been three years since my close friend and comrade Darko Mathers died, the last time I saw him we finished the collection of texts against civil anarchism and shortly after he was dead. It was not a shock to me. Many of my friends are dead or have gone to prison and as I’ve gotten older I value my experiences of them and our shared memories much more as those remembrances deepened and so I began living differently. I respect my memories of this young comrade and I strive against the conditions of his death.

Heathcote Williams, Radical British Poet Who Helped Form Anarchist Nation, Dies at 75

  • Posted on: 6 July 2017
  • By: thecollective

From The New York Times

By WILLIAM GRIMES JULY 5, 2017

Heathcote Williams, a poet, playwright, actor, lyricist, painter, sculptor, magician and relentless scourge of the British establishment for half a century, died on Saturday in Oxford. He was 75.

Santiago, Chile: Report-back from the event ‘Towards Total Liberation, Memory and Counter-Culture’

  • Posted on: 29 May 2017
  • By: thecollective

From Insurrection News

On Saturday, May 20, a large number of compañerxs gathered for The Day of Memory and Counter-Culture to remember Punky Mauri.

Representing the ‘Do It Yourself’ ethos, autonomy and self-organization, we nurtured with workshops and tools for the spread of both our ideas and our feelings.

William Powell, ‘Anarchist Cookbook’ Writer, Dies at 66

  • Posted on: 31 March 2017
  • By: thecollective

From the New York Times

William Powell was a teenager, angry at the government and the Vietnam War, when he walked into the main branch of the New York Public Library in Manhattan in 1969 to begin research for a handbook on causing violent mayhem.

Simon Chapman, A Very Distinguished Fucking Anarchist

  • Posted on: 14 February 2017
  • By: thecollective

From Freedom

Over the last couple of days the strangest thought has plagued me. Two simple ugly words have kept emerging, only for me to lock them out and ridicule them as bizarre. Simon’s dead. Just to write it down feels like treachery. Part of me looks forward to seeing him, to sharing a drink and dispelling this nonsense. He’d say something wry, and witty and that would be that. He was good like that. Was. Sometimes the shittiest word to ever have to use about a friend.

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