Clipped: Oneiric Rebellion

  • Posted on: 15 November 2012
  • By: worker

<table><tr><td>From <a href="">Cerebral Rising</a>

<p><em>Below: a simple narrative</em></p>
<p>Was it real, or was it an oneiric fantasy?</p>
<p>Normally we can measure our reality to the dreams by comparing the vividness. But after now, such lines are blurred. Irrelevant. If, or when, dreams become as vivid as reality, or reality streaks and films at the borders&#8230; you begin at first to question whether you are awake, and then after so long you just don&#8217;t care anymore. Where does lucidity end, and will begin? When does will turn into instinct? When can the luxury in life erode to survival, and then what is it when survival is better sustenance than what now were the trappings of a life hardly had? What does the quality of the bed determine the colors of a dream?</p></td><td><img title="purple" src=""></td></t...

<p>Things were bad &#8211; in America. Things were bad. The Occupy thing crashed and burned&#8230; and what bits of anarchist news I could get were scattered, fleeting, desperate. They wanted change so bad&#8230; but they were waiting for it to be handed to them. And then on the other end, the nationalists and patriots were at ends with each other &#8211; only because they couldn&#8217;t tell who was who. Oh the anarchists, they were a clear lot. They wore the same colors, smashed the same things, said the same things. But the conservatives were split. They couldn&#8217;t decide whether they loved America for merely being America as interpreted by their government, or whether they loved the idea of America more than the people that ran it. The liberals stood out the most, as a murky, squishy and fickle majority that had taken to crushing the minority ever since the end of the populist movement. Liberals, fighting for what they perceived as progressive, undermined both freedom and collective in the pursuit of their idea of justice &#8211; their idea of morality, their idea of equality, their idea of life. Beneath the rhetoric was the conflict between change for the sake of change and change for the sake of the sufferers. Since they were never the sufferers, and never the free, the internal war waged violently in the political scene. Divisions between liberals and conservatives, the democratic and republican parties, cleaned up to a matter of hatred, namecalling and blind generalizations that polarized. The mainstream conversation became socialism versus fascism. The fascists wanted control, having been robbed of it by the liberals&#8230; and the liberals weren&#8217;t going to be satisfied, at least not until the government was so big that it could care for everyone.</p>
<p>It was a pipe dream.</p>
<p>And in the middle of this, the federal government tensed the divide, and used the distraction to begin cultural genocide of the poor, the silenced, minorities, and the few people who were willing to speak up against federal tresspasses. Surprisingly it was the anarchists who in this sense acted the least. Liberals had co-opted and industrialized poverty and legal oppression, where it was once an endeavor of the poor and the masses themselves. Worst, they had in their mind eliminated racism, thus casting the minorities into obscurity that seemed impossible to come away from. In a society where everyone is equal before law and commerce, those who by whatever means are truly oppressed, become silenced. In this silence, their problems are become moot, because everybody is supposed to be equal. If everyone is equal, why are people suffering? If everyone is equal, why are people discontent? It&#8217;s because individualism in socialism is a lie&#8230; the two are mutually exclusive and by Marx&#8217;s own words, the individual is abhorent. Instead they expanded their unions, in a sick syndicalism and ethereal rise of the proletariat to become then rule by the proletariat &#8211; but not even that pure. Instead, it was muddied up to involve majority. The majority of the proletariat have the power. If you didn&#8217;t hitch a ride on the mainstream express, you were simply off in the ditch. Upended, bloodied, battered, or suffering&#8230; your refusal of the majority granted the bill to your self-deserved oppression.</p>
<p>The federal government then used this to begin inflicting itself in every single facet of life, to the point where taking a revolutionary shit in the privacy of your own place would have been a beacon, a prima facie outlet to your demise and incarceration as a criminal by their words, when in reality, a political prisoner. The prison industrial complex smeared the distinction between crime and political crime. In reality, there is only political crime &#8211; a criminal act is only afforded as a opportunity given by maltreatment at the hands of others. In a world where people were truly equal, there would be no crime &#8211; and if rather than facing bars, people faced counselling, perhaps the few mental disorders, all are which are temporary as demanded by the necessary change in human nature over time, might cure the itch to jail all those who trespass. Instead, the world liberals and conservatives warred into fruition was one where everybody was a potential criminal. Where you were one infraction from jail. Where it was only a matter of time before you saw the concrete jungle, laced with iron and solitude. Where once you were there, you became an illegitimate human, and if the means were provided, every crime, even by thought, would be punished &#8211; not merely punishable. It was hand in hand the scene was painted.</p>
