The new forces behind the fascist right

Published by Anonymous (not verified) on Mon, 16/07/2018 - 9:29pm in


Featured, Features

A changed threat has emerged in Tommy Robinson's street movement, supported by the international populist right. John Rees looks at how we meet it

Bullshit Jobs: A Theory - book review

Published by Anonymous (not verified) on Fri, 13/07/2018 - 2:22am in

David Graeber’s new book raises many questions about the function and worth of work, but doesn’t entirely explain why useless work persists, finds Clare Solomon

Only a united movement can defeat the far right

Published by Anonymous (not verified) on Thu, 12/07/2018 - 11:52pm in

Saturday's far right demonstration in support of Tommy Robinson must be opposed directly on the streets

May Day, May Day: this ship is sinking – weekly briefing

Published by Anonymous (not verified) on Tue, 10/07/2018 - 4:18am in

This latest Tory crisis is an opportunity the left must seize and the week’s protests are all the means to do so, argues Lindsey German  

After the final days of May

Published by Anonymous (not verified) on Tue, 10/07/2018 - 4:17am in

This is the start of a new phase of the crisis, not the end of it, writes John Rees

“I’m Going to be Buried in a Scarf”

Published by Anonymous (not verified) on Sat, 07/07/2018 - 1:34am in




March 30 of this year, longtime anarchist journalist Paul Z. Simons died in Asunción, Paraguay, from apparent heart failure.

As noted in an obituary on AnarchistNews.org, his legacy includes work as editor of Modern Slavery, a journal dedicated to abolishing all forms of enslavement; essays collected on The Anarchist Library that cover everything from English history to recent street protests in Brazil to the role of play in revolution; and his involvement in the New York City squatters’ movement of the 1980s, some of which is recounted in the zine Black Eye.

I met Simons, for the first and only time, in New York three years ago. He was here to give one of his many presentations on the revolution that had begun in Rojava (the region in the north of Syria under autonomous Kurdish governance) in 2012, and which continues to this day. With his interest piqued by reports that, amid the carnage of the civil war, the Kurds in Rojava were reorganizing society along new lines influenced by anarchism, Simons traveled to Syria in 2015. What he experienced there gave him, in his own words, “the one thing I never thought I would have again, which is hope.”

I had missed his presentation, but Simons agreed to meet me the following day. We talked for two or three hours at a diner, where he kindly ran me through his slides and fielded my questions as I recorded our discussion. I was interested in writing an article about why and how politically motivated Westerners were traveling to Syria, and Simons was more than obliging.

With the news of Simons’s death, I felt that sharing our conversation was the least I owed him, given his commitment to the revolution and his generosity toward me. Our discussion below, illustrated with the photographs he sent me, has been edited for brevity and clarity.

Note: The acronyms of some organizations are based on their full names in their native languages, which is why they do not align with their English translations.

• • •

AD.— When did you decide to go to Rojava?

PZS.— I wrote a piece for the Internet in January of 2015. Got my hands on everything I could about what was happening in Rojava, read everything I could from [Kurdish nationalist leader] Abdullah Öcalan. I basically came out and said, as an anarchist, this is something I think I can support. It planted a seed, and once that seed was planted, it germinated over time. In May of 2015, I was sitting in my office and doing some writing—I’m an editor of Modern Slavery—and it struck me: If this was August of 1936 and I knew what was happening in [the Spanish Civil War], would I have gone if I had the time and the money? And I realized, yes, I would. So I said, OK, let me see if I can go into Rojava with a little bit of support and background. I started making some contacts through friends who knew Modern Slavery, and I made contact with some folks in the KRG [Kurdish Regional Government, the governing party in Iraqi Kurdistan].

The second piece of it was that I contacted Lions of Rojava, a website that calls to bring foreign fighters over. Their invitation said: If you’re a writer, if you’re a technician, we can definitely help you come along to Rojava as well. They set me up with a guy on Skype, who I never met and who I believe is in Rojava, and he gave me guidance. I flew to Istanbul, told them, “I’m in Istanbul, where do I go from here?” They got back to me and said, “Go to Erbil and make your way to Faysh Khabur,” which is a crossing on the Tigris river between Iraq and Syria.

