View allAll Photos Tagged Oligarchy
Summer 2021, French Riviera. Yacht, possibly of a Russian oligarch
Now possibly seized on the basis of sanctions taken by the international community against Russian interests after the unjustifiable war of invasion and destruction of Ukraine by the Russian army which began on 24 February 2022.
💙💛#StandwithUkraine💙💛
🌈 Росіяни, любіть не війну ☮
🌈 Russians, Make Love, Not War ☮
🌈 Русские, Занимайтесь любовью, а не войной ☮
Eté 2021, Côte d'Azur. Yacht, peut-être celui d'un oligarque russe
Maintenant peut-être saisi en fonction des sanctions prises par la communauté internationale contre les intérêts russes après l'injustifiable guerre d'invasion et de destruction de l'Ukraine par l'armée russe commencée le 24 février 2022.
August 2021 - Edited and uploaded 2022/03/15
I have wanted to do something of this sort for awhile now and was finally inspired to "get off of the dime" as it were by the Macro Mondays theme a few weeks ago: On Top.
75 years later Russia continues to be a problem and Dietrich continues to be the Eternal Goddess of the Seventh Art
The August 1948 issue of Life magazine featured on the cover the mature beauty of the Goddess of the Seventh Art: Marlene D... while inside readers could read an analysis of the strength of Russia... Now, 75 years later all the magazines of the world writes new analyzes on the same unpleasant topic.... When will beautiful Russia be the subject of good news for the first time? ....When will the Russian people be able to forget about the tsarist dictators, communists dictators and fascist oligarchic dictators... and fight for a democratic state?
still in the rain, in my car and at the VA. i had to make up for the last flag shot, which was kind of a joke.
this country is an oligarchy now and kind of insane. we used to be made up of steel. steel from people all around the world, all colors, races and religions. money didnt run the government, freedom did.
Or, Karl Marx observing with disgust how a kleptocratic oligarchy led by a so-called President enriches itself shamelessly using mafia-like methods including murder, torture and false imprisonment and, equally shameful, how a world city such as London prostitutes itself as an outlet for Russian money laundering. Samyang manual lens wide-open, contre-jour, reflector.
Evening view of Llandudno, Wales on that fateful day that was a turning point on a global scale concerning the rule of law, democracy, and human rights, and the beginning of chaos and oligarchic rule in the USA.
Greetings from Kumamoto, Japan.
“Humanity is at a crossroads. We can continue down the current path of greed, consumerism, oligarchy, poverty, war, racism, and environmental degradation. Or we can lead the world in moving in a very different direction.”
― Bernie Sanders, Our Revolution: A Future to Believe In
When we look up and see the splendour of the sky, the birds of the air and the magnificence of the sunrises and sunsets and realise the vast eternity of it all, how can we be anything but humbled?
It's tragic seeing the desperate ways of the oligarchy and their unquenchable lust for power.
On 2 January 1492, the last Muslim ruler in Iberia, Emir Muhammad XII, known as "Boabdil" to the Spanish, surrendered complete control of the Emirate of Granada to the Catholic Monarchs (Ferdinand II of Aragon and Isabella I of Castile), after the last episode of the Granada War.
The 1492 capitulation of the Kingdom of Granada to the Catholic Monarchs is one of the most significant events in Granada's history. It brought the demise of the last Muslim-controlled polity in the Iberian Peninsula.
The terms of the surrender, expressed in the Alhambra Decree treaty, explicitly allowed the Muslim inhabitants, known as mudéjares, to continue unmolested in the practice of their faith and customs. By 1499, however, Cardinal Francisco Jiménez de Cisneros grew frustrated with the slow pace of the efforts of the first archbishop of Granada, Hernando de Talavera, to convert non-Christians and undertook a program of forced baptisms, creating the converso (convert) class for Muslims and Jews. Cisneros's new strategy, which was a direct violation of the terms of the treaty, provoked the Rebellion of the Alpujarras (1499–1501) centered in the rural Alpujarras region southeast of the city.
16th-century view of the city, as depicted in the Civitates orbis terrarum.
The rebellion lasted Until 1500, 9 years after the conquest, the city did not formally establish its own town council, instead, merging the "Old Christians", and the converted morisco elites, a decision that resulted in strong factionalism from 1508 onwards.
The new period also saw the creation of a number of other new institutions such as the Cathedral Cabildo, the Captaincy–General [es], the Royal Chapel and the Royal Chancellery.
For the rest of the 16th century the Granadan ruling oligarchy featured roughly a 40% of (Jewish) conversos and about a 31% of hidalgos.
Responding to the rebellion of 1501, the Crown of Castile rescinded the Alhambra Decree treaty, and mandated that Granada's Muslims convert or emigrate. Under the 1492 Alhambra Decree, Spain's Jewish population, unlike the Muslims, had already been forced to convert (the so-called conversos) under threat of expulsion or even execution. Many of the elite Muslim class subsequently emigrated to North Africa.
The majority of the Granada's mudéjares converted (becoming the so-called moriscos or Moorish) so that they could stay. Both populations of converts were subject to persecution, execution, or exile, and each had cells that practiced their original religion in secrecy (the so-called marranos in the case of the conversos accused of the charge of crypto-Judaism).
