fear is the mindkiller is the punk band part of the vagabond collective...
LYRICS AND EXPLANATIONS
expectations
being a pregnant womyn is being a womyn to a great extreme. all of patriarchy's everyday ostracizations, fears, silencings, and judgements of wimmin become tenfold upon being pregnant. any expression of a womyn's sexuality through her reproductive choice is feared and judged on a grand scale. it is not only men who do these things, it is also WOMEN who either benefit from or cannot escape from the competitive isolation that this system provides. and it is not only conservatives who do these things, it is also radicals who are fascist enough in their thinking to maintain that their radical way is the only radical way....
in this state of expectation i have demanding expectations, of this world, for tolerance, education compassion communication. i have high expectations of this scene for all the same things, and for the courage of self-criticization, cuz if you think you know what i'm doing wrong, GET IN LINE. get in line behind the right wing who wants more than you do for people like me to be sterilized. get in line behind the same prolifers who take away poor babies' healthcare. get in line behind these fascists, cuz they won't let you speak anyway, and since i care more about what you think than they do: let's think about who our real enemies are, and leave the judgements at the door.
i agree there's a long list of people who "shouldn't" breed. top of that list are those who think no one should breed. hopelessness passed to a child makes dangerous seed. nihilsm is better saved for nihilist feed. i agree there's a problem with over-population, but those spouting fascist anti-breeding dictation could consider the value of suicide salvation, before throwing stones labeled 'selfish', could consider the glass house of their mere existance, and question why they continue subsistence off resources better saved for the honest and appreciative resistence. cuz if you think you know, what i'm doing wrong, you're gonna have to fucking get in line.
children need community. you want change, so do we. revolutionary with your band scenes. why be limiting when we could all be free.
those who desire revolution should not be surprised that some choose child rearing or the support of children as part of their revolution. choice means choice.
the letter
Dear Nameless,
I write this for so many reasons. Because when you asked that question, that small phrase which carried so much weight, I froze, darkness closed around my throat, and the force which shattered my heart collected its pieces at the bottom of my nauseous stomach. I don’t know why I didn’t vomit all over your truck; I guess I just wanted to escape immediately. I write this because your question placed me into a state of silent fear. Though my voice could only manage a small “no”, I wanted to scream at you. How dare you. I wanted to hit you to tell you how the phrase made you feel. But the fear could only see the possibilities of your next actions: you reaching over to the door before I could make it up to the front seat, you slamming the door, locking it and my partner already outside the truck, could not have saved me. You could have done whatever you wanted. Raped me, strangled me, cut my throat, but you didn’t. When my voice managed the small “no”, you did and said nothing. When I leaped over the seat and scrambled out the door, down the steps, you called after me, the seemingly genuine question, “ why not?” You asked this not to my face, but to my back. I slammed the door, wretching through my tears. So now I ask you: Why? Did you think I would say yes? I hadn’t spoken to you much during the ride, in fact I slept most of the time, and at no point did I give you any sign that I would consent to such a request. I write this because, placing myself voluntarily into a position where you had power over me, that is, standing along the side of the road with a friend asking for a ride. You chose to abuse this power and treat me as something less than humyn. Would a blowjob have cured some long-sustained loneliness?
Would it have filled some deep life void of longing for human contact, would it have made you feel more like a man? Or did you ask the questions simply to remind me of your perception of my position?: A creature meant to remain on its knees, a creature with no voice, with no thoughts, with no heart. I write this because, even with the absence of fear, your question alone made me feel that you viewed me as such a creature. A voiceless object for your twisted desire for domination. I write this because I know you will never read it, but I hope that in your sleep you hear the sound of my screams over music, along with the screams of all womyn and oppressed creatures that you would like to remain on their knees. And that these screams remind you of the system that created them, the same system that gave you the idea that you had the right to ask that question.
Por Ser Gay
yo tenia un tio que era trasvesti
lo mataron alrededor los anos de cincuentas
por ser como era
lo mataron con un cuchillo
y le destrusaron el cuerpo por complete
no pudieron encontrar partes de su ser
mi abuela tenia un vecino que lo mataron
en un canal por ser gay
By J Lee for J Lee (explanation) We wanted a song taking a more direct stance upon a topic. We said, "Hey, J Lee, write us an anti war song" and dis is what happened. This song is also sort of personal tribute and thank you to a remarkable person, who has never given in and helped maintain anarcho punk as a movement and not a joke, which is ironic, cause this song sort of is.
