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Every Breath Is A Bomb
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hollowpoint
I'm not posting in here at the moment and all old posts are now private. But I'm still reading other journals because I luf mine friends. So please don't delete me from your friendly lists. This old heart just couldn't take the blow.




The personal, as everyone's so fucking fond of saying, is political. So if some idiot politician, some power player, tries to execute policies that harm you or those you care about, take it personally. Get angry. The Machinery of Justice will not serve you here - it is slow and cold, and it is theirs, hardware and soft. Only the little people suffer at the hands of Justice; the creatures of power slide from under it with a wink and a grin. If you want justice, you will have to claw it from them. Make it personal. Do as much damage as you can. Get your message across. That way, you stand a better chance of being taken seriously next time. Of being considered dangerous. And make no mistake about this: being taken seriously, being considered dangerous makes the difference, the only difference in their eyes, between players and little people. Players they will make deals with. Little people they liquidate. And time and again they cream your liquidation, your displacement, your torture and brutal execution with the ultimate insult that it's just business, it's politics, it's the way of the world, it's a tough life and that it's nothing personal. Well, fuck them. Make it personal.

Altered Carbon, Richard Morgan




‘I still don’t get the whole vinyl thing,’ I said. ‘It makes no sense.’

‘Technology versus Ideology,’ Jehangir replied. ‘It’s a punk thing.’

‘Is punk an ideology?’ I asked.

‘Who knows anymore? Maybe it’s just wearing a wallet-chain.’

‘To some people, I guess.’

‘Some people would say punk is all about disseminating your own culture, shunning mass media conglomerates and never selling out; but the bands we look to as spiritual forebears – the Sex Pistols, the Clash, the Ramones and so forth – were all on major labels. And some people would say punk is only about loud, aggressive music; but death metal’s loud and aggressive. Is that punk? What about loud, aggressive rap? Or is punk supposed to be destroying social mores and manners and taboos? If so, where are the bands doing that today?’

‘So what do you think it is?’ I asked.

‘I think it’s about being ugly.’ I laughed and then realized he wasn’t joking. ‘That’s why you can’t be punk,’ he continued. ‘You look good and you dress good and you’ll make a great engineer someday.’ I thought Jehangir Tabari was an inherently handsome young man, though he deliberately rendered himself ugly with the Mohawk and gear. He had the face if he wanted to sing in emo pop Newfound Glory bands but he snarled too much and never had his teeth fixed – to spot the real punks, he used to say, examine their teeth. ‘But yeah, man … I think that’s where it’s at … ugly …’

‘What’s taqwacore then? Ugly Muslims?’

‘Kind of.’

I stayed plopped on the porch, Jehangir stayed stretched out on the sidewalk and we went a while without speaking. In the silence I lost myself daydreaming of an Ugly Muslim Parade marching single-file down our street with every Ugly Muslim included: the woman who travelled without their walis, the painters who painted people, beardless qazis, the dog owners in their angel-free houses, hashishiyyuns like Fasiq Abasa, liwats and sihaqs, Ahmadiyyas, believers who stopped reading in Arabic because they didn’t know what it said, the left-handers, the beer swillers, the Kuwaiti sentenced to death for singing Quran, the guys who snuck off with girls to make out and undo generations of cerebral clitorectomy, the girls who stopped blaming themselves every time a man had dirty thoughts, the mu’mins who stopped their clock-punching, the kids who had pepperoni on their pizzas, on and on down the line.

So many failed believers, I nearly suspected they were the majority.

‘Taqwacore,’ I said for no reason.

‘The irresistible force against the immovable object,’ Jehangir replied.

‘What?’

‘The irresistible force against the immovable object. That’s what they always used to say on the Saturday-morning wrestling shows.’

‘Oh.’

‘So who wins it, Captain Physics?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘It’s like a NASCAR driver going three hundred miles an hour and just crashing head-on into the Kaaba.’

‘Okay.’

‘Irresistible force against immovable object.’

‘Well in that case,’ I replied, ‘before the NASCAR driver hit the Bayt, birds would come and drop clay on him.’ We both laughed.


The Taqwacores, Michael Muhammad Knight
38 urban warriors will escape the metropolis