Over the course of the 16th century, Granada took on an ever more Catholic and Castilian character,[citation needed] as immigrants came to the city from other parts of the Iberian Peninsula.
The city's mosques were converted to Christian churches or completely destroyed.[citation needed] After the 1492 Alhambra decree, which resulted in the majority of Granada's Jewish population being expelled, the Jewish quarter (ghetto) was demolished to make way for new Catholic and Castilian institutions and uses.
During the 17th century, despite the importance of immigration, the population of the city stagnated at about 55,000, contrary to the trend of population increase experienced in the rural areas of the Kingdom of Granada, where the hammer of depopulation caused by the expulsion of the moriscos had taken a far greater toll in the previous century. The 17th-century demographic stagnation in the city and overall steady population increase in the wider kingdom contrasted with the demographic disaster experienced throughout the century in the rest of the Crown of Castile. wikipedia
Created for AIA Challenge ~ A Tribute to Jack London
The Iron Heel, a novel by Jack London, published in 1908, describing the fall of the United States to the cruel fascist dictatorship of the Iron Heel.
Set in the future, “The Iron Heel” describes a world in which the division between the classes has deepened, creating a powerful Oligarchy that retains control through terror.
All work done in Photoshop 2024
Best viewed Large
Thank you very much for your comments and faves, regretfully, I am finding it increasingly difficult to reply to your comments, because of my very limited time on the internet, due to constant power interruptions in South Africa. I do read and appreciate every one of them, however! Thanks again!!
Stitched image.
Apollonia was perhaps the most important of the several classical towns of the same name. It was founded around 600 BC by Greek colonists from Corinth and possibly Corcyra, who established a trading settlement on a largely abandoned coastal site by invitation of the local Illyrians. Corinthian colonial policy seems to have been relatively liberal, focused on resource extraction for the support of their homeland, rather than exploitation or expulsion of the local Illyrian population. Apollonia gradually gained political independence from Corinth and was organized as a polis under an oligarchic system. Aristotle describes Apollonia's oligarchy as a small Greek elite class, largely descended from the original colonists, ruling over a largely local Illyrian population.
From the second century BC Apollonia allied itself with the Roman Republic, which maintained a military base there for a time. The city flourished in the Roman period, housing a renowned school of Greek philosophy, rhetoric, and military training which attracted students from across the empire. Augustus, the first Roman emperor, studied at Apollonia in his youth. The city began to decline in the 3rd century AD when its harbor started silting up as a result of an earthquake. It was abandoned in the 4th century AD.
Source: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Apollonia_(Illyria)
some cartoons found on flickr some time ago, meanwhile nothing has become better, I am afraid...
Stalin is missing here. And Putin. And some others too.
... Thanks to the bravery of our troops, chaos and corruption has been driven out of this sector. Ever lasting peace has took its place. And with it comes opportunity and prosperity for all.
But the war is not over. Not yet. There is still madness at our door. Many planets are under the influence of the so called the New Republic. A government of no legitimacy. A government of corruption and chaos. Born out of the mind of elite oligarchy and opportunists, who only want to enrich themselves.
But be assured, they will not succeed. We will not rest until the leaders of the New Republic are brought to justice and their selfish believes is driven out of this galaxy.
As citizens of the Triumvirate and the Galactic Empire it is our duty to bring peace, stability and prosperity to ever corner of a united galaxy. Do your part in securing the future of our galaxy!
Build for Factions on Eurobricks
www.eurobricks.com/forum/index.php?/forums/topic/186326-u...
Apollonia was perhaps the most important of the several classical towns of the same name. It was founded around 600 BC by Greek colonists from Corinth and possibly Corcyra, who established a trading settlement on a largely abandoned coastal site by invitation of the local Illyrians. Corinthian colonial policy seems to have been relatively liberal, focused on resource extraction for the support of their homeland, rather than exploitation or expulsion of the local Illyrian population. Apollonia gradually gained political independence from Corinth and was organized as a polis under an oligarchic system. Aristotle describes Apollonia's oligarchy as a small Greek elite class, largely descended from the original colonists, ruling over a largely local Illyrian population.
From the second century BC Apollonia allied itself with the Roman Republic, which maintained a military base there for a time. The city flourished in the Roman period, housing a renowned school of Greek philosophy, rhetoric, and military training which attracted students from across the empire. Augustus, the first Roman emperor, studied at Apollonia in his youth. The city began to decline in the 3rd century AD when its harbor started silting up as a result of an earthquake. It was abandoned in the 4th century AD.
Source: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Apollonia_(Illyria)
From the bracelets on his arms it's obvious that this man was just released from a hospital, and yet he winds up sleeping on Amsterdam Avenue. In New York City, home of some of the richest people on earth. This really makes no sense except in a society going down the drain, an oligarchy of the worse kind.
Travelata - отдых в Крыму - официальный партнер путешествий по Крыму и другим интересным местам
Псилерахский карьер - это яркий пример беззакония 90-х годов, приватизации за гроши, развития олигархии, эксплуатации дешевой рабочей силы и обмана ради сохранения бизнеса. Владелец карьера обещает построить супер-современный курорт за 10 млрд $ на месте карьера. Таким образом он пытается обойти многочисленные постановления правительства о прекращении разработок флюсовых известняков.
