A Slice of Class Cake

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Mara Leverkuhn

Birmingham last week.

Been out to dinner with “respectable” professor of economy.

Talking about social historical philosophical and economic issues spanning all human history.

Lavish restaurant. Endless courses and fucking pompous cocktails with half a mango in them, exotic erotic names and little umbrellas. This is rococo France all over again. Champagne, candles and prostration from a totally submissive and oppressed staff. The magnitude of the opulence — excessive, obscene. Useless and pedantic. From little stories on the menu to make the act of eating stuff you’re meant to shit into some sort of heightened experience… The mind boggling pretentiousness of everything. And then the waitress that attends to our table with a tortured fake smile. Crushed and dead on the inside, going through the motions of polite ass kissy conversation because it’s — not her job, but her captivity. Psychological prisoner. And if she as much as acts human, not Robo-waitress, for a millisecond, she’ll get her ass kicked and possibly end up in the street.

And you know what? The evening offered some mathematical cornucopia. Right out of the restaurant, young, almost attractive homeless people. Maybe that waitress wasn’t just stuffy and terrified because “these damn frigid women” or “goddam paupers buzz killingtons”; she maybe knew the downgrade from gilded slavery to fat diners was directly rough sleeping in a sleep sack next to junkies in Rape Alley.

My dinner date? Joyous economic sophisms on merits of the British. He’s Indian. Talk about Stockholm syndrome. How’s that double anal penetration coming along, pal? You don’t bite the hand that feeds, do you? Deep throat, rather.

Open plan kitchen so that slobbering diners can witness their oral enema being cooked. By what looked like brutalised, hopeless, crushed, automatons. Big fellas look Eastern European with dead eyes. Through the steam of the kitchen looking nightmarish. For the fat inane bastards to have retarded “cultured” conversation about plays they see and galleries they troll; not real appreciation of art or anything, just a sort of snob douchey mutual cultural patting on the head.

I used to go to these plays and events and film festivals and talks and shit. Always come home disappointed, “maybe it was the wrong play”; “maybe it was the worst film in the festival”. NO. IT’S VACUOUS, IT’S THE RULE. It’s not meant to muse on the reality of human nature. And contemporary reality. Or even the truth from Dead Ages. Or any worthwhile goals of a sane human being.

This pseudo culture mass produced in Britain is a hypnosis device for halfwits that need to feel savants and superior; to justify their neoliberal capitalist lifestyle; to motivate them to throw their Carcasses under the machination of power, to generate infinite power for someone else — and get probably some trinkets in return. Cars, Michelin dinners, formula 1 tickets in Singapore, skiing in Ischgl, experimental Shakespeare. The emperor is naked, douche bags! You sit there talking about your purchases :“did I do good?”; “do I get a biscuit” — but in posh flat accents. And it’s all a big fart.

On the walk back to the hotel, scratch glitz and sycophantic waitress and artificial warm and chatter — forest of devastated homeless people in the freezing cold. Eerily young and pretty. Haunting. I tremble. Cameron’s Britain. I hear the Tories’ sinister laugh in their gold palace as the fools let themselves eviscerated.

My pal: ”I often think of helping them but it’s the question of incentivising failure, you know?“; “They need to know worth is earned”.

I vomit on his face, the big Michelin fancy pants dinner.

No, I don’t really. Wouldn’t it be cool if I did?

Then I see a silhouette, my heart skips. A picture of utter desolation and hopelessness. A woman sitting in the dark, upright, knowing she’s dying. Silent dignified despair. In a pack of loud homeless men. She doesn’t look old or ugly. Just worn out. It’s freezing.

I feel ashamed by my red nails and designer bag. I give her my change. Only a pound left. I feel awful. She looks up and thanks me deeply, gracefully. I shiver with shame. But I walk on.

My pal starts to talk about charities he contributes to. I’d vomit but I’m lost thinking of the woman.

And I go to bed in my hotel thinking of her. Torn between the shame of not going back to help and the rage at this country of slaves that passionately defend slavery, waving their capitalist trinkets like monkeys.

This is Britain. DOESN’T IT FUCKING SUCK?!!!

Two

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Todays task in our activist advent calendar is to write to your MP or MSP to tell Israel to have courage and leave occupied Bethlehem and the Palestine West Bank. For extra credit, you can also write to the Israeli embassy in London.

You can find your MPs contact details here and details of the Israeli embassy here.

Remember, they work for you. one letter might not make a difference, but together we can force change.

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Main image by John McHarg 

Written by Victoria Pearson 

One

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It’s the first day of advent, and we are making this festive season the kindest yet!

