love detective
there's no love too small
I meant the thing that you said zizek said, not the thing you actually said about it!
Alex Callinicos/SWP vs Laurie Penny/New Statesman Facebook handbags
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I meant the thing that you said zizek said, not the thing you actually said about it!
cesare
shady's dreams ♥
He sullied his hands with it though
Idris2002
canadian girlfriend
rekil
to menny cranks
butchersapron
Bring back hanging
He was right behind them as they started their feb 79 crackown until novemberish and the hostage situation - then when they really cranked up the murder of the left he was silent. Not a word on Iran for another 5 years.
SpineyNorman
Inappropriate content removed
Post-modernism is for middle class conservative pseuds who want to pretend to be wadical and Foucault was a tosser.
End of debate.
End of debate.
DotCommunist
So many particulars. So many questions.
If you've got focault to say about it.....
been saving that one up for the very limited occasion it is viable
SpineyNorman
Inappropriate content removed
So I found this on that nationalist brony idiot's blog
The wheel of oppression was really just asking to be turned on its head like this. If you individualise oppression you open the door for people to claim that the oppression is down to the oppressed individual's own flaws and that the privileged have earned their privilege.
What is it with the post-modernist inspired liberal left and constructing brands of politics that are ripe to be co-opted by the hard right?
sihhi
Tyranny, like hell, is not easily conquered
Laurie Penny's Saudade
There are more of us than you think, kicking off our high-heeled shoes to run and being told not so fast
The best minds of my generation consumed by craving, furious half naked starving-
Who ripped tights and dripping make up smoked alone in bedsits bare mattresses waiting for transfiguration.
Who ran half dressed out of department stores yelling that we didn't want to be good and beautiful
Who glowing high and hopeful were the last to leave the gig our skin crackling with lust and sweat and pure music
Who wrote poetry on each other's arms and cared more about fucking than being fuckable
Who worked until our backs stiffened and our limbs sang with the memory of misbehaviour that was what it was to be a woman
Who dared to dance until dawn and were drugged and raped by men in clean T-shirts and woke up scared and sore to be told it was our fault
Who swallowed bosses' patronizing side-eyes stole away from violent broken boys in the middle of the night and vowed never again to try to fix the world one man at a time
Who slammed down the tray of drinks and tore off our aprons and aching smiles and went scowling out into the streets looking for change
Who stripped in dark rooms for strangers' anodyne dollars because we wanted education and were told we were traitors
Who sat faces upturned to the glow of the network searching searching for strangers who would call us pretty
Who bared our breasts to hidden cameras and fought and fought and fought to be human
Who waited in grim hallways with synth-pop crackling over the speaker system for the doctor to call us clutching fistfuls of pamphlets calling us sluts whores murderers
Who crossed continents alone with knapsacks full of books bare limbs clear-eyed vision running running from the homes that held our mothers down
Who filled notebooks with gibberish philosophy and scraps of stories and cameras to prove we were there keeping our novels and the name of out children close to our hearts
Who were told all our lives that we were too loud too tisky too fat too ugly too scruffy too selfish too much too and refused to take up less space refused to be still refused refused refused to be tame
Who would never be still. Who would never shut up. Who were punished for it and spat and snarled and they shook the bars of our cages until they snapped and they called us wild and crazy and we laughed with mouths open hearts open hands open and would never not ever be tame.
Sara, I'm with you in hospital, in the narroe rooms where you have put off your veil to count your ribs through your T-shirt, short hair and secrets and quiet defiance crying together that we don't know how to be perfect-
Lara, I'm with you in mandatory art therapy, where we draw pictures of weeping cocks and are told we are not making progress-
Lila, I'm with you in a north London bathdroom, watchhing unreal maggots crawl in the cuts in your arms and listening to your girlfriend drunk and raging through the wall-
Andy, I'm with you in Bethnal Green where you love ambitious angry women with heart brain pen fingers tongue and you have a line from Nietzche tattooed over your cunt-
Adele, I'm with you in the student occupation, with your lipstick and cloche hat and teenage lisp drawling that there's not enough fucking in this revolution and we must take action-
Kay, I'm with you on the night bus, half drunk and high dragging bright-eyed boys home to our bed, where we watch them worn out sleeping and whisper that we will never be married-
Katie, I'm with you in Zuccotti Park, where a broken heart is less important than a broken laptop is less important than a broken future and we watch the cops beating kids bloody on the pavement for daring to ask for more-
Tara, I'm with you in Islington where you have thrown all your pretty dresses out of the window and flushed your medication so you can write and write-
Alex, I'm with you and a bottle of Scotch at two in the morning when you tell me that no man will make us live for ever and we must seduce the city the country the world-
We are always hungry.
There are more of us than you think.
There are more of us than you think, kicking off our high-heeled shoes to run and being told not so fast
The best minds of my generation consumed by craving, furious half naked starving-
Who ripped tights and dripping make up smoked alone in bedsits bare mattresses waiting for transfiguration.