I found a car, went up [to Faysh Khabur]. When I was in Istanbul, they told me, “The only way you can get across is as a journalist, are you a journalist?” I said, “Well, I work for a journal, I can produce a press pass off the Internet.” They said, “Do that.” So I showed up, showed my American passport, and showed the press pass I’d made.

This press pass was so bogus, it wasn’t even funny. No signature on it, no dates. They bought it, lock, stock, and barrel. When I got to the other side of the Tigris, I introduced myself to the Asayish, which are the internal security forces, and they’re like, “Oh yes, we knew that you were coming across today, there’s a person from the foreign affairs apparatus who’ll be here shortly.” The guy showed up, I went up to a building, was introduced to some people, PYD [Democratic Union Party, backers of the Rojava Revolution] foreign-service folks. They drove me to Amuda, and immediately set me up in a YPG [People’s Protection Units] outpost. The next day I found myself on my way to Kobane [the city that is the administrative center in Rojava].

How would you describe their political beliefs?

I would say libertarian socialist. I guess the other piece of it is, if they’re listening at all to their commanders and some of the people with midlevel responsibilities, they’re also getting a big dose of anti-Marxism.

How so?

I was talking to the guy who’s responsible for HPC [Civilian Defense Force, commune militia] in the canton. We were about an hour into an interview and he said—I hadn’t asked a question—“You gotta understand, in Marxism . . .” and I thought, Oh my god, here we go, this is going to get ugly, now I’m going to have to ask a whole different series of questions. He says, “In Marxism, basically, the revolution eventually produced a dictator in the form of a party or an individual, and it led to nothing but repression and war. That’s why we’re no longer Marxists. We’re going to construct a socialism that has nothing to do with parties or states, and to maintain that we have to make sure militias are present at all times who have differing allegiances.” The whole point is to push power down as much as possible, instead of up. In other words, decreasing the level of responsibility and duty at the top level, and increasing the level of responsibility and duty at the bottom.

The Rojavan revolution is not a class revolution. I didn’t talk to anyone who used the terms “proletariat,” “bourgeoisie,” or “class struggle.” Rather, I saw the kind of post-left view of the social war, where they don’t have a group of people who are fighting another group of people, but instead are fighting an idea, a concept of civilization, and trying to supplant it with their own concept of civilization.

For the longest time in my life—15, 20 years—there was no hope that I would ever see anything like this. And having walked on ground where there is no state, it instills in me the one thing I never thought I would have again, which is hope that this is a potential future for our species. I have that now, and that in and of itself is worth the trip. Every piece of the danger, every piece of the weirdness was worth it just for that simple realization.

This is the best picture that I took, and I should say that I’m no photographer. That is a Russian tank, a Daesh [Arabic for ISIS] tank in the background. You can see that it’s been incapacitated by an explosion. The Rojava militias had no armor-piercing weapons, so the only way that they could disable tanks is by blowing up the backs. So that is literally a guy coming up, shoving dynamite into it, and exploding the dynamite. The tank is disabled and then they have to kill the crew.

I never even saw this little girl. She was in front of school desks. Right behind me was the former Daesh military headquarters in Kobane. It’s a school. They had taken many of these desks out. Some they had burned as a symbol that Western education no longer obtained in Kobane.

This was coming through Qamishli on my way to Amuda. One of the things that struck me was the visual landscape and the atmosphere of revolution—the YPG flags, HPC flags.

This was a roadblock. If a suicide bomber should come up, in theory they would refuse to follow the zigzags and drive as straight as they can to the Asayish checkpoint. That gives the Asayish time to kill the driver. Most other drivers will go slowly, saying, “No shooting!”

This was a mine that went off the previous night on the road on which we were travelling from Amuda to Kobane. Some Daesh sympathizers had come and buried it under the tarmac. It probably exploded inadvertently, because there was no evidence of any damage to anything else. The road was also shelled about two miles behind me taking this photo. We had to get off the road, and we went through a number of villages. One of the villages was flying the Syrian flag and was considered to be sympathetic to Daesh. Going through that was like, “OK, drive as fast as you can!”

This was Daesh graffiti that had been crossed out. When Daesh come into a village like this, evidently they post messages like, “To the infidel: Convert, leave, or die.”

This was going into Kobane. This berm [a raised barrier], with tank traps, runs all the way to the Turkish border, and then all the way on the other side of Kobane there’s another berm that runs all the way to the border. The Kurds were serious about not having to fight for Kobane twice.

Welcome to Kobane.