Today’s task – have a look at your MP or MSP’s voting record here.  How welcoming are they to refugees?

We don’t want to be the stingy innkeepers turning away vulnerable people. We are not full. There is room at the inn.

If your representative isn’t showing compassion to refugees, write and tell them that you’re unhappy with that.

If they are showing proper kindness and compassion toward the vulnerable, send them a card and let them know you think they are doing the right thing. Contrary to available evidence, MPs are people too. They deserve to know when they are getting it right.

You can find you MPs contact details here.

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Main image by Debra Torrance 

Written by Victoria Pearson

Bisexuality, from a bisexual

 

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Chuck Hamilton 

Bisexuality is not a point on a spectrum that has heterosexuality on one end and homosexuality at the other. It’s more like the flip-side of a coin with monosexuality on its reverse. Monosexuality includes both of those other sexual orientations, heterosexuality and homosexuality, that in truth have more in common with each other than either do with bisexuality. Yes, heterosexuals who only have sexual attraction toward the individuals of the opposite sex and homosexuals who only have sexual attraction toward individuals of the same sex share many characteristics, but less so in both cases with bisexuals.

The idea of bisexuals flitting back and forth between partners of both sexes is, in virtually all cases, a myth. The overwhelming majority of bisexuals, male and female, are predominantly either mostly androphiliac (attracted to men) or mostly gynephiliac (attracted to women). Bisexuals such as Freddie Mercury who alternate with ease across the gender lines, true biphiliacs, are a rare exception. In Freddie’s case, he had more opportunity.

Although sexual attraction may be slightly influenced by culture, society, and advertising, sexual attraction itself occurs due to biochemical physiology that is beyond the control of the individual caught in its throws. This is true whether you’re straight, gay, or bi. For bisexuals either predominantly gynephiliac or androphiliac, an intense attraction toward someone of the other gender often comes by surprise and sometimes at the most inconvenient of times. I’ve known I’m bisexual at least since I was fifteen years old. But I lean so heavily gynephiliac that it makes that easy to forget frequently, believe it or not.

Bisexuality is misunderstood and often ridiculed not only among straights but among gays (male and female) as well. Many straights thinks of us as crypto-gays and many gays think of us as cowards passing as wannabe-straights the way many light-skinned blacks once often passed as white to avoid legal or extralegal discrimination, and as some still do. If it were a choice, I would choose to be monosexual of either variety, straight or gay. But it’s not.

When I first became aware of my occasional sexual attraction toward males at fifteen, I was really confused because, like most adolescents (and adults), I was caught up in the dichotomy of straight versus gay and had not ceased being intensely attracted to girls and women (still haven’t, in case you’re wondering), so I was just confused and decided to put off dealing with it till later. As if normal teenage angst weren’t enough to worry about.

Fortunately at the time, I was just getting involved in the youth activities of the Episcopal Church’s Diocese of Tennessee. We had a very active chapter at our parish and I got very involved at the diocesan level also. The atmosphere was very open and egalitarian and non-judgmental. Boys and girls were equal, no one was bullied, outsiders were accepted as they came, and if they chose to remain the same, still accepted. Outside of official activities, we smoked, drank, toked, and had sex like any other teenage group.

Then came university, where I joined a fraternity. The culture of the Greek system was radically different, more traditional, with rigidly defined roles. The second-class status to which women were relegated within the system overall disturbed me. I felt like there was something wrong with me because I actually liked women. Saw them as something other than to fuck or help out with bake sales. To be fair, not all frat guys are like that, but, at least at the time, that view dominated. And nearly all the Greek women, sorority girls and fraternity little sisters, accepted their role as second-class members of Greek society.

I should note, by the way, that I’m talking about “Greek” as in the collegiate fraternities and sororities in Neverland that identify themselves with Greek letters. Like Delta Tau Xi in the 1978 movie Animal House, only with better grades (usually) and not as much fun (usually). Absolutely no relation to the country of Greece.

To add to my sense of psychological dislocation, those drives I’d first experienced in adolescence burst forth shouting to be heard. They weren’t in response to any one person in particular, and may have risen because of the repressive nature of the Greek subculture. The fact that I also became even more attracted towards women made it even worse.

Things reached a crisis point spring semester that year, after the expectation of being an associate member had ended and initiation finished. I underwent severe emotional turmoil and would have killed myself were it not for my best friend in the fraternity. Even though I was still attracted to women, those other feelings made me afraid I was gay. I almost killed myself because if I were gay I couldn’t go out with women anymore.

