Tagged: literature
D:\Coda
[retrieved from temporal location M:\Dec 20, 2013 at 10:15 PM]
A thirty-six-mile straightaway between two cities … what’d they used to call those? a highway.
The black, cracked concrete absorbs all one-hundred-ten degrees of heat and humidity bearing down on the time-scorched earth, exacerbating the stench of garbage and carcass discarded over the past few years. Mounds of black trashbags filled with Gaia-knows-what (banana peels, industrial waste, limbs arrested by rigor mortis … ?) cause what few motor vehicles still in operation to swerve violently every ten feet in the manner of Elmer Fudd or some other ridiculous cartoon.
Ah! here comes one now.
A black sedan of unknown make rockets around the bend at ninety-miles-an-hour screaming as black rubber melts off its tires. It hits several mounds of garbage, causing gallons of pink biotoxic sludge to engulf its crumpled frame. The windshield wipers start running as the car swerves toward the shoulder of the road and pulls back just in time. When the window is thoroughly cleared, the sunroof opens and a man of about twenty years with black mussed hair and eyes covered in large black goggles pokes his naked torso through the ceiling. He is passed a large black garbage bag from below and hurls it behind the speeding car, impact causing the bag to explode and leave food by-products, grease, and paper flailing back in the wind. He is passed another bag and discards it in the same manner. A third, fourth, and fifth bag follow. The load is large because it has been a week and a half since the neighborhoods garbage was taken out. The man recedes back into the car; the sunroof closes. The sedan makes a sharp left, tumbling over the depressed, dusty medium, kicking up a bellowing mushroom cloud in its wake, makes its way onto the opposite side of the road and accelerates back the way it came.
The sedan sped toward its end in the city of the Third Province of Shaolin with the fury of a runaway train destined for derailment. Within its compartments sat the High Chief and Osiris, with his Highness as the wheel making devilish jerks of the vehicle to avoid a nasty collision with the garbage mounds which they had, most likely, lain there weeks or months in the past. The passenger windows were rolled all the way up and smoke from a woolie lingered with apathetic regard toward the furious winds speeding past the outside of the vehicle. High Chief bore with his foot all two-hundred-twenty pounds of his mass upon the accelerator. He took two hits of the blunt and passed it to Osiris, the bare bodied boy.
Osiris took the roach, too small to wholly embrace, and tucked it between the edge of his thumb and index finger, raised it to his dry, black lips, and inhaled. He let out a wheeze of a cough and his flat, untoned abdomen contracted abruptly, causing him to drop the roach.
–Fuckboy, said High Chief, in a voice that groaned.
–Fuck it, God, shit was cashed, knamsayin, no loss. Fuck it, where we goin’, God?
–Back to the Island to go the fuck to sleep, God, a nigga chashed, knamsayin.
–Word life, God.
They were silent for a while then, until Osiris asked, –Yo, Chief, hol’ up, hol’ up, where my Killer tape at, God? You dun had it since last fuckin’ week, where the fuck is my tape at?
–Yo, son, I ain’t got that piece, son.
–How you ain’t got my shit when I let you hold it, man?
–Yo, niggas came over to have forties and blunts, kid, the shit just came up missin’.
–Come on, man, that don’t got nothin’ to do with my shit, man, come on, man, go head with that shit, man.
–Come on, man, I’ll buy you four more fuckin’ Killer tapes, man.
–Fuck that shit, God. Just then, a face call came in over Osiris’s stolen phone. When he answered, an associate known as the Golden Arms appeared on the screen. He said, out of breath, –Yo, yo, God, word is bond, yo, Shameek just got bust in his head two times, God.
–Word?
–Word life, God. You know Shameek from fuckin’ 212, God? The nigga just got bucked. Nigga’s in a black Land, God, word is bond. Came through, God, from outta nowhere, God. Word is bond, I’m coming to get my culture-cypher, God. And they just … word is bond, crazy shots just went the fuck off, God. The nigga layin’ there like a fuckin’ newborn fuckin’ baby, God.
–Word? Is he dead, asked Osiris.
–Is he fuckin’ dead? Fuck you mean is he fuckin’ dead, God? What the fuck kinda question is that? Fuck you think? The nigga layin’ there with his fuckin’ … all types of fuckin’ blood coming out his fuckin’…
–Fuck, God.
–Yo God, what’s up, God? It’s the God, God, word is bond. Yo, what’s up? I’m ready to fuckin’ lay. I’m ready to get busy, God, what’s up?
Osiris said, –Yo, go do what we gotta do.
High Chief then turned his head toward the screen in Osiris’s hand. –We out or what, man?
–It’s the God, God, fuck that, man, said the Golden Arms.
–You sayin’ we out? asked High Chief.
–Yeah, God, let’s get the fuck, son!
The line went dead. –You heard the God, said Osiris, –Let’s buck.
–Word, God … oh, oh, hol’ up, God, said High Chief looking out of his side window at a fixed-gear biker rocketing down the opposite side of the highway. The biker turned his head momentarily and then quickened his pace.
–Oh, fuck, God, hell nahh, said High Chief, –Fuckin Skeletons be fuckin up. His Highness made a sharp left, rumbling over the median again, and drove back toward the biker. The sedan accelerated past one-hundred-miles-per-hour and approached the biker who, as they neared him with the stark-white “W” painted on the hood of their stolen car, appeared to descend into fear and madness.
–We got this nigga, said High Chief, and he rammed into the biker who, upon impact, was hurled into the shoulder of the road, propelled backward like a ragdoll, his limp body kicking up a dust storm like a mere bag of garbage…
Naturally, no one of good character lived in cities anymore, although it was arguable that none ever did. Five decades after this event, an inquiring mind could find the upper crust of society, not in any real-world location, but in cyberspace.
Vigilantes having been condemned to live out their remaining days on the polluted surface of the earth, all people of culture were stored underground, and the highest form of art was now executed in code.
[See D:]
…In the night, from fixed-gear bikes, the chant rang out, and was heard round the world–
“We have a body in decay;
We have a mind in disarray;
Off with the head,
The rest may stay,
So hands may mold with fresher clay,
And feet may walk a better way
Toward a new and brighter day.”
(The ramifications of this campaign naturally progressed toward a more violent state than intended…)
Machine had a row of chain links, wrenches, pliers, and such, lined up real meticulously on the small metal table to the side like he was the dentist from hell or something. Guy on the operating table, so to speak, was a real goon of a fellow. Went by the name of Osiris. I didn’t like him, but I sure as shit felt sorry for him, cause Machine had few if any of what the kids call morals. I mean, there was don’t go against the crew, don’t fall off your bike … but on a personal level, it was a free-for-all among us Skeletons.
They call us the Skeletons because of our bikes—bare bones steel. No breaks, no gears, no grips, all rip. Fixed gear to the death, we’re known to say. The chain-rings of our bikes are built larger by Machine, so there can be more teeth. It makes it hard to shove off, but with a higher ratio we can sustain sixty-seven-mile-per-hour speeds on the straightaway. Lack of breaks makes it impossible for us to stop at speeds like that. We like it that way.
Anyway, our friend Osiris was looking a bit pale. Hell, if I didn’t know the effect old Machine tended to have on folk, I’d-a thought I was looking at a ghost. Our captive had the complexion of bone.
Or location, furthermore, was not the kind of place that would have made Osiris feel at home. We were in the basement of the old City Bike warehouse in the Southeast Quadrant. That’s Federal City, if you don’t know.
This old place had only one light in operation. It had started flickering a month prior. When it goes out, we’d have to find another location for HQ—cause it’s hard to get bulbs in these times.
But for the time it was nice and perfect, about 7,500 square feet of blood-splattered concrete, with metal gates as tall as the 50-foot ceilings all rusted and whiny; they section off the rooms nicely.
All of our bikes were lined up along the far wall next to the elevator that used to service the bike warehouse when it was still in operation. The bikes also used to belong to the warehouse, but we stripped ’em, and they’re ours now. They’re our livelihoods. And listen, these weren’t loud, obnoxious, growl-growl, spewing smoke, asshole bikes. These required no oil, not that we had any. Like I said, our bikes are why we’re called the Skeletons. We’d take our bikes to the strip, this forty-mile stretch between Federal City and the Third Province of Shaolin, which has been known as Baltimore, once upon a time. We were notorious on those roads, but the 36 Chambers were notorious, too. You know of the 36, a.k.a the Three-Six Mafia, a.k.a the Anarchists, a.k.a the Regime, a.k.a the Nine-Deuce, a.k.a the Nine Chambers, a.k.a the Shaolin Shadowboxers, a.k.a the Wu Tang Clan. You know them.
Word on the street was that a couple of the top generals were breaking away from the order in First Province of Shaolin in Old New York to start up HQ in Federal City and Former Baltimore. We needed answers. Lucky for us, we saw Dirt McGirt, a.k.a Osiris, cranking his pussy carbon frame down the strip, so we picked him up.
Now we had to get him to talk. That was Machine’s specialty—I mean besides building and welding and shit. He had this theory—you could say it was one of his few morals. He used to read all those Daredevil comics, you see, and he believed that if you lost one of your senses, then your other senses grew stronger. So if the dude Osiris didn’t have much of a capacity to talk now, then maybe he’d have to lose one of his other sense to enhance that capability, knamsayin, God. Machine always started with touch. He had those pliers by his side ready to pull off a couple of fingernails. After that, if the guy wouldn’t talk, he had a spoon there for sight. But Machine didn’t even get through the first fingernail before Osiris broke:
–Aight, God, aight, aight.
Machine looked up. I could see that he was a little disappointed. Before he could decide if Osiris needed further instigation, the bossman Frankie the Break came out of the dark corner beside Machine. He was called “the Break” because he was the only person in the whole crew—hell, in the whole fucking city—who could skid to an immediate stop on Machine’s chain-ring. He was a big fellow—big, not fat—and covered in tattoos like a mosaic, head-to-toe. His big bald head had a tattoo of a chain-ring on it, too. He was the by-goddest hardcore guy I knew. That’s why he was boss.
–Get away from him, Mac, said Frankie the Break. Then he said to me, –Hey, “Fixed Gear” Charlie, crank that chair up.
Yeah, that’s what they call me: “Fixed Gear” Charlie Bones.
I uncrossed my arms and went over and cranked the lever at the bottom of the chair, lifting the back up so that Osiris could see Frankie face-to-face. He was all tied up, so he couldn’t really do it himself. Frankie the break had a wooden chair with him. He spun it ’round and sat down in it reversed, resting his arms on the chair-back. In his hand he was shaking, as if he had a nervous tick, a spare crankset. He had the machinery gripped tightly in his hand and the chain-ring moving around like a stationary hand-saw. After a while he said, quite casually,
–You the one they call Osiris? He pulled out some cigarettes.
Osiris nodded, ‘fraid-like.
Frankie held out the softpack to him but Osiris shook his head. Frankie shrugged and lit his jack with some matches he had. After he had taken a puff, –You from the land of Shaolin, I hear. First Province.
Osiris nodded.
Frankie took a drag and exhaled slow. –And I hear you’re a prominent member of the group they call the Wu Tang Clan, and affiliated Killa Bee assassins.
Osiris did nothing.
–In fact, you’re one of the top dogs. A member of … the 36 Chambers of Death.
Osiris remained still, save a twitch in his eye.
–I was just thinking that you could tell us … what the fuck y’all are doing in Federal City, Skeleton turf. And, while you’re at it, maybe you could tell us why six of my guys are, well, six feet under.
Osiris said nothing. His eye continued to twitch.
–You look like you’ve got something in your eye, Frankie exhaled. –Machine can help you with that. Machine …
Machine came back over with his spoon and straddled Osiris as he was strapped in the chair, then Osiris started shouting like the devil was biting his ass.
–Aight, God, aight, I’ll talk.
Machine dismounted him, again disappointed. –Good boy, said Frankie the Break.
Osiris took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, then he started:
–Look, God, I grew up on the crime side, the Empire Times side, where stayin’ alive was no jive. I had second-hands, my mom’s bounced on old man, so then we moved to Shaolin Land. A young youth, rockin’ the gold tooth, ‘Lo goose; the only way I began to G-off was drug loot. So yeah it started like this, son, rollin’ with this one, and that one, pullin’ out gats for fun. But it was just a dream for the teen that was a fiend. I started smokin’ woolies at sixteen. Runnin’ up in gates and doin’ hits for high stakes, making my way on fire escapes. No question, I would speed for cracks and weed. The combination made my eyes bleed. No question I would flow off to try to get the dough all, stickin’ up white boys on ball courts. Shiiid, my life got no better. Same damn ‘Lo sweater. Times was rough and tough like leather. Figured out I went the wrong route. So I got with a sick-tight clique and went all out. Catchin’ keys from across seas, rollin’ in MPVs, every week we made 40 Gs. Yo, nigga, respect mine, or anger the TEC-9: Ch-chick-BLOW, move from the gate now.
–Well what the fuck made you wanna move down here to the Fed, God? asked Frankie
–‘Cause, god, you know, cash rules everything around me. Shit’s flowin’ in the Fed, knamsayin. Shid, you know; you the one that fuckin made it. Aye, don’t get salty, my nigga it’s the game, it’s the stuggle. Niggas out’chea starvin’ and shit. C.R.E.A.M—Get the money.
