My dearest brambles,
Regarding the ICE ERO Field Office: we know the air there, thick with rot.
Each night, a handful wait until the kitted-out feds kick their asses,
then limp away, to try again,
as if only repetition is the ritual needed to conjure change.
A valiant rite,
yet the building still hums with its cruel machinery.
On that first night—
had the fire been lit while only two agents prowled inside—
things might have split another way.
When the picnic tables appeared,
there was a chance again—
but the streamer current carried everyone back into the witness posture.
Not the martyr witnessing divine truth,
but the spectator,
looking on at the world as it unfolds around them,
never intervening.
perfecting the algorithm.
Had it gone differently,
Palantir’s fire-eyes might have gone dark—
but here we are.
We surrendered the ground
of intermediate struggle, what else do we expect.
Yes, the memory of bad encounters of the PSU occupation still weigh,
yes, it’s wise to choose terrain,
yes, the arc of a moment can be foreseen—
but not all words have been spoken,
not all mistakes are condemned to repeat.
Every wall has a loose stone,
every deadlock a hinge.
At least the worst has not taken root—
no one’s tried to micromanage social reproduction with brittle hearts and failing pipes,
no one’s yet turned calls for aid into a crisis of abundance.
Perhaps that silence means something learned.
There have been glimmers:
some nights, hundreds come,
flags hanging upside-down in the wind;
some nights, the feds fall back.
But the siege still circles the same drain.
What would it take to break its course?
Perhaps it’s not worth the blood—but if it is,
perhaps it’s time to move in ways they’ve forgotten.
The opposite of stagnation is movement.
Pick another place.
Snake-march through the streets to another target.
Remind the body how to maneuver,
how to stack little victories until the air tastes different.
Until everything is alight with the fractal vibrancy of potentia
Show that the arteries of power run everywhere,
that they are soft to the touch. or brittle even.
Prove that nimble, fight-ready, masked bodies,
outlast the false-armor of respectability and acquiescence.
Prove that the clash of lines is neither the only thrill,
nor the sharpest blade. Invoke a rain of stones upon the enforcers of this noxious order.
Black still waits in the closet,
ready for a win.
Tho, if the stench of these protests has turned your stomach,
I understand.
But beware the other grave—
retreat into dogma,
into the clipped hedges of a moral garden,
cut with sharp claws,
yet joyless. doldrums.
Acta non verba, my sweet thorn.
Nothing is over.
The secret is to really begin…again.
You cannot spiral your way out—
you must leap.
Strike the one who deserves it most,
strike where it will hurt
hurt their capacity to dominate
the most
If it’s just you and two others,
that is enough.
Didn’t you once swear you wanted no one else?
If that’s changed,
let us try resonance again—
find the cracks,
press until the stones groan,
rattle the narrow gates,
slip the chains,
raise the signal pyres.
Rise from the lack-seeking stupor, into deed.
Break away.
The years of weird are here.
May my next letter be a claim of an attentat.
Hurrah,
some anarchist
submitted anonymously