Yes, I know how stupid that sounds. When I told that to my friend at the time, he laughed his ass off, and after being offended for a moment, I started laughing too.

I made it through university in four years, though I ceased being active in the fraternity after my sophomore year. Six months after graduating, I enlisted in the Navy the very day the USS Challenger blew up shortly after take-off.

When I got to my duty-station in the Philippines, I began having lots of casual sex with lots of women with whom I had little emotional connection and those bi urges appeared again. I never followed through on them due to the military prohibition against same-sex sex at the time, but the more random fucking I did, the stronger they got.

During the NIS investigation of me on suspicion of espionage, one of the issues was whether or not I was homosexual or had any sexual experiences with other males. Lengthy sessions with the base psychologist and a battery of psychological tests showed I wasn’t, and the polygraph didn’t even blink when the question came up. When my CO was explaining why he was going to classify me RE-4, barring me from re-enlisting, on the grounds that I was gay, I opened my mouth to object, but then he added, “or bisexual”, and I couldn’t say anything, because I knew that was true.

By that time, I was dating the woman who would become my second fiancée, whom I later married. I never got those other urges with either her or my previous fiancée. Nor, I should add, during my relationship with my girlfriend in Paris.

My ex-wife and divorced six years later, and after lots more random fucking, sometimes even with married women, I quit having sex. About a year later, in my mid-30s, I finally tried sex with men, a few times anyway. Maybe it was because the sex was casual, but emotionally I felt nothing. That doesn’t mean I got no physical pleasure from it; I did. But I knew that continuing to have sex with other guys knowing that I could never have the kind of emotional connection that I could achieve with a woman was not good for me and unfair to them. Of course, looking back on my life, I’ve also worried about being able to have a quality emotional connection with a woman too.

So, I’m bisexual. But I’m also monogamous. I will not get involved sexually with anyone with whom I do not have a solid connection emotionally, spiritually, and intellectually as well as physically. If that were to happen with a man, it would be by accident over a long period of time, but then that would probably be the same case with a woman (isn’t falling in love always an accident?). This is the case, I believe, with most bisexuals, at least after they have adjusted to what they have either discovered or can no longer deny about themselves.

For me, that has to be the case, because without an intense emotional connection, the alternative for me—casual sex with many people of both genders—is not something the structure of our societies or the emotional make-up of most of us humans is ready for.

In truth, labels such as “heterosexual”, “homosexual”, “bisexual”, “androphiliac”, “gynephiliac”, etc., should be stricken from our language. Labels are not about accuracy, they’re about definition, and definition in this case is about limitations and control, or rather hate, just as much as it is in the case of defining God, where the first step in trying to dominate God is belief.

If someone is anti-gay, anti-lesbian, anti-bi, even anti-straight, what you are really is anti-human, and as a human, I object to that, no matter how human your anti-human feeling is. If someone has found another human to share their life with, ideally for a lifetime but in the absence of the ideal at least for a long time, who the hell is anyone outside of that relationship to do anything but be happy for and envy them? Certainly not I.

Liberty

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Steve McAuliffe 

And now, as we all anticipated
The Eton/Oxford frat-boys
Pass through the historic heraldic gates
And line up to be ennobled by the figure-headed head of state
-She’ll raise the blade
As they bow their brylcreemed heads
For services rendered
Rendered, surrendered, put out to tender
Tenderised and privatised
A job well done, stealthily accomplished
And we, the hapless ingrates
Are commanded to wipe our noses and turn our backs
Wipe your nose and turn your back
Or we shall speed up the bleeding process
You gormless hack
You sack of accumulated realities we deigned to heap upon you
Shame on you
Callow serf with bended back
Return to the hessian sack we assigned for you
Go back
To the liberation of your weekly tithes and toys
For unbeknown to you, it is your struggles
And your neighbour’s struggles
That keep us predatory and alive
Alive-alive-ho my boys
For whilst you struggle with your back-tax
The fat-cats
Send pictures of their back-cracks
Via snap-chat
To the teenage daughter
Of some billionaire technocrat
And though we continually ennoble them
-These oh-so ignoble men-
Still you ghoulishly line the mall
Like lobotomised lab-rats
With your idiot smiles
And plastic Union Jack hats
Waving from behind your glass cages
At the fattest of all the fat-cats
Some of you even hold aloft your sacrificial children
No so much Porton Down then, more Stockholm syndrome
Lives lived vicariously it seems
Through the PR departments of your cold oppressors’ stage-managed dreams
Gleefully beamed and narrated by the fawning media correspondents
Themselves hopelessly co-dependant
On the endless pitiless stream of kings and queens
They are forced to report upon
It seems – at least for those with eyes still to see
Like some Japanese sci-fi film from the 1960’s
The giant octopus lashes out its awful tentacles
Whilst the fearful denizens of the great metropolis
All cower in their living-rooms
And a single-mother on meagre benefits
Serves up a paper plate of crinkle-cut chips
To her hungry child in some far-off bed-sit
Whilst the head of state merrily extracts 369 million quid
From a worn-out, clapped-out populace
And so few stricken minds it seems are even appalled
By the sight of the tears that run like blood down palace walls
For hidden beneath the mask of democracy –
Is the greatest serial killer in the whole of human history
And what of the heroes at Standing Rock
Standing firm around the clock
Against the mass-ranks of tanks and robo-cops
Who club and shoot the proud survivors of so many decimated nations
Enforcing their own warped version of neo-liberal liberation
To a world that doesn’t want them
A world that does not need them
A world that curses their corporate blood-lust
See, they would steal the sovereignty from all of us
If we merely accept their twisted visions on trust
For the chink-chink-chink
Of the links of the chain
Grow ever longer
The longer we accept their atrocities
I don’t know about you
But I refuse to accept their monstrosities any longer
In fact my conviction grows ever stronger
Liberty, fraternity, egality
Liberty, divinity and sovereignty
Liberty, fraternity, egality
-Liberty, divinity and sovereignty.