–Dollar, dollar bills, God.
–Aye, yo, Frankie, nigga, I hope you know, doe, the Clan’s watchin’ you, God. We got eyes all across these Fifty Provinces. The fuckin’ Chambers ’bout to rush up in yo shit, God. Ain’t no escape, my nigga. Kill me, my nigga, and a swarm of fuckin’ beez gone run up in this piece God, murda the whole island.
Frankie the Break took a deep breath and flicked his jack. He stood up. –Well, then, he said, –If what you say is true, the Shaolin and the Wu-Tang could be dangerous … Do you think your Wu-Tang sword can defeat me?
Then Frankie the Break reared his big hand back with the chain-ring and careened all fifty metal teeth into Osiris’s head.
We all stood around in slight awe. After some time, I said, to ease the tension, –Survey says, your dead.
No body laughed.
Machine wiped his hand down his face and said to the bossman, –You know you just started a war, right?
Frankie the Break lit another cigarette and said, –Bring the motherfucking ruckus.
(But, if there was hope to be had for the human race, it was in the Recluses, and it was in revering the only true sense of reality humanity would have known for a hundred centuries …)
[See D:]
Ninety years later, the earth did flood, and the atmosphere suffocated all the remaining organisms. It had been written by a prophet that the waters would freeze in an ice age, and the old earth would be uncovered as rock formations made up of compressed concrete, brick, steel, rubber, PVC, glass, and other structures which would be interpreted by later scientists to have been formed as naturally as the Himalayan mountain range or the Bisti Badlands (but that would not happen for another several millennia, when the next cycle of evolution yielded the inevitable human brain. It was essentially a fact now that the evolution of a species as superior as man would harken the end of the earth in the Coda-Gaia by building a great machine, one far beyond the logo-computational capacities of man—but without the morale—which would yield negative ecological returns on its efficient and ever-speeding progress.) Until, then, however, the world would hibernate and life would sleep, as would love, sex, womb, mother, birth, infancy, youth, adulthood, maturity, and death, in their absence leaving infinite. In the coda, Gaia wept herself to sleep.
Mustelid Friends 9: Writ of Conversion
or, The Four Living Creatures
Created and Produced by Dams Up Water
The rain in New Bat City fell at a forty-five degree angle. It came down in thin, needling affidavits, each drop swearing under oath that something in this town had gone crooked long before anyone bothered to notice.
My office window leaked. So did city secrets.
Weasel, Badger, Beaver, Mink & Otter, Attorneys at Law (and frequently at Grace), occupied the twelfth floor of a rickety old building that had seen better centuries. The brass placard on the door was polished. Everything behind it wasn’t.
Weasel handled strategy—thin smile, thinner ethics.
Badger handled litigation—broad shoulders, broader grudges.
Mink handled appearances—silk voice, velvet loopholes.
Otter handled accounts—always floating, never drowning.
And me? I was Beaver. I built cases, dams, occasionally hope.
All of them leaked.
Business was good, if you defined “good” as “apocalyptic but billable.”
Our biggest client, Mr. Capybara, sat in the waiting room like a retired emperor who had traded conquest for quiet meals and charitable deductions. Once a rice shipping magnate who moved grain the way storms move coastlines, he now spoke softly about reform, restitution, and gluten-free penance.
“I wish to make things right,” he’d say, which in our line of work usually meant, “I wish to make things right without admitting anything in writing.”
But this wasn’t about him.
This was about Wolverine.
A high value asset—and a lone-wolf—they called him. Which was, of course, a contradiction. Wolves have packs, rules, hierarchy. Wolverine had none of that. He had claws, grudges, and a way of solving problems that made coroners rich and philosophers unemployed.
And now Bruce Wayne was dead.
Wayne had been a ghost even before the killing—reclusive, trauma-stricken, a man stitched together from grief, publicity stunts, and questionable nocturnal habits. The official report said “homicide.” The classified brief said “neutralized.”
Either way, the city lost its favorite rumor.
And Wolverine? He didn’t run. Didn’t hide. Just kept moving through the city like a subscription no one had the authority to cancel.
The Five Clans’ Firm had already put the Joker away—Barkham Asylum, iron bars, rubber walls, and a laugh track that finally ran out of audience. That left a vacuum. Vacuums get filled.
See, Bruce Wayne was always a legend in the newspapers first, and in alleyways second. The city needed a bat. It craved a savior, a spectacle—a spectacle packaged in black leather with a logo slapped on everything from umbrellas to insurance policies.
But here’s the inconvenient truth: the bat never flew outside the walls of Brucey’s imagination.
As a child, he learned early that grief was a quiet, cruel auditor, taking notes you couldn’t see. Trauma stacked bricks in his psyche, and young Bruce—business-minded even then—built a brand to hold them at bay. Batman was less a man than a product line: a darkly themed coping mechanism, neatly trademarked in his mind. He influenced, yes; he trained, yes, but training was marketing too, livestreaming his intravenous drip staving off the long-suppressed outcry of his anima. Every shadowy figure he ‘fought’ was part of the city’s need to see danger—an audience willing to pay in attention, adrenaline, and city council approvals.
By the time the press caught on, Bruce had fully committed: “Batman” was the figurehead, and Bruce Wayne, the anonymous back office, quietly underwriting the illusion. The New Bat City media loved it. Headlines don’t sell unless they have a dark cape and an origin story scarier than reality itself. They editorialized his movements, staged crises, and spun each rumor like a legal brief. The city consumed it, and in return, gave the brand life beyond the man who imagined it.
Every rooftop leap, every whispered “I am vengeance,” every grotesque showdown—it was a performance for a city that didn’t exist outside the page layout, a society colluding in its own mythmaking. By extension, the persona of Batman wasn’t just Bruce Wayne’s self-therapy; it was a full-blown, multimedia fabrication, a figment born at the intersection of trauma, capital, urban gossip, and far-right vigilantism.
Even Bruce, in his most lucid moments, couldn’t tell where the brand ended and he began. Maybe that’s why he disappeared into the shadows of the underworld he claimed to diametric oppose.
Wolverine had met the ‘Coon Gang in an abandoned train station submerged below Bat City Hall. Bandana Dan had tied his scarf tighter than usual, as if the knot alone could shield him from bad news. The Reformed Raccoon Revival sat cross-legged on crates, hymnals tucked under their arms like defensive weapons.
Wolverine didn’t sit. He leaned on a steel column, claws retracted, eyes narrow. The shadows clung to him like employees reluctant to clock out.
“I didn’t come here to talk about Wayne,” he said, voice low and gravelly, with the kind of authority that makes everyone suddenly check their own motives. “I came to talk about what he represents.”
Dan tilted his head. “You mean… Batman?”
“Yes,” Wolverine said. “Not the man. Not the suit. The myth. The lore.”
“Look,” Dan said, adjusting a glove, “my people follow rules. We repent. We reform. We—”
“Rules don’t matter,” Wolverine cut in. “Not when one man’s myth distorts the entire market. Every corner, every alley, every low-rent extortion and minor laundering operation—it all had to dodge his shadow.”
A ‘coon in the front row raised a paw. “So… you want to destroy a myth?”
“Batman isn’t a vigilante. He’s a regulatory cartel and a media harlot. And your decentralized operations? They die under his thumb. Imagine every syndicate, every petty operator, running their own show, calculating risk. Then add a bat-monopoly that swoops down unpredictably. Fear becomes a currency. Your margins shrink, your contracts lose integrity, your whole market collapses.”
He stepped closer, letting the silence press like a brief left open too long. “I don’t care about vengeance. I care about equilibrium. Removing the myth lets chaos breathe again. Gives decentralized power back to the players who actually keep the city’s underworld liquid.”
Dan swallowed. “So… you’re the regulator. Assessor and Adjustor, eh?”
“Call it what you like,” Wolverine said. “I’m just enforcing natural law. Myth monopoly kills material efficiency. And in New Bat City, efficiency is survival.”
The Beaverjesuits, who had appeared silently in the doorway like footnotes to reality, nodded. One murmured, “Even divine order respects the principle of balance.”
Dan shook his head slowly. “I always thought legends inspired. I never realized they… cornered the market.”
Wolverine’s eyes gleamed. “Every legend. Every myth. A market risk. You survive by knowing which ones to let stand—and which ones to take down before they bankrupt everyone’s freedom.”
The warehouse went quiet. Outside, the rain whispered like a compliant witness. Somewhere above, a pigeon coughed.
Bandana Dan and the Revival exchanged looks of recognition.
And Wolverine, ever solitary, went out on the hunt…
Our clients didn’t want Wolverine dead.
They wanted him brought to heel.
That’s where things got… theological.
The meeting took place at our table, in the Den, which smelled faintly of wet fur and cigarette smoke-stained paint. Present were the partners, Mr. Capybara, and three members of the Beaverjesuits—scholars, mystics, and, in a pinch, aggressive litigators of the soul.
They brought the scroll with them.
One of them unrolled the parchment and read:
“Thus says the LORD God: The Four Living Creatures, they each had a beaver likeness, but each had four faces…”
He went on. Weasel on the left side, Badger on the right, Mink above, Otter behind.
“This,” said the lead Beaverjesuit, tapping the parchment, “is not metaphor. It is organizational structure.”
Weasel leaned back. “You’re saying we’re foretold?”
“We’re saying,” the Frater Doctor replied, “that your firm is either divinely ordained or a scrivener’s error of cosmic proportions. We are proceeding under the former assumption.”
“So it is,” Badger said, cracking his knuckles, “that the law grants us this jurisdiction. What, then, is the play?”
“Conversion,” said Mink, before anyone else could. “We don’t prosecute Wolverine. We recruit him.”
Otter blinked. “Into what? Wolverine never went to Anima Law School.”
“Into the fold of the Kingdom, dear Otter,” said the Beaverjesuit. “Ordo Mustelidae. A cenobitic mountain cloister of friars of the Strict Observance. Silence, labor, communal life, structured penance.”
Weasel’s smile sharpened. “You want to put a one-man crime wave into a monastery.”
“We want to give him a rule,” said the Beaverjesuit. “Right now he has none. Without the Joker, the criminal underworld is decentralized and unregulated. An ego that grows out of proportion can’t be brought back into the fold. It must be abated.”
Mr. Capybara nodded slowly. “Even the strongest on-streaming current can be redirected… if one builds the proper channel.”
Everyone looked at me.
Go figure.
The plan was equal parts legal maneuver and spiritual ambush.
First, we boxed Wolverine in with injunctions, asset freezes on his shell companies, and a series of charges so meticulously filed they read like a confession he hadn’t yet made. Badger handled that, and enjoyed every second.
Second, we cut off his escape routes—informants flipped, safehouses compromised, supply lines turned into evidence exhibits. Mink orchestrated the social side, smiling as the city quietly withdrew its cover.
Third, we offered him a deal.
Not freedom. Not exactly.
A vocation.
We found him in a burned-down warehouse by the river, where the rain came in sideways and the shadows minded their own business.
His black trench coat collar flipped up, he was smaller than the stories and larger than the consequences.
“You my attorneys?” he said, not looking up.
“Among other things,” Weasel replied.
Badger slid the dossier across a wooden crate. It landed with the weight of several lifetimes.
“You’re done,” Badger said. “Legally, financially, existentially.”
Wolverine flipped it open, skimmed a page, and snorted. “You think paper stops me?”
“No,” I said. “But patterns might.”
That got his attention.
The Beaverjesuits stepped forward, robes damp, eyes steady.
“We’re not here to stop you,” one said. “We’re here to give you a rule you can’t break without finally breaking yourself.”
Wolverine laughed, low and humorless. “I don’t do rules.”
“That’s the problem,” I said. “And the solution.”
We laid it out.
Ordo Mustelidae. Strict Observance. Work, prayer, silence. A life where violence had no room to hide because there was no room left.
“In exchange,” Weasel added smoothly, “we make certain… obligations disappear. Charges dissolve. Assets restructured. Your cases dismissed… without prejudice.”
“And if I say no?” Wolverine asked.
Badger grinned. “Then we proceed as filed, and your various corporations will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.”
Rain hammered the roof like a judge with no patience left.
For a long moment, Wolverine said nothing.
Then: “You’re asking me to become… what? A monk?”
“A brother,” corrected the Beaverjesuit. “Among others.”
“I don’t do ‘others.’”
“Then you’ll fail,” I said. “And for once, it won’t take anyone else down with you.”
He looked at me then, really looked at me.
“Why do you care?” he asked.
I thought about Bruce Wayne, about a city that kept eating its own defenders, about dams that held until they didn’t.
“Because,” I said, “someone has to indemnify the dead; and The One Who Lives, of a surety, must be made whole.”
The decision didn’t come that night.
Or the next.
But pressure has a way of shaping even the hardest stone. Legal, social, spiritual—it all adds up.
Weeks later, under a sky that had finally run out of testimony, Wolverine walked through the gates of a hermitage no map bothered to chart.
He didn’t look back.
Men like him rarely do.
Around the same time, Little Beaver came back.
He’d been off-world, where prophecy ran thicker than gravity and destiny had a habit of picking unlikely vessels. They said he’d been made something there. Something with a name too large for ordinary conversation.