This was the beginning of the rebuilding of Kobane: Trucks brought the rubble out to be thrown on the side of the road, then they would go back in. This went on 24 hours a day.

Kobane . . . I don’t think that needs too much comment.

These were Russian-made tanks that were seized [by Daesh] when they got their hands on Syrian stockpiles of weapons.

Your tax dollars at work. This was a Humvee that was taken from Iraq, seized from Iraqis probably around Mosul, and turned into a Daesh vehicle, and then disabled and destroyed by YPG.

This is just a detail from one of the rooms—every hole is a bullet hole, even in the back of the building—showing how fierce the fighting was in Kobane.

This is a commune meeting. What’s interesting about this photo is the women sitting with the men.

This is the only humorous picture I have. This is the old Daesh headquarters. Those are a YPG and YPJ [Women’s Protection Units, all-women PYD militia] flag. I talked to the commander there, who was a very interesting guy with a great sense of humor. I said, “What’s the story with this?” He said, “Well, we’re kind of thinking the previous owner’s not coming back, so we thought we’d redecorate.”

This is a YPG outpost right next to the Turkish border. This kind of gives a feel for the age of the troops, as well as what they’re up against. Those are gunshots in the walls. Every once in a while, they’ll exchange fire with the Turks across the border.

As an anarchist, if you want to identify the enemy, it’s the Turkish government. The Turks helped Daesh infiltrate Kobane, and the Turks have allowed their Syrian refugee camps to become recruitment and training areas for Daesh.

This is an Asayish. The Asayish are the internal security forces. They’re the ones who run the checkpoints. They’re kind of the police force, but they don’t do what the police do. They don’t patrol neighborhoods.

This is the YPG, a tough commando unit that was in Qamishli. This guy left of me is the commander. These are guys who were basically waiting to go to the front.

This is not a bullet for this gun, but it reminds the fighter to save one bullet for himself should he be captured.

This is the new militia. These militias are tied directly to the council communes, the HPC. Each council commune puts two or three people through this training. It’s about 17 days, they learn to shoot, they get some training on the ideas of Öcalan, that type of thing.

These are all martyrs who were killed during the siege.

This was Amuda, on the roof of the media center there. I was hanging out with this young Asayish guy. He’s the one who told me, “Never go out without a scarf, because the scarf is good luck against Daesh.” Ever since that day, I don’t. I’m going to be buried in a scarf.

6 screenwriters we’d like to see in Series 11

Published by Anonymous (not verified) on Fri, 06/07/2018 - 6:11pm in



With the recent announcement that Segun Akinola will take over as composer for Series 11 of Doctor Who, we’re getting a better idea of the production team that will be helping to bring Jodie Whittaker’s debut series to life. But despite the series having begun filming, there is still no word from the BBC on which writers, apart from showrunner Chris Chibnall, are penning the new season. So we thought we’d suggest our own. Dominic Mitchell Dominic Mitchell is the creator and writer of the supernatural drama In the Flesh, for which he was named Best Writer at the 2014 … Continue reading

Europe's Fault Lines: Racism and the Rise of the Right - book review

Published by Anonymous (not verified) on Fri, 06/07/2018 - 12:24am in

In Europe’s Fault Lines, Liz Fekete exposes the links between neoliberal centrism, EU economic policy, and the rise of the far and fascist right, finds Martin Hall

From the Archives: Katy Manning at Lords of Time 3

Published by Anonymous (not verified) on Tue, 03/07/2018 - 10:15pm in



Issue #239 of Data Extract magazine, released last month by the Doctor Who Club of Australia, features a new interview with classic companion actor Katy Manning, conducted at the club’s Look Who’s Talking event earlier this year. DWCA members were absolutely thrilled with the visit from their patron, whose last appearance at an Australian sci-fi event was the Lords of Time 3 convention back in December 2014. Here we present the interview that was conducted at that very convention, republished courtesy of Culture Shock Events. Hi Katy, welcome back to Australia. Australia is so much a part of my heart … Continue reading

Novel History

Published by Anonymous (not verified) on Mon, 02/07/2018 - 11:01pm in




his first novel, Confessions of the Fox, Jordy Rosenberg constructs the lost memoirs of Jack Sheppard, an infamous 18th century English thief and jailbreaker, imagining him as transgender and his partner in crime Bess as an anti-imperialist femme sex worker of South Asian descent. Running parallel to Sheppard’s story is that of Dr. Voth, a present-day scholar (also trans) whose editorial footnotes provide both historical context for the manuscript and a record of his maddening interactions with the neoliberal university. The novel’s transhistorical sweep illuminates the relationship between criminalization and capitalism then and now, while honoring an extended history of trans experience—and queer love. Emphatically pro-queer/trans, anti-capitalist, anti-racist, and pro–sex worker, Confessions of the Fox is also wildly inventive, marvelously entertaining, and profoundly, close to painfully, moving.

