Serbian authorities have arrested and detained five anarchists, including our friend Ratibor Trivunac. As well as being a prominent anarcho-syndicalist, Rata is a long-standing supporter of the international Surrealist movement with a wealth of knowledge about the often-neglected history of Surrealism in Belgrade. Members of SLAG who had the pleasure of meeting him in London two years ago are horrified at the news of these arrests.
Details of the five's arrest below are from Libcom.
The five, Tadej Kurep, Ivan Vulović, Sanja Dojkić, Ratibor Trivunac and Nikola Mitrovic, are activists in or associates of the Anarcho-Syndicalist Initiative, the Serbian section of the International Workers’ Association (IWA).
The arrests are allegedly related to a direct action which took place at the Greek Embassy on Aug. 25. Negligible damage was done; a crack in one window, a tiny burn mark on the facade and a circled-A graffiti on the embassy as an act of symbolic solidarity with Greek hunger-striker Thodoros Iliopoulos. The prosecutor however imagines this as an act of “international terrorism” and would like to charge our comrades with such. If the state allows such charges to be pressed, they could be facing 3-15 years in prison.
As it is, the five were arrested, harassed and are to be held in custody for at least one month while the case is organized.
Although one of the accused, General Secretary of the IWA Ratibor Trivunac, clearly and publicly declared that he knew nothing of the action, he was arrested. It is not the first time that authorities have come after him or his comrades for no other reason than the fact that they are radical critics of the state.
A demonstration in support of the five was held outside the London Embassy of Serbia and Montenegro on Friday 11th September.
There will be a second picket of the Embassy of Serbia and Montenegro on Monday 28th September, 12-2pm.
The embassy is at 28 Belgrave Square, London, SW1X 8QB. Nearest stations are Victoria, Hyde Park Corner and Knightsbridge.
Click here to send a message of protest to the Serbian government.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Friday, September 25, 2009
Saturday, September 05, 2009
Pareidolia in the boudoir
Two different people's interpretations of the figures appearing on the same patch of a roughly painted bedroom wall.
Saturday, August 15, 2009
Chance Report
In the middle of July, our comrade Nikos Stabakis came to London for a visit, bringing with him some new publications from the Athens Surrealist Group, including the latest issue of Klidonas. Two of us met him for a drink in the evening. We didn't really have time to look properly at any of the publications he gave us, because we were up very early the following morning to catch a plane to Stockholm.
Almost three weeks later in Stockholm, we went with some of our friends in the Stockholm Surrealist Group to a book launch party, and during the evening we proudly showed off the copy of Galerie du Mystère's Guide de Paris Mystérieux (1966) which we had found in a charity shop the previous afternoon. Flipping through the pages, Mattias Forshage suddenly stopped at an illustration on page 230 and exclaimed "But I saw this image somewhere else yesterday!" After a few moments he worked out that it must have been in the copy of Klidonas we had brought him as a present from Nikos, and which we still hadn't had time to look through properly ourselves.
In Guide de Paris Mystérieux, the image is subtitled "L'homme volant" de Restif de Bretonne, and is an illustration for the Guide's entry on the Quai de Conti, where in 1580 an Italian man constructed a set of wings and attempted to fly across the Seine (he ended up in the water, apparently unharmed).
In Klidonas the image appears on page 96 as an illustration to a text by Sotiris Liontos – which, because we cannot read Greek, we are unable to decipher, apart from the English epigram from Shelley's Ozymandias.
(For one of us, the symbolism of this image is perfectly clear, particularly in light of another coincidence which took place the day before we found the Guide in Stockholm but which we did not find out about until after we returned to London. But that final stroke of objective chance must remain unpublished, "to protect the innocent" as the saying goes.)
Almost three weeks later in Stockholm, we went with some of our friends in the Stockholm Surrealist Group to a book launch party, and during the evening we proudly showed off the copy of Galerie du Mystère's Guide de Paris Mystérieux (1966) which we had found in a charity shop the previous afternoon. Flipping through the pages, Mattias Forshage suddenly stopped at an illustration on page 230 and exclaimed "But I saw this image somewhere else yesterday!" After a few moments he worked out that it must have been in the copy of Klidonas we had brought him as a present from Nikos, and which we still hadn't had time to look through properly ourselves.
In Guide de Paris Mystérieux, the image is subtitled "L'homme volant" de Restif de Bretonne, and is an illustration for the Guide's entry on the Quai de Conti, where in 1580 an Italian man constructed a set of wings and attempted to fly across the Seine (he ended up in the water, apparently unharmed).In Klidonas the image appears on page 96 as an illustration to a text by Sotiris Liontos – which, because we cannot read Greek, we are unable to decipher, apart from the English epigram from Shelley's Ozymandias.