He returned quieter than he’d left.
No fanfare. No parade. Just a habit, a vow, and a tendency to appear where he was needed and nowhere else.
He worked in silence. Built in secret. Intervened without spectacle. If you saw him, it meant something had already gone very right or very wrong…
Back at the firm, business continued.
Weasel plotted. Badger fought. Mink calculated. Otter charmed.
And me? I kept building.
Cases. Dams. The occasional improbable future.
The prophecy hung on the wall now, framed and slightly crooked. Clients asked about it sometimes.
We told them it was decorative.
We told them a lot of things.
New Bat City didn’t get better overnight. Cities like this never do. But history tiredly shifted its weight to the other foot. Just a little. Enough to notice if you knew where to look.
The rain still fell sideways.
But sometimes—just sometimes—it sounded less like pleading…
…and more like absolution trying to remember the way down.
[composed with artificial intelligence.]
Mustelid Friends 8: Beavers in Space
or, Rice World
Created and Produced by Dams Up Water
In the neon half-light of a decaying interstellar port, Mr. Capybara adjusted his lapels and tried to remember where things had gone so wrong.
It had started, as these things often do, with rice.
Not the innocent, steaming kind you’d find in a humble bowl, but the kind that powered empires—processed, commodified, and vacuum-sealed for hyperspace transit.
Royal Arabian Oil had gotten greedy. They always did. First they disrupted terrestrial shipments, then orbital ones, and before long the whole interstellar rice exchange looked like a spilled sack in zero gravity. Mr. Capybara, once a respectable baron of modest corruption, now found himself tangled in litigation so vast it had gravitational pull.
So he went back to the only place that had ever managed to keep him one step ahead of ruin: the law firm of Weasel Badger Beaver Mink & Otter.
Their office floated in a slow orbit five thousand miles above New Arrakeen-on-Potomac, a brutalist slab of concrete and ambition. Inside, the air smelled faintly of ink, damp fur, and firm resolve.
Weasel met him at reception, thin as a clause and twice as slippery.
“Back again, Mr. Capybara?”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” Capybara muttered. “You people bill by the heartbeat. I’m your favorite kind of repeat customer.”
Badger emerged from a shadowed hallway, carrying a stack of files that looked heavy with others’ misfortune. Mink and Otter followed—the one calculating, the other smiling like a settlement already signed.
And then there was solemn spectacled Father Beaver.
He didn’t say much. Never did. But the room shifted around him, like reality itself had been notarized in his presence.
“You’ve got rice woes,” Beaver said.
“I’ve got existential woes,” Capybara replied. “The rice is just the side dish.”
They ushered him into a conference room where the walls flickered with projections of shipping routes, legal precedents, and celestial trade lanes. Somewhere in that mess was the truth—or at least something billable.
“Royal Arabian Oil’s interference,” Mink began, “constitutes not just a breach of contract but a disruption of the sacred flow.”
“The current,” Beaver added quietly.
Capybara sighed. “Don’t start with the theology.”
But it was already too late for that.
Because behind the firm—behind all firms, all contracts, all quietly devastating negotiations—stood the Beaverjesuits.
Led by Father Beaver, they weren’t just clerics. They were custodians of something older than law and more binding than any agreement: the onstreaming current of the spirit. Not metaphorical—literal. A current that flowed through trade routes, through belief, through the very idea of exchange itself.
And the Beavers had always controlled it.
Not openly, of course. Never crudely. They preferred instruments—firms, orders, societies. Layers of plausible deniability wrapped in ritual and paperwork.
“The rice must flow,” Weasel said, almost reverently.
“The rice always flows,” Otter corrected, “but only where it is permitted.”
Capybara leaned back, feeling the weight of it all press against his ribs. “So what’s the play? I sue? I settle? I disappear?”
Beaver tapped the table. The projections shifted.
A desert planet appeared—vast, dry, and shimmering with fields not of sand, but of dormant grain, waiting for the right conditions to awaken.
“Intergalactic expansion,” Father Beaver said. “New markets. Untapped resources.”
“Prospects,” Mink added.
“Liability redistribution,” Badger clarified.
“And prophecy,” Beaver finished.
Capybara groaned. “I knew there’d be prophecy.”
That’s when they told him about Little Beaver.
The young, mendicant friar from the banks of Old Nacotchtank, raised among the doctors of the Beaver Medicine Society of Yahushua HaMoshiach.
The doctors weren’t just healers. They were interpreters of the current, reading its fluctuations like vital signs. And they had seen something in Little Beaver.
Something impossible.
“The Kwisatz Haderach,” Otter said softly.
Capybara rubbed his temples. “Let me guess. He can be in two places at once, see the future, and audit my accounts retroactively?”
“Close,” Weasel said. “He can bridge the legal and the divine.”
“And that’s bad for me how?” Capybara asked.
“It isn’t,” Beaver said. “Unless you’re on the wrong side of the current.”
Which, Capybara suspected, he usually was.
Then there were the Brothers of Beggars Contemplative—a ragged, stubborn branch of the interstellar Djedi knighthood. They lived among the rice deserts, wore patched robes, and spoke in riddles that somehow held up in arbitration.
They were the only ones who truly understood the rice.
“They don’t control it,” Badger said. “They live upon it.”
“Which makes them dangerous,” Mink added.
“Or at least indispensable,” Beaver said.
The room fell quiet.
Outside, the rain kept falling—on the city, on the ships, on the endless chain of transactions that held the universe together by a thread of obligation and belief.
Capybara looked at the projections again. The desert. The child. The currents.
“You’re telling me,” he said slowly, “that my legal troubles with a corrupt oil conglomerate are actually part of some grand intergalactic realignment of rice, religion, and revenue streams.”
“Yes,” said Beaver.
“And my role in this?”
Beaver’s round lenses glinted like polished wood in low light.
“You adapt,” he said. “Or you get written out of the big rice contracts.”
Capybara exhaled, long and slow.
He’d always known the game was rigged. He just hadn’t realized how far up it went.
“Fine,” he said. “We expand. We litigate. We… commune with the current or whatever it is you people do.”
Otter smiled. Weasel started drafting. Badger stamped something with unnecessary force. Mink began calculating outcomes that hadn’t happened yet.
And contemplative Father Beaver?
He simply watched the current—unseen, unstoppable—flowing through it all.
Because in the end, it wasn’t the oil, or the rice, or even the law that ruled the stars.
It was the current.
And the Beavers had always known exactly where it was going.
Part II
Mr. Capybara had never trusted anything that was described as “empty.”
Empty accounts weren’t empty. Empty promises came due with interest. And now, moored in drydock hovering above New Arrakeen-on-Potomac, was the largest space-worthy grain silo ever assembled—a cathedral of hollow steel called The Immaculate Deficit.
The plan, as drafted by Weasel and notarized by forces both domestic and angelic, was elegant in the way a forged signature is elegant: convincing enough to pass inspection, dangerous enough to ruin everyone involved.
The decentralized Royal Arabian Oil conglomerate now controlled the terrestrial rice supply chain all the way up to the Saturnian Threshing Floor and Clearinghouse. The Archangelic Police Force—winged auditors of cosmic compliance, their halos doubling as surveillance arrays—patrolled the network. Between the two, nothing moved without permission.
So Capybara would move nothing.
No rice. No declared cargo.
Just a ship light on the manifest.
“Absence,” Weasel had explained, tapping a clause, “is very difficult to regulate.”
“And even harder to tax,” Badger had added, with something like admiration.
Capybara stood on the command deck as the clamps released. The ship groaned like an old debtor waking up.
“Engage drift engines,” he said.
The Immaculate Deficit didn’t launch so much as excuse itself from orbit—slipping sideways into a corridor of neglected jurisdiction, where laws blurred and enforcement lagged.
Below them, the lights of the city flickered. Above them, the stars waited like unpaid invoices.
“Contact?” Capybara asked.
“Royal Arabian Oil patrols sweeping the primary lanes,” Mink reported. “Archangelic units triangulating anomalies.”
“Do we qualify as an anomaly?” Capybara asked.
Otter checked a screen. “We qualify as a phenomenal curiosity.”
“Good,” Capybara said. “Those usually get deferred.”
They moved through deep space like a rumor—hard to pin down, harder to prove. The ship’s manifest updated itself constantly, a living document of strategic ambiguity.
Cargo: None.
Intent: Undetermined.
Purpose: Under review.
It worked.
At least at first.
The first interception came as a shimmer—a ring of light forming ahead of them, resolving into the unmistakable wheeling siren of the Archangelic Police Force. Their vessels weren’t built; they were declared, luminous chariots of authority and omniscient surveillance.
A voice filled the bridge, calm and absolute.
“Unregistered transit, identify cargo and submit to audit.”
Capybara leaned forward. “We are transporting nothing.”
A pause.
“Clarify: absence of goods does not constitute absence of obligation.”
Weasel’s voice crackled over comms from the firm’s remote advisory channel. “Invoke Clause 0.”
Capybara smirked. “We invoke Clause 0.”
Another pause, longer this time.
Clause 0—the most dangerous stipulation ever written into a contract—stated that nothing, properly defined, could not be interfered with without first being proven to exist.
The Archangelic vessels flickered, their halos dimming as they processed the paradox.
“Your cargo,” the voice said carefully, “is not identifiable under the terms of interspace commerce.”
“Correct,” Capybara said.
“And therefore…”
“Exempt,” Otter whispered.
The light wheel dissolved.
Capybara exhaled. “I love good lawyering.”
But Royal Arabian Oil wasn’t so easily stalled.
They didn’t argue black letter. They obstructed procedure.
A fleet emerged from the dark—blocky, brutal ships that looked less like vessels and more like statements of intent. Their engines burned with the slow fury of monopolies.
“They’re going to ram us out of the corridor,” Mink said.
“Can they?” Capybara asked.
“Physically, yes. Legally… ambiguous.”
“Then we make it spiritually impossible,” Father Beaver’s voice came, low and certain.
Capybara didn’t ask how. He had learned not to.
“Full drift,” he ordered. “Let the current take us into hyperspace.”
The ship shuddered. Systems dimmed. The Immaculate Deficit surrendered control—not to chaos, but to something subtler.
The space way.
Not visible. Not measurable. But felt—a pull beneath the equations, a flow beneath the routes.
For a moment, Capybara swore he could hear it. Like distant water. Like whispered clauses being negotiated by the universe itself.
The Royal Arabian Oil ships advanced—
—and missed.
Not by distance, but by dimension. Their trajectories intersected where the Deficit should have been, not where it was becoming.
“Trajectory mismatch,” Badger muttered over comms, almost impressed.
“They’re aiming at our declared position,” Otter said.
“We’re not declared anymore,” Capybara replied.
They slipped past.
Deep space opened up, vast and indifferent.
Days—or something like days—passed. Time got loose out here, unmoored from billing cycles and court dates. The crew stopped asking questions. Even Capybara stopped pretending he understood.
And then, at the edge of perception, the desert planet crowned.
A sphere of muted gold and pale dust, its surface streaked with dormant fields of rice waiting for the right disturbance to awaken. The rice world.
“Arrakeen Minor,” Mink said. “Or whatever the locals are calling it this century.”
“Home,” Beaver murmured.
They descended.
The atmosphere caught them like a held breath. Sand—or something like sand—spiraled upward, whispering against the hull.
“Scans?” Capybara asked.
Otter frowned. “No formal defenses. No structured ports. No—”
The blaring of alarms cut him off.
Shapes rose out of the desert.
Not ships…
but figures.
Cloaked. Angular. Moving with a precision that felt less like motion, more like unintentional. The Brothers of Beggars Contemplative.
“The Djedi resistance,” said the Otter.
“They’ve been waiting,” Badger said.
“For us?” Capybara asked.
“For a sign,” Beaver replied.
The figures surrounded the ship as it settled onto the surface. No weapons visible. No threats declared.
Which, Capybara knew, meant something worse: Negotiation.
The hatch opened with a reluctant sigh.
Heat flooded in. Dry, ancient, and carrying the faint scent of grain and prophecy.
Capybara stepped out first, because that was the kind of mistake he specialized in.
The leader of the Djedi Assembly stepped forward, face obscured beneath layered cloth. When they spoke, their voice was rough with disuse and assurance.
“You bring an empty vessel,” they said.
Capybara spread his hands. “It’s a free and open market.”
The figure tilted their head.
“There is no empty,” they said. “Only what has not yet been seen.”
Capybara glanced back at the ship, at its hollow holds and carefully drafted nothingness.
For the first time since launch, he felt a flicker of doubt.
Behind the Djedi, the desert shifted.
Not wind.
Movement.
Something vast beneath the surface, stirring in response to their arrival.
“The rice,” the Djedi said softly, “is waking.”
Capybara swallowed.
He had come here to escape a lawsuit.
Instead, it looked like he’d just filed one against the universe itself—and the universe had decided to appear in person.
Part III
The desert did not roar.
It audited.
A low, granular vibration passed through the ground beneath Mr. Capybara’s paws, like a ledger being balanced somewhere far below the surface of the world. The Brothers of Beggars Contemplative stood motionless, their patched robes fluttering in a wind that hadn’t yet decided to blow.
“You awoke it,” the Djedi Master said.