Striking example of lawlessness of the 90th years, privatizations for pennies, developments of oligarchy, operation of cheap labor and deception for the sake of business preservation. The owner of a pit promises to build the up-to-date resort for $10 billion on a pit place. Thus he tries to bypass numerous government resolutions on the termination of development of flux limestones.
Justo José de Urquiza y García (1801 to 1870) was a member of the Argentine oligarchy and the first constitutional and third overall president of Argentina from March 1854 to March 1860
Stitched image.
Apollonia was perhaps the most important of the several classical towns of the same name. It was founded around 600 BC by Greek colonists from Corinth and possibly Corcyra, who established a trading settlement on a largely abandoned coastal site by invitation of the local Illyrians. Corinthian colonial policy seems to have been relatively liberal, focused on resource extraction for the support of their homeland, rather than exploitation or expulsion of the local Illyrian population. Apollonia gradually gained political independence from Corinth and was organized as a polis under an oligarchic system. Aristotle describes Apollonia's oligarchy as a small Greek elite class, largely descended from the original colonists, ruling over a largely local Illyrian population.
From the second century BC Apollonia allied itself with the Roman Republic, which maintained a military base there for a time. The city flourished in the Roman period, housing a renowned school of Greek philosophy, rhetoric, and military training which attracted students from across the empire. Augustus, the first Roman emperor, studied at Apollonia in his youth. The city began to decline in the 3rd century AD when its harbor started silting up as a result of an earthquake. It was abandoned in the 4th century AD.
Source: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Apollonia_(Illyria)
Chapatte cartoons found in the wonderful stream of my flickr friend Chaalors.
have a look here: www.flickr.com/photos/185704789@N06/
a different take on an old irrigation ditch (named Oligarchy ditch, circa 1866) running through the northern Colorado plains with a familiar front-range skyline behind
Gesehen in Dorsten (Ruhrgebiet)
Seen in Dorsten (Ruhr district)
Die sogenannte „Christlich Demokratische Union“ hat sich schon seit 1949 in sämtlichen Bereichen der Politik als durch und durch unchristlich erwiesen. Nun büßt sie auch noch das Prädikat „demokratisch“ in ihrem Namen ein, indem sie die Nähe zur Nazi-Partei AfD sucht, um aus der Bundesrepublik Deutschland eine asoziale (Pr)Oligarchie nach dem Vorbild des Amerika der faschistischen Weltenfresser Trump und Musk zu machen, in der niedere Instinkte, Gier und bloße Machtpolitik über den Interessen der breiten Masse, über der Auseinandersetzung mit Klimawandel, über jeglichem friedlichem Ausgleich stehen. Wer CDU wählt, der wählt Raubbau am Sozialen, an der Gesundheit, der wählt noch mehr Ressourcenverschwendung, der wählt Politik für eine reiche Minderheit und gegen den Staat, gegen die Demokratie!
The so-called “Christian Democratic Union” has proven to be thoroughly un-Christian in all subjects of politics since 1949. Now they are also losing the “democratic” label in their party´s name by seeking proximity to the Nazi party AfD in order to turn the Federal Republic of Germany into an anti-social oligarchy of stupidity modeled on the America of the fascist world-eaters Trump and Musk, in which base instincts, greed and mere power politics take precedence over the interests of the broad masses, over the confrontation with climate change, over any peaceful balance. Anyone who votes for the CDU is voting for the overexploitation of social welfare and health, is voting for even more waste of resources, is voting for politics for a rich minority and against the state, against democracy!
I have been silent on much of social media due to big projects, but I must break the silence for this post. What is happening in Ukraine at the moment deserves the attention of every person on the planet, and more than that, action. The war crimes being committed by Putin’s Russia are not only traumatizing the entire Ukrainian population, they are designed to evoke terror. With the actions over the past week, Russia has become a Terrorist State, the most powerful such entity in the world.
We can apply all of the sanctions, and as a result the Russian Oligarchy is putting pressure on Putin. Russian citizens are being arrested by the thousands for protesting in the streets. None of this is deterring any forward advance. These measures alone, at least in the short term, are not enough – and every day matters for the sovereignty of Ukraine.
I have friends in Ukraine, and distant family. My paternal heritage is Ukrainian; In 1903, Andreas Komaryczka emigrated from a small village outside of Lviv to settle his family in Canada. My heart goes out to the Ukrainian people, redefining the definition of heroism by their actions. The world is watching, and I am amazed by the outpouring of support from governments across all continents.
I now live in Eastern Europe. The other day we went for a walk on the beach. I stared out across the Black Sea, knowing what conflicts were unfolding on the other side. This is not a defense of Ukraine, but a fight against a tyrannical autocracy. Ask the citizens of Georgia, Syria, Chechnya, Moldova, Ukraine and other nearby nations. This must stop, as it is spreading.
How can we help? Understandable that NATO doesn’t want direct involvement, as the severity of global escalation evokes the term “mutually assured destruction”. It may still be necessary, but there are other ways you can help – as an average everyday person. Here are my thoughts:
-Pressure your local government officials. More support for Ukraine, sure, but also lessen the burden for refugees to enter your country. If you have a Ukrainian community center, ask them what they need. We will be donating supplies for refugees that end up in Bulgaria later this week at a local Ukrainian centre.