(For one of us, the symbolism of this image is perfectly clear, particularly in light of another coincidence which took place the day before we found the Guide in Stockholm but which we did not find out about until after we returned to London. But that final stroke of objective chance must remain unpublished, "to protect the innocent" as the saying goes.)
Wednesday, August 05, 2009
Aussies in Alaska
Yesterday I packed a bag full of newspaper and hitchhiked to Alaska, where awaiting my arrival were eighteen perturbed Australians.
“You should have been here three weeks ago,” one of them shouted as I walked into the bar and ordered a pepsi.
“So should you,” I retorted, to which he seemed to want to say more, but he shut his mouth and parked his butt on the seat of the stool.
“What you got for us, then?” he finally asked, clearly having decided that my tardiness negated the need for small talk.
“Money first,” I said, equally blunt.
“You’ll get it. Let’s see the shit.” I sighed. There were eighteen of them and one of me. I had to trust Onca’s word that these gentlemen would pay up and not rob me. I opened the rucksack a peep. The talking Aussie peered on and gasped. He grabbed his groin and ran out the room, seventeen pairs of Aussie eyes, plus mine, following his progress. I shrugged.
“You couldn’t have chosen someone with a bit more reserve?” I accused them, and no one spoke.
“You,” I said, pointing to a small one, who looked not unlike an Irish featherweight boxer. “Come and look. I haven’t got all fucking night, I’ve got a trucker coming back in an hour.”
The Irish Aussie sauntered over, trying to look all casual. He didn’t speak but looked down into the bag. I saw the breath hitch in his chest but he managed to swallow down his reaction.
“All right?” I asked. He nodded mutely. “Money?” Irish-Aussie clicked his fingers at two of the Aussies standing by a trunk. They heaved it over and plonked it at my feet. One fiddled with the lock, his attention drawn by my bag which still laid open a tad, so I shut it and the trunk lid was lifted.
“What the fuck is that.”
I looked accusingly at the trunk-opener. He looked helplessly at his mate, who looked at the Irish Aussie, who looked in relief at the groin-grabber, as he re-emerged, looking distinctly dishevelled.
“Payment.”
“I don’t want that shit.”
“It’s all we got.”
“Then I’m outta here.” I swung the rucksack back over my shoulders. I turned my back on them, knowing they could easily jump me, take my shit, and, if they fancied it, murder me and throw out my corpse for those who love the carrion. Bears and such. Irish-Aussie called:
“Wait. We must have something you want.”
I whipped back around. “I’ll take an Aussie. I don’t care which one.”
He glared. “What in the hell for?”
“That’s my business.”
Irish-Aussie exchanged looks with his seventeen pals, each of them looking longingly at my bag. Maybe they assumed I was armed, and they weren’t. I don’t know why they didn’t attack me. After a few more silent exchanges, all eyes fell on one Aussie. He was thin and pointless-looking. The Aussie nearest him nudged him, and soon all seventeen of them were jostling and pushing the thin one forward, till he was at the front of the pack, looking at me in fear.
“Deal?” I asked the Irish-Aussie.
“Deal.” I chucked my rucksack on the floor, and jerked my head at the thin Aussie, my think Aussie, who, with a final look at his mates, forlornly followed as I led the way out of the bar.
But the truth was I didn’t want that fucking Aussie for any reason, prurient, wicked, or otherwise. I just wanted to test those fuckers, to measure their desperation. What sort of clan, I figured, would give up one of their own number for a little hit? Because what I’d given them was little, insignificant to what you could get back in the States proper – but this was Alaska, they were hooked, broken, and broke. And stuck there, probably until they all died. And they just given me, exchanged with me, a life, a comrade, for a hit. It sickened me to my core. I had some real trouble getting my trucker to take him on board, too.
“He’s an addict.”
“He hasn’t had a hit in weeks.”
“So he’ll be getting them attacks soon.”
“Withdrawal symptoms?”
“Yeah, them.”
“It’s possible.”
“Definite.”
I hesitated. “Probable.” Our own form of haggling.
He grunted. “I’ll take you to Vancouver.”
My heart sank. Just an hour ago he’d agreed to take me to Nevada.
“I can get you whatever you need in Nevada. Anything, Mick.”
“I ain’t taking no addict over the border back into the States. Do I look crazy to you?”
The question was redundant, because Mick, with his huge goggle eyes and is thick glasses making them appear even bigger, looked as crazy as they came. I didn’t bother to answer, but sighed and agreed to Vancouver.
