Sublimated Revolution

By the time the abomination was planted on the lunar surface, the end had set in for the foremost vanguard of the closest thing to an American revolution since. By the early 1970s, the Panthers had degenerated to paranoia and weaknesses, their strength and virility slipping away as their membership contracted to paranoid holdouts. When the death blow was dealt, Hoover victorious from beyond the grave, the name became applied to just another little cell of alienated isolates wandering around, preaching from one of many holy texts in the ruins of the 1960s. The communities once dominated by the Panthers took the strength the Panthers had lost control of and channeled it into the new structure of Bloods and Crips, beginning the deathly dance upon South Central. Libido once directed against the powers that be turned inwards into an enclosed loop, a district of Southern California walled off as a funerary zone and the oppressions left to continue as was.

Now set to killing each other, the genocidal work of the police had been partially outsourced. All violence now directed inwards, the subjects became docile within an easy narrative, where the true oppressions were obscured. The police became reimagined as a direct enemy, another rival to kill and be killed by, and the powers above accepted this. Oppression became total, with the inhuman systems of economic organization now extending downwards, accepting and tolerating as a new component of its machinery the deathly consumers expending their energies inwards. Capital, firearms, consumer goods, all flow in as mere background (“concrete jungle”), with their inputs having been limited to the consumption and production of the subject beneath them. The violence-returning which sparks revolution is channeled not against these Raketen-Stadt systems, but onto each other, allowing the system to remain in balance, with no fear of uprising.

After a certain point, this trajectory leads to the situation recognized by Kendrick Lamar in Good Kid, mAAd City. The city itself is alive, a living creature, a great demonic Satan which has imprisoned in its stomach all peoples. Those around oneself, the products consumed, the products produced, all feed together seamlessly in the demon’s anatomy, until all that’s left is ones own steady, slow grinding down to death as the entire physical world manifests demonic. The only hope of revolution, with the separation that once made revolution imaginable being forever removed from access, is to destroy everything, rebellion against the physical world now indistinguishable from the demon. The American way of revolution is under this equation, the “riot” being the turning against the city itself, tearing up concrete, glass, metal, vehicles, anything of the world in the darkest and most colonized urban centers seen for its evil, to be the target of cleansing.

In identical spirit, we rise against Area 51. With the two media-based shocks of the recent months being reminders of the concentration camps long existing on the border and reminders of Jeffrey Epstein’s long public secret society of pedophilia, the enclosed, secret, guarded location under the flag of the system comes alive as a potent symbol in the imagination. Area 51 is a non-descript symbol which retains all attributes and qualities of the camps and Little Saint James, the direct attacks on those being far too out of grasp. In this rare moment, the Bloods vs Crips fighting that has completely taken over previously revolutionary fighting, the nihilistic white-gang warfare of Proud Boys vs ANTIFA that the system is more than willing to arm and encourage both sides of, is put aside in order to direct oneself as a human bullet, tearing apart from the inside the stomach walls of the demon, rushing headlong, united together, towards Area 51, a rare flown-flag of the demon that so often prefers to remain unconsciously present, mimicking nature.