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They caught him after he had killed the second man. The law would never connect him to the first murder. It was almost as if, at least on the books the law kept, Caesar had got away with a free killing. Seven months after he stabbed the second man—a twenty-two-year-old with prematurely gray hair who had ventured out of Southeast for only the sixth time in his life—Caesar was tried for murder in the second degree. So at trial, with the weight of all the harm done to him and because he had hidden for months in one shit hole after another, he was not always himself and thought many times that he was actually there for killing Golden Boy, the first dead man. He was not insane, but he was three doors from it, which was how an old girlfriend, Yvonne Miller, would now and again playfully refer to his behavior. Who the fuck is this Antwoine bitch? Caesar sometimes thought during the trial. And where is Percy? It was only when the judge sentenced him to seven years in Lorton, D.
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Film still. Courtesy of the artist. There are many ways in which Kathy Acker remains our contemporary. Some most excellent writing has made for us Ackers who speak a literary language for our time. What makes a writer live on after their own life and fame is nothing particular. It is that their writing can be made into all sorts of different writing afterwards. It is that their writing contains still pertinent possibilities. The Acker I want to write into existence is not a literary one. And nor do I want to write as if there is only one Acker. There was always an Acker-field or Acker-text or Acker-web in which lots of Kathys pulsed and ebbed in and out of identity, alongside plenty of Janeys and Lulus.

Behind the bonnet is a girl who just wants to have fun -- and another beer, please.

United We Brunch returns to the Madison Sat. Limited tickets still available! No amount of rubbernecking can stop her. The DJ approaches. Rodger Locher, a clean-cut city boy, is what's known as a "Yank," the all-encompassing term for not being Amish. You were wasted! Got any requests? Martha sits down with a Bud and bums a cigarette. Her cherub face is framed by a starched bonnet, her squat figure submerged in a dowdy dress. As Akon sings about slapping gyrating butts, Tina and Martha lip-synch, bouncing their bonnets to the beat.

Film still. Courtesy of the artist. There are many ways in which Kathy Acker remains our contemporary. Some most excellent writing has made for us Ackers who speak a literary language for our time. What makes a writer live on after their own life and fame is nothing particular. It is that their writing can be made into all sorts of different writing afterwards.

It is that their writing contains still pertinent possibilities. The Acker I want to write into existence is not a literary one. And nor do I want to write as if there is only one Acker. There was always an Acker-field or Acker-text or Acker-web in which lots of Kathys pulsed and ebbed in and out of identity, alongside plenty of Janeys and Lulus.

And not all of her identities, in life or art, were female. There was, I think, an Acker or series of Ackers in the Acker-web who were not writers of fiction but of theory. From the vantage points of New York, San Francisco, and London, these Ackers saw the political economy of the old overdeveloped world die, and something else bubble up through the cracks.

Leaning heavily on her own sentences, I want to rip off and copy out for you what the Acker-web has for us on the current topics of post-capitalism, agency in the world, revolution, and aesthetics.

Post-capitalism has two senses in the Acker-web. One is the revolutionary possibility of life without exploitation, but the other is that exploitation itself might have changed form. This might then still be a world with a ruling class extracting a surplus from dominated classes, including labor as traditionally understood, but which might also have added some other means of domination to its arsenal.

Sometimes it is in its own self-identity eternal, but with new qualities. The quantitative information that is money and the qualitative information that is aesthetics meet in some peculiar way. Money, not being Marxist, is worshipping humanity, as it should. A human who is caught up in fetishism sees only the dance of money and things, but a more critical human might see beyond the thing to the labor that made it.

Uncritical money, like the uncritical human, is fetishistic, but what it makes a fetish is not the commodity, but the human. All it can see now is humans exchanging things that are brands, that are qualitative information. A provisional theory of this wrinkle in the old mode of exploitation is to conceive of it as adding to the separation between use and exchange value a separation between the signified and signifier aspects of the sign.