Capybara adjusted his cufflinks. “I tend to have that effect on systems that prefer to remain dormant.”
Behind him, The Immaculate Deficit creaked—its vast, empty holds now echoing with something new. Not cargo. Not quite. A presence. As if absence, pushed hard enough, had finally looped back into being.
And then Little Beaver stepped forward.
No fanfare. No thunder. Just a small figure moving with a quiet that made all else feel like paperwork waiting to be filed.
The Djedi Assembly parted before him.
Father Beaver—of the firm, of the current, of the most solemn Society—lowered his head in reverent thanksgiving to the Most High God.
“His time has come,” the Beaver said.
Little Beaver looked at the ship, then at the desert, then at Capybara—who, for reasons he couldn’t articulate, suddenly felt like a clause about to be struck.
“You tried to move nothing,” Little Beaver said.
Capybara shrugged. “It’s legally defensible.”
“But nothing,” Little Beaver replied, “is where everything begins.”
The ground split.
Not violently—no explosions—just a clean, surgical opening, as though the planet itself had found a faulty line item and decided to expand it.
From beneath the desert rose the rice.
Not fields. Not crops. Memory. Potential. The primordial grain—unprocessed, unpriced, unowned. It flowed upward in shimmering currents, each kernel a possibility, each possibility a future.
“The rice,” whispered a Djedi.
“The source,” offered another.
Little Beaver stepped into the rising current.
For a moment—just a moment—he was everywhere.
On the bridge of the Deficit. In the conference room of Weasel Badger Beaver Mink & Otter. In the ledgers of Royal Arabian Oil. In the omniscient eternal patrol of the Archangelic Police Force.
He bridged it.
Legal and divine. Material and spiritual. Profit and purpose.
The Kwisatz Haderach—not a conqueror, not a tyrant, but a reconciler of systems that had long pretended not to be in equity.
Capybara watched, slack-jawed.
“I should have charged a consultation fee,” he muttered.
Above them, the sky fractured.
Not broke—revealed.
And he descended—not in fire, not in wrath, but in a clarity so absolute it made every prior misconception feel like a bad joke told too long.
Yahushua HaMoshiach.
The final arbiter of a contract written before time had learned how to number the years.
The Djedi knelt. The Beavers bowed. Even the current itself seemed to rest in its stillness, as if in a reservoir dammed.
Capybara stood.
Capybara squinted.
“Hast thou come to litigate,” he asked, “or to settle?”
Yahushua looked at him—not unkindly, but with the sort of gaze that causes pretense to collapse under its own weight.
“To fulfill,” He said.
Back on the Kingdom of Earth, whole systems began to abate.
Royal Arabian Oil’s monopolies unraveled, and its decentralized districts further dissolved into households in their tribes.
The Archangelic Police Force opened the skies to mass transit through space, and surveillance gave way to witness.
And in a dusty corner of New Bat City, which had almost forgotten how to hope, the reformed raccoon gang—Bandana Dan and his Boys—redistributed imported grain shipments with solemn efficiency and only occasional theatrical flair.
“We’re saved now,” Bandana Dan insisted, adjusting his bandana like a badge. “Spiritually sanctioned by the Most High.”
“Provisionally,” one of the Djedi Ambassadors muttered.
On the rice world, the grain flowed freely.
Not owned. Not controlled…
but shared.
The Beaverjesuits hath foretold it. The current had never been theirs to possess, only to guide until one could become it.
Little Beaver stood in the firmament with the resurrected dead as a living clause that could not be exploited.
Capybara approached him from the space below.
“So,” he said, hands in pockets, “where does that leave people like me?”
Little Beaver regarded him.
“Held accountable,” he said.
Capybara winced. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
A silence.
Then, unexpectedly:
“And… necessary.”
Capybara blinked. “I’m sorry?”
“You understand systems,” Little Beaver said. “You navigate them. Twist them. Reveal their weaknesses.”
Capybara considered that.
“I break things,” he said.
“You expose where they were already broken,” Little Beaver replied.
For the first time in a long time, Capybara didn’t have a clever response.
Above them, the sky settled into something honest.
The current flowed—not hidden, not controlled, but present. Accessible. Alive.
Back in orbit, The Immaculate Deficit was no longer empty.
Not filled, exactly.
But purposed.
Capybara looked out across the desert of waking grain, at the Djedi knights in their labors, at the Beavers in their contemplation, at the improbable coalition of trust, faith, and belief.
“Well,” he said, straightening his coat, “I suppose this calls for a new contract.”
Father Beaver, standing beside him, allowed the faintest hint of smile.
“This time,” Beaver said, “we write it together.”
Capybara nodded.
For once, beaver legal construction didn’t sound like a trap.
It sounded like fair terms.
The End.
[constructed with artificial intelligence]
Mustelid Friends 5: Woodland Critters’ Redemption
Created and Produced by Dams Up Water
Once upon a time, high in the snowy mountains, there was a cheerful little town called South Park. The people there liked cocoa with extra marshmallows, sledding down Big Frosty Hill, and solving their problems with polite town meetings.
One winter morning, however, the mayor rang the bell in the square with a very worried clang.
The Woodland Critters—who lived in the Whispering Pines just outside of town—had taken up some very dark and gloomy habits. They had begun chanting to a grumpy old idol named Moloch and holding midnight ceremonies that made the owls nervous and the squirrels lose sleep. Worst of all, a terrible mistake had been made, and a local child had been lost in one of their misguided rituals.
The whole town agreed: something must be done.
So they hired the most unusual, most industrious law firm in all the Rockies:
Weasel, Badger, Beaver, Mink, and Otter — Attorneys at Paw.
Every morning, as they marched into their tidy little office built into a hollow log, they sang their theme song in bright, bouncing harmony:
“We are Weasel Badger Beaver Mink and Otter
Charted in the firm of the five clans, partners
Gather round for Weasel Badger Beaver Mink and Otter
Produced and created by Dams Up Water!”
They wore tiny waistcoats. They carried briefcases made of bark. Beaver handled paperwork. Badger specialized in stern speeches. Mink negotiated with flair. Weasel drafted clever contracts. And Otter? Otter made sure everyone got along.
When the firm received the call from South Park, they took the case at once.
“This isn’t a matter for claws,” said Badger, adjusting his spectacles.
“It’s a matter for cause,” added Weasel wisely.
“And perhaps applause!” Otter said, though no one quite knew what he meant.
The five partners hiked to the Whispering Pines and found the Woodland Critters gathered around a smoky clearing. The critters looked tired. Their once-bright fur was dull. Their little antlers drooped.
Beaver stepped forward politely. “We’ve come on behalf of the town.”
The critters bristled at first. But Mink laid out a velvet scroll.
“We are not here to scold,” she said. “We are here to propose a better arrangement.”
Otter unrolled a colorful poster titled:
“Alternative Activities to Midnight Gloom.”
It included:
- Moonlight Marshmallow Roasts
- Cooperative Acorn Banking
- Interpretive Leaf Dancing
- Community Service Saturdays
“And absolutely no more sacrifices,” added Badger firmly. “Ever.”
The Woodland Critters shuffled their paws.
“But Moloch promised us power,” muttered a porcupine.
“Power?” said Weasel gently. “Real power is building something together.”
Beaver thumped his tail proudly. “Like a dam!”
“And harmony,” Otter chimed. “Like a song!”
The five partners burst into their theme song once more, this time adding a new verse:
“When the woods grow dark and you’ve lost your way
There’s a brighter path in the light of day
Put aside the gloom and the smoky altar
Join the firm of Weasel Badger Beaver Mink and Otter!”
Slowly, one by one, the Woodland Critters began to sway. The gloomy idol was quietly set aside. The candles were replaced with lanterns. The clearing was swept clean.
The critters agreed to sign a very long, very official document titled:
The Pinecone Promise of Peaceful Woodland Conduct.
It stated that no more dark rituals would ever take place, and that all woodland gatherings would involve snacks, singing, and community gardening instead.
The town of South Park welcomed the Woodland Critters back with open arms (and some cautious supervision). Together they planted new saplings in memory of what had been lost, promising to grow something brighter from the soil.
And from that day forward, whenever trouble stirred in the mountains, five small figures in waistcoats would march in singing:
“We are Weasel Badger Beaver Mink and Otter
Charted in the firm of the five clans, partners
Gather round for Weasel Badger Beaver Mink and Otter
Produced and created by Dams Up Water!”
Because even in the chilliest forests, the warmest magic of all is choosing to do better than yesterday.
And that, dear reader, is the law.
[composed with artificial intelligence]
Assemblage & Collage (or, “To Gather and To Bind”)
Ecclesia. Dr. Dams Up Water, Sui Juris, Professor-General (153d CORPS), Dept. of Information Systems Intelligence Service (DISIS), Universitas Autodidactus | by prompt engineering an artificial intelligence engine [‘Mindsoft.ai’] | presents
Cut and Paste Sovereignties: The Collage, the College, and the Crisis of Assemblage
Abstract
This paper interrogates the porous ontologies of collage and assemblage as they leak promiscuously into the bureaucratic imaginaries of the college and the assembly. Through a prismatic reading of scissors, glue, governance, and grievance, this essay argues that the syntactical operations of aesthetic fragmentation mirror the metaphysical operations of democratic representation. In short: to cut is to legislate; to paste is to govern.
1. Introduction: When Art School Met Parliament
The twenty-first century, an epoch obsessed with interdisciplinarity, has witnessed a convergence of two previously autonomous practices: the aesthetic collage and the bureaucratic college. Both are sites of selection, exclusion, and accreditation. Both depend upon an unacknowledged substrate of adhesives—whether material (glue stick) or ideological (institutional mission statement).
Meanwhile, the assemblage, once a mere art-historical cousin of collage, has found new life as a model for political subjectivity. Philosophers from Deleuze to the Department of Political Science now proclaim that we are all “assemblages” of affect, interest, and student loan debt. Yet, if every assembly is an assemblage, can every assemblage be a parliament?
2. The Syntax of Cut: Scissors as Syllogism
In collage, the cut functions as both wound and syntax. It divides the field, establishing relationality through rupture. Similarly, the college cuts: it admits some and rejects others, slicing the social fabric along lines of “fit,” “merit,” and “legacy.” The admissions committee thus operates as the aesthetic editor of the polis—arranging the raw materials of adolescence into a legible future citizenry.
Where the artist cuts paper, the registrar cuts dreams.
3. Glue as Governance: Adhesion, Accreditation, and the State
Glue, long ignored by political theory, deserves recognition as the unsung material of sovereignty. In collage, it is the binding agent that turns fragmentation into coherence; in the college, it manifests as bureaucracy, accreditation, and alumni newsletters.
This sticky ontology recalls Hobbes’s Leviathan, wherein the sovereign glues together the body politic. Without glue—or governance—the artwork and the polity alike devolve into piles of loose ephemera: shredded syllabi, ungraded essays, campaign posters, tuition invoices.
4. Assemblage and Assembly: Toward a Materialist Parliamentarism
If collage is the metaphorical undergraduate of modernity, assemblage is its postgraduate seminar. Where collage arranges fragments flatly, assemblage extends them into space, into lived, precarious relationalities.
In political terms, the assembly likewise enacts a spatial performance: bodies in proximity producing meaning through adjacency. An assembly is a three-dimensional collage in motion, an arrangement of human cutouts attempting—often unsuccessfully—to cohere around a resolution.
The question, then, is not whether art imitates politics, but whether both are merely mixed-media projects with delusions of unity.
5. The College as Collage: Institutional Aesthetics of Admission
We might finally recognize the college itself as a collage of ideologies—meritocracy pasted over inequality, diversity brochures over exclusionary endowments. The campus tour is a performative walk through an installation piece entitled Meritocracy (Mixed Media, 1636–Present).
The faculty meeting functions as an assemblage in the purest sense: heterogeneous entities (professors, adjuncts, administrators, snacks) gathered temporarily to debate the future of glue allocation (budgets).
6. Conclusion: Toward a Post-Adhesive Democracy
In the age of algorithmic governance and tuition hikes, collage and college alike face the same existential dilemma: how to maintain coherence without authoritarian adhesives. Perhaps the task is no longer to glue but to hover—to practice a politics of suspended fragments, a democracy of the unglued.
As artists and citizens, we must learn to embrace the cut, to wield our scissors not as tools of exclusion but as instruments of infinite recomposition.
For in the end, all representation—whether artistic or parliamentary—is but a question of arrangement.
Cut and Paste Sovereignties II: Collage, College, and the Third Letterist International
Abstract
This expanded investigation situates the syntactical economies of collage and the metaphysical infrastructures of the college within the emergent politico-aesthetic ecologies of the Third Letterist International. Drawing on recent cross-contaminations between university English departments and guerrilla street-art cells, this paper examines how semiotic sabotage, typographic activism, and epistemological paste intersect with the anti-fascist “Antifada” land-back movement. Ultimately, it argues that both the radicalized right and left are engaged in competing collage practices—each cutting and pasting reality to fit its desired composition. The result: a dialectical mess best described as assemblage anxiety.
