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This the starting point: here where we are the lowering of the threshold of awareness and thought autonomy is an actual effect of power controlling by the machine. On one hand we have indeed the abrupt satisfaction of compulsions, the illusion to be eternally here and now, the inability of figuring out own perceptions; on the other crystallized theories, crusted lumps of triviality, inherited forms without present experience, and scorn for intellectuals, for culture, for academy and politics. We need categories, but living categories.

We need to be in touch with the real tasks of the experience of life, in order to feel if what we think and we write makes sense in our world. The end would be getting as closer as possible to a veritable analysis: and nowadays a veritable analysis is possible only putting together historical and psychological analysis. Therefore the main purpose would be to outline a concrete alternative.

In order to do this, working out a new definition of the meaning of politics. If politics were something concerning man and its deeper being, that is the way he can evolve himself and he can live his own life in relationship with the others, then it needs to show the connection between the aim of politics and what appears to the community as unlinked with her, and on the other side the rough decline of politics in its actual administration, with its very cynic view about man.

This is the very starting point of the concrete alternative for a future society: in order to exists, politics ought to be about everyone. It turns out inconceivable with enduring mildly the idea for politics is a very specialist matter among others , something for few isolated and privileged experts. Such a sectorialization, of something unsectorializing by itself, represents an authentic dispossession of humanity to the individual, which is deprived of the chance to have a definite perception of the world and of his own condition in that.

Expropriation of politics is, finally, expropriation of imagination, that is imposing the idea of a not improving world, together with the negation of the might to desire an human world, where wishes may get rid of the unique form nowadays allowed: the goods. Thus it turns out to be urgent to return the politics its true work, even via a new kind of interconnections among several branches of knowledge, otherwise inaccessible to common understanding.

Politics today should therefore unify what appears from observation as divided: so it is crucial working to an idea of politics as concrete science of reality, as unavoidable necessity of social organization and critical conscience. Every society has always been founded on a given structure of production relationships and on an ideal and spiritual links among people. The significance of socialism, if it has, is in its purpose to realize, based on a different organisation of the production and work business, a higher human ideal, new ways of interrelations among men, a deeper knowledge of theirselves about their own possibilities.

Socialism is a transitory phase, from a system still tied to the concept of existence as survival, to one such that life is seen as the fulfilment of human nature. A blossom, that contains the value of a mankind discovering in itself its aims, that fully states humanism as a principle of common life. The terms of the new world and of the new man, are the close of the anarchy of capitalism, dragging people's life into the anguish of the individual profit, together with a different organization of the partition of richness, founded on a democratic management of the resources by the community.

The significance of the new world, i. For a new confidence and clearness in the relations among men. Next year, we march naked. The first is that we will get our a--es kicked. The second is that we will win. I'm angry. I'm angry for being condemned to death by strangers saying, "You deserve to die" and "AIDS is the cure. Angry as I listen to a man tell me that after changing his will five times he's running out of people to leave things to.

All of his best friends are dead. Angry when I stand in a sea of quilt panels, or go to a candlelight march or attend yet another memorial service. I will not march silently with a fing candle and I want to take that goddamned quilt and wrap myself in it and furiously rent it and my hair and curse every god religion ever created. I refuse to accept a creation that cuts people down in the third decade of their life. It is cruel and vile and meaningless and everything I have in me rails against the absurdity and I raise my face to the clouds and a ragged laugh that sounds more demonic than joyous erupts from my throat and tears stream down my face and if this disease doesn't kill me, I may just die of frustration.

My feet pound the streets and Peter's hands are chained to a pharmaceutical company's reception desk while the receptionist looks on in horror and Eric's body lies rotting in a Brooklyn cemetery and I'll never hear his flute resounding off the walls of the meeting house again. And I see the old people in Tompkins Square Park huddled in their long wool coats in June to keep out the cold they perceive is there and to cling to whatever little life has left to offer them, and I think, ah, they understand. And I'm reminded of the people who strip and stand before a mirror each night before they go to bed and search their bodies for any mark that might not have been there yesterday.

