GRANAD(A)

(f)     Did any try to leave the building without being identified?

The more I am recognized, the more my gestures are hindered, internally hindered. Here I am, caught in the super-tight meshwork of the new power. In the impalpable net of the new police:

THE IMPERIAL POLICE OF QUALITIES.

There is a whole network of assemblages through which I “integrate” myself, and that incorporates these qualities in me.

A whole petty system of filing, identification and mutual surveillance.

A whole diffuse prescription of absence.

A whole machinery of mental control, which aims at panopticism, at privatized transparency, at atomization.

And in which I struggle.

“Who cares about the victim if the gesture is beautiful”

The weight of the economy bears down on us in every aspect of our lives, as such, disruption is always appropriate. The dogma of exchange is never truly escaped, in the unemployment office, at work, even in our most sincere embraces. We have no intentions of confining confrontation to the fringes of sanctioned demonstrations, or justifying it with vulgar political diatribes. Actions always occur within a social context. The most brilliant physicists on earth have never made a true vacuum. We are part of a limitless conflict between people and wealth, between living activity and dead objects. A bank, whether at an anti-war demonstration or on your way to a friend’s apartment, is still a bank.

We see each other in passing, exchanging inconspicuous nods and nervous glances, hoping for someone to do something, anything to break the monotony of daily activity. It’s nice that we’re finally acquainted. This is a model for what determined crews, with a little planning and intention, can do without sacrificing inclusion. Clandestinity has its place, but to generalize a participatory violence againt capital there must be more than hushed conversations.

We intend to confront economic relations in our daily lives, disrupting the exchange of commodities as often as possible. We hope you’ll do the same.

And somewhere, perhaps a million miles from here, a young boy floats across a sea, waiting for the next oil tanker.