<p>And then I heard of a rebellion. Their point was to excise federal government, and obliterate the need for political parties and wings to control. To restore the land to the First Nations and live cooperatively in collective good government. Rather than institute it themselves, they sought to bring about the void where we could fill things in &#8211; they sought to release the stranglehold of the political wings and the federal government.</p>
<p>Rather than wait to react, wait for some big showing, the rebels decided to strike in advance. Why? Because with the climate of political polarization and tension, the federal government had privately mastered the art of subversion and keeping just enough pressure without causing a rebellion. What it didn&#8217;t count on was that the mere fact it tiptoed around peoples&#8217; rights, by any means, provided the popular support for rebellion &#8211; all that was needed was for somebody to overcome the incredible fear of initiation that the federal government had instilled in people since before birth. What the government couldn&#8217;t count on was that of millions and millions, there had to be at least a handful that would damn the propaganda and make a stand.</p>
<p>The army was being raised. They made an art out of being seen, but only so long as to make their point. In a rally, they would appear and then speak, as if from nowhere, and then as soon as they finished, they would disappear as if into thin air. The elusiveness was the proof of their means, when it came to simply being. If anyone could master the underground, as it appeared they might have, then that was the rod people would want to cling to. If only they could find it. Messages were given in code, they were spontanious. Soon, we began to expect them to show up, but we never expected when. They began to grow. They were armed, and they never smiled, but one could simply feel their energy. Different from a soldier but more convicted than the staunchest rioter.</p>
<p>I began to look for them. I don&#8217;t know why, I simply longed to see them. I felt relieved when I did, and felt the rush of adrenaline as if something was about to happen. And when they came, I felt like whatever was, would be a good thing. I saw their point, their ideas, and had no problems. While some claimed they were terrorists, I couldn&#8217;t grasp it. These were Americans, not foreign people seeking to destroy. These people only wanted to make a space, and let us have it. It&#8217;s been too long since we have had control of ourselves.</p>
<p>And then, things changed. I don&#8217;t know if this is where I stopped, or started dreaming.</p>
<p>Standing in a rally, waiting for them to show, a woman suddenly grabbed my wrist, and laid her hand on my shoulder. The hands felt firm, but gentle at the same time. As I begun to turn around I saw her in a mask, and she made eye contact as she whispered &#8220;Come with me&#8221;. The whisper was odd &#8211; I heard it louder than anything else, and yet, this was a noisy rally. I saw the black patch on her shoulder, and so I knew she must be with the army. I followed her around a corner, then into an alley among other masked people with the flags pinned to them. My heart was pumping, I was silent, and oh so intrigued.</p>
<p>&#8220;You know who we are,&#8221; she said.</p>
<p>I managed a &#8220;yes&#8221;, though with my nerves my voice cracked halfway through. They didn&#8217;t seem to mind.</p>
<p>&#8220;Do you know what would happen if you betrayed us?&#8221;</p>
<p>I knew the answer without thinking. I had a brief flash to the Grand Jury trials across the way. I wasn&#8217;t sure of my convictions, except, surely, that I would rather die. Quickly, and firmly, I said &#8220;yes&#8221; and I don&#8217;t think I&#8217;ve ever agreed in such a serious manner.</p>
<p>&#8220;Then walk with us. Take a bus to the courthouse and look for a black van, we&#8217;ll meet you there.&#8221;</p>
<p>She put her hand on my shoulder, and all of them walked out of the alley and turned the corner. I lingered for a moment, and then peered around the corner to watch where they had gone&#8230; and of course, they had disappeared in a crowd.</p>
<p>The adrenaline pumped in my stomach&#8230; I was full of it.</p>
<p>I made my way to the courthouse, and spotted the van. I stood across the street from it, while my mind churned like rough butter. Should I go? What will happen if I do? What if I don&#8217;t? Am I going to get arrested? Will they tell me to get lost? What if they&#8217;re not there? If it&#8217;s a trap? What if I just walk away?</p>
<p>Against every fiber of my sanity, I crossed the street to the van. I anxiously, nervously peered in the windows, to find nobody. Wrong van? I turned to look -</p>
<p>&#8220;Don&#8217;t look around. Take this backpack, and go place it by the door on the west side. There aren&#8217;t any cameras, and don&#8217;t look suspicious. Don&#8217;t hang around for the boom.&#8221;</p>