I sat between Mick and the thin Aussie. Mick treated him like a ticking bomb. He refused to put music on, whispering loudly that it might set him off. The thin Aussie remained mute, either by volition, or necessity, or perhaps it was one of the withdrawal symptoms. He just stared out at the road, his thin white hands limp in his lap, his staring, fearful eyes fixed on the tarmac, but perhaps seeing something else.
Josie Malinowski
“You should have been here three weeks ago,” one of them shouted as I walked into the bar and ordered a pepsi.
“So should you,” I retorted, to which he seemed to want to say more, but he shut his mouth and parked his butt on the seat of the stool.
“What you got for us, then?” he finally asked, clearly having decided that my tardiness negated the need for small talk.
“Money first,” I said, equally blunt.
“You’ll get it. Let’s see the shit.” I sighed. There were eighteen of them and one of me. I had to trust Onca’s word that these gentlemen would pay up and not rob me. I opened the rucksack a peep. The talking Aussie peered on and gasped. He grabbed his groin and ran out the room, seventeen pairs of Aussie eyes, plus mine, following his progress. I shrugged.
“You couldn’t have chosen someone with a bit more reserve?” I accused them, and no one spoke.
“You,” I said, pointing to a small one, who looked not unlike an Irish featherweight boxer. “Come and look. I haven’t got all fucking night, I’ve got a trucker coming back in an hour.”
The Irish Aussie sauntered over, trying to look all casual. He didn’t speak but looked down into the bag. I saw the breath hitch in his chest but he managed to swallow down his reaction.
“All right?” I asked. He nodded mutely. “Money?” Irish-Aussie clicked his fingers at two of the Aussies standing by a trunk. They heaved it over and plonked it at my feet. One fiddled with the lock, his attention drawn by my bag which still laid open a tad, so I shut it and the trunk lid was lifted.
“What the fuck is that.”
I looked accusingly at the trunk-opener. He looked helplessly at his mate, who looked at the Irish Aussie, who looked in relief at the groin-grabber, as he re-emerged, looking distinctly dishevelled.
“Payment.”
“I don’t want that shit.”
“It’s all we got.”
“Then I’m outta here.” I swung the rucksack back over my shoulders. I turned my back on them, knowing they could easily jump me, take my shit, and, if they fancied it, murder me and throw out my corpse for those who love the carrion. Bears and such. Irish-Aussie called:
“Wait. We must have something you want.”
I whipped back around. “I’ll take an Aussie. I don’t care which one.”
He glared. “What in the hell for?”
“That’s my business.”
Irish-Aussie exchanged looks with his seventeen pals, each of them looking longingly at my bag. Maybe they assumed I was armed, and they weren’t. I don’t know why they didn’t attack me. After a few more silent exchanges, all eyes fell on one Aussie. He was thin and pointless-looking. The Aussie nearest him nudged him, and soon all seventeen of them were jostling and pushing the thin one forward, till he was at the front of the pack, looking at me in fear.
“Deal?” I asked the Irish-Aussie.
“Deal.” I chucked my rucksack on the floor, and jerked my head at the thin Aussie, my think Aussie, who, with a final look at his mates, forlornly followed as I led the way out of the bar.
*****
But the truth was I didn’t want that fucking Aussie for any reason, prurient, wicked, or otherwise. I just wanted to test those fuckers, to measure their desperation. What sort of clan, I figured, would give up one of their own number for a little hit? Because what I’d given them was little, insignificant to what you could get back in the States proper – but this was Alaska, they were hooked, broken, and broke. And stuck there, probably until they all died. And they just given me, exchanged with me, a life, a comrade, for a hit. It sickened me to my core. I had some real trouble getting my trucker to take him on board, too.
“He’s an addict.”
“He hasn’t had a hit in weeks.”
“So he’ll be getting them attacks soon.”
“Withdrawal symptoms?”
“Yeah, them.”
“It’s possible.”
“Definite.”
I hesitated. “Probable.” Our own form of haggling.
He grunted. “I’ll take you to Vancouver.”
My heart sank. Just an hour ago he’d agreed to take me to Nevada.
“I can get you whatever you need in Nevada. Anything, Mick.”
“I ain’t taking no addict over the border back into the States. Do I look crazy to you?”
The question was redundant, because Mick, with his huge goggle eyes and is thick glasses making them appear even bigger, looked as crazy as they came. I didn’t bother to answer, but sighed and agreed to Vancouver.
I sat between Mick and the thin Aussie. Mick treated him like a ticking bomb. He refused to put music on, whispering loudly that it might set him off. The thin Aussie remained mute, either by volition, or necessity, or perhaps it was one of the withdrawal symptoms. He just stared out at the road, his thin white hands limp in his lap, his staring, fearful eyes fixed on the tarmac, but perhaps seeing something else.
Josie Malinowski
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