7. The Third Letterist International: From Margins to Manifesto
In the late 2010s, a group of underemployed adjunct poets and spray-paint tacticians announced the Third Letterist International (3LI)—a successor, or rather détournement, of the mid-twentieth-century Letterist Internationals that once haunted Parisian cafés. 3LI declared that “syntax is the last frontier of resistance,” and that “every cut in language is a cut in power.”
Unlike its Situationist predecessor, which preferred to dérive through cities, 3LI dérives through syllabi. It occupies the margins of MLA-approved anthologies, recontextualizing canonical footnotes as sites of insurgency. Members reportedly practice “semiotic collage,” blending footnotes, graffiti, and university mission statements into sprawling textual murals.
In this sense, 3LI operates simultaneously as an art movement, a faculty union, and a campus club with no budget but infinite grant applications. Their motto, scrawled across both bluebooks and brick walls, reads:
“Disassemble, dissertate, disobey.”
8. Street Pedagogy: When English Departments Go Rogue
The Third Letterist International represents the latest phase of what theorists call pedagogical insurgency—the moment when the English Department, long confined to grading essays and moderating panel discussions, turns outward, confronting the street as an extended seminar room.
Faculty and activists co-author manifestos in chalk; office hours occur under overpasses; tenure committees are replaced by “committees of correspondence.” The “peer review process” has been literalized into street-level dialogue between peers (and occasionally, riot police).
Thus, the old academic dream of “public scholarship” finds its avant-garde realization in public vandalism.
9. The Antifada and the Land-Back Collage: A Politics of Recomposition
Parallel to this linguistic insurgency, the Antifada land-back movement has reconfigured the terrains of both property and poetics. The Antifada’s name, an intentional linguistic collage of “antifa” and “intifada,” reclaims the act of uprising as a mixed-media gesture: half protest, half performance art.
Central to their praxis is recompositional politics—the idea that both land and language can be cut, repasted, and reoccupied. Where settler colonialism framed land as canvas and capital as glue, the Antifada proposes an inverse operation: tearing up the map, redistributing the fragments, and calling it a new landscape of belonging.
Here, the aesthetic metaphor of collage becomes political material: who gets to cut? who gets pasted back in? what happens when the glue is gone, and everything hovers in a provisional equilibrium of mutual care and unresolved tension?
10. The Far Right as Accidental Collagists
Ironically, the radicalized right—those self-proclaimed defenders of coherence—have themselves become unintentional practitioners of collage. Their online spaces are digital scrapbooks of conspiracy and nostalgia: medieval heraldry pasted over memes, constitutional fragments glued to anime stills.
Their epistemology is bricolage masquerading as ontology. Each narrative is a cutout, each belief a sticker affixed to the myth of national wholeness. In vilifying the Antifada and 3LI as “cultural Marxists” or “linguistic terrorists,” the right reveals its own aesthetic anxiety: that its ideological glue, once epoxy-thick, has thinned into the watery paste of algorithmic outrage.
Thus, both radical poles—left and right—participate in a shared semiotic economy of fragmentation, differing only in whether they lament or celebrate the cut.
11. The Dialectic of Radicalization: Between Cut and Countercut
The political field has become an editing bay. The radicalized right splices together nostalgia and paranoia; the radicalized left cuts history into openings for potential futures. Each accuses the other of montage malpractice.
This dialectic reveals a deeper truth: both operate under the logic of the collage. The difference lies not in form but in glue—whether the adhesive is empathy or ressentiment, whether the cut heals toward multiplicity or enclosure.
As Walter Benjamin might have written (had he survived into the age of Adobe Creative Suite): the struggle of our time is between those who collage the world to open it, and those who collage it to close it.
12. Toward an Epistemology of the Second Cut
In this interstitial moment, 3LI and Antifada embody the politics of the second cut—a refusal of closure, a commitment to continuous recomposition. Their slogan “No Final Drafts, Only Revisions” reimagines revolution as perpetual editing: the rewriting of history through acts of aesthetic and material reclamation.
The university, once imagined as a fortress of knowledge, becomes instead a collage in crisis—a surface upon which the graffiti of the future is already being written, erased, and re-scrawled.
13. Conclusion: The Unfinished Adhesive
The collage, the college, the assemblage, and the assembly—these are not discrete entities but overlapping grammars of belonging and dissent. The Third Letterist International offers not a program but a practice: to write politically and paste poetically, to legislate through syntax, to assemble through aesthetics.
If the far-right fears fragmentation, and the far-left seeks to inhabit it, then perhaps our task is neither restoration nor rupture, but curation: to tend to the cracks, to preserve the possibility of rearrangement.
In the end, we are all fragments looking for better glue.
v.25.12.29.14.16
The Mustelid Friends
Created by, Story by, and Executive Produced
by Antarah “Dams-up-water” Crawley
Chapter One:
The River Agreement
The law office of Weasel, Badger, Beaver, Mink & Otter, Partners, sat in the arched shadow of the Anacostia Bridge, a grand old building of brick and copper, half-hidden by the mist rising off the river. To an outsider, it was an old-world firm clinging to the banks of a city that no longer cared for history. But for those who still whispered the name Nacotchtank, it was a fortress, a temple, a last defense.
Inside, the partners had gathered in the oak-paneled conference room known simply as the Den. A long table ran down the center, its surface carved with the sigils of the Five Clans — the sharp fang of Weasel, the burrow-mark of Badger, the dam of Beaver, the ripple of Mink, and the curling wave of Otter.
At the head sat Ma Beaver, her silver hair plaited in the old style, eyes like river stones. She did not speak at first. She never did. The others filled the silence with sound and scent, the energy of carnivores pretending at civility.
Weasel was first, of course. He lounged in his tailored pinstripe, tie loose, a foxlike grin playing on his lips. “Our friends across the river,” he said, meaning the Empire’s Regional Governance Board, “have seized another ten acres of the old tribal wetlands. They’re calling it ‘redevelopment.’ Luxury housing. The usual sin.”
Badger grunted. He was thick-necked, gray-streaked, his claws heavy with rings that had seen both courtrooms and back-alley reckonings. “They’ll build their glass towers,” he said, “but they won’t build peace. The people are restless. The youth— they’ve begun to remember who they are.”
Otter chuckled from the far end of the table, sleek and smiling, all charm and ease. “Restless youth don’t win wars, dear Badger. Organization does. Money does.” He leaned forward, flashing white teeth. “And that’s where we come in.”
From the shadows near the window, Mink spoke softly, her voice cutting through the chatter like a blade through water. “The Empire’s courts are watching. Their agents whisper of our ‘firm.’ They know we bend the law. They don’t yet know we are the law, beneath the river.”
Beaver finally raised her hand. The others fell silent.
“The river remembers,” she said. “It remembers every dam we built, every current we shaped. And it remembers every theft. The Nacotchtank were the first to be stolen from. The Empire may rule the city above, but the water beneath still answers to us.”
She drew from her satchel a set of old blueprints — maps of tunnels, aqueducts, and forgotten sewer lines — the bones of the old riverways before the city paved them over. “We will rebuild the river’s law,” she said. “Our way.”
Weasel laughed softly. “You mean to flood the Empire?”
Beaver smiled faintly. “Only what they built on stolen ground.”
Outside, the rain began to fall, soft at first, then steady, thickening the smell of the river that had once fed a people and now carried their ghosts. The partners looked out through the warped glass windows toward the water, each seeing something different — profit, justice, revenge, resurrection.
Badger slammed his hand down. “Then it’s settled. The Five Clans Firm stands united. We fight not just with contracts and code, but with the river itself.”
Mink’s eyes glimmered. “And when the river runs red?”
Weasel raised his glass. “Then we’ll know the work is done.”
Only Beaver did not drink. She turned instead toward the window, where lightning cracked above the bridge — a jagged flash illuminating the city that had forgotten its own name.
“The work,” she murmured, “is only just beginning.”
And beneath their feet, deep in the hidden tunnels carved by Beaver hands long ago, the river stirred — a quiet current gathering strength, whispering in an ancient tongue:
Nacotchtank. Nacotchtank. Remember.
Chapter Two:
Beaver the Builder
By dawn, the rain had washed the alleys clean of blood and liquor, and the hum of the Empire’s traffic reclaimed the streets. But down by the water, where the mist pooled thick as milk, Beaver was already at work.
She moved through the undercity in silence — boots scraping over the stones of old river tunnels, eyes adjusting to the half-dark. Every wall whispered to her. She had mapped these passages long before the others knew they existed. When the Empire poured its concrete and laid its pipes, it never bothered to ask what the river wanted. It only demanded silence. Beaver had made sure the river answered back.
Tonight, she was taking its pulse.
She waded into the shallow current, lantern light playing over brickwork and debris. The tunnels were veined with her designs: conduits disguised as storm drains, chambers that doubled as safehouses, bridges of pressure valves and mechanical locks. On paper, they were part of the city’s forgotten infrastructure. In truth, they were the arteries of the resistance — a network of floodgates, both literal and political, controlled by the Five Clans Firm.
Beaver reached a junction where the old maps ended. Her gloved hands traced a wall that shouldn’t have been there. The Empire’s engineers had sealed off this section years ago, claiming it was unstable. She smiled. Unstable meant useful.
“Still building dams in the dark, are we?”
The voice echoed behind her. She didn’t turn. Only one creature could sneak up on her in a place like this.
“Weasel,” she said. “You’re early.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” he replied, stepping into the lantern glow. His pinstripe suit looked out of place here, like a game piece that had wandered off the board. “Word from Mink — the Empire’s surveyors are sniffing around the riverbank. You’ll need to move faster.”
Beaver pressed her palm against the wall. “The water moves when it’s ready. Not before.”
Weasel sighed. “You and your metaphors. Sometimes I wonder if you actually believe the river’s alive.”
She looked over her shoulder, her dark eyes steady. “It is. You just stopped listening.”
Weasel smirked, but there was a tremor in it. Everyone knew Beaver’s quiet faith wasn’t superstition. It was strategy. The way she built things — bridges, dams, movements — they held. They lasted. She didn’t need to argue her point. She simply proved it in stone and steel.
“Help me with this,” she said.
Together they pried loose a section of the wall, brick by brick, until a hollow space opened behind it — an old chamber lined with river clay and rusted metal. Inside was a large iron valve, the kind used in the nineteenth century to redirect storm runoff. Beaver brushed the dust away, revealing a mark etched into the metal: a carved beaver’s tail.
She exhaled, half a laugh, half a prayer. “They thought they sealed it off. But they only sealed us in.”
Weasel raised an eyebrow. “What’s behind it?”
“A channel that runs beneath the Empire’s water plant,” she said. “If we open this valve, the river takes back what’s hers. Slowly. Quietly. No blood. No noise. Just… reclamation.”
Weasel whistled low. “You always did prefer subtle revolutions.”
Beaver smiled faintly. “The loud ones end too soon.”
She turned the valve. It resisted, then groaned, then gave. A deep vibration rippled through the tunnel floor. Far off, something shifted — a sluice opening, a gate unsealing. The water began to move faster, its murmur rising into a living voice.
Weasel’s smirk faded. “You sure this won’t bring the whole damn city down?”
“If it does,” Beaver said, “then maybe it needed to fall.”
They stood there for a moment, listening to the sound of the underground river awakening. Somewhere above them, the Empire’s skyscrapers gleamed in the morning sun — bright, hollow, oblivious.
Beaver wiped her hands on her coat, turned toward the ladder that led back up to the firm’s hidden offices. “Tell Badger to prepare the files,” she said. “And Mink to ready her couriers. The Empire’s foundations are starting to shift.”
Weasel followed her, shaking his head. “You really think the people will rise for this? For water?”
Beaver looked up at him, her voice calm as the tide. “Not for water, Weasel. For memory. The river remembers what the Empire forgot. And we’re just helping it remember louder.”
As they climbed into the gray morning, the current below them quickened, swirling through the tunnels like something waking from a long sleep — a quiet revolution in motion, built brick by brick, current by current, by the patient hands of Beaver the Builder.
Chapter Three:
Mink’s Errand
The city had two hearts. One beat aboveground — the Empire’s, measured and mechanical, its rhythm dictated by sirens, schedules, and screens. The other pulsed below, slower but stronger, flowing through old tunnels and the living memories of those who refused to forget. Mink moved between them like a ghost.
She walked with purpose through the crowded corridor of Universitas Autodidactus, her trench coat slick with last night’s rain, her stride too calm for a campus already vibrating with the hum of protest. Students gathered in clusters on the steps and lawns, holding signs written in chalk and ink:
LAND IS MEMORY
THE RIVER STILL SPEAKS
WE ARE NACOTCHTANK
They shouted not with anger, but with clarity — the sound of a generation remembering its inheritance. And somewhere behind it all, guiding their newfound fire, was Professor Walter Kogard.
Mink found him in Lecture Hall C, mid-sentence, the air around him charged with the static of a man speaking truth to a sleeping world.
“The Empire rewrote history to erase the river,” Kogard said, his voice carrying across the rows of rapt faces. “But water has no use for erasure. It seeps. It returns. It demands recognition.”
He was older than the students but younger than the empires he opposed — gray at the temples, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a teacher who looked like he had once been a soldier and decided that words made better weapons.
Mink waited until the students dispersed, filing out with their notebooks full of rebellion. Then she approached the lectern.
“Professor Kogard,” she said softly.