<p>The woman thrust a cheap backpack into my hands, and stared into my eyes, as if looking into my soul. A part of me screamed at the madness of it all. This bag, a bomb? It was heavy. I tried not to shake it lest it explode on me. I thought to just drop it there and then run. Or maybe just call the cops and tell them they tried to make me do it, say it&#8217;s not my fault and maybe they&#8217;ll come in time and I can get off without going to jail&#8230; my mind raced, in place, and I barely caught up to myself as I realized I had already come halfway to the door. I looked back, trying to seem nonchalant, but the woman was gone. Some old man got in, put on loud music and drove away, puffing a cigarette. That wasn&#8217;t even their van, was it? I wondered if this was a trap. If they were feds and I was about to begin a long journey being Bubba&#8217;s jail bitch.</p>
<p>I stopped at the door, pretended to check my phone for the time, took off the bag and leaned against the door. I kept looking at my phone, or past it&#8230; I couldn&#8217;t read the time anyways, everything was blurred except the random patterns in the concrete sidewalk. The street was almost empty, and I couldn&#8217;t hear anything but my heartbeat, the same way that you hear after going underwater and walking out. As the imaginary water drained from my ears, I checked my phone one more time, and walked away, leaving the bag at the door. I joined the crowd leaving a Starbucks from what appeared to be a business meeting, heading back towards the rally, as if I had merely been delayed, an obviously illogical thought, but it was all my mind could come up with. A man, wearing sleek casual tactical clothes, with the appearance of an undercover cop said,</p>
<p>&#8220;Tell me what you just did and who put you up to it, or you will be arrested, if you run, I&#8217;ll shoot you.&#8221;</p>
<p>I panicked&#8230;</p>
<p>&#8220;I don&#8217;t know anything!&#8221; I said, as I quickly ducked into a bookstore. The man kept walking on, as if nothing happened.</p>
<p>Another man walked in, wearing a deep hood and head tucked down to hide his face. He would turn every once and a while to look at a book, but turned in a way that you could never see his face, but never question he didn&#8217;t belong. I pretended to look at books &#8211; I think I had stared at a pregnancy book for all of a minute before he walked up behind me, facing away from me.</p>
<p>&#8220;It was full of bricks, just fake. If you said anything, we wouldn&#8217;t be here.&#8221; he said casually.</p>
<p>He proceeded to give me a rally flier, and grinned as he shook my shoulder.</p>
<p>Since then I&#8217;ve walked with the army. No gun, no ammo, no bombs, I just walk with them. Tomorrow I&#8217;m supposed to meet someone and no longer just walk.</p>
<p>The first time I was tested, I was ready to shit myself and run. But I didn&#8217;t. As I&#8217;ve walked with them, as I&#8217;ve joined others and recruited others the same way as me, I&#8217;ve lost that fear. I used to be afraid of what I was doing, what I was getting into, and whether my desire for liberty was a pipe dream, whether or not I could go as far of the distance as the people I walked with. I realized we all asked ourselves that question, but every time we got together, I grew in my understanding of my convictions and of myself. They never really pushed me to do anything. My legs always walked. My arms always moved. They did so independently, as if by instinct. I begun to rely on that instinct, because my body was fearless. My mind was what was scaring me. And when I made peace between the two, I could stand by what my limbs were doing. I could stand up for my rights, for my belief, and know the whole of me was ready to fight, heart and body, as one. It was probably obvious to the army &#8211; you get the feeling they can see right through your skin, into your mind. You can&#8217;t get away with anything, and now, after having done this for long enough, I can even do the same. The myth was true. I even mastered the art of not getting caught. Where, when, how do duck out of eyesight and camera view, so that any glimpse was momentary, fleeting. We were the forming underground, the new backbone to the rebellion, and things were picking up. I could never have got away with planting a bomb on my first outing, that&#8217;s why they gave me a sack of bricks. They don&#8217;t bomb things like that anyway. But now, if I had to, I know I wouldn&#8217;t get caught. I almost wish I could do it all again, just to prove it to myself that I can do what I mean. But there are more meaningful things to do. The actions the army carries out always clear space for people in the simplest of ways. The idea spreads. We can look after ourselves. Not everyone wants freedom, but that might be because so few of us know what its like. While some run because freedom is scary, others run because freedom is the adrenaline I felt on my first day. We always had the freedom to die, but now I&#8217;ve learned we have the right to a freedom to live that has never been afforded to us.</p>
<p>I go to bed every night, but I can no longer tell&#8230;</p>
<p>What&#8217;s the dream, what&#8217;s real? Could this really be happening? If not, will it? I have a big day tomorrow.</p>