Rosenberg, who teaches 18th century literature and queer/trans theory at the University of Massachusetts Amherst, divides his time between Western Massachusetts and New York. In his Manhattan apartment we talked about fantasy, history, desire, and urine as his tiny dog Gnome snarled through various toys.

MM.— I first “met” you when you organized that Nevèrÿon virtual reading group with Dean Spade some years ago. I learned so much from that communal reading of some of Samuel R. Delany’s masterworks. I bring this up because a quote from Delany about fiction as a process of “creating a false memory with the force of history,” which you reference in your recent interview with Kay Gabriel, seems fitting in starting our discussion of your book. In Confessions of the Fox it seems you are doing just that, while also troubling historicity itself. Are you thinking about this book as a work of alternate history?

JR.— Madhu Dubey uses this term anachronistic fiction (as opposed to historical fiction) that I thought was really useful. She uses it to talk about Underground Railroad, for example, where pre-emancipation frames are still taking place after emancipation; she also uses it to talk about Octavia Butler’s Kindred. In particular Kindred really brings out this concept, because you’ve got the hand reaching through the wall from the 19th century to the 20th century. We’re talking about speculative historical fiction where the answer isn’t totally about some fantasy of total verisimilitude of historical particulars. But it’s more than that, it’s this speculative thing that has to do with a moment in the present touching a moment in the past. These leaps. These historical leaps and rubbings-up-against-each-other.

It’s kind of obvious that my book is doing that, because it has that metafictional structure with the 21st century editor editing an 18th century text. I tried to create that kind of heist, or thriller, narrative where the two plot lines were going to converge—and touch. I only read that Dubey piece afterwards, but I did like that idea of anachronistic fiction as a way of using those kinds of juxtapositions to startle readers about the present so that things that are naturalized get defamiliarized and can be apprehended in a different way. So, in the case of this book, legacies of imperialism that we think of as left in some part of our barbaric past are reiterated in different form in the present.

There’s also the issue of creating a sort of anachronistic fake trans narrative, essentially. It’s a totally fantastical narrative: What if testosterone extraction and synthesis had been developed by a group of pirates who mutinied off an East India Company ship? There’s a force of that anachronism, I guess, that I was hoping to use to unsettle certain presumptions about transness in the present and also gender in the past.

Kindred is a really interesting comparative text. I’m thinking about what you were saying about touch in relation to the Stretches, a “colossal library in chitin, spiderweb and glass” that Voth discovers later in the novel. I was very intrigued by that fantastic space. “Stretch” seems useful as a word to describe the kind of transhistorical crossing you’re doing in the book—a stretch backward that is both an elongating and a reach to make new space in the historical record—stretching it, pulling at it, elasticating it. This place of the Stretches is arguably the most fantastic element of the book. Can you talk more about the different modes of fantasy in the book, especially in relation to transness?

It was really amazing to be able to work with Chris Jackson and Victory Matsui as an editorial team, in particular Victory, who identifies as nonbinary. We were able to talk out so many aspects of this. One of the things that we talked about a lot, and that I agonized about probably too much, was this question of how fantastical to make sex scenes or transgender bodies. I wanted to write a dirty, sexually explicit book. But I didn’t want it to be prurient or exploitative. At first I was like, well, I can’t show any bodies at all. Whenever somebody has sex, there will be a fantastical cloud that descends upon the scene, and I’ll just describe the feeling of sex.

Turns out I’m not so good at describing the feeling of sex. I just ended up being very ham-handed with it. Every time somebody had sex there would just be a shower of beautiful light. It was just really cheesy. Basically fireworks. Every time. And then I started to get really pissed off then, because I was also working with certain traditions. I was working very closely with Sterne’s Tristram Shandy, and that’s basically 800 pages of him agonizing over the relationship between embodiment and language. I just started to feel like I needed to be able to work with that as a trope.