Who ran half dressed out of department stores yelling that we didn't want to be good and beautiful
Who glowing high and hopeful were the last to leave the gig our skin crackling with lust and sweat and pure music
Who wrote poetry on each other's arms and cared more about fucking than being fuckable
Who worked until our backs stiffened and our limbs sang with the memory of misbehaviour that was what it was to be a woman
Who dared to dance until dawn and were drugged and raped by men in clean T-shirts and woke up scared and sore to be told it was our fault
Who swallowed bosses' patronizing side-eyes stole away from violent broken boys in the middle of the night and vowed never again to try to fix the world one man at a time
Who slammed down the tray of drinks and tore off our aprons and aching smiles and went scowling out into the streets looking for change
Who stripped in dark rooms for strangers' anodyne dollars because we wanted education and were told we were traitors
Who sat faces upturned to the glow of the network searching searching for strangers who would call us pretty
Who bared our breasts to hidden cameras and fought and fought and fought to be human
Who waited in grim hallways with synth-pop crackling over the speaker system for the doctor to call us clutching fistfuls of pamphlets calling us sluts whores murderers
Who crossed continents alone with knapsacks full of books bare limbs clear-eyed vision running running from the homes that held our mothers down
Who filled notebooks with gibberish philosophy and scraps of stories and cameras to prove we were there keeping our novels and the name of out children close to our hearts
Who were told all our lives that we were too loud too tisky too fat too ugly too scruffy too selfish too much too and refused to take up less space refused to be still refused refused refused to be tame
Who would never be still. Who would never shut up. Who were punished for it and spat and snarled and they shook the bars of our cages until they snapped and they called us wild and crazy and we laughed with mouths open hearts open hands open and would never not ever be tame.
Sara, I'm with you in hospital, in the narroe rooms where you have put off your veil to count your ribs through your T-shirt, short hair and secrets and quiet defiance crying together that we don't know how to be perfect-
Lara, I'm with you in mandatory art therapy, where we draw pictures of weeping cocks and are told we are not making progress-
Lila, I'm with you in a north London bathdroom, watchhing unreal maggots crawl in the cuts in your arms and listening to your girlfriend drunk and raging through the wall-
Andy, I'm with you in Bethnal Green where you love ambitious angry women with heart brain pen fingers tongue and you have a line from Nietzche tattooed over your cunt-
Adele, I'm with you in the student occupation, with your lipstick and cloche hat and teenage lisp drawling that there's not enough fucking in this revolution and we must take action-
Kay, I'm with you on the night bus, half drunk and high dragging bright-eyed boys home to our bed, where we watch them worn out sleeping and whisper that we will never be married-
Katie, I'm with you in Zuccotti Park, where a broken heart is less important than a broken laptop is less important than a broken future and we watch the cops beating kids bloody on the pavement for daring to ask for more-
Tara, I'm with you in Islington where you have thrown all your pretty dresses out of the window and flushed your medication so you can write and write-
Alex, I'm with you and a bottle of Scotch at two in the morning when you tell me that no man will make us live for ever and we must seduce the city the country the world-
We are always hungry.
There are more of us than you think.
The Pale King
Well-Known Member
I think it's a craig brown parody
JimW
支那暗杀团
Don't know much about Foucault but read this thing on Wu Ming's blog which seems to have him more missing the point rather than actively supporting the Mullahs:
http://www.wumingfoundation.com/english/wumingblog/?p=1394
butchersapron
Bring back hanging
Read that a a few years ago. What that is attempting to do is a shallow defence of the idea of revolution as not necessarily leading to counter-revolution and just using Foucault as a entry point without discussing what he did and said in any great detail. The book Foucault and the Iranian Revolution does a a far better job and shows how he was nailed by the french and italian left at the time and how his responses to those criticisms amounted to if you don't agree with me then you are a stalinist.
JimW
支那暗杀团
Yeah, I sort of got they were going somewhere else with that. TBH it just popped into my head when the topic came up as the one thing I'd read specifically on Foucault and Iran, so thought I'd chuck it in there
ETA: hadn't realised you link was to the full text of that, will check that book out.
J Ed
Follow Back Pro Expropriation
Moron that you are.
Personally I wasn't that keen on Foucault back ın the last mıllenıum, but I have to say that hıstory seems to be vındıcatıng hım wıth ever-ıncreasıng clarıty. I've also caught up wıth hıs later, neo-Chrıstıan stuff, whıch ıs far better than hıs output ın the 60s.
What ıs mıssıng from hıs analysıs ıs a theory of the commodıty. But that can be found elsewhere.
JimW
支那暗杀团
He was actually good though. Top phrase-mongering. Shouldn't hold the later pale imitators against him.
A lot of people whose opınıon I respect rate hım hıghly. I could never see ıt myself.
JimW
支那暗杀团
Can't say I actually like his work, just always struck me as very good in terms of prosody etc. Bit like Ezra Pound for me that way, not my thing and not my kind of bloke but definitely a good poet.
SpineyNorman
Inappropriate content removed
Weirdly enough teh first one of those makes a half decent point - this shit could easily be used (and undoubtedly will be) to say to people 'don't stomp on the experience and oppression of disabled people who cannot work by complaining about being exploited by your boss - you need to check your privilege'.
Just the slightest peek below the surface and you see this crap for what it is - a deeply conservative theory used by the middle classes to deny/hide class exploitation.
butchersapron
Bring back hanging
I saw the best minds of my generation fucked by
greasy old men, starving hysterical naked
until the noise of wheels and children brought
them down shuddering mouth-wracked and
battered bleak of brain!
Children screaming under the
stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men
weeping in the parks!
greasy old men, starving hysterical naked
until the noise of wheels and children brought
them down shuddering mouth-wracked and
battered bleak of brain!
Children screaming under the
stairways! Boys sobbing in armies! Old men
weeping in the parks!
J Ed
Follow Back Pro Expropriation
Sinto saudade do mundo do jornalismo sem Laurie Penny.
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