Not just an article, not quite a story. Not bad.

Unfortunately, it will not be an army which creates anarchy in the usa.

No, that has to be the people. But without a space to create it in the open, what hope is there? Popular movements, fickle as they are, appeal to the urge for viral change... but when Occupy lays in the ashes of neoliberalism, all we have is a reminder that it alone cannot, will not be the fix.

This is the OP.

Less than 30 minutes ago, several sites related to and including cerebral rising were hacked, and the index.php replaced with an open-ended php line of code (produces an error) and were commented with "//Silence is golden."

Apparently somebody doesn't want this story getting out. I don't know who it was, and I do not care. My top concern as an admin is the privacy of my users, which I have no indication is at risk.

I am glad that whatever anarchistnews admin posted this article posted the full content rather than the small quote and link to the site that I had posted - elsewise, this story might have been lost forever. If you're looking for the cerebralrising site, it now appears as a parked domain while admins, data forensics, and server admins begin damage control.

I hate the drama of this less than I hate the drama of taking down people's websites on the basis that to you, "//Silence is golden."

You're funny ... I wrote a song for you

It's called *I wish there really was an underground*

I think it might have been brought down by people who are easily bored.

Bored people indeed.
The underground is not a thing.
I don't want it to be ;)

Oh yeah, OP here... Anyways, let's get back to talking about the article >.<

The site is now back up. Content will be restored bit by bit, starting with this article. We had to go with a backup from almost a week ago.

Nietzsche mentioned how an external sound can be interpolated into the context of a dream at the time of wakening, how a slamming door in reality is a slamming door in the dream. This led people to think that dreams are extensions of our own fears and desires. Ever had a wet-dream? In the dream it's a total stranger or maybe your girlfriends sister, hey, maybe your wife's brother, but seldom is it your wife, hey, stop blushing dude, listen to your dreams, I'm sure neanderthal man dreamed about shoving a wooden spear into a sabretooth tigers brain, he didn't have wet dreams, wet-dreams are the product of a sexually inhibited society, they should not occur. Wet-dreams do not exist in an anarchist society! Whatevers in your dreams don't take them too seriously, unless they are nightmares and you are wielding a chainsaw.

Hal, you've been in to the sauce again, uh?
An anarchist society means you're always sexually serviced? By who? Yourself?
Shit, I uninhibited myself this morning and it was *ANARCHY BABY*

Umm anon, sauce on a hotdog you mean huh? I'm talking psychology and trying to engage the writer of this angst ridden essay in a way which firstly attempts to clear what seems to me to be an exploitation of innocence and a naivety about political activism.

Yeah, I'm just breaking your balls about being a drunk.

I don't have any balls, there's nothing to break! We can blame fucking Buddha for that the righteous prick!! Umm, but that's a long story. Do you think the folk in the movie Lawless were anarchists? After you see it, you might realise how relevant substances are to life, and this is gonna sound liberal, but substances taken in moderation ;)

The subtle metaphor was > dream about shoving a spear into a sabretooth tigers brain = throw a brick through a bank window and kill the capitalist beast.

Well, knowing that I would never have to deal with authority ever again, that's better than sex anyway, something like that, and I'd be content. Just saying.

As bad as Occupy was, its rotten corpse produces much stinkier nuggets than we could have imagined. This is an example. Oh, the romance of the imaginary dumb.

What underground is mentioned?

I know this person who's spent years sniffing around for the makings of serious militant affinity groupings (this article stinks of hollywood by the way) and after much deliberation, all they found was the general level of fighting spirit is *very* low in this part of the world and stupid liberal shit like occupy was the closest we've been in years to opening up the kinds of spaces where militants could at least theoretically find each other and begin the years-long process of building up the trust necessary for real direct action.

Other public radical spaces over the same time period were either; limited by the "business" activity meant to pay the rent or were too small to resist almost total infiltration. Radical spaces belonging to organizations with a public face were usually limited to around 10 people (or less) and therefore, easily catalogued and surveilled as deemed necessary by the pigs.

The chaos and incoherence of the occupy camps was actually a good thing in the sense that real work might have taken place within and surveillance efforts would be stymied by all the background noise.

Where to find your comrades in the desert ...? What sort of actions create the space and climate for finding the allies you'll need to face the future? Or hey, maybe you're the lone-wolf type and I respect that too. But time's a wasting ...