For more info visit "The J Lee Radical Stuff Store" located at Luna Sol café and check out Resist and Exist at www.diyzine.com
By J Lee for J Lee
missiles dropping like rain
iraqi children running for undercover
mass destructive weapons
made in america
American missiles
killing muslim wimmin and children
ciudad juarez (explanation) these lyris were taken from Raul Baltazar's explanation of his painting "pecados carnales," which was amongst other art in the Hijas de Juarez exhibit that was set up to protest the 320 plus unsolved murders of young wimmin in Ciudad Juarez. Most of these wimmin worked at maquiladoras (sweatshop-factory). These wimmin are some of the victims of the global economy. The forces of globalization brought them to a place where their lives were looked at as commodities, and not even worthy of any sort of investigation. Capitalism, the police state, and sexism, working together to create a nightmare.
For more info www.oocities.org/pornuestrashijas/
Ciudad Juarez
The killers are still free, the people are still quiet. This predator energy, this hunger to kill is lurking, meandering, inside and outside of our bodies. Inside and outside of Juarez. It feeds on fear like the devil manifesting, manifesting. A trickster of the mind, an enemy of the soul. Sometimes I wonder: god, why can we be such twisted, deviant, sinister little beings? Devouring old meat, T cells, nations, working class, trees, oil, blood, land animals, and even the moon. Hell, even our sisters, even our mothers, even or brothers and even our fathers? If we are not careful eventually we'll eat everything, eventually we'll eat ourselves.
We are not a cancer. We are a medicine. Humyns with a heart. Light for the dark.
Fe Del Valle (explanation) My 85 year old friend sat with me in Fe Del Valle Park, in Havana, Cuba. Having lived as long before the revolution as he has after, he told me he saw little difference in the quality of life before compared to after the "triumph." The quote in the middle of the song is part of his story told to me regarding the importance of the park in which we sat. Having trust in him, I retell his story in memory of Fe Del Valle and anyone who has died for someone else's definition of revolution. I retell his story because there are histories told by governments and histories told by humyns. To which do you relate?
Fe Del Valle
She burned inside before a world like yours
The people came too late and spoke even less
Her life was simply spoken of and stolen
Gone in a flash.
A womyn's life was compromised
Never a word of chance
She is now a memory
Of a fight without romance
A revolution won for all but one
The one who burned for those who blame
The flames are rising higher than egos of revolutionaries
She became a symbol, was no more than a worker
What was will crumble, nothing stands as a memory
A building simply gone like the memory of Fe Del Valle
"This place is not supposed to be like this.
The government said they would rebuild the building they burnt down. Not because the building was important. At the triumph of the revolution they burned the building because it was a large comercial store and it was symbollic of the old way. But there was someone inside. She was trapped in an elevator and maybe no one knew, or maybe no one cared because she was a head administrator, not a revolutionary. So she died."
The flames are rising higher and she is burning inside
Cause she was no more than a worker
She was so much more
She is so much more
She is a memory burning inside
Capoeria and the considerable unreliability of words (explanation) from personal struggle to political resistance there is a balance necessary between work and play, words and swords. Different elements of experiencing life can exist symbiotically, hope and anger, struggling with your fist and dancing your heart out. Resistance is not one dimensional.
Capoeira and the considerable unreliability of words
When passion is going out of style
Our only choice is to take a chance
Redefine everything with more than our voices
Passion is the capoeira fight stance
Do not give your sword to a person who can not dance
Do not drop your sword to a person who will not dance
When our hearts are set on fire
We choose our voice and join in on the dance
Leave nothing outside reach of possibilities
Balance is the capoeira fight stance
Please don't take your time
Hope-ism (explanation) reclaiming life through the realization that some tools of control are invisible, but none are invincible. we can, and are, living loudly in the shadows of their attempts at silence.
Hope-ism
It has been said "the solace of hope is the refuge of fools".... some say that maybe we should just destroy everything. but is this a desire for change or a desire for escape? philosophies such as blind or disguised nihilism create an unsteady foundation which can easily crumble under the weight of the convenience of conforming to conventional cares. living under a system that needs change means that struggle does not need to be defined by their definition of work, full of stress and guilt. struggle can be life. forced resistance or partaking in revolutionary activity because you feel you have to and not because its what you truly want quickly leads to being jaded. jadism is the enemy of hope-ism.