-Directly donate to Ukraine. There are a number of ways to do this, through organizations like this ( savelife.in.ua/en/donate/ ) which can help fund the military and surrounding support structures. This doesn’t always mean supplying weapons. Many countries have offered direct funding to Ukraine, and guess what? The government of Ukraine has increased the salary of everyone in the armed forces as a result. They have also offered money to Russians who voluntarily lay down their arms on Ukrainian soil. If you have any cryptocurrency, I think now’s a great time to donate some. You can find the appropriate wallet addresses with an easy search of Ukraine’s verified social media channels.
-Share your thoughts. Peacefully protest. Show your support in every way possible for the people of Ukraine.
The general sense I hear from the “boots on the ground” from the Russian invaders is extremely low morale. A naval battle was called off against Odessa because the crews refused to fight (Odessa has the largest number of Russian-speaking citizens of any city in Ukraine. It was also incredibly well defended.). There have been reports of self-sabotage of Russian military equipment. It’s not going well for Russia at the moment, but remember that their military forces profoundly outweigh that of Ukraine’s.
Let’s not forget to put a spotlight on the tens of thousands of Ukrainian citizens living abroad that have returned to their home country to fight. The President of Ukraine, Volodymyr Zelenskyy, should also be praised for his determination to fight alongside his people. The Ukrainian armed forces have more women than any other nation on the planet, and citizens of all ages, genders, and professions are taking up arms. Heroes are being made every day. Lives are also being lost in the process.
In the end, one thing is certain: the soul of Ukraine cannot be broken. Even if an occupying force takes control, the civil unrest and international support will mean that Ukraine will survive and eventually push out the Russians. The sooner that happens the better.
My heart goes out to the Ukrainian people. I will support you in every way I am able to. One of the reasons we moved to Bulgaria was the sense of safety that is afforded when the world is a “global village”. I will not stand for that safety being eroded. To everyone in Ukraine: keep fighting the good fight. To every citizen of Russia that knows their government is on the wrong side of humanity, if you all rose up you would be an unstoppable force.
This image is a sunflower. Under ultraviolet light, a sunflower’s colours become much more diverse and vibrant – adding blue to the yellow, among other colours. The national colours of Ukraine hidden within their most symbolic flower. Slava Ukraini!
Captain Salvador is a man of conviction and skill, with a sense of hope he hides behind a gruff, grumpy exterior. He has spent decades leading his crew aboard the Carriedo both shuttling refugees from floating island to floating island, and leading raids against the oppressive oligarchy that rules his world. He truly believes that someday his home will be free, and all will be able to sail the skies with as much grace and ease as the mythical Clouded Whales themselves.
Until that day, he fights for those who cannot.
Built for the Brickset Character Building Competition. And it won!
Our dictator in chief has done a few things this week...tried to silence media and scientists, harm the environment, generally continued to treat facts as fantasy and his own opinions as facts, reduced funding for countries with pro choice family planning options, severely limited immigration, threatened to build a wall, started to dismantle our health care system.
Pretty much, the billionaires don't care about the poor and somehow there are still people who voted for him that didn't see this coming. We have a Putin backed Oligarchy in the white house right now and they don't care about public education, the rights of people with disabilities, or the rights pretty much of anyone who isn't a white rich man.
Goldman Sachs and the conservative agenda is running our country and the world. In the midst of this, Trump announced that he might send in the Feds to Chicago to get our violence problem under control....or does he mean his protest problem?
It'll only be a matter of time before this horror becomes the new normal and our ADHD ridden world seems to forget from day to day the savagery wreaked upon them.
**All photos are copyrighted. Please don't use without permission**
José Julián Martí Pérez was born in Havana, Cuba, on 1853-01-28, in a colony still ruled by Spain, within a political climate shaped by censorship, repression, and forced loyalty to the empire. From a very young age he developed a radical sense of justice. His political awakening was not symbolic or romantic, but concrete and dangerous. In 1869, still a teenager, he published pro-independence writings and participated in patriotic circles. A letter denouncing a fellow student who supported Spanish rule led to his arrest, sentencing him to forced labor in chains. This experience inside the colonial prison system marked him permanently. He understood that power maintained itself through organized humiliation and fear, and that liberation required moral clarity, discipline, and structure. In 1871 he was deported to Spain. There he studied and immediately published a detailed denunciation of colonial imprisonment, later known as El presidio político en Cuba, exposing physical abuse, psychological torture, and the machinery of repression used against Cuban political prisoners. Exile became the center of his life. He lived and worked in Spain, Mexico, Guatemala, Venezuela, and especially the United States, earning a living as a journalist, translator, teacher, and lecturer. Writing was never for prestige: it was always a tool of struggle. In 1877 he married Carmen Zayas-Bazán. In 1878 their son José Francisco was born. Martí loved his child deeply, and his writings reveal a strong emotional bond. However, his political commitment meant long separations and an unstable family life. He accepted this personal cost consciously, believing that Cuban independence had to come before his private happiness. In the United States, Martí became the principal organizer of Cuban exile communities. He delivered hundreds of speeches, founded patriotic clubs, raised funds, mediated internal conflicts, and worked relentlessly to unify divided revolutionary factions. In 1892 he founded the