A mark that this scourge has visited them. And I'm angry when the newspapers call us "victims" and sound alarms that "it" might soon spread to the "general population. And I'm angry at straight people who sit smugly wrapped in their self-protective coat of monogamy and heterosexuality confident that this disease has nothing to do with them because it only happens to "them. Enveloped in fury and fear, I remain silent while my button mocks me every step of the way.


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And the anger I feel when a television program on the quilt gives profiles of the dead and the list begins with a baby, a teenage girl who got a blood transfusion, an elderly Baptist minister and his wife and when they finally show a gay man, he's described as someone who knowingly infected teenage male prostitutes with the virus.

What else can you expect from a faggot? In exchange, there has been suffering, there has been pain, there has been violence. Throughout history, society has struck a bargain with its queer citizens: they must pursue creative careers, if they do so discreetly. Through the arts queers are productive, lucrative, entertaining and even uplifting.

These are the clear-cut and useful by-products of what is otherwise considered anti-social behavior.

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In cultured circles, queers may quietly coexist with an otherwise disapproving power elite. At the forefront of the most recent campaign to bash queer artists is Jesse Helms, arbiter of all that is decent, moral, christian and amerikan. For Helms, queer art is quite simply a threat to the world.

In his imaginings, heterosexual culture is too fragile to bear up to the admission of human or sexual diversity. Quite simply, the structure of power in the Judeo-Christian world has made procreation its cornerstone.

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Families having children assures consumers for the nation's products and a work force to produce them, as well as a built-in family system to care for its ill, reducing the expense of public healthcare systems. All non-procreative behavior is considered a threat , from homosexuality to birth control to abortion as an option. It is not enough, according to the religious right, to consistently advertise procreation and heterosexuality It is not art Helms is after It is our lives!

Art is the last safe place for lesbians and gay men to thrive. Helms knows this, and has developed a program to purge queers from the one arena they have been permitted to contribute to our shared culture. Helms is advocating a world free from diversity or dissent.

It is easy to imagine why that might feel more comfortable to those in charge of such a world. It is also easy to envision an amerikan landscape flattened by such power. Helms should just ask for what he is hinting at: State sponsored art, art of totalitarianism, art that speaks only in christian terms, art which supports the goals of those in power, art that matches the sofas in the Oval Office.

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Ask for what you want, Jesse, so that men and women of conscience can mobilize against it, as we do against the human rights violations of other countries, and fight to free our own country's dissidents. If You're Queer, Shout It! Queers are under siege. Queers are being attacked on all fronts and I'm afraid it's ok with us. In , Queers, were attacked. It wasn't ok. Queers fought back, took the streets.

In , there were 50 "Queer Bashings" in the month of May alone. Violent attacks. This is institutionalized homophobia, perhaps more dangerous to the existence of queers because the attackers are faceless. We allow these attacks by our own continued lack of action against them. They don't want us anymore. They will beat us, rape us and kill us before they will continue to live with us.

What will it take for This not to be ok? Feel some rage. If rage doesn't empower you, try fear.

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If that doesn't work try panic. Shout It!


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  • Be proud. Do whatever you need to do to tear yourself away from your customary state of acceptance. Be free. In , Queers fought back. In , Queers say ok. Next year, will we be here? I hate Jesse Helms so much I'd rejoice if he dropped down dead. If someone killed him I'd consider it his own fault. I hate Ronald Reagan, too, because he mass-murdered my people for eight years. But to be honest, I hate him even more for eulogizing Ryan White without first admitting his guilt, without begging forgiveness for Ryan's death and for the deaths of tens of thousands of other PWA's - most of them queer.

    I hate him for making a mockery of our grief. The same goes for the Military, and especially for Amerika's Law Enforcement Officials - the cops - state sanctioned sadists who brutalize street transvestites, prostitutes and queer prisoners. I also hate the medical and mental health establishments, particularly the psychiatrist who convinced me not to have sex with men for three years until we meaning he could make me bisexual rather than queer. I also hate the education profession, for its share in driving thousands of queer teens to suicide every year. I hate the "respectable" art world; and the entertainment industry, and the mainstream media, especially The New York Times.

    In fact, I hate every sector of the straight establishment in this country - the worst of whom actively want all queers dead, the best of whom never stick their necks out to keep us alive. I hate straight people who think they have anything intelligent to say about "outing.