(Seperation)
We're building graves on sinking ships
We're using their tools to stab each other
We're playing our part in this tragedy
Playing the soothing strings of apathy
While their gears keep rolling on
This cage is make believe
Invisible but plain to see
Borders drawn in transparent ink
A plane on a ship that's about to sink
And all we have to do is TAKE OFF!
(celebration)
We're dancing skeletons on sunken songs
we're using their tools to feed each other
we're struggling our part in this love story
playing the soothing strings of anarchy
while our parade is marching on- marching strong.
the moments when we realize the necessity for struggle to coexist with hope are the most joyous out of all life. without these moments we are trapped in unwavering cycles of passivity. passivity can be hope without action. hope without action is a farce of faith. a fist with no heart is a means with no ends.
They are building ghettos in our minds (explanation) the first four lines are a vague poetic victory in translating the feelings felt during a love relationship that experienced growth with dependency issues, as well as other issues that have been felt to be related to becoming self-absorbed to the point of having to break down or break through. Love, religion, money, punk (life-style), anarchism (politics), academia -anything can be a ghetto. Ghettos exist to keep us separated, existing usually without sympathy, or understanding, for other ghettos. The systems greatest tool against the people is dividing them and quite forcibly making them hate each other. The mental ghetto is another invisible tool giving us plenty of busy work, like drama and stress. Within ghettos, we become addicted to someone or something instead of being in love with it, so we do not get out and communicate and form community dignity instead of "The Power of Pride"
They are building ghettos in our minds
Though we may never fall into what lake of love
Though we may not always hear it come
I fear the coming cold- sense uncontrollable
?do you love me just because you love to love?
Anything can be a ghetto
Anything can be reclaimed
With mutual aid
My heart is not a ghetto breeding ground
My relationships will not be commodified
My mind is a garden that needs no pesticide.
Do our minds create chains, or are they supplied to us
Is weakness advertised so heavily, it's unescapable.
Unconfronted dependency always comes free of charge
With proof of separation sold as security.
Pseudo satisfaction guaranteed
A prison cell to celebrate complacency.
Privilege (explanation) This Machine wants to build destiny. It expects us to hate each other for the different labels it has assigned to us, based on status. It believes it can define the quality of life through the class system. A life with a future is a right not a privilege. They want us to play their vampire game on each other while they reap the benefits, but we can use their game against them.
Privilege
What is privilege? How is it defined?
A caste system by any other pain would still smell as weak.
We need a conspiracy to commit life after being born into a prison.
This storm keeps gathering speed.
Class war disguised as destiny.
You know when you have more than you need.
Educate yourself, your enemy.
Behead yourself when you are in the lead.
Renounce pride, find dignity.
Wealth is not a right. It's a greed.
Hoarding is the puppet-master's fantasy.
Do you wear your privilege like a straight jacket?
Custom fit, fit to comfort.
It only exists when rights are stolen and displaced.
Your privilege is your poverty in disguise.
Read through the lines, learn to redefine.
It only exists when rights are stolen and displaced.
You can disarm your weapon of privilege.
Empty arms held toward the sky.
Live simply so others may simply live.
Without material weight we all can fly.
Fuck the dawg eat dawg. Think what you can give.
Hear well your fellow humyn's cry.
Property is unnatural. Community is instinctive.
Privilege is incarceration.
WHY WAIT (explanation) hope(ism)'s humynifesto haiku; why wait for the end -blow up the tunnel today-you will feel the light.......
WHY WAIT
I am born into a tunnel so dark I do not know there are others. I do not see them. I do not feel them. I feel the walls, the floor, even the ceiling and they give a sense of oneness; a unity against my existence. But the light of forgotten colors creates a resistance for the future. As I step forward, I continue mental glances over my shoulder to be sure of what has been. But my certain blind steps are to what has to be; the light at the end of the tunnel. The light grows and takes shape but it gives an equal amount. It creates uncertainty of origin; my own as well as the source of light. Because the light at the end must have light as it's means.
An inner light gives shape to my hands. I feel I am not alone. In my hands are other newly shaped hands. Hands that difficultly lead to other hands.