What was written was novelesque - of course there's drama to it, a storyline... it's supposed to drag you into the dream. The thing asks the question though of whether or not it's really a dream. Depending on how you read the thing, it can almost be a manual. In the absence of an existing anarchist army, and in the absence of this truly happening, you have to differentiate between dreams and reality... the truth, this might be in the works. There might be such thing as a militant group sometime soon. And if there is, maybe this will be the story of all those who join the fight. Maybe. Maybe it's all bullshit. Again, the story reads differently for everyone. For some there may be underlying truths between the spaces, and then for some it's a insurrectionists wet Nietcheian wet dream.

But anon, if this story was true, would you like to count yourself among them?

I agree so many of us are content to type away behind a screen, armchair politics and rebellious stoner philosophy... are you - are we ready? Do you have your gun, are you ready to go?

It's not the place for I or the author to make a call to arms. We can join in, we can lead, or we can wave off what might soon be the only chance at freedom for some time.

Sign me up for the oneiric rebellion.

Mixing guns with pipedreams like this is exactly the kind of dangerously juvenile shit I'm try to avoid *while* I'm looking for prospective comrades. I need allies with cool heads who don't wilt under pressure, not kids who think they're in a god damn movie.

Read it again, I think you missed the point. "allies with cool heads who don't wilt under pressure" is exactly what is being called for here. Furthermore, an army. A serious one at that. Had this been a flat-out call for open rebellion, and the main points been conveyed in a firmer manner, this might scare away more people than we need. The first rule of a guerrilla insurgency is that you need support of the people. If you force support of the people, they join hand in hand in the labelling of the jargon term "terrorism", and it would be incredibly easy for the fighters to be swept away into a prison and never heard from again. A call for open rebellion can be made, and it can be ignored. It can be misinterpreted and it can be swept away. There will probably be more stories like this. A rebellion, a call for one, can be made through an oneiric account and it is up to the reader to decide. You can easily read this as a Hollywood story, but if you're looking for insurrection, you might find all you need in the subtext. There are lots of double meanings and plays on words here that have a valid place in a guerrilla force. In some ways, this might even be the beginnings to a handbook.

"How do you recruit people?"
Well, in a traditional military, you just look at the SOP's and get in touch with the commanding force.

But this is not a traditional force, and this is not a command-centric force. This is a force of anarchists who organize and fight like anarchists. There is no supreme commander. There is no sensational public face. As you can see here, recruiting is selective and done quietly. It weeds out those too eager to fight, just like it weeds out those too lax about uprising. Reading this story, weeds out the armchair politicians and insurrectionists, and leaves those who would be willing to die for their cause.

This conversation would be different if there was already a force like this. Instead of making hollywood claims in light of the way that this handbook is conveyed through a novel, we would be focusing on the gold here that teaches us basic elements of resistance fighting. Those elements, even in a novel, are not lost unless you skipped over them. If you skipped over them, please, don't look for such an army. You'll never find it, and you don't deserve to. But if you can read the other meanings in the words, then please... prepare. Such a force is imminent. After reading this, if you read it the way it was meant to and get the right meaning, you won't be so surprised when someone pulls you to a corner and tests you. Take a liberal, take an informant, someone who is weak... they're going to fail the tests necessary in weeding out the loonies. Take a revolutionary - perhaps someone who is nearly a revolutionary, and test them like this, and this might be how it goes down. It's all a matter of perception. If you're being hung up on the fact that this is a story with another world embedded deep within, I implore you to leave well enough alone and go back to your keyboard and type away your adopted words of Malatesta, Goldman, and the Invisible committee. You don't belong in a rebellion. Go back to smashing windows and shouting at cops. Your best use will probably be in distracting the pigs from the growing army.

We are entering a critical moment. A Black Army does not exist - don't treat it like it does. Rather... read stories like this, put yourself in the character's shoes, and think about whether you can identify the character as yourself. If you can't, go home. If you can, then be ready to join the army WHEN it comes, or start it yourself. I will join the army. Not because I want to fight in some poetic struggle, but because I can see the dismal darkness and despair involved in such a force, and I am ready to leave this goddamn keyboard and get shit started.