newspaper Patria as a political and organizational instrument, and in the same year created the Cuban Revolutionary Party, whose explicit goal was to prepare a new war of independence and prevent Cuba from falling under any new form of domination. At the same time, Martí developed a major literary and political body of work. His poetry collection Versos sencillos combined simplicity of language with ethical depth. His essay Nuestra América articulated a clear geopolitical vision: Latin America must build its own institutions based on its realities, not copy European or U.S. models. He openly warned that replacing Spanish rule with U.S. control would mean exchanging one empire for another. This position made him dangerous not only to Spain, but also to economic elites, annexationists, and political actors who favored a dependent Cuba. Martí represented a revolutionary ethics: independence without racism, without oligarchies, without foreign tutelage. He believed culture itself was a battlefield and that ideas could mobilize entire populations if tied to organization and action. In 1895 he returned clandestinely to Cuba to participate directly in the insurrection he had helped build. He refused to remain a distant intellectual figure. On 1895-05-19, at Dos Ríos, during an armed clash with Spanish troops, Martí advanced on horseback and was shot and killed. He died as he lived: refusing separation between word and action. His death turned him into the permanent moral reference of Cuban independence. Martí endures not as a decorative poet, but as an organizer, strategist, and revolutionary thinker who transformed culture into an instrument of liberation and dignity. I publish these images because memory is not nostalgia: it is defense. To remind young people that resistance is not a slogan but a choice that carries a cost, and that justice does not exist unless people insist on it. These individuals are not icons for consumption: they were human beings who paid with their lives to defend humanity, dignity, rights, and truth against propaganda, violence, and abuse of power. I publish them to oppose indifference, to restore facts to the center, and to state clearly that we must not accept injustice as normal. Those who resisted before us did not leave us a myth. They left us a responsibility.
The first official document with which the Carnival of Venice was declared a public celebration dates back to 1296 – an edict by the Senate of the “most Serene Republic,” making the day before Lent a holiday.
Established by the Venetian oligarchy as a concession to the people, its objective was fun and merrymaking, where the mask dominated as a means to briefly ignore any signs of belonging to social class, gender or religion.
Today the Carnival of Venice is an evocative and much-anticipated popular fest, unique in terms of its history, its masks and its atmosphere. Highly-reputed and appreciated in all the world, it brings thousands of tourists to Italy every year.
During the Lagoon’s two-week Carnival celebration, all can watch and take part in the numerous events and displays filling the piazzas and main waterways of the city.
As in the past, private parties and masquerade balls still happen behind the scenes today, inside Venice’s grand noble palaces. In these places, where time seems to stand still, guests can jump into this world of ancient splendor, reliving the Carnival tradition of long ago.
Some of the most spectacular moments during the Venetian carnival are the Flight of the Angel (or Flight of Colombina), a tradition that began with a Turkish acrobat in mid-1500s. In this amazing spectacle an artist in flesh and bone hangs from a metal cable, and, suspended in air, makes his descent from the top of St. Mark’s Bell Tower to the Doge’s Palace. It is a magnificent sight to see!
Venice, city of art and UNESCO World Heritage Site, exudes its charm all throughout the year, but only Carnival can render it even more magical than it already i
In cities of ancient Greece, the boule (Greek: βουλή, boulē; plural βουλαί, boulai) was a council of over 500 citizens (βουλευταί, bouleutai) appointed to run daily affairs of the city. Originally a council of nobles advising a king, boulai evolved according to the constitution of the city: In oligarchies boule positions might have been hereditary, while in democracies members were typically chosen by lot and served for one year. Little is known about the workings of many boulai, except in the case of Athens, for which extensive material has survived.
Wikipedia
For the Smile on Saturday challenge: Kings and Queens.
A marriage of state is a diplomatic marriage or union between two members of different nation-states or internally, between two power blocs, usually in authoritarian societies and is a practice which dates back to ancient times, as far back as early Grecian cultures in western society, and of similar antiquity in other civilizations. A Marriage of State often involved surrendering a female member of a ruling line to gain peace or shore up alliances of state between nation-states headed by small oligarchies or acknowledged royalty. -- Courtesy Wikipedia
"Forgetfulness is not just a vis inertiae, as superficial people believe, but is rather an active ability to suppress, positive in the strongest sense of the word, to which we owe the fact that what we simply live through, experience, take in, no more enters our consciousness during digestion (one could call it spiritual ingestion) than does the thousand-fold process which takes place with our physical consumption of food, our so-called ingestion. To shut the doors and windows of consciousness for a while; not to be bothered by the noise and battle which our underworld of serviceable organs work with and against each other;a little peace, a little tabula rasa of consciousness to make room for something new, above all for the nobler functions and functionaries, for ruling, predicting, predetermining (our organism runs along oligarchic lines, you see) - that, as I said, is the benefit of active forgetfulness, like a doorkeeper or guardian of mental order, rest and etiquette: from which can immediately see how there could be no happiness, cheerfulness, hope, pride, immediacy, without forgetfulness" Nietzche, On the Genealogy of Morality.
Hágale pues A.
Jack London - The Iron Heel by Daniel Arrhakis (2024)
The Iron Heel, novel by Jack London, published in 1908, describing the fall of the United States to the cruel fascist dictatorship of the Iron Heel.
