Which Enlightenment philosopher should you fight

Denis Diderot: You can try but in all likelihood before you can even lift your arm to punch him he will have managed to make you sit down for a coffee and you’re cracking up laughing at some insidious dirty joke he wrote in Le neveu de Rameau.

David Hume: Hume was Scottish and smarter than all Englishmen of his time. Don’t fight Hume. It’s like playing into the hands of the establishment.

Montesquieu:  On one hand you will not want to because separation and balance of powers but on the other hand, he will open his mouth and you won’t be able to stand it. Also he was a 18th century French nobleman so weak by nature, you can take him. 

Adam Smith: Look, I get it. You want to punch him. But do you really want to punch Adam Smith or you want to punch neo-liberals? Because I’m pretty sure Adam Smith would join you in punching the neo liberals.

Immanuel Kant: Again you could try but chances are Kant would convince that the only rational course of action is for you to punch yourself. 

Jean D’Alembert: You d’definitely win in a fight but first of all, why would you even want to do that?!

John Locke: I mean you can fight him and you d’win with the added bonus of traumatizing the English nation forever and ever but on the other hand have you looked at him? He looks frightened of his own shadow.

Baruch Spinoza: Do not fight Spinoza. He will destroy you. 

Voltaire: I mean you d’definitely win because Voltaire was short and thin and I get that he is so very punchable but 1- Émilie du Châtelet would come for you no matter where you hid and 2- Voltaire would write seven pamphlets and four satires against you in a week and would convince the whole world that you have as many brain cells as a sloth and you d’be the laughing stock of all Europe because everyone knows who he is. So ask yourself, is it really worth the trouble?

Rousseau: Fight him. I’ll pay you.

it’s just really disgusting to me that people are trying to hide behind the “we’re just making fun of kylie !!!” excuse as to why they’re mocking the black features she stole for notes and retweets like if you peel back the layers of what this wave of white people sucking on shot glasses really is there is some truly insidious shit happening but people don’t realize it because they don’t have to think about it lmao

When ur abusive ex sends u photos of some cannibal post and a photo of that demon thing from insidious and says “it will get you in the end” ok thanks you creepy fuck

Blackberries - are a scourge upon humanity

I am not a sentimental man. No matter what you may have heard, or read on my own blog, that states otherwise….

If you grew up where I did, you will know that blackberries are evil. Not the berries themselves, but the plants. Insidious, nasty, thorn covered things that inundate creeks, are impossible to eradicate, and dry in the winter to become spiny, cable like, instruments of torture just waiting to snare a small child on a bicycle. I’ve spent hours upon hours cutting them, bulldozing them (OK, running a Cat as a 14 year old was some cool shit), slashing them with a saw blade equipped weed eater (the big, full harness kind).

If you spent hours in the woods, as my mother was more than happy that I did, and were thirsty, it was always a nasty ordeal to get water. Every creek was surrounded by the nasty buggers. You’d slash your legs bloody, rip flesh from your hands, just to get close to the cool water you so craved. On this I’m not exaggerating. Those bushes are fucking nasty.

But if you could get past wading into the morass of thorns, late in the summer, you could fill buckets upon buckets of black, sweet, succulent berries. Sugar and goodness that dripped black-purple stains on every t-shirt you owned.

The local farmer’s market has a berry stand. There are no thorns to get to this stand. They accept cash and credit cards, and they have the most amazing blackberries. Sure, they are organic, but who cares about that?

I buy an obscenely priced box every weekend, and, just for a minute, I’m 14 again. Well, I’m an easy 70 pounds heavier (thank God!), but it’s 110degrees. I’m sweating and hot and have nowhere else to be. It’s dry as hell, the ponderosa pines are scenting the air, the ground is baked to a crisp brown, the creek is gurgling at it’s late summer low water level with it’s fresh, clear goodness, and those sweet, delicious berries are providing the sugar of life.

And then my youngest daughter steals half the damned box, destroying my reverie.

That bone deep heat, that fresh off the vine goodness, that scent of pine in the scorching hot air…..

Just as long as I don’t have to pick them. But I am not sentimental. Don’t even think it.

immagine- alice barberini 


Ti scrivo

Ti scrivo oggi e premo forte con la penna sul foglio.
Non voglio che sparisca il segno.
Credevo di farcela. Ma. Piove. Terrore sfacelo.
Piove piove. Da giorni piove il mare delle nostre più tetre miserie e le ore
sono lunghe quanto mesi. Piove. Piove dappertutto
La senti dovunque quest’acqua avvelenata te la senti dentro.
Le ossa inzuppate proprio come queste pietre  verdi viscide d’insidie
dove se mi muovo scivolo e i mattoni delle case mangiati
dalle onde dal sale e questo vento che aumenta che monta sopra i corpi.
Davanti alla mia scrivania guardo mentre scrivo
e ripasso la mia storia  tentando di trattenere il tempo o di fare qualcosa
anche se poi io stessa mi sento affogare tra un’ora e l’altra
mattina e sera hanno perso la scansione dei momenti
niente è cominciato e nulla ha avuto fine in questo mancanto giorno.
Tra le carte naviga questo mare sempre più piccolo
un cunicolo pieno di cadaveri
e non sono metafore o metamorfosi narrative
sono morti  veri morti  cioè uomini donne
caduti tra il meridiano del silenzio e quello dello sterminio
creato da un congegno a tempo
che usa
gli ingranaggi già usati nella nostra notte
nello scannatoio di una follia che si ripete per trattenere in mano il vuoto
un sarcofago che è corpo dell’infermo agire di chi crede di potere tutto
ed è tutto così grigio  nero che schiuma rabbia e collera e  appesta questa atmosfera
fin dentro la casa di ognuno l’aria si consuma e
pesante si chiude a tratti sempre più lunghi
sono sbarre di ferro piantate in gola ogni  respiro.

fernanda ferraresso

I’m still thoroughly convinced Banksy is an artist collective. If it were one person you’d think after a decade that person would move on from such cloying topics and grow into ideas. Instead I don’t see any humility in Banky’s humor. It’s all insidious smirking.




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The winner will be announced February 14th, Valentines day! Winner will be messaged that day and must respond within 48 hours.


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