Of the millions and millions that live in America, we by simple virtue of mathematics not all be armchair insurrectionists. There must be some that do actually participate in underground-style activities (because the underground is NOT A THING goddamnit) and there must also so be some who are willing and able to organize a fighting force. There must also be people who are waiting for the force to emerge so they can have their "what would you do for freedom" moment we ALL are guilty of romanticizing and make the cold, hard decision on whether we will join or deny it in light of the fact that resistance is not as beautiful or hollywood as we thought. No resistance fighter in existence has ever romanticized their struggle after the first fatality. That goes out the fucking window. Resistance means failing almost always. It means victory is phyrric. It means you'll never get to go back home and pretend nothing happened. It means the state will hunt you to the ends of the earth, for the rest of your life if you decide you'll try to disappear. It means you are more likely do die by firing squad or in jail - you will never get to see the fruits of your labor and for that reason the despair of terminal happiness should drive you to the now. The now... relentless and brutal fighting in which you might lose your shreds of humanity, you might lose your cause, and the things you vowed you'd never violate for yourself, are fair game. If you aren't ready for the brutality of war or the finality of life, like I said. Go home. Pay your taxes. Start a commune by legal standards and only talk about revolution as if you know what it means. Ask the Free Syrian Army how they feel about themselves in uprising, and you'll quickly learn there is zero glamor in it. There are surely days of war and nights of love, but those moments are dulled, fleeting, and desperate. Those moments are even discouraged as they display weakness... the US Army operates at night like anyone else and thus those moments huddled around a campfire are just remnants of propaganda you have yet to lose. You'll be sitting in a house somewhere, with or without comrades, feeling alone and helpless. But there is a fealty that must be made to your rifle that you will continue to use it to fight no matter what. A bond with your own brand of brutality that you must continue to use. If you forsake your tie to war, war will gut you and splay you out in front of the media as a terrorist. If you forsake your comrades, then they will gut you the same way, leave your corpse in a ditch. Is that the way of comrades? To kill each other over treason? Is it the way of anarchists to kill to preserve the fighting force and warrior ethos? You bet. And if you think anything different - go home don't show up. Deny that masked person in the crowd because you know you're just some liberal in a sea of failure. If you find yourself a fisherman in the sea of failure, stick with what you're good at. This isn't shooting fish in a barrel. This is american versus american, this is cause versus charge. The US Govt. is charged with your execution the minute you rise up. That will never end so long as there are nationalists and a government to begin with.

This is a novelesque writing. If you're caught up thinking this is sensationalism, then please, leave a book review and move on to sensationalizing the grand jury, whether Leah is a snitch, engaging in circuit identity politics, and tell yourself every night you're an anarchist. Because that's all the mantra you can give yourself.

Fight or don't fight. When the army comes around, will you balk at it in the knowledge that there has never been such a militant resistance in American history, will you waive it off as stupid? When you are guilty of thought-crime yourself, and have more than once conspired to do just the same thing as the militant? Can you embrace the double standard of wanting insurrection and rioting, and then argue the merit of a militant insurrectionary force that pops up?

Sign me up for the rebellion.

Many of us *are* preparing fool ... and not with masturbatory fantasy. As I implied before, such a romantic view of the dark future ahead is a terrible mixture with lethal force tactics. I don't condemn or condone such tactics in public forums, but the handful of real killers I've met in my travels definitely don't speak of it with the slightest hint of romance.

Call me a fraud all you like, I think you're yelling in to the mirror sweetheart ;)

Fucking masked strangers, thrusting backpacks in peoples hands, telling them to go place them somewhere... I'm fucking FED up with them

I dunno, I kinda want that to happen to me....


It's a story; you don't get one.

Dream or not, fantasy or otherwise, this is the sort of thing to look out for. Why?

Because within the interstices of society exist just this sort of action - violence, targeted violence that presents an existential threat to the system.

But and there is a huge, luscious but in all this, that dictates the terms of violence. The State, who holds a monopoly on violence, will only accede to this sort of thing insofar as it sees its own interests furthered.

In other words, should increased police presence be necessary or desired by the State, it is only natural that the cops may look the other way, as some naive young fall guy (or girl) plants a real bomb in a real building.

And as the National Guard marches down main street, in the service of keeping order, a disaffected populace, who starving, cold, sick and isolated, sees millions funneled into the order keeping machinery, and nothing into providing for them a real sense of dignified living, will have had enough.

At this point it becomes simply a matter of having enough guns out there in the streets, for the people to launch an effective and successful counterattack.

As the person who wrote the above, I also would like to say that it is all speculative, and does not reflect my intentions in participating in any "movements."

Check! Your move, psy-ops.

A Gathering of Saints by Robert Lindsey

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