Mara Leverkuhn

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Mara Leverkuhn
Far away in Oriental Europe, there was a castle and in that castle I was born. Confiscated by the communists at gun point, left to rot and turned into “social housing”. Hello, Romania. The glory of the event was unmatched by the land, as a black and white reality welcomed me–a tyranny that feared not speak its name. A rare sincerity that new tyrannies lost, in this age, when they so thrive.
Shops were empty and TV lies see-through. People had two realities, one at home, and a lie front. Then they shot Ceausescu on Christmas day and I was watching from beneath the tree. Bullets flying, students murdered. And the students died in vain because the new regime was the same old people with new haircuts and NEW, PROGRESSIVE WORDS.
“So what, bitch, this isn’t the third world, this IS BRITAIN”; yes, but: 1. Eastern Europe is the SECOND world, thank you. Second; and 2. all the signs of tyranny are here, in the first world. Scarier than the afore-mentioned, because capitalism makes this economically STABLE. This caring face and soothing lies, I’ve seen them before, I know what they hide. “You’re worth it” and “impossible is nothing” ring hollow when you peek at backstage machinations. No, it rings sinister. The words have been compromised. Our vehicles for thought have been hijacked, and now they’re vehicles for mind control.
I joined Labour not because I’m a communist, but because what you call hard left is but common sense and my survival needs, unperverted by the jollies of consumerism, tell me it’s time for Corbyn.
Initially embraced neoliberalism in my student days, fed to me through the University funnel. Come to Britain a hardcore anglophile, it took me 5 minutes to see the fraud.
Prefer an existence in Cassandra’s curse than docile worker bee on a race to the bottom. I don’t believe 100% democracy ever existed but I believe in the democratic spirit, and Corbynistas give hope. If only more of them realised the dangers more insidious and clever than apparent. It’s a mortal error to not correctly identify your threat. My own crusade: show people how they’re being manipulated, so that they might take right decisions out of the predicament bondage we’re in.
You can follow Mara on twitter
Follow her Facebook
Or read her blog
Or read her Ungagged Articles

Victoria Långstrump

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Victoria Långstrump

Victoria Långstrump is a Karelian folk singer-songwriter. Born in born October 1988, Victoria started write her songs at early age, when she was 14.

Her music is inspired by Russian North, beat generation ideas and awareness of lost time. Every day, after she finishes working in flower shop, she comes home, takes her guitar and makes a long journey inside her mind and soul…

You can find out more about her on her VK page

Or  her Website

Or follow her on twitter

Battle of Backwater Bridge

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Victoria Pearson

 

The situation in North Dakota took a significantly more sinister turn on Sunday, as militarised security personnel began to attack unarmed water protectors with water cannon, tear gas, rubber bullets, and concussion grenades.