Set in the future, “The Iron Heel” describes a world in which the division between the classes has deepened, creating a powerful Oligarchy that retains control through terror. A manuscript by rebel Avis Everhard is recovered in an even more distant future, and analyzed by scholar Anthony Meredith. Published in 1908, Jack London’s multi-layered narrative is an early example of the dystopian novel, and its vision of the future proved to be eerily prescient of the violence and fascism that marked the initial half of the 20th century.
Today, Jack London's book is more current and pertinent than ever, in a world in which Fascism and oligarchic theories once again try to dominate Western democracies.
___________________________________________________
Our next challenge "Tribute To Jack London Challenge - October 2024" now open in our AIA - Artificial Intelligence Art group :
Tribute To Jack London AIA Challenge - October 2024 - LINK HERE
Last night Kyiv was subjected to a massive missile-and-drone attack. In total, more than 500 missiles and drones were launched across Ukraine, with the main удар this time targeting the capital. I spent almost a full day without electricity; hot water and heating are still unavailable. Food in the refrigerator has spoiled and will now have to be thrown away. The voltage in the power grid is unstable. Unfortunately, hopes for a ceasefire at least over the New Year holidays did not come true. Nevertheless, I continue my story about the events on Maidan in 2004.
“This photo shows people standing on Maidan waiting for some kind of news. Opposite them, the opposition forces had built a large stage where various speakers would appear from time to time (members of parliament, activists, etc.). There were also performances by singers who supported the protest actions. Monitors were installed there as well, broadcasting news from television channels or sessions of parliament.
What actually happened then was this: the clan-oligarchic groups that truly held power in the country managed to reach an agreement among themselves, in order to avoid the country splitting apart and the outbreak of a civil war. It was decided to hold a re-run of the second round of the presidential election (the so-called “third round”). Realizing that Yanukovych would no longer win, the leading members of his party—the Party of Regions, which primarily represented Donbas—demanded that the powers of the President of Ukraine be significantly reduced by introducing corresponding amendments to the country’s constitution. The opposition agreed to these demands.
Legally, this was formalized by a decision of the Supreme Court of Ukraine on December 3, 2004 (the court session was broadcast live on television), and by the corresponding vote in parliament (the Verkhovna Rada of Ukraine) between December 3 and 8, 2004. On December 26, 2004, the re-run vote took place, in which Viktor Yushchenko won with 52%, while Yanukovych received 44% of the vote. The election results were rushed to be announced before the New Year so that members of parliament could then leave to celebrate the holidays abroad. People were told that they had won, and a festive concert was held on the same Maidan.
What unpleasantly struck me at the time was that, in the finale, deputies from the Party of Regions were also brought onto the Maidan stage—among them the future prime minister in President Yanukovych’s government, Mykola Azarov, as well as the future head of the state company Energoatom, Andrii Derkach. Both of these figures later fled to Russia together with Yanukovych; Derkach eventually even became a senator of one of Russia’s regions.
It was then that I realized something smelled of a dirty backroom deal. However, as a young person without experience, I did not yet understand just how dirty Ukrainian politics is, or what the Ukrainian state really represents. What it represents, how it came to be this way, and why it is now on the brink of destruction—I will write about that in my next post.
To be continued...
Chapatte cartoons found in the wonderful stream of my flickr friend Chaalors.
have a look here: www.flickr.com/photos/185704789@N06/
Reinterpretation of The Ruff & Her Reveal
www.flickr.com/photos/131198592@N03/23657752753/in/photos...
Mobile photos using iPhone 6+ Camera+ for the woman & a variety of torn materials. Background & other textures made in Pixelmator & iColorama, (Neckpiece, pearls, eye area from 16 th c paintings of Queens & duchesses.) Processed using iColorama, Pixelmator, superimpose, flow paper, lenslight & mextures.
This image was made out of my necessity to be grumpy about my countries insurgence of an oligarchy since the 1980's on versus its formation as a Republic with democratic roots, much of which is due to Wallstreet. God bless America with hopes that it will right itself.
Here is the original page that was eventually adjusted because of controversial collectivist wording.
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Conceived in the passionate autunno caldo of 1938, i was born to spit up the shellac of Latin on my fetal tongue.
Maman, my great Maman, thrust me from her flesh cradle with an emphasis of her thick Haitian thighs - into the cool, patient fisherman-calloused hands on mon papa. As he swatted my tiny empennage, he tenderly hushed my blither with the sweet fermented rine of a melon, and by the setting of my first Caribbean sun, Maman was cooing delicious vodoun fables in time with the lazy metronome of her steel drum rocker. "What a
terrible baby you are, shaking inside your mama's belly like a Carnival boy; my insides are an atelier, not a dance hall...'
I passed years like stalks of field cane (striaght and sweet and green) wrapping my child-body in a naked pastiche of creole jazz, muddy-ankle football, and the innocent sexuality of rhythm. Lazy days of cacao and calico were spent on the fetid foreshore of our village unraveling papa's gnarled fly-nets; while the humid python-winding nights were swallowed by the pulsing rapture of cheap cane rum and the tongue-on-skin throng of voudon arousal. When the sun calmed the winds, mon papa would let me steer the skiff to the fishing beds; as he ate his supper bread and sipped grape wine, I would stand on the tenuous bow of the boat and wave to the far inching trawlers and fattened cargo-ships. I have the memories of a scattered, but happy, diarist; poplin-rough Sunday school clothes and the gangly flush of pubescence, maman's unnerving truth serum stare and the droning lisp of our beetle-faced cure'...and when my lean body first began to yearn for the wettened loggia of a woman's legs,
I was awkwardly depulced by the silly youngest daughter of a wild tonton-man, who though she was a few years beneath me wanted only to mustang-ride on top of me.