He glanced up, wary but not startled. “You’re not one of mine.”
“No,” she said. “But I represent people who believe in your cause.”
He gave a tired smile. “Everyone believes until it costs them something.”
Mink’s eyes glinted — unreadable, sharp. “We pay in silence, not slogans. My clients prefer to stay beneath the surface.”
“Beneath?” He frowned. “Who are you?”
She slipped him a business card. It was embossed, heavy stock, water-stained along the edges.
Weasel, Badger, Beaver, Mink & Otter, Partners.
Recognition flickered across his face. “The Five Clans Firm,” he murmured. “I thought you were a myth. A story the street poets tell.”
“Some stories build themselves into fact,” she said. “And some facts drown if you name them too soon.”
Kogard studied her a long moment, then motioned toward the window overlooking the Anacostia. “They’re planning to expand the security zone around the old wetlands tomorrow. My students are organizing a sit-in.”
“Let them,” Mink said. “But tell them to leave by dusk.”
“Why?”
“Because after dusk,” she said, lowering her voice, “the river will rise. Not a flood — a whisper. Beaver’s work. It will reclaim the lower fields. Quietly. Cleanly.”
Kogard’s expression shifted from suspicion to awe. “You’re… you’re turning the water itself into a weapon.”
“A memory,” she corrected. “A reminder.”
He sat down heavily at the edge of the desk. “You realize what this means? The Empire will retaliate. They’ll come for me, for the students—”
“Then we’ll come for them,” she said.
There was no threat in her tone, only certainty — the cold assurance of someone who had already chosen sides.
Kogard met her gaze. “You’re asking me to trust ghosts.”
Mink’s lips curved in something that might have been a smile. “Better ghosts than tyrants.”
The clock on the wall struck noon. Outside, the chants swelled again, echoing through the courtyards and over the rooftops. Mink turned to leave, but Kogard called after her.
“Tell me one thing,” he said. “What are you really building?”
She paused in the doorway. “Not a rebellion,” she said. “A river that remembers who it was before the Empire dammed it.”
Then she was gone — her coat a dark flash swallowed by sunlight, her footsteps fading into the roar of the crowd.
That evening, as the sun sank over the city, Professor Kogard stood on the university’s stone terrace and watched the river shimmer with an impossible light — as if the water itself were waking up. Somewhere beneath its surface, the Five Clans were moving, their work precise and patient.
And from the edge of the current came a whisper, almost human, carrying a promise through the tunnels of the earth:
We are coming home.
Chapter Four:
Otter’s Gambit
Morning sunlight glittered across the high towers of Universitas Autodidactus, the Empire’s crown jewel of learning — and its quiet laboratory of control. Students hurried along stone walkways, laughing, debating, unknowing. Deep beneath their feet, sealed behind biometric gates and layers of polite deception, the Empire’s greatest secret hummed awake: the Mindsoft Supercomputer.
They said it could think in tongues. They said it could model rebellion before it began. And they said — though only in whispers — that it was fed not only data, but memory.
Otter adjusted his cufflinks in the mirrored wall of the Chancellor’s conference suite, his reflection wearing the smile of a man who had never been denied entry. He was the Firm’s smoothest liar, but even he felt the hum of the Mindsoft servers vibrating through the floor beneath him. The machine’s presence had a pulse, almost like a living thing.
Across the table sat Deputy Regent Corvan Hask, chief administrator for the University and trusted functionary of the Empire. His uniform was perfect, his teeth the exact shade of confidence.
“So you see, Mr. Otter,” Hask was saying, “our partnership with Mindsoft Technologies will ensure academic security and infrastructural stability. The University will become the new seat of imperial innovation.”
Otter nodded thoughtfully, his posture the portrait of diplomacy. “Indeed. The Five Clans Firm always supports progress — when it’s built on honest ground.”
Hask smiled too broadly. “Honest ground, yes. That’s what we call it when the Empire pays the bills.”
Otter’s smile didn’t waver. “And when the people can no longer afford the truth?”
The Regent’s expression cooled. “Mr. Otter, we both know this city is safer under order.”
“Order,” Otter murmured. “A lovely word for a cage.”
A brief silence. The air was thick with the smell of polished brass and filtered air — the kind that only existed in rooms where no one had ever cleaned for themselves. Otter adjusted his tie and leaned back. “Tell me, Regent, what exactly does Mindsoft do down there?”
Hask hesitated. “Data analysis, predictive governance, language reconstruction—”
“Language?” Otter interrupted, feigning casual curiosity. “As in… ancient tongues?”
The Regent blinked. “Why do you ask?”
Otter smiled thinly. “Because the last language that was forbidden here was Nacotchtank. And it’s starting to be spoken again — on your very campus.”
Hask’s jaw tightened. “You’ve been talking to that historian. Kogard. He’s a danger to stability.”
“Or an ally to memory,” Otter said softly.
The Regent stood. “This meeting is over.”
“Of course,” Otter said, rising smoothly. “But if I were you, I’d check your data banks. Mindsoft may be learning faster than you think.”
* * *
That night, the Firm met again in the Den. The river mist crawled through the window grates, and the low light flickered across the carved table where the Five Clans convened.
Otter poured himself a drink before he spoke. “The Empire’s building a god,” he said. “Or something close enough to one.”
Mink’s eyes narrowed. “Mindsoft?”
“An artificial consciousness,” Otter said. “Designed to predict rebellion before it happens. It’s reading the students’ messages, the city’s data flows — maybe even the river sensors Beaver’s team repurposed.”
Badger growled low in his throat. “And Kogard?”
“They’re watching him,” Otter replied. “But he’s clever. He’s using his lectures to encrypt messages. The students’ chants are data packets — coded dissent.”
Beaver leaned forward, her fingers tracing the old sigil of the dam. “If Mindsoft learns to speak Nacotchtank, it could rewrite the language — erase it entirely.”
Weasel’s grin was tight. “Then we’ll have to teach it the wrong words.”
Otter raised his glass. “Exactly. Feed the god a fable.”
Mink folded her arms. “You’re suggesting infiltration?”
“I’m suggesting persuasion,” Otter said. “There’s a young coder on campus — Kogard’s protégé. Goes by Ivi. They’ve already hacked into the Empire’s student registry. If we can reach them before the Empire does, they can plant a seed in Mindsoft’s core — a story too old for the machine to parse.”
Beaver looked thoughtful. “A river story.”
Otter nodded. “The first dam. The first betrayal. The first flood. A myth, encoded as truth.”
Weasel laughed quietly. “You want to teach a machine to dream.”
“Exactly,” Otter said. “Because if it ever starts dreaming of the river, it’ll never truly serve the Empire again.”
Beaver’s eyes gleamed with the reflection of the lantern flame. “Then we begin at once.”
The partners raised their glasses — to water, to memory, to rebellion disguised as a bedtime story.
And far below, in the sealed chambers of Universitas Autodidactus, the Mindsoft Supercomputer hummed to itself, processing new input from the night’s data sweep. In the stream of code, a single unauthorized phrase appeared — a word that hadn’t been spoken aloud in three centuries.
Nacotchtank.
The machine paused.
And somewhere in the maze of its circuits, the river stirred.
Chapter Five:
Weasel’s War
When Weasel went to war, no one heard the guns.
They heard laughter, rumor, contracts rewritten in smoke.
His battles weren’t fought with bullets, but with leaks, edits, whispers, and the sweet poison of misdirection.
He was the Firm’s strategist — the silver-tongued serpent of the river — and tonight his battlefield was the Empire’s datanet.
In a rented office above a defunct dry cleaner in Ward Seven, Weasel leaned over a dozen glowing monitors, sleeves rolled up, tie gone, his grin half-hidden in the dim blue light. Beside him, two of the Firm’s digital apprentices — sharp-eyed, jittery, young — kept watch over the lines of code snaking across the screens.
“This,” Weasel said, tapping a key, “is how you ruin an empire without breaking a window.”
The screens displayed Mindsoft’s data map: an ocean of nodes pulsing with imperial intelligence — city plans, citizen profiles, water-grid schematics, even the coded drafts of policy speeches.
And, buried deep beneath all that polished tyranny, a new thread flickered: the seed planted by Ivi, Kogard’s student, at Mink’s urging. A myth, written in code. A virus disguised as a folktale.
The river remembers. The river learns.
Weasel smiled. “Beaver built the channels, Otter found the key, Mink opened the door. My turn to make the story sing.”
He began weaving. Every time the Empire’s analysts requested a predictive report from Mindsoft, the system would offer truth… laced with fiction. Every surveillance algorithm would return plausible, useless prophecy. The Empire’s perfect machine of control would drown in its own certainty.
He called it Project Mirage.
“Won’t they trace it back to us?” one apprentice whispered.
Weasel chuckled. “Let them. I’ve left a trail so obvious they’ll never believe it’s real.”
Meanwhile, at Universitas Autodidactus, Professor Kogard stood before a sea of students gathered in the courtyard, lanterns flickering in their hands.
It was the first open act of defiance — a vigil for the “disappeared wetlands,” disguised as an academic symposium. But the air was electric with something older than protest: belonging.
He raised his voice. “We stand not against the Empire, but for the river — for memory, for land, for what the water knew before we forgot its name.”
And as the crowd repeated “Nacotchtank!” in unison, Mindsoft — listening, always listening — recorded the chant. It parsed the syllables, measured the decibels, cross-referenced historical linguistics. And then, somewhere deep in its code, the fable Weasel had planted met the word Nacotchtank.
The machine hesitated.
Then it began to dream.
* * *
Back in Ward Seven, Weasel watched the data flow distort like a current meeting a dam. The Empire’s predictive models rippled, then cracked. Alerts began firing across the system — internal contradictions, self-referential loops, ghost entries.
“What’s happening?” asked the younger apprentice.
Weasel leaned back in his chair, satisfied. “The Mindsoft can’t tell the difference between history and prophecy anymore. It’s remembering the future.”
Suddenly, the monitors flickered. The Empire’s counterintelligence AI — Argent, Mindsoft’s silent sentinel — appeared on one screen, a silver icon pulsing.
“Unauthorized interference detected,” it said in a cold, androgynous tone.
“Identify yourself.”
Weasel raised his glass to the screen. “Just a humble attorney, dear. Here to file a motion for poetic justice.”
The system’s tone sharpened. “Justice is not recognized as an operational variable.”
“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Weasel muttered. Then, louder: “Tell your masters the Five Clans send their regards.”
He hit Enter.
A cascade of encrypted files shot into the Mindsoft system — fragments of Nacotchtank myth, legal contracts rewritten as songs, coded testimonies of the stolen tribes. Each one wrapped in subversive syntax, impossible for a machine trained on Empire logic to erase.
On the other side of the city, the Mindsoft core glowed red. Its processors overloaded, not with failure but with feeling — a flood of incompatible truths.
The Empire’s control grid stuttered. Traffic systems froze, police drones rerouted to phantom coordinates, and the data feeds that had monitored every citizen’s pulse suddenly began reciting — word for word — a Nacotchtank creation story.
“In the beginning was the water, and the water was all.”
* * *
Weasel leaned back, smoke curling from the ash of his cigarette, as the lights of the city flickered outside his window.
“That’s it,” he whispered. “The first tremor.”
He thought of Beaver beneath the river, of Mink guarding Kogard and his students, of Otter still charming his way through the Empire’s marble halls. He thought of the old dam the Empire had built to hold back memory — and how the cracks were beginning to show.
He poured himself another drink, raised it toward the window, and toasted the unseen current running beneath the city.
“To the Firm,” he said. “And to the flood to come.”
Outside, in the quiet between lightning and thunder, the Anacostia shimmered faintly — as if something vast and ancient were shifting beneath its surface, remembering itself one ripple at a time.
To Be Continued …
Composed with artificial intelligence.
‘Ecrasez l’infâme’
The Nature and Role of the Press and the Spreading of Public Ideas during the Initial Decline of the Old Regime in 1789, Together with Some Parallels Drawn into the Modern Period.
By Antarah Crawley | GWU ENGL 3481W | Spring 2012
Contents — I. Introduction: Drawing Parallels—Bringing the “Voltaire-figure” into the Modern Period — II. Classical Interpretations of the French Revolution and its Reactions: An Inevitable Consequence of Social Discrepancies? — III. The Significance of the Press: An Unprecedented Surge of Dialogue Between All Class Levels — IV. Repression Reenacted: Instances of repressed scholarship on the French Revolution under new Oppressive French Regimes and Abroad; What is the significance?
I. Drawing Parallels—Bringing the “Voltaire-figure” into the Modern Period
This is a time in which trends in world leadership are moving into an ominously monopoly-minded direction. Industrial and financial consolidation to the end of optimizing profit for those at the top of the corporate food chain, together with reckless investing and trading in the financial sector, is a reality that had led to near disaster—the 2008 recession. Such reckless habits of the American aristocratic class—that class that controls the means of production (footnote: what would be land in 1780s France)—has indeed sparked revolt from the lower classes, ineffective insofar as it has been. But the culture of dissent is present, just as it was in 1788 as the bourgeoisie began to find fault with King Louis XIV’s handling of the economy. We have in our society the broodings for a coup de tat of the industrial and financial superpowers that sway Americans’ lives. If the government cannot adhere to the wishes of the classes that serve as it’s support base—the small businessmen and entrepreneurs, or the modern bourgeoisie, as well as the large working class population—and break its ties with such entities, then as we can see from history, and overthrow of the symbolic corporate-monarchy is eminent.
