Guest Topic of the Week, received via email, from Minona
People leave impressions as a matter of course. With every step, we make marks—the dust from our shoes is deposited on the sidewalk—and we receive marks from others. Some of these marks are sources of trauma, some are joyful memories. We are shaped by them, changed by them.
I remember, at some point while I was drawing, I had a realization that, with every single brushstroke, the image was transformed into something entirely new. At times a slight, seemingly insignificant line altered everything about the drawing. I connected that to the marks that people leave on each other—sometimes literally, sometimes figuratively.
Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about death, and the impulse to carve into the earth some proof of our existence. Some way of saying, “I live!”, shouting like an excited bug among blades of grass. “I was here,” is such a common graffiti tag that it’s a cliche, but to me there is something sacred in it. I stop and read every sentence I find on the alleyway walls and I have been brought to tears while imagining the lives of the writers. Other tags are like shitposts (like many @news comments). No matter the tone or form, there is a spirit inherent to all this mark-making.
Speaking, impressing, marking—each act is a world event, it is making something happen, it creates the possibility for excitement, drama, satisfaction, reflection, and more. Even after the mark fades, or the lines are painted over, it still happened, and the act continues to resonate throughout time. It may seem small, but to me anarchy means having a sensitivity for these things, being attuned to the little powers we possess (and are possessed by). Every moment is eternal.
What do you create in order to give meaning to your life? How do you leave marks on the world in a deliberate way? Do you find pleasure in any aesthetic practice? What would you like to live on after you die? How do you deal with the scars you’ve been given by your history?
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To juxtapose a paradox, this
To juxtapose a paradox, this zine is about not leaving traces: "How to have a fun night to forget" https://actforfree.noblogs.org/files/2023/11/Edits-conv.pdf
They want to make their mark, but they don't want to leave incriminating identifying traces. Fun is just a pretext and a euphemism. They want to feel that they did something meaningful and important, since there are other ways to have meaningless fun. But they could be risking it for the sake of the sake of the thrill or variety, who knows. But then a communique wouldn't be needed, unless it's part of the fun, or wanting to leave a mark.
Learning how to cover your
Learning how to cover your tracks or not leave any is a good skill to have. I'm not too concerned about my legacy but of course there is my comment history. Materially we have an effect everywhere we go but I'm not sure how significant it is. I have made some marks in the form of graffiti, vandalism, tattoos, writing and talking to people that have scratched the surface of the world and I'm not done yet.
"I'm not too concerned about
"I'm not too concerned about my legacy "
But doesn't use anon ;-)
What's in a name? A rose by
What's in a name? A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet. It's just 3 letters that has no corollary in real life. So unless I do something in this name it's meaningless except for my comment history and it saves me from captcha.
I do have an apparatus of
I do have an apparatus of captcha though and that's my camera. I take pictures which is the opposite of leaving something and install them somewhere else.
Things My Grandfather Must Have Said
I want to die in the wintertime,
make the ground regret it,
make the backhoe sweat.
January. Blue Monday
after the holiday weekend.
I want it to be hard on everybody.
I want everyone to have a headache
and the traffic to be impossible.
Back it up for miles, Jesus.
I want steam under the hood, bad directions,
cousins lost, babies crying, and sleet.
I want a wind so heavy the umbrellas howl.
And give me some birds, pigeons even,
anything circling for at least half an hour.
and plastic tulips and a preacher who stutters
"Uh" before every word of Psalm 22.
I want to remind them just how bad things are.
Spell my name wrong on the stone, import
earthworms fat as Aunt Katie's arms
and put them under the folding chairs.
And I want a glass coffin,
I want to be wearing the State of Missouri
string tie that no one liked. God,
I hope the straps break
and I fall in with a thud. I hope
the shovel slips out of my son's hands.
I want them to remember I don't feel anything.
I want the food served straight from my garden.
I want the head of the table set. I want
everyone to get a pennant that says,
"Gramps was the greatest,"
and a complete record of my mortgage payments
in every thank you note.
And I want to keep receiving mail for 13 years,
all the bills addressed to me,
old friends calling every other month
to wonder how I am.
Then I want an earthquake or rising watertable,
the painful exhumation of my remains.
I want to do it all again.
I want to die the day before something truly
important happens and have my grandson say,
What would he have thought of that.
I want you all to know how much I loved you.
i write things inside glue
i write things inside glue-joints in panels, where nobody will ever get to see them. i write inside walls, on the backs of stair treads and inside rabbits and mortises before assembling projects. i picked the habit up from my grandfather, but i've found where many people have done this in the past, and i've been the first person to see what they've written in many years during renovations on old buildings.