It was an icy cold morning in D.C. I awoke on the floor of a stranger’s basement, exhausted after only a few hours sleep which had been preceded by a 20 hour bus ride. My body ached from sleeping on the hardwood floor, and I craved coffee. But despite the physical discomfort and exhaustion, my heart beat with excitement the moment I opened my eyes and remembered where I was.
From Chapter 20 of Anti-Hero: Memories of a Black Bloc Anarchist. It is important to understand that in my mind, our actions were not intended to be symbolic. The most common question or criticism I received from other activists was how violence could possibly change people’s minds? But I was not trying to change anyone’s mind. That time had passed.
voices inside my head
are just voices inside my head
forgetting this has been my mistake
again and again
From Chapter 12, Florence The train took us to Naples, where we then caught a smaller, inter-city rail to Castalamare. From there we were loaded on to a bus that took us along winding roads to Sorrento. By that time we were completely disoriented, and it was quite dark. But the directions Paula had left us were clear, and we
From Chapter 11, Bum King That night, however, my luck caught up with my preparedness. After having an hour or so of a deep, alcohol induced doze, I awoke to the sobering sensation of cold, Swiss raindrops falling on my cheek. Once awake, I looked up to be reminded that a mesh screen was all that separated me from the
From Chapter 9, Heeding the Call At the end of my meal, all that was left was a few pieces of crust on the plate, and half a glass of wine. I thought about the Lord’s Supper. I took a small bite of the crust and recited the scripture in my mind. “This is my flesh, he who eats of
there is a secret language we all speak
but pretend not to remember
it’s easier
usually
to just use words
humans are narrative creatures
we tell stories to explain the world around us
but soon we forget they are just stories
morphic fields
transcending space and time
guiding monarchs to their great,
great,
great,
grandmother’s home
which they never knew existed
I was left the legacy of a pile of stovewood
split by a man in the mute chains of rage
The land he loved as landscape
could not unchain him