Haiti is a violent wealth of color cloistered in a vault of shadows; a green and grise' catafalque bedecked with bright ribbons and gimcrack liturgies, big generals, and little girls, a lethal coup poudre potion mixed in a cardinal-purple zuchetto - once, in the citron mist of waking, Maman mumbled, 'Come here children...come inside, my house is warm, I will feed you...'
A man will attempt to run from the mange of furies that burrow into his pores, but the Haiti-man alone can drown his vermin in the dank, muscular suffocation of his black magic voudon. It is a carnal intercourse of spine and cortex, making love in a large wrought-iron washtub, hand-bathed in a rotgut sweat of fermented slave tears and corrupt eucharist wine - by the naked hands of writing and coming, which have submitted their strong backs to the raw dictatorship of fear and adoration. Mon papa, tapping his inert, Papa-Doc old boat engine with a scarred bonig knife, said, voudon is like a magic carburetor, mixing an explosive solution of Haitian blood and spirit breath - a glazed smile for his own wit; and then, in a guarded sotto-voce, he whispered as beaten men do, 'Maman...has a great lord sleeping inside her breasts, and when he awakes...he treats her to a powerful feast; she can tell the future and smell your lies, bottle your ti bon ange soul in a gas can if she feels like it, or even make a man's backbone shake like a dying jellyfish...be afraid of Maman, but love her well.' Year later, Maman in her chicory-scented pinafore, rolled with laughter when I retold what our late papa had said. "That man...I miss his simple grin and his slow hands...Tonight we will dance for him; you, who fed on the outside of my breasts, and my 'great lord' who is suckling inside them. Papa will smile, no?'
At Pentacost, when the pursed black lips of the green island hummed dark Catholic hymns, I would pilgrimage off to the eastern most Dominican tip of the island and imagine that I could see past the scattered lily isles of the soul-bayou Caribbean over the ungenial Atlantique and onto the gelid farshore of Europe; meditating, scrutinizing over the gendarme-sneer of the French or even the gaspacho-gold face of the
Spanairds. The Europeans fascinate me. I can picture the finger-tip calculations of the the captivated servant trying to understand how to climb the stairs between himself and the master, yet they fascinate me more because their paths have been so intricately woven with ours. They branded us with their perversion of Christianity and salved the wounds with whiplashes; we are the gross-deformed bastard-cattle brood of Europa, who abandoned us we she learned that are too stong too die, yet simple enough to decay. I remember a rumor of a blade-quarted Paris-dandy who drank riotous amounts of cognac in the company of a grand Tonton Macoute and then quipped with a sodomist's tongue, 'Ce country is manque'...ha, an unfinished sewer, smell it ! That odor can only be from an ulcerous wound...'I must laugh here. I know that what we are must scare them; the alieness of our revery, the scathing depth of our intensity, the human-bright colors
of violence and treachery that we parade upon our chests like the general's ribbons. Maman said that all the European men should be cooked a bit longer 'their bellies are too tender, they cannot stomach the face-up-close crimes that we can commit - they were built for killing anonymously - big missiles, bureaucracies, and world wars; they dont have the pride of naked resolve to stare into the crevices of a man's eyes and wrest out his soul...Put them in my belly. I will cook them a little more, make 'em more real." Would terrify you? The too intimate suffocation of a bokor queen's flesh womb, gaging blind in a solution of her great lord's semen and the belly-warm blood of sa mare, ma mere? You would be forced to gape with boarding -school eyes upon a blistering fantastique that mocks your swollen insolence. Mind, you can frighten me too; I would be scared beyond myself if I were staked naked between the trenches of Sommes. Pardon me, I do not hate the European gens, but scrutinizing them is like the thick frustration of a child learning to somersault; one day, when my mind is beyond intrigue though, I will roll over my preoccupied thoughts of them as if a playful steel drum rolled down a steep hill.'Voudon is the religion of the cerebellum, an allegro-alfresco celebration of the primal mind that perches beneath the tangled fugue of the forebrain like a trap-door spider. As night chars the canvas of day, the Haiti people start to breathe more freely. We smile with the heady anticipation of an addict carressing a loaded needle in the moments that the sugar cane torches flickr alive and finger drums begin to rumble from rickety porches. I remember the creeping euphoria of feeling my skull becoming light and translucent, the intravenous drip of human alkaloids saturating my veins and vertebrae as the id of my passions secreted a narcotic sweat of expectation. You feel the itch of a nine-month pregnancy, the salavation of salvation...'
The angelus bells of the bokor draw us to their back-yard shacks, which they decorate in a whirl of colorful ideograms and homemade fetishes. Shirts undone and hemlines gathered up, bony chests and weathered chapeaux, we congregate like a brazen cabal, our tongues wagging in chirping mouths for the festivities to begin, to shed our sulking skin and dance nude in a soothing embrocation. Maman was a great bokor. She carried an infectious air of ebullience and pride, as if her eyes were saying can you believe that great things we will do tonight? She would enter the room with a corset of flunkies and a flowing train of petitioners; her hands touching the face of everyone present, laughing and smiling with them. She became a warm-blooded nucleus of a slowly, spiraling galaxy of children, she was Maman to everyone now. Here they called her La Chantelaine, mistress of the house.