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In a move condemned by both the UN and Amnesty International, water cannon were deployed against unarmed peaceful protesters, including elders and children, during freezing conditions. Journalists on scene reported ice forming on the protester’s clothing and skin, triggering cardiac arrest in one elder, who is currently in a critical condition in hospital. Latest reports state that over 300 people are injured, with 27 needing hospital treatment for a variety of injuries including hypothermia, fractures, sight and hearing damage and injuries from rubber bullets. One unarmed 21 year old woman, Sophia Wilansky, suffered a direct hit from a concussion grenade which injured her so badly she is now facing having her arm amputated (you can help with her medical costs here ). She remains in a critical condition.
The Standing Rock Sioux Tribe have been protesting the pipeline since April, and during that time Ungagged has witnessed influential voices within the camp, including Ruth Hopkins, who gives us regular updates when she is able, repeatedly requesting that protesters standing with the tribe remain peaceful and unarmed, to prevent law enforcement using that to excuse excessive force. As she said on twitter:

“we stay unarmed while protesting because they’ll use the sighting of any weapon to kill us like they did at Wounded Knee”

Live streams from various media organisations, including Unicorn riot, show protesters either standing still, dancing, or trying to hide behind makeshift plastic shields, while they are attacked by police who stand behind a barricade of razor wire, concrete barricades, and burnt out cars.
Nevertheless, mainstream news organisations in the US have described the Protest as a “riot” and have unquestioningly accepted the sheriff spokesman’s explanation that the water cannon were used to try and put out fires set by the protesters.

The tribe insist that the fires were in fact mostly started by police, although they say some were started to try and combat the freezing conditions. Given that so many people in the camp are suffering hypothermia after being doused with freezing water during the coldest part of the night, this doesn’t seem unreasonable. Live stream footage clearly shows a few small fires, which are not out of control in any way, and water cannon being directed squarely at protesters, and journalists who are nowhere near the fires. At one point during the livestream, the water cannon trajectory is changed to aim the water blast at media drones streaming the atrocities to social media.
It seems self evident to me that if the police were bravely battling a violent riot without using excessive force, they’d have no problem with being filmed, in fact would welcome it. Instead, they are reportedly using signal jamming equipment to interfere with live streams and social media access. Police in the area have refused multiple requests to confirm or deny this.
The conflict began around 7pm (ET), when the Water Protectors made a further attempt to remove the blockade of burned out vehicles at Fort Rice on Highway 1806, erected by the National Guard on October 27th 2016, to restore access to the road. The police responded by forming a line to kettle the Water Protectors on Backwater Bridge, firing water cannon from one side and tear gas, pepper spray and rubber bullets from the other. Trapped in the crush and unable to escape the gas, which is designed to induce panic and reacts painfully with water, protesters were reportedly vomiting and losing control of their bladders in response. A journalist from Unicorn Riot was shot in the abdomen with a rubber bullets, which tore through their press pass.IMG_20161122_123053.jpg

Despite calls of condemnation from leading human rights groups, Mandan Sheriff Jason Zeigler is unrepentant about the use of water cannon, and won’t rule out using them again.

“It depends on the circumstance, if it’s the force necessary to maintain control and order and to keep them from throwing rocks and burning logs at our police officers to try to, you know, maintain law and order, yes,” says Zeigler.

This would appear to be in direct opposition to their position two days prior to the use of water cannon, the 18th November, when the sheriff’s office put out a statement of concern for the protesters, citing the cold temperatures and wind chill as potential dangers, and offering advice to protect from hypothermia, frostbite and pneumonia particularly for “infants and the elderly” who they are aware are in the camp.
Morton County sheriffs office confirmed that there had been one arrest at the protest, and that one officer was bumped on the head with a rock.

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How to help:
• You can contribute money to the protester camp’s official GoFundMe account, which will go toward purchasing water, food, propane, blankets and other supplies. Cheques, cash or supplies (an extensive list of what they need is here) can also be sent through the mail to:
Sacred Stone Camp, P.O. Box 1011, Fort Yates, ND 58538
OR
202 Main Street, Fort Yates, ND 58538
Alternatively, you can also supplies via the group’s Amazon WishList. 

• You can also donate to the Sacred Stone Legal defence Fund
Protesters have set up a legal defence fund to help defray the legal bills of those involved in the protests. To save the group processing fees, you can also donate directly to their PayPal account at freshetcollective@gmail.com.
• You can call the people who have the ability to do something.

A. Jack Dalrymple, Governor of North Dakota: 701-328-2200
B. Army Corps of Engineers (demand to reverse the permit): 202-761-5903
C. The executives at Energy Transfer Partners, the company building the pipeline.
i. Lee Hanse
Executive Vice President
(210) 403-6455

ii. Glenn Emery
Vice President
(210) 403-6762

iii. Michael (Cliff) Waters
Lead Analyst
(713) 989-2404

• Or you can sign the petition here

Victoria Pearson Writing

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Victoria Pearson

 

News, Articles and Opinion

 

 

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You can find more of V’s fiction and her poetry in her books

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