The solution was to thematize it and split it so that the editor character in the twenty-first century is obsessed with talking about his body. He’s a little bit of a schmuck, and that’s fine, that’s his character, he’s obsessed with his body and he wants to talk about it. I became interested in less “Do we represent the body or do we not represent the body?” but instead this issue that all people probably encounter, but here specifically as a trans thing, around the relationship between language and embodiment. Within the body of the text you don’t ever see their bodies, really. You don’t see their genitalia—either of their genitalia. The cis woman or the trans man. It was important to me to show neither of their bodies. But they do have a lot of sex.

As you were talking I was thinking about the language that is used, which is euphemistic in this coy and really playful way. Much of it is slang. Like quim, for example. Which is I guess different from what you’re talking about in terms of like specific, explicit depictions of—

I tried not to do visual depictions, but you’re right. I was working with these dictionaries of thieves’ slang from the period. Those dictionaries have a lot of language for genitalia and body parts in them. I would use that language without doing visual representations. And then the editor character translates it. It was important to me to have a deluge of language for erotogenic zones. One of the points of that was to dislodge that language from the presumed biological parts, and at some point that becomes clear that it’s actually not clear which parts which words are referring to. At one point they say, “Oh, pussy could refer to any loved part of the body.” I don’t know if you’ve read that Gayle Salamon book Assuming a Body?


I really like that book. At one point she makes the point that everybody’s relationship to embodiment transits through fantasy and language. I think I was really wanting to use that thieves’ slang as a way of marking the extent to which language mediates our relationship to our body. And that can be shared within a community or between two sexual partners or however many sexual partners people have. It’s a shared way of summoning the body in language.

This is one example of how you intercede in the legacy of scientific-medical objectifications of the trans/intersex body. But also it’s an example of the kind of pastiche you’re doing, bringing elements and tropes of 18th century literature into the book. Because we have the guiding hand of Voth, who’s helping us understand everything, the Thing-Voices [Jack sometimes hears the voices of objects crying for freedom], which are a very interesting element of the book, we learn are related to it-narratives of the time, which I’m not familiar with.

In stories of the rise of the novel, most of the ways that it’s told is that what you get is the development of interiorization and character over the course of, say, the 18th century, where basically you have no interior characterization, none that’s stable, until like Jane Austen, and then everyone’s like, “Thank God Jane Austen is here, a book that we can actually like.” Before that, everything feels really very unfamiliar to contemporary readers. It was more just like a cacophony of weird experiments.

These it-narratives, where you would follow things like commodities, atoms, like a little molecule or whatever, a shoe—these were some of the it-narratives. The standard explanation for this has to do with just the totally alarming advent of commodity capitalism, where you literally get the birth of shopping and stores, and it’s totally alienating and bizarre. The standard Marxist account: You get a loss of the relationship from the process of production, and suddenly commodities are there, and they appear to have value in and of themselves. I think you’re leading me towards that Marx quote, that very famous quote from Capital: If the commodity could speak, it would tell you that the only thing of importance about itself is its value—meaning its price, not its usefulness.

The book is kind of a literalization of that. I think when Marx is saying, “if commodities could speak,” what he’s really saying is that they already kind of are. They actually have this force in the world where they seem to be animate. I wanted to literalize that, in a speculative fiction–y way.

We’ve talked about anachronistic fiction as one way to think about your novel. You brought up Kindred. I was also thinking about Cheryl Dunye’s The Watermelon Woman as an interesting comparative text: this fictional intervention into history—an intervention into what is really historical erasure—that is simultaneously recuperative and inventive. But here Jack Sheppard has a real presence in the popular imagination and the historical record—and, to a much lesser extent, Bess Lyon. What was it about their history and their stature that suggested queer and trans possibilities?

Here’s the thing: For either of these characters, especially due to their class position, there actually aren’t many actual records on them. What there was was an enormous amount of public fascination with them at the time, and especially with Sheppard. Yes, John Gay’s Beggar’s Opera about Jack Sheppard became the longest-running opera ever in Britain; and then Brecht’s Threepenny Opera. There was a ton of source material—hack autobiographies, newspaper reports. The point being that we know certain facts about Jack Sheppard, like he was incarcerated in a child’s workhouse, and then sold into a servitude-like carpentry apprenticeship. But we don’t really know a lot. What there was was a lot of was rumor and oral history.