The walls of the hovel, brown and tin and worn, would shake and quiver in the pulsing thrum of the swaying, wailing women and the driving beat of the drums. We danced in groups and couples and alone, smiling like pristine simpletons, letting the rhythm knead into us like a masseur's hands. Music is the riding rein of the soul; and the ever-rapid beat of our rhythms echo off the deepest ravines of our psyche, guiding the traveller inwards, through the dense strata of sharks of the upper brain, down into the cradle of the brain stem, where impulse and intuition are as inseperable as wave and light once were, pain and pleasure, sea and sun, woman and man. While voudon is the horse that carries us within, it has a deeper brilliance - the fierce embrace of total submission - as if a man who makes loves to his adored woman, his flaring tongue alive in the passion of realizing that he can go nowhere but inside his lover; he submits himself to the exploration of her depths, his body only a caisson, his soul a conspirator addcited to the narcosis of pilgrimaging inside the body of her spirituality. We, as a people, venture further in the bracing womb of archetypes, deeper into the mythic, yet nascent body of the great child unborn, than of any other people who can serioulsy claim to burrow into the flesh of understanding. Mon papa said we are dogs who can find their way home across a wild sea. This is true - we are suffering children who toil for penury, who sink in a slow misery - but it just may be us who will be blessed by the tears of Allah before the Mohamedans, our forgiving lips alone upon the weeping wound of Christ. I am not saying we are holier than you, only that we are much more human; our sins and sorrows are heavier weights upon our necks as we leap into the blue sea... You should pardon me when i gibber like this; in these later years I am learning to appreciate the breadth of my life, I no longer dwell upon its serated seams but adore the entire panorama; at times, my tongue is slower than my awe.
With the fear of crashing the crescendo of this story, I must tell you that I left behind my island of voudon dolls and emmigrated to the alleys of Paris. Maman died, poisoned. Papa was long dead, exhaustion. The Tonton Macoute wanted to cripple the informal oligarchy of the voudon queens; they would have snapped my back to break our lineage. I was forewarned with the brutality of Haitian subtlety; a black-painted disembowled kitten tossed on my doorstep like a newspaper (Maman was La Chantelaine, they teasingly called me Le Chat) and then after the swelter of a frightened week, they set fire to our house, to papa's old boat, to Maman's back-yard shack... I cried like an unsoothable baby until I reached the skirts of Port-Au-Prince, where I cleaned bilges on an Indochinese freighter for passage to France. I had no papers, no authorization. All I remember of the voyage were the long, rolling waves of fever that slept in my chest like a nervous rattlesnake. In Marseilles I stole down the anchorline of the ship and swam across the chilled harbor until I felt the sand bottom of beach under my feet, and then i melted into the city. After a month or so, I fell into the gravity of Paris.
There are many Haitians here, some wealthy, most nor. They showed me how to bribe the flic-policemen and to temper my slurring patois so its didnt hurt the sensitive ears of Paris. I found a cab to drive at night and a ten-body room to sleep in during the day. I stumbled into Saint-Germain one afternoon and drank coffee with a gabbing clique of student . They were amazed by the stories I told, probably found them charming, distracting. In return they gave me access to libraries and lectures and new thoughts. My mind seemed to grow from weeds into gardens. I began to write, paint a bit, make love to women in dusk-empty parks. I felt as if I were a cave dweller climbing foreign but delicious alps, shocked by the brightness of the sun and the limitless expanse of the sky.I learned to fish with a rod and reel. Some weekends I drop a line into the dirty Seine and ponder, my line bobbing for memories. When I think of my Haiti I cannot remember the people of the homes, they are like dry parchment paper, rather I see the cumulous balls of smoke lifting from papa's rosewood pipe or I smell the acrid resin of boiled candle wax and chicken entrails slipping from Maman's alchemist kitchen. More, I can still feel the reassuring constriction of voudon about my torso and tongue, as if i had been sewed into a new skin, one more alive, more luxuriant, more spohisticated than my own. Voudon made me fraternal brother of the gut; I lived like a wise homunculous, wild and alive, in the stomach of the human conspiracy. I know the grinding contortions of our hungers and the soothing coolness of our waters. My thoughts were simple peasants, knowing only the autocracy of impulse and the heady musk of desire. And on this far shore from my birth, I have discoverd that Time is like a scribbled blackboard running the breadth of your life, ever reteaching you lessons and exercises that you forgot or never understood. Now, living in the brilliantly glib pages of Paris, I have been given the luxury of contemplative distance to strip my ideology of voudon of its cosmologies and mythos, a sculptor leaning back for perspective, whitened chisel in hand. As if an elder son returning home to hold a father he can now better understand, I embrace voudon for its raw uniqueness, its power to shape our fears and tears back into a primordial clay, allowing us to reenact the passion drama of life and self-creation and death. While I am happy that no horsemen can ride my back now, I wince for children who can never escape from the gnawing brutality of fearing a lonely breathless night or who shirk form staring into the sun, never being able to spit up the bland, anonymous shellac of Latin upon their tongues.