75 lines
4.6 KiB
Plaintext
75 lines
4.6 KiB
Plaintext
Fear of a Tad Planet
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by Tad Kepley
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A Tad Planet practices selective breeding via forced miscegenation.
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Its businessmen mind their own business, its feminists are. Anyone
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who fucks with anyone else gets blown away on a Tad Planet, but only
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kids are allowed to carry guns, and we expect the brats to obey that
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order. No porn on a T.P., everyone has easy access to the real deal.
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Constant travel--no bullshit *stationary* "community" here, everyone
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is a nomad; bad-assed traler-court Bedouins in methane-driven Broncos
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thrumming and caroming from parallel to parallel across cracked and
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bubbling asphalt. Here is there here--movement a communal abuse of
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speed for its own sake. Anything that anyone ever paid for is
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redeemed only through fire...non-liberatory commodities are trashed
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in spontaneous bursts of arbitrary flame, not to assuage guilt but to
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celebrate and commemorate the supercession of their usefulness. Theft
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has become the preferred mode of exchange--no property is held
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comunally here for no property is *held*--when immediate use of an
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object has ceased, it's up for grabs. You never know where you'll be
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tomorrow here, and you're glad. Everyone is socially responsible for
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being *equally* socially *ir*responsible. We specialize in
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*de*specialization, we're centrally *de*centralized...we take freshman
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philosophical paradox as the maximal tenet of our lack of ideology.
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"Art" (with a capital A) doesn't exist because it implies the
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stationary; sand paintings sprout on the overgrown roadsides as
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grafitti's exquisite corpses adorned the crumbling city walls...The
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only way one communes with the land on a Tad Planet is by crossing it.
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No one tells you what to do because *no one cares* what you do. On a
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Tad Planet you get high on life by doing drugs (ritual abuse replaced
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ritual use), you imprison yourself with freedom. Everyone is a
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potential lover and always a potential enemy--both if you're lucky.
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Stapled by gravity to the side of a Tad Planet we disobey our own
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orders, we contradict ourselves and tell you we didn't, all rules are
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made to be broken. A Tad Planet has compassion without condescension,
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"rebellion without guile." The slinking, snickering coyote is our
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familiar. Our global emblem is the horseshoe crab--like our species,
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a resilient evolutionary anomaly. Our colors, never worn, are rust
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and the green of the aurora; the farewell flash of the sun. The
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nose-breaking, septum-searing stink of creosote and rose-pink diesel
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our decorative stenches. The tornado is our totem, convection's
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consumate creation; atmospheric thermodynamics our only exact science.
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Our endless summers are spent trailing interesting meteorological
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phenomena--we summer chasing thunderstorms from rockies to
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mississippi, we ice drinks with our hail. We worship only ourselves
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and each other on a Tad Planet, we all have U.V.-sevsitive tattoos on
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this ball--visible only under the black lites that illuminate our
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shanties and teepees. Brutality is beautiful here: the most direct
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form of communication, it punctuates our appreciation of life...The
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only contests here are won by concoction of the gel explosive with the
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highest foot-per-second dispersal rate, marathon spinning on a tilt-a-
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whirl, achieving orgasm the most times and with the most partners in
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one swing of the sun. Sex has nothing to do with "intimacy" and
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everything to do with selfish pleasure, our genitals don't have scabs,
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they've got battle-scars. We measure our body temperatures in degrees
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Kelvin...we party in rooms sealed full of nitrous oxide and helium. A
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Tad Planet's music is the warm warble of high tension wire in a stiff
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wind, the infrasound throb stirred by harmonic tectonics, accompanied
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by harmonica, mouth-harp and didjeridoo, with a snot-nosed percussion
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section of several calibres (rapid fire .223 and .308 snare, 10 and 12
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guage bass, .22 and .25 hi-hat at a distance--the lilting cracks and
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booms best appreciated through a half-mile of thick air). On this
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tilting terra-infirma, the manipulative die of inertia. We revel in
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flauting the "laws" of nature--defying and decrying cruel gravity as
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sizeist, converting energy from useless states into useful ones,
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shucking fucking edenic entropy as silly, burning both ends of a
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parafin ouroboros, daring ourselves to die as a celebration of life.
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The surety (on this viral more of an orb) is that nothing is *ever*
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easy, nothing is *ever* done for you--all is challenging and vibrant,
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a corruscating lacy latticework of carnivorous chaos ponderously
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pickle-eating pregnant with prurient possibility. Caveat emptor.
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Originally published in the anarchist zine Black Eye (among others).
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Please reproduce and distribute freely.
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