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This machine kills fascists

I’ve censored the following, in protest of a bill that gives any corporation and the US government the power to censor the internet–a bill that could pass THIS WEEK. To see the uncensored text, and to stop internet censorship, visit:
http://americancensorship.org/posts/5717/uncensor

The ████████ ████████ an ███████████ and █████████████ ██████████████ for ████, ████ ████████ ██████, to ███████ █████ ███████████ and ██████ the █████.

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This recent Washington Post Wonkblog post, while very interesting, would have been better conveyed with a map… seems like The Atlantic’s Cities threw one together that does the 1% justice.

I don’t appreciate the Wonkblog (btw, wtf is a Wonkblog?) post’s suggestion that folks should move “occupy” locations to the home territories of the wealthy 1%. Others have also suggested the occupations should exist closer to rich doorsteps. A recent SF Chronicle article points from Occupy Oakland toward San Ramon, a more eastern (and wealthy) Bay Area city.

They have missed the point.

Downtown financial and business districts with high-rise buildings are constructed in the image of capital nexuses like Wall Street. They are symbols for the flow of global capital and the concentration of  the 1%’s power. Are Wall Street or Downtown Oakland the optimal targets to hit the wealthy “where it hurts”? Maybe not. But isn’t the occupy movement a rhetorical demonstration, a performance of massive frustration, a locus for activation and organization?  The point is not really to “take the 1% down” but instead to “build ourselves up” to replace the 1% entirely. I reject the notion that the 1% may not only dominate our country and our lives, but also determine where exactly we choose to demonstrate. Where precisely we allow ourselves, as voluminous creatures, to congregate, and rest our weary bodies.

Tomorrow my dog, my father’s and brothers’ dog, will pass, and enter the tense past. And by pass I mean a man will come to my father’s house and deliver her a lethal solution through a syringe. Euthanasia. She will feel no pain, and she will let loose the pain building in her worn hips that have now made it near impossible to walk. The man will be paid and he will give instructions and recommendations for the body. My father will bury her in the backyard, despite city regulations.

Her name is Pepper, and Pepper tonight makes me think of death, of sentimentality.

This is the sort of lesson we say dogs are to deliver, or pets for that matter, to children. To teach responsibility, and to perform the suffering of tragedy, for the pet is not intended to outlive the child.

It is never too late I think to learn something about death, or how we hold the past.