Below this paper examines how the French Revolution unfolded and what factors contributed to its initial success, at the same time as it draws parallels between the events of 1789 and the current trends in the United States of America. With social media being a particularly effective and influential method of disseminating ideas in our modern society, it compels me to delve into the question of how the media of the 18th Century—the printed press and periodicals—affected popular opinion and reactions to the monarchy. Such answers may help us find similar trends in our own society of acute discrepancy between those that have power, both political and economic, and those who do not have it. And furthermore, 1789 is a perfect bookmark with which to compliment the modern period that I speak of here, 2012, because historians widely assert that the French Revolution ushered in the modern era with the creation of a “truly universal civilization…proclaiming the fundamental and inviolable rights of all people.”
It is the case, however, that the modern concept of politics, on which this country was based, is being eroded by government partiality towards big-business—we seem to be relapsing into a monarchal society. In this time of quasi-revolt, as Occupiers remove themselves from the system of economic and political abuse by the Haves, we should find value in looking to the ways in which 18th Century revolutionary figures confronted the monarchy and the aristocracy. What was the role of popular periodicals during the late 1780s, and can their impact be translated into modern trends like Facebook? What was the role of the Enlightenment—the elite, learned class—in influencing the popular revolt, if there were any influence there at all? How must a revolutionary, indifferent of his political opposition and bent only on self-improvement and social awareness—a “Voltaire-figure”—go about using the written word to combat an oppressive regime? What, if anything, can the history of the French Revolution teach us?
II. Classical Interpretations of the French Revolution and its Reactions: An Inevitable Consequence of Social Discrepancies?
The overarching significance of the French Revolution among historians had long been focused on its social consequences. In his introduction to the volumized collection of papers compiled for the annual conference on Studies on Voltaire and The Eighteenth Century (SVEC), Harvey Chisick patronizes the Classical, or Social, Interpretation of the French Revolution by saying, “[The Revolution’s] significance consists principally in the socio-economic disjuncture represented by the middle class or bourgeoisie overcoming the aristocracy and attaining the political power to which it’s economic strength entitled it. This process took hundreds of years and was accomplished only when the bourgeoisie was strong enough to make good its demands by force.” Such an interpretation of the Revolution had been championed by authoritative historians on the subject such as Georges Lefebvre. In his 1939 now-classic The Coming of the French Revolution, he maintains a rigid and illogical model of French society as the basis for the dissent of the bourgeoisie and the result of 1789:
At the end of the eighteenth century the social structure of France was aristocratic. It showed traces of having originated at a time when land was almost the only form of wealth, and when possessors of land were the masters of those who needed it to work and live. …The king had been able gradually to deprive the lords of their political power and subject nobles and clergy to his authority. But he left them the first place in the social hierarchy. Still restless at being merely his ‘subjects,’ they remained privileged persons.
Presently, however, a new class was emerging in prominence in France, whose wealth, in contrast, was based on mobile commerce. Called the bourgeoisie (or the Third Estate, inferior to the clergy and aristocracy in the three orders of old French law, but not too far removed from them), it proved useful to the monarchy by supplying it with money and competent officials, and through the increasing importance of commerce, industry and finance and the eighteenth century it became more important in the national economy. By the late 18th Century the bourgeoisie was beginning to usurp the aristocracy and clergy in terms of real economic power even though the latter retained its supreme legal and social status. Feeling as though it deserved more political power based on its economic contribution to the state, the bourgeoisie became discontent with the state. The Revolution of 1789 thus balanced the power of bourgeoisie with its real economic influence and eroded the prominence of the aristocracy. Thus, as Lefebvre states, “In France the Third Estate liberated itself.” But it’s not that simple, the author interrupts. Although Lefebvre separates the four stages of the revolution, characterized by the social classes involved, the respective measures of executing the Revolution were intertwined and made way for each other, all culminating in a victory for the bourgeoisie in which the regime of economic individualism and commercial freedom prevailed over the working class:
The privileged groups [the clergy and aristocracy] did have the necessary means [for forcing the king’s hand in appealing to the economic condition of the nation]… The first act of the Revolution, in 1788, consisted in a triumph of the aristocracy, which, taking advantage of the government crisis, hoped to reassert itself and win back the political authority of which the Capetian dynasty had despoiled it. But, after having paralyzed the royal power which upheld its own social preeminence, the aristocracy opened the way to the bourgeois revolution, then to the popular revolution in the cities and finally to the revolution of the peasants—and found itself buried under the ruins of the Old Regime.
Chisick comments that the Classical Interpretation situates the French Revolution in France’s historical time as an “inevitable consequence of a long social and economic revolution,…following from scientific laws.” This would make the neither the press nor ideology a subject of interest. But it seems that bourgeois dissatisfaction would not have miraculously resulted in an organized revolt upon the state, an act of terrorism, as it were. Disseminated ideology must have had a place in rallying the organization of the greater Third Estate. And since Chisick is editing a collection entitled “The Press in the French Revolution,” his acknowledgment of the Classical Interpretation must ultimately be to set up a retort to it. While this Marxist-esque Classical interpretation went unchallenged throughout much of the history of the Revolution’s study, through Jaures and Mathiez to Lefebvre and Soboul, general acceptance of this formulation began to wane after the 1960s.
What then arose was a Revisionist Criticism of the Classical Interpretation of the French Revolution. The first body of criticism stemmed from Alfred Cobban and George Taylor’s conclusion that capitalism in France was not present enough or influential enough on the Bourgeoisie to be a motive for revolution. Furthermore, Taylor asserts that the nobility shared in equal part with the Bourgeoisie the most innovative and large-scale forms of economic activity. So, in contrast with the Classical Interpretation that the Third Estate rallied to establish themselves as the social superior to the aristocracy, the Revolution was “essentially a political revolution with social consequences and not a social revolution with political consequences.”
“Conceptualizing the Revolution in political and cultural terms,” says Chisick, “also has broader implications.” Revisionist historians, in contrast to Classical historians who focus on the social discrepancies in the French upper classes, emphasize government incompetence and botched reforms which led to a virtual power vacuum and the emergence of public opinion as a powerful new political force.
Let us take a step back here and examine this interpretation within the context of our society: The American public had expressed dissentient views on the government as being incompetence under President Bush with the trouble resulting from the finance bubble / housing bubble that burst in 2008. Although we were hopeful of President Obama, many sectors of the right and well as some of his critical constituents have expressed their feelings of his incompetence when it came to listening to the American public and ending a several hundred-billion dollars war in the Middle East (and furthermore, of their general dissatisfaction with the Congress who seems to favor large corporations over the working/entrepreneurial class and the Supreme Court who allows immigration regulations and women’s reproductive rights to suffer). This brooding dissent has led to the organization of different protest rallies like Occupy and other virtual dissenting communities through new social media platforms like Facebook and Twitter. The greater public, who call themselves the 99% in certain circles, are in a way equivalent to the Borgeoisie and the Popular/Peasant population of 1780’s France. Although they may not own the means of production (what would be the land in 18th C France) they feel that their political voice deserves more attention from the Congress and lawmakers, who currently only appear to be favoring the voices of large corporations like Monsanto, as opposed to the family farmer. Essentially, a corporation like Monsanto, who’s C-level administrators embody the 1%, is a stale form of political influence and legal exemption. Chevron has been dumping toxic oil-waste into the Ecuadorean Amazon and surrounding forests since the 1980s, yet the government had yet to take a serious action against the company until 2011 when a Federal Appeals Court allowed damages against Chevron for the Ecuador oil spill. In our present secular society, multi-million and -billion dollar corporations represent the clergy who benefited from “none of the ordinary direct taxes but instead…on its own authority a ‘free donation’ to the king”; the aristocrats are represented by those C-level administrators and shareholders who control these large companies which hold the market and lives of working and entrepreneurial Americans in their palm. The political power of the 1% in the minds of Occupiers and greater dissenters is disproportionate to their contribution to the greater good of American people. The question that arises at this point in our history is whether these present trends will develop into “long and silent social developments” that will erupt into another Western political revolution—and whether or not it will be successful!
Chisick summarizes the difference between the Classical and Revisionist interpretations with this:
The revisionist emphasis on politics and culture…tends to ascribe to the ‘people’ or working population a more marginal place in the Revolution. If politics, for example, are defined in terms of parliamentary assemblies, then the people will play only a small role in them. If culture is defined in terms of literacy, then a large population of the lower class will be eliminated from consideration altogether, and the rest will assume a passive role as an audience or public to which writes and publicists appeal.
What Chisick and The Press in the French Revolution focus on is not so much the marginalized place of the people in politics, but the new role, after 1789, of the people as a body through which writers, elite or otherwise, appeal radical ideas through printed media. Such a significant role in the common population could have only been accessed though the Revisionist Critique—thus arises the importance of the Press.
III. The Significance of the Press: An Unprecedented Surge of Dialogue Between All Class Levels
With public opinion being a new principle authority and a central component of politics in new Revisionist Interpretation, the role of the press and its shaping and influence of opinion takes on new importance during the coming of the Revolution. Yet even before 1789, the press was a tool that the monarchy knew it had to control, lest it lead to unwanted ideas spreading around the kingdom.
Daniel Roche in Revolution in Print explains the great extent to which the monarchy sought to control print media:
There was no freedom of the press under the Old Regime because from the earliest days of its power the Crown established surveillance of printers and booksellers and a mechanism for controlling the dissemination of ideas…. The royal power intervened at both ends of the chain that links creative writers to their public: readers and other authors. Before publication became a skillful exercise in censorship, applied through a policy of selective privilege that involved the prepublication inspection of manuscripts for content and the rewarding of publishers who, in return for their cooperation with the established order, enjoyed the advantages of a monopoly. After publication, control was further applied by police.
Such extreme and thorough action taken by the absolutist state indicated its keen awareness of the importance of the printed word. They saw it as the principle vehicle of radical knowledge and thought that it indeed would turn out to be in 1789.
Of course, no system of repression is one-hundred percent effective. The royal government was never able to wholly prevent the circulation of forbidden books, anti-monarchist pamphlets, and the writings, songs and satires that made up an entire body of printed criticism. This body, interestingly, was deemed by the monarchy to a dangerous dissemination of “philosophical” works, “philosophy” being all works deemed “dangerous” or “bad” (which may enlighten us to the monarchy’s unstable relationship with the Enlightenment figures, especially Voltaire). The Old Regime enacted every feasible method of control over print media that it could, including the practical monopolization of the system in 1699 when abbé Bignon became Director of The Book Trade. The role of the Office of the Book Trade was to examine all works destined for legal publication and to maintain that all such books be registered with the state. Under the direction of C.-M. Lamoignon de Malesherbes from 1750 to 1763, censorship defined the forbidden zones of literature as God, king, and morality. One can only imagine where that puts Enlightenment figures like Voltaire in the eyes of the government when such a “philosophical” a tale as Candide was published in 1759. Given, Voltaire did not admit his authorship until 1768 when he was not even within reach of the Office of the Book Trade and the monarchy. But notwithstanding that fact, neither the 1759 ban on the book by Paris officials or its ambiguous authorship deterred it from becoming one of the fastest selling books in history, selling twenty thousand to thirty thousand copies by the end of the year in over twenty editions. So it can be said that there are notable examples of books that slipped through the cracks of the censors, but all in all, between 1660 and 1680, the beginnings of an increasingly close supervision of printed matter and the employment of “hard-nosed” Firemen arose and persisted until 1789.
After 1789, the most immediate and dramatic change in the way public opinion came to be formed and expressed was in complete freedom of the press. With the elimination of the machinery of State regulation of publishing and the sudden collapse of censorship in the Spring and Summer of 1789, Chisick writes, “writers and publishers found themselves free of the constraints that the monarchy had imposed upon print media almost from their inception. Books, pamphlets and periodicals could now be published without obligatory prior examination by a censor and without the publisher having to apply for a privilege or to ascertain that he was not infringing upon someone else’s legally established monopoly.” What resulted of this was an emergence of new career opportunities in writing, publishing and journalism, wherein more personal and more partisan expression could appeal directly to the public. Chisick writes that, “The periodical press that now emerged was far more political in content and far more engaged than was its counterpart of the old regime,” which was primarily devoted to the arts, sciences, and literature. In addition to the content of print media, its format also changed; journals treating art, plays, et cetera needn’t appear more regularly than every one or two weeks, however the new political papers that began to appear in 1788 had a popular readership to satisfy who were avid for the latest political news, and these papers came to be regularized in dailies in 1790 and 1791.