    I hate straight recording artists who make their careers off of queer people, then attack us, then act hurt when we get angry and then deny having wronged us rather than apologize for it. I hate straight people who say, "I don't see why you feel the need to wear those buttons and t-shirts. I don't go around tell the whole world I'm straight. I hate that I grew up thinking I was the only queer in the world, and I hate even more that most queer kids still grow up the same way.

    I hate that I was tormented by other kids for being a faggot, but more that I was taught to feel ashamed for being the object of their cruelty, taught to feel it was my fault. I hate that the Supreme Court of this country says it's okay to criminalize me because of how I make love. I hate that so many straight people are so concerned about my goddamned sex life. I hate that so many twisted straight people become parents, while I have to fight like hell to be allowed to be a father.

    I hate straights. Where Are You Sisters? I do not lower my voice in public when talking about lesbian love or sex. I always tell people I'm a lesbian. I don't wait to be asked about my "boyfriend. Most of them don't know what the pink triangle even means. Most of them couldn't care less that my girlfriend and I are totally in love or having a fight on the street.

    Most of them don't notice us no matter what we do. I do what I do to reach other lesbians. I do what I do because I don't want lesbians to assume I'm a straight girl. I am out all the time, everywhere, because I want to reach you. Maybe you'll notice me, maybe start talking, maybe we'll become friends.

    Maybe we won't say a word but our eyes will meet and I will imagine you naked, sweating, openmouthed, your back arched as I am fing you. And we'll be happy to know we aren't the only ones in the world. We'll be happy because we found each other, without saying a word, maybe just for a moment. But no. You won't wear a pink triangle on that linen lapel. You won't meet my eyes if I flirt with you on the street. You avoid me on the job because I'm "too" out. You chastise me in bars because I'm "too political. But then you want me to be your lover, you want me to be your friend, you want me to love you, support you, fight for "our" right to exist.

    Where Are You? You talk, talk, talk about invisibility and then retreat to your homes to nest with your lovers or carouse in a bar with pals and stumble home in a cab or sit silently and politely by while your family, your boss, your neighbors, your public servants distort and disfigure us, deride us and punish us. Then home again and you feel like screaming.

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    Then you pad your anger with a relationship or a career or a party with other dykes like you and still you wonder why we can't find each other, why you feel lonely, angry, alienated. Get Up, Wake Up Sisters!! Your life is in your hands. When I risk it all to be out, I risk it for both of us. When I risk it all and it works which it often does if you would try , I benefit and so do you. When it doesn't work, I suffer and you do not.

    But girl you can't wait for other dykes to make the world safe for you. The revolution could be here if we started it. Where are you sisters? I'm trying to find you, I'm trying to find you. How come I only see you on Gay Pride Day? We're out. Where the f are you? A crowd of 50 people exit a gay bar as it closes.

    Across the street, some straight boys are shouting "Faggots" and throwing beer bottles at the gathering, which outnumbers them by 10 to 1. Three queers make a move to respond, getting no support from the group. Why did a group this size allow themselves to be sitting ducks? Tompkins Square Park, Labor Day. In the midst of thousands of gay men and lesbians, these straight boys beat two gay men to the ground, then stood around triumphantly laughing amongst themselves.

    The emcee was alerted and warned the crowd from the stage, "You girls be careful. When you dress up it drives the boys crazy," as if it were a practical joke inspired by what the victims were wearing rather than a pointed attack on anyone and everyone at that event. What would it have taken for that crowd to stand up to its attackers? After James Zappalorti, an openly gay man, was murdered in cold blood on Staten Island this winter, a single demonstration was held in protest.

    Only one hundred people came. When Yusef Hawkins, a black youth, was shot to death for being on "White turf" in Bensonhurst, African Americans marched through that neighborhood in large numbers again and again. A black person was killed because he was black , and people of color throughout the city recognized it and acted on it. The bullet that hit Hawkins was meant for a black man, any black man. Do most gays and lesbians think that the knife that punctured Zappalorti's heart was meant only for him? The straight world has us so convinced that we are helpless and deserving victims of the violence against us, that queers are immobilized when faced with a threat.

    Be outraged! These attacks must not be tolerated. Do something. Recognize that any act of aggression against any member of our community is an attack on every member of the community.