To give up on constructing worlds with our hands is to resign oneself to a ghostly existence.
A friend wrote: “What is happiness? It’s the feeling that our power is increasing—that an obstacle is being overcome.”
To become revolutionary is to assign oneself a difficult, but immediate, happiness.
We would have liked to be brief. To forgo genealogies, etymologies, quotations. That a poem, a song, would suffice.
We wished it would be enough to write “revolution” on a wall for the street to catch fire.
But it was necessary to untangle the skein of the present, and in places to settle accounts with ancient falsehoods.
It was necessary to try and digest seven years of historical convulsions. And decipher a world in which confusion has blossomed on a tree of misunderstanding.
We’ve taken the time to write with the hope that others would take the time to read.
Writing is a vanity, unless it’s for the friend. Including the friend one doesn’t know yet.
In the coming years, we’ll be wherever the fires are lit.
During the periods of respite, we’re not that hard to find.
We’ll continue the effort of clarification we’ve begun here.
There will be dates and places where we can mass our forces against logical targets.
There will be dates and places for meeting up and debating.
We don’t know if the insurrection will have the look of a heroic assault, or if it will be a planetary fit of crying, a sudden expression of feeling after decades of anesthesia, misery, and stupidity.
Nothing guarantees that the fascist option won’t be preferred to revolution.
We’ll do what there is to be done.
Thinking, attacking, building—such is our fabulous agenda.
This text is the beginning of a plan.
See you soon,