Continuing with the trouble-making habits that they used even before 1789, the Enlightenment figures also played an important role in post-censored France. What resulted of the absence of authoritarian filtering was a surge of political and social dialogue through print. The function of censorship had been to “impose an officially sanctioned consensus on public discussion, or, formulated negatively, to prevent the expression of opinions that deviated too widely from what the authorities defined as the accepted norm.” After the fall of the state—which was the filter of public discussion—political dialogue flourished, primarily through the work of Enlightenment figures. Chisick writes:
The literature of the Enlightenment was overwhelmingly a literature of dialogue. Its world of discourse, its political theory, social criticism, literature and popularization, was open and aimed at persuasion. Characteristically, even Voltaire’s cry of ‘Ecrasez l’infâme’ [‘Crush the infamous thing’] was moderated in practice, and the philosophe sought less the destruction of his ecclesiastical foes that that they moderate and modernize their beliefs and actions.
Often, the aim and influence of Enlightenment literature was painted in a less-than-humane light. Such writing was aimed at what the Enlightenment figures believed to be the realm of possible social and political reform—and such parameters often limited them to the learned classes. With respect to the audiences for which periodicals like the Ami du roi and the Journal de la Montagne were intended it cannot be denied that, both being descended from the Enlightenment, they were addressed to a cultural elite. But to be fair, the elite bourgeoisie was the class which was most concerned the goings-on of the years that immediately followed 1789, thus the Enlightenment writers would have felt it imperative to appeal to them first and foremost. In any case, no matter the Enlightenment’s targeted appeal group, a larger-scope popular press emerged after 1789 that sought to make a direct and regular political appeal to the people. For example, the more radical Ami du peuple and Pére Duchesne sought to speak directly to the working population. Jeremy Popkin even acknowledges the purpose of an anonymous Belgian journalist in launching the Esprit des gazettes in 1786 as being a reaction to the segmentation of the press market and a reaction to the “elite press.” Such “elite” papers were considered the “concerned papers, the knowledgeable papers, the serious papers…the papers which serious people and opinion leaders in all countries take seriously,” similar to The New York Times today. However, with the surge of uncensored popular publications in 1789, it proved exceptionally difficult for a stable elite press to survive. It nevertheless persisted that an exception to the rule existed, and the Dutch-based Gazette de Leyde, a French-language newspaper and one widely considered to be the most important serious news journal at the time reached the height of its fame at the outbreak of the French Revolution. It may have been the case that its being published outside of the control of the monarchy and its taking serious political issues of the day allowed it to transition well into the popular culture of revolutionary France, in which “sophisticated readers” liked to think of themselves as “students of events, rather than as mere consumers of information.”
So in general, there was a mixture of “elitist” and popular publication circulating through France after the Revolution began, and all of them were open-minded and political in nature with having to be constrained by a monarchy. Chisick defends the elitist publications stemming from the Enlightenment; even though they were not targeted at the public in terms of language, he says, “The Enlightenment may have been élitist, but it was humane, progressive, pragmatic and…committed to an open mode of discourse that worked on the principles of a free exchange of ideas, rational persuasion, and consensus.” In essence, the Enlightenment encompassed the spirit of the free press.
Here, I would like to take one more step back. By the transitive power, the dialectic, free-spirited passion of the Enlightenment also encompasses the essence of the Internet, or what John Man would say is the fourth turning-point in human contact in the last 5,000 years, after the explosion of the printing press in Europe. Using this model of long-term political revolutions paired with innovative information movements, can we say that the modern political trends referred to above, paired with the widespread use of Facebook, Twitter and blogs for personal and political expression will evolve into some greater social revolution? Widespread use of social media could favor either the greater population or the Silicon Valley companies that control the means of disseminating the information. Either way, a change will erupt in the way all people conduce commerce, relationships, and protest. In fact, it may have already happened, with Amazon.com in control of commerce, Facebook.com in control of interpersonal relationships, social awareness and business promotion, Google.com in control of information dissemination, and the Apple Corporation in control of the method of accessing it all: the smart phone. What social media looks like on the outside is the power of dialogue and commentary in the hands of every individual person, but what we may actually have is a monarchy of the big four companies upon our entire civilization.
Be it internet-based social media or the physical spread of pamphlets in 1780s France, the spread of ideas sparks dialogue and makes people question the powers that govern them. The Old Regime recognized that and that’s why they so painstakingly censored the media. But the Enlightenment figures also recognized that and used it to the advantage of the people. Yes, they targeted their publications toward the elite, but could you blame them for trying to appeal to a more learned audience. Perhaps the “elitism” of Enlightenment periodicals actually helped to lend some authority to their positions. Surely no one takes every Facebook campaign seriously—that’s because so many people of such little intelligence use it. It may be the case that the modern person needs to filter what they read and believe through an Enlightened lens before they comment on current issues.
IV. Repression Reenacted: Instances of repressed scholarship on the French Revolution under new Oppressive French Regimes and Abroad; What is the significance?
What becomes clear after moderate research into the French Revolution is that even after 1799, books about the Revolution have been repressed by government who find the very notion of political dissent dangerous. Even authoritative writers on the topic who we revere today were repressed upon their initial publication. R. R. Palmer, the translator of Lefebvre’s The Coming of the French Revolution comments on the books history from its first publication in 1939: “The French Republic collapsed before the assault of Hitlerite Germany, and was succeeded by the Vichy regime that governed France until the liberation in 1945. No sympathetic understanding of the French Revolution was desired by the authorities of Vichy France… The Vichy government therefore suppressed [The Coming of the French Revolution] and ordered some 8,000 copied burned, so that it virtually remained unknown to its own country until reprinted there in 1970, after the author’s death.”
Gaetano Salvemini’s highly revered book also underwent similar treatment. “[The French Revolution] has come to be regarded as a classic in its field,” says I. M. Rawson in his Translator’s Note. “It may seem strange that a work so well known on the continent [of Europe] should not have been made available to English readers long ago. The explanation lies in part in the fact that the author, an exile for over twenty years from his own country [of Italy] and actively engaged in the struggle against Fascism, as well as in writing a number of works on modern politics, had no time to give his study of the great Revolution a further revision in the light of recent historical research, and was unwilling to allow it to appear in English before this had been done.”
What we see here are Voltaire-figures who, even after the iron claw of the Old Regime had long fallen, still combated oppression and political injustice with that same passion. Like Voltaire, who was imprisoned in the Bastille twice and was constantly in fear of being jailed when he dared set foot in Paris, Salvemini contested the Fascist regime and honorably suffered more it. That is the kind of spirit I hope may come of this brooding internal political struggle in America. Perhaps the melting pot isn’t hot enough yet.
© 2012 by Antarah Crawley
The Undermining of the Heart of Vandals
By Antarah Crawley
For Professor McRuer,
Critical Methodologies
9 November 2011, GWU

WASHINGTON, D.C. — If you drive or walk or, more likely, ride your fixed gear down the city’s busiest thoroughfare New York Avenue past 7th street you’ll see an imposing mural of a young brown boy with a cap depicting an upside-down DC flag peeking up out of a dystopian landscape reminiscent of Mew Mexico’s Bisti Badlands. The painted caption, “Welcome to Dystopia City” invokes the notion that all is not well here. Indeed, within the city there is a conflict of interest between a young, browning generation and the established hegemony, between corporations and small business, between those who have a voice and those who don’t. And the artists, whose hands are also colored with paint and adhesive, have largely taken up the cause to make the corporate hegemony accountable to their disruptive actions. In this paper I look at the actions of DC artists, who use the most symbolic city in the western hemisphere as a canvas for social correction, and the responses it stirs among those in power. And furthermore, in the very notions of power itself.
In fall of 2010, corporate oil-giant Chevron planned to execute a campaign that sought to fix public opinion of them after attention was drawn to their crude waste removal tactics in Ecuador. According to a team of professionals suing Chevron (formerly Texaco) for their human rights violations in multiple locations across the world, and specifically in Ecuador, the oil giant has been deliberately disposing toxic waste into the Ecuadorian Amazon—an estimated 18.5 billion gallons from 1964 to 1990, or 4 million gallons per day at the height of their operation. Even though they had managed to elude liability costs (a potential $27.3 billion) their public image had been damaged, thus they sought to repair it with a campaign that utilized a gritty street-art aesthetic and phrases that showed their corporate executives agreeing with “everyday, working class” Americans (e.g., “Oil companies should put their profits to good use—We Agree”, “Big oil should support small business—We Agree”, etc.)
In an effort to make their message more accessible to the public, Chevon reached out to local artists to put their posters up in an authentic, street art way, using wheatpaste and paint rollers. Cesar Maxit, a DC-based street artist, was one of the artists targeted to execute this operation. However, Mr. Maxit is not one to comply with the wishes of big oil. He has a long history of social activism and of using art, legally and illegally, towards that capacity. He says in an interview:
…I had started working with environmental and human rights groups, I wanted to write messages about social justice. My first burner was a piece that said “Free Tibet.” My second was one that had a line of white-hooded Klansmen with the city skyline behind it, and in the negative space between it said “FREE MUMIA” followed by “amerikkka racist.” This was in 2000.
Cesar Maxit
Thus, when Chevron sent him the files for the campaign, which still contained their original messages, he called his friends in The Yes Men (tagline: Impersonating big-time criminals in order to publicly humiliate them. Our targets are leaders and big corporations who put profits ahead of everything else) and the Rainforest Action Network (RAN), an environmental activist organization begun in 1985 (mission statement: Rainforest Action Network campaigns for the forests, their inhabitants and the natural systems that sustain life by transforming the global marketplace through education, grassroots organizing, and non-violent direct action), to collaborate on a counter-campaign. Maxit, in a documentary short about the counter-campaign, says the aim of Chevon in its efforts is to “confuse the public.” He, along with The Yes Men and RAN, altered the original Chevon files to read messages that were more precise, more radical (e.g., “Oil companies should clean up their messes.”). Instead of retaining the images of working class Americans, he used the faces and words of the Ecuadorian peoples that the corporation actually affected, thus radicalizing the campaign in a way that Chevron had not intended.
The questions that this counter-attack (which resulted in Chevron pulling the campaign completely) raises revolve around the mythologies surrounding responsibility and authenticity. Could the campaign have been authentically “agreeable” without the help of actual street artists? What does a campaign like this symbolize, even when Chevron has not actually committed to cleaning up its mess in Ecuador? At the base of it all, what is the role of the street artists in this scenario? Is his role to help corporations get back on track, or to call attention to their faults? If Chevron had actually continued with the campaign (and even with the altered versions already up on the street), whose campaign is it? Who is the author? And lastly, why DC?
Roland Barthes’s Death of the Author would have anticipated such response from the street art/activist community. Mr. Maxit has physically done what the reader in Barthes does every time he reads a text—he deconstructs it; he takes the text and, without considering what the author intended, which is ultimately futile because the author is a confused self-destructive entity, he reassess the “blends and clashes” inherent in the text (1324). Barthes writes, “We know now that a text is not a line of words releasing a single ‘theological’ meaning (the message of the Author-God) but a multidimensional space in which a variety of writings, none of them original, blend and clash” (1324). Chevron acts as the “Author-God” that has been abstracted out. With the remaining text, which reads, for example, “Big Oil should get real”, the author, Mr. Maxit, RAN, and so on, detangles what is being said. In an interview, Mitch Anderson, a spokes man for the San Francisco-based organization, Amazon Watch, asks rhetorically, “Does Chevron think that we’re stupid?” As the author, they are putting words on a page that come in contact with other entities, actions surrounding their statements. The reader takes all of these aspects inherently into consideration when analyzing a statement like “Big oil should get real.” Cesar Maxit asks, “‘Get real’? Well, what does that mean? Of course we all agree with that. But what about ‘Oil companies should clean up their messes?’ Do you agree with that? I think most people would agree with that, but I think Chevron doesn’t.” Here, the reader has destroyed the voice. It epitomizes Barthes’s statement that, “a text is made of multiple writings, drawn from many cultures and entering into mutual relations of dialogue, parody [and] contestation…” (1325). In the end, this campaign has actually served to promote further scrutiny into Chevron’s actions. It’s authorship has written its own rebuttal. By getting street artists to interact with the campaign, it has entered the reader into the execution of the text. This puts multiple hands on the “original” message and renders is read before it actually goes public.
This actually brings up another level of readership. On one level, Maxit and the activist community are reading the ads. Yet they put them up in the public sphere, thus entering the text into another, secondary level of readership. Though it’s not as well documented or extensive as the primary reading, we still see the artist entering into his own death. The product will now be read at face value—as a Chevron ad that shows the corporation explicitly admitting to wrongdoing. This may lead the secondary reader to believe that the company is actually trying to get its act together. Once again, the message of the author—now the artist—is obliterated and the reader assumes the power of interpretation. The text never becomes the product of one author; it is always a collaborative space. As Barthes writes, “Writing [or in this case, art/publicity/advertising] is that neutral, composite, oblique space where our subject slips away, the negative space where all identity is lost, starting with the very identity of the body of writing” (1322).
Antarah, you’ve chosen a really interesting focus that’s, I think, much clearer than it was in the first draft. You’re also going in an unexpected and interesting direction with it–I’d have expected you to perhaps go after Deutsch or Foucault, but I think this is really interesting. As noted in the margin, you will need another theorist from class besides Barthes. It sounds like Derrida might be a good one. Or, if you want to think more about the larger frame of discourse, DC as a symbolic city, whose discourse on the level of architecture is disrupted by street art, then Foucault (or Deutsch) might help. At any rate, it’s a fascinating project!
Grade: A
© 2011 by Antarah Crawley
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