Exchange value converts the qualities of the active body into something extractable and measurable. It turns substance into commodity. Post-capitalism adds the extraction of the value of signifieds: emotions, sensations, desires, through the capture and ownership of signifiers. They are our feelings, lusts, needs; but owned and controlled now through their brands, copyrights, patents. This post-capitalism might commodify information rather than things. No one can afford to buy anyway.

Semiotics is a useful model to the post-capitalists. Theory: The separations between signifiers and signifieds are widening … the powers of post-capitalism are determining the increasing of these separations. For example: money. Language is making me sick.

Unless I destroy the relations between language and their signifieds that is their control. Rather than anomaly, outlaw, outlier to capitalism, the artist becomes the prototype of a kind of human within what capitalism has become.

Money as information about quantity wants aesthetics as information about quality. It wants artists, but it makes artists over entirely as what they always were at least in part: hustlers—whores. Some are successful and honored, and get to call themselves artists. Many are not. They come in a few types that are hard to put names to, as they are never at home in any name. They are the tip of the melting iceberg of the homelessness of the world. Possibility alone is not enough, however. So knowing is separate from acting in the common world.

These displaced ones all too often find no possibilities in the world. This sensibility in part looks back to a persistent sense of aesthetic or poetic rebellion and its foils. The margin of possibility may have become very slight. Not only the effort of labor but the effort of feelings, sensations, pleasures, pains, concepts—information—is entirely within the post-capitalist commodity form and modifies that form.

Flesh unto flesh. The successful revolt is us; mind and body. So if we can be queers then why not also be whores? How about some whore pride? To celebrate queerness is often a way to avoid talking about labor or the sale of the sensual, fascinating, or erotic body. To celebrate whores is to connect the deviant body back to its place in the mode of production. In the Acker-web there might be a lot of ways to be a whore.

It might and might not mean sex worker. Whoring might include a lot of other transactions, including those of artists. To extract the body from the commodification of its surfaces and signs. Whores might be a more promising kind of being in the world of post-capitalism than artists. Not kin but kith to the art-boys are the punk-boys. The last of the race of white men. They benefit from openness to tutelage. The pirate is an ambivalent figure, an amoral agent, homeless and lawless.

Pirate and whore form mythic couplings and doublings. We live by the images of those we decide are heroes and gods. As the empire, whatever empire, had decayed, the manner of life irrevocably became exile. The prostitutes drove mad the pirates, caught, like insects in webs, in their own thwarted ambitions and longings for somewhere else … The pirates worshipped the whores in abandoned submission. Pirates escape the laws even of gender. As if when equals because. At the same time, my pirate penis shot out of my body.

As it thrust out of my body, it moved into my body. They only go for pleasure. For them alone, you see, naked bodies dance. Unseizable, soft, ethereal, shadowy: the gush of cunts in action. Not being enclosed in identities, pirate-whores have neither subjectivity, nor are they objects made over by commodification.

Black and red. They wore their insides on their outsides, blood smeared all over the surfaces. Punks, whores, pirates: One can become another, or is more than one at once. And all can be sailors. For this reason, seers are sailors. When seers become artists, they become pirates. Sail through times and spaces and they happen. Sailors are not bound within any territory or home.

They come into existence in the difference between times and spaces. Perhaps the sea was central rather than peripheral to the actual history of capitalism. From whaling to slaving, the sailor was caught up in commodification at its most naked. Sailors are free agents to most Ackers, although in actuality many were pressed labor. Perhaps also there is an imaginary sea that was an open plain along which to flee. This imaginary sea becomes a plain along which to flee post-capitalism.

Sexuality, the city, and writing can be the oceans within which sailors wander. Or maybe even the body as it is supposed to be organized is a thing to flee.

Slither down your legs until there are trails of blood over the skin. Blood has this unmistakable smell. Then the cunt will travel, a sailor, to foreign lands.

Will rub itself like a dog, smell, and be fucked. Artists, punks, whores, pirates, sailors. And yet the girl too is not an identity but an event, something produced by chance and fluid time. There might be many kinds, which is a problem, as sometimes they want nothing to do with each other. Their vulnerability is their agency.



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