With history ahead, her story on my back, I feel the past is present persuading. The presence of a million miles of flowing blood pushing with us. Forward.
We all want to feel the light. We all want to share the light. Because it is different. It redefines definition. ?But what if some never do see? Now is what we feel in our hearts so what choice is ours but to take now to touch the light. We call out courage, recall consciousness, climb comfortable to find and force.
The walls invisible and the ceiling diseased. The sky falls into place. Fragments of hope pierce through growing perforations and push as we pick and pull. Peace by piece. Soon.
It all comes crashing without regrettable casualty. No heart attacked. No hands attached out of fear. Hands of those not yet let go. Now headed for untouchable consciousness. Living with dying onto nothing now impassible. Feeling now no wall impossible. And the tunnel is but a memory and a lesson learned, yet now so much more.
?por que esperar?
(explanación = ¿por qué espera por el final? Explota el tunel hoy... vas sentir la luz)
Naci en un túnel tan oscuro que no me doy cuenta de que existen otros. No les veo. No les siento. Siento las paredes, el suelo, hasta el techo me dan un sentido de unidad, la unidad contra mi existencia. Pero la luz de los colores olvidados hace una resistencia para el futuro. Mientras doy un paso de frente, hecho mentalmente un vistazo por encima de mi hombro para asegurarme de lo que ha sido. Pero mis pasos ciegos y seguros se dirigen a lo que hay que existir, la luz al final del túnel. La luz crece y toma forma, pero da en partes iguales. Hace incierto el origen, el mio igual que el de la luz. Porque la luz al final debe tener luz como su medio (de llagar). Una luz adentro da forma a mis manos. Siento que no estoy solo. En mis manos estan otras manos recientemente formadas. Manos que con dificultad se dirigen a otras manos.
Con la historia adelante, sus cuentos en mi espalda, siento que el pasado esta presente convenciendo. La presencia de un millón de millas de sangre empujando con nosotros. Hacia adelante.
Todos queremos sentir la luz. Todos queremos compartir la luz. Porque es diferente. Redefine definición. ¿Pero que pasa si algunos nunca lo ven? Lo de ahora es lo que sentimos en nuestros corazones así que cual opción tenemos mas que utilizar este momento para tocar la luz. Llamamos al valor, recordando la conciencia, subimos a encontrar la fuerza. Las paredes invisibles y el techo muerto. El cielo cae en su lugar. Fragmentos de la esperanza encajan entre perforaciones y empujan mientras nosotros agarramos y jalamos. Pedazo por pedazo. Pronto. Todo se viene abajo sin victima arrepentida. Ninguacute;n corazón atacado. Ningunas manos atadas por el temor. Manos de quienes aun se han dejado ir. Ya en camino a la conciencia intocable. Viviendo co morir a nada intraspasable. Sintiendo que ninguna pared es imposible. Y el túnel es nada mas que una memoria y una lección aprendida, pero hoy aun mas.
Robots can shed their metallic skin (explanation) with all the vulgar, disgusting prejudices and fears and privileges placed inside of us from a system that nurtures sickness like their first born, we are forced into a violent game of reclamation. reclaiming compassion, seeing people past the labels given, finding the alternatives to dealing with one´s problems other than with depression, substance abuse, and the myriad of crutches supplied. Creating mutual aid and open, proactive communication in communities to help each other deal with this chess game we have been born into. Realizing that shame serves no purpose, other than perpetuating the hate game we play with ourselves and each other. It´s quite intimidating, the amount of healing necessary, but it is our only, first step. off the cliff into the open air, together.
ROBOTS CAN SHED THEIR METALLIC SKIN
From deep within the battlefields of privilege and circumstance
Seeds are being planted , armed with an angry hope dance
Skeletons reveal themselves to form a somewhat battered frame
But one empowered, by the reclaim
Under the surface of the swollen wounds feel
Cells converge to embrace and heal
Under the halo of the smoke of the world on fire
we can hold each other, held safe by our desire (to grow)
Past the gears that move these invisible fears
Past, what they taught us, past the tears
And the power games of last years pain, are put to rest
With light shining past the shame
Under the surface of the swollen wounds feel
Cells converge to embrace and heal
Past the division of straight lines and a rivers curves
Past the impotency of words, (we find our own cures)
Wars are won with fear transformed
To hope, struggle and resistance born
Fear transformed to resistance born
