Friday, February 10, 2017

Who Goes There

Episode One

Black Lives Matter, Baton Rouge 2016 ~ Jonathan Bateman

“The ‘I’ in this revolution is a penis with which men believe they can solve all of the world’s problems. If one were to be reasonable, this could be qualified by saying ‘some men’ or ‘most men’ but it is a mistake to let reason enter into an unreasonable situation; that’s just the way it is.
How should we who believe that revolutionary change is possible, how should we deal with the testosterone ego?
Should we deal with it at all?
For to deal is to barter; to come to an agreement, and I’m not sure this can be achieved, since the goods we bring to the table are, for men, valuable only for the time it takes them to reach ejaculation. We are then tolerated until such time as we are once again needed as a receptacle.”
P. Norodnik - Don’t Call Me Darling (N.O.W. Issue #1)

“The world spins regardless of the hopes and dreams of the insignificant lives that scratch its thin crust.
Phoebe Norodnik runs with a bad crowd; those pranksters that call themselves The Pointing Finger spend their youth in loud denial of the future; smoke the night trash to a soundtrack composed of eardrum heartbeat and alleyway echo; adrenalin laughter’s guitar wail.
Norodnik bites her lip to be one of the crowd while distant planets whirl in all the reality of a Van Gogh sky. It is this and the drugs in her veins that cause her to cry: let’s blow this place to kingdom come.”
Nathan Uprising – Start the Revolution without Me (Daddy Loves Ya Magazine – April 2019)

The language of the media can be subtle and subversive when propaganda is tuned to the maximum; how much does it take to corrupt the messenger when those who own it all know that the cracks are beginning to reveal their duplicity, their dishonesty and their inhumanity.
If I knew anything then, I knew that, in the world of men, an opinionated woman is considered troublesome. I know now that that can change; that men can shed their bad habits when challenged with idea of being the best men around in the eyes of those who love them.
Looking back from this little room it’s easy to see how the chinks in the system’s armour could be so seductive to those of us with a predisposition to discontent.
My father, in a moment of drunken lucidity, once said that the world would be well advised “not push my Phoebe’s buttons, especially not the one marked ‘injustice’”.
My mother asked me once during those days “Are you proud of what you’ve done?”
Proud? No. But somebody had to do something; we were trapped in zombie-land, we were the zombies, stumbling forward on autopilot with our eyes glued to the tiny screen, fantasising ourselves into oblivion. We were being fucked over and we had given consent to the act (a consensual rape).
You may have heard a lot of bad shit about me; you may believe or disbelieve any or all of it; in my defence, I will say that I regret nothing Mum (where-ever you are), and if the name Phoebe Norodnik is to go down in infamy then so be it – I don’t give a fuck about fame anyway

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