What I became interested in was less the John Gay and the Brecht material but the contemporary hack material. I was interested in what he meant to people at the time. Obviously I was interested in the way that he represented resistance to commodity capitalism, resistance to the way that the laws were changing at the time, to just criminalize everything. Things that used to be just normal ways of getting by—like tending a piece of land—oh no, this is private property, you can’t grow food here. Criminalizing taking the scrap material from your own work process—like if you’re working on a watch part, the shavings, the waste, it got legislated as private property. Everything was suddenly legislated. His prison breaks represented this fantasy of resistance. He was repeatedly represented, especially in the hack material, as what we would describe as gender nonconforming now. Very effeminate, supernaturally lithe, and able to get out of spaces in ways that no one understood. What we would call, anachronistically, his gender nonconformity, was also very sexy.

He was frequently attached to this figure we know way less about, Edgeworth Bess, who presumably was his lover. But he was attached to many women, and it was often said that when women would get caught and accused of stealing things, they would say, “Oh, Jack Sheppard gave it to me.” He became this total legend of desirability and gender nonconformity. I was interested in literalizing that metaphor, not to suggest that he necessarily really was trans, but to fuck with this idea of this constant demand on trans people to produce themselves as case histories, to produce empirical evidence of themselves, of their history. The book is not an attempt to produce more documents on Sheppard but an attempt to create the possibility of speculativeness and fictionalizing around transness when so much of the demand from outside is that we produce ourselves as these pathological cases.

One of the things about Bess is that she’s represented in all the material in a typically sexist way, as this vixen who seduces Jack into a life of crime. It’s basically absurd. I wanted to come up with a way to characterize them as having a love story of collaborativeness around heists and sex.

There is a ton of sex in the book, and a lot of desire overall. Jack is introduced first and foremost as a great lover of pussy. And he is loved and desired back. I was grateful to you for bringing that into a narrative of transmasculinity. The book is very much opposed in tone to the kind of attachment to melancholy and loneliness that characterizes many older trans narratives, especially transmasculine narratives.

I don’t know if that was really conscious—or less about transness and more to do with communist utopia in general. What I really did want to do was represent, in extremely elaborate and ornate ways, the relationship between transness and desire, and the way in which masculinity often becomes a relation—for these characters, perhaps for this author—with femmes. That doesn’t mean that’s my definition of what I think transmasculinity is. But I was interested to represent a version of that particular thing, and some of the femme labor that goes into that.

Do you want to talk about pissing?

I’m totally psyched to talk about that, because there’s a lot of urine in the book. The simplest answer is that there are certain moments where the book is just channeling total love for bodily effluvia. Here, too, the touchstone is Delany. That’s something that I’ve responded to in a really intense way in Delany, that relationship to effluvia. There’s this moment of Through the Valley of the Nest of Spiders where some of the characters are in a location that is used for sex parties—I think it’s the morning after. They’re standing out on a deck and a character is thinking about how much urine has been spilled in this sex club. There’s so much pissing; there’s so much eroticized pissing. So much! The character is thinking about the way in which that urine would be pooling on the deck at night and you would see the starlight reflected in the urine.

You have to think about this from a science-fictional perspective, because what he’s doing there is yoking together the awe-inspiring, expansive tropes of space opera with bodiliness and embodiment and queerness. There are certain stereotypes where space operas just seem like a straight place. Like space just seems like a straight place. Delany does this thing of bringing together that ethereal outer space–ness, total abstraction, with bodiliness in urine. There’s this question of urine as representing this certain level of total abjection of the body—but in Delany there’s devotion to that abjection. And the love of these abjected aspects of the body is totally speculative and transformative and genre-breaking and has all this potential. That is one of the things that urine means to me.

Urine for Delany becomes this prism through which you can see all these other things. There’s another moment in Through the Valley of the Nest of Spiders where urine is spangled on a spiderweb and all these characters are looking at it after sex and they’re having this moment of seeing the connectedness of everything in the world. They describe it as perfection, in a Spinoza sense, which means connectedness. You get this sense of this abstracted, totalizing, very intensified vision of the world, only through these abjected bodily particulars. Maybe that’s what licensed me to just go to town with urine. It’s a theory of urine. But also I just really loved writing about urine. I don’t know what to say.