may1968

Ⓐ París, barrio latino en mayo de 1968 grafitis Ⓐ

Es necesario explorar sistemáticamente el azar
Prohibido prohibir. La libertad comienza por una prohibición.
¡Roben! (Paredes de los bancos)
Decreto el estado de felicidad perpetua
El derecho de vivir no se mendiga, se toma
No me liberen; yo me basto para eso
Un policía duerme en cada uno de nosotros, es necesario matarlo
Mis deseos son la realidad Aprende a cantar la Internacional
Fronteras = represión
Lo sagrado: ahí está el enemigo
Yo jodo a la sociedad, pero ella me lo devuelve bien
La insolencia es la nueva arma revolucionaria
Tenemos una izquierda prehistórica
Si lo que ven no es extraño, la visión es falsa
La economía esta herida; ¡que reviente!
Decreto el estado de felicidad perpetua
Policía que entráis con ropa de civil, tened cuidado con el escalón al salir
El derecho de vivir no se mendiga, se toma
No hay nada más hermoso que un adoquín en la jeta de un policía
Abraza a tu amor sin dejar tu fusil
Tomemos en serio a la revolución pero no nos tomemos en serio a nosotros mismos
El arte es mierda
La escultura más hermosa es el adoquín
Acumulen rabia
Diga no a la revolución con corbata
Viole a su alma mater
Sean realistas: pidan lo imposible

“In a society that has abolished all adventure, the only adventure left is to abolish that society.” #May1968 #FrenchProtests #graffiti; #art and words of wisdom when challenging the norm, acting out and against convention. Dare to dream, dare to be different. Remember: progress is best achieved when rules are broken and reformed to an elevated and enhanced level. We are always molding a new norm, aiming for a higher standard of living and deeper knowledge of loving. #collaborativeRECIDIVISM

Sharon Olds - May 1968

When the Dean said we could not cross campus
until the students gave up the buildings,
we lay down, in the street,
we said the cops will enter this gate
over us. Lying back on the cobbles,
I saw the buildings of New York City
from dirt level, they soared up
and stopped, chopped off–above them, the sky,
the night air over the island.
The mounted police moved, near us,
while we sang, and then I began to count,
12, 13, 14, 15,
I counted again, 15, 16, one
month since the day on that deserted beach,
17, 18, my mouth fell open,
my hair on the street,
if my period did not come tonight
I was pregnant. I could see the sole of a cop’s
shoe, the gelding’s belly, its genitals–
if they took me to Women’s Detention and did
the exam on me, the speculum,
the fingers–I gazed into the horse’s tail
like a comet-train. All week, I had
thought about getting arrested, half-longed
to give myself away. On the tar–
one brain in my head, another,
in the making, near the base of my tail–
I looked at the steel arc of the horse’s
shoe, the curve of its belly, the cop’s
nightstick, the buildings streaming up
away from the earth. I knew I should get up
and leave, but I lay there looking at the space
above us, until it turned deep blue and then
ashy, colorless, Give me this one
night, I thought, and I’ll give this child
the rest of my life, the horse’s heads,
this time, drooping, dipping, until
they slept in a circle around my body and my daughter 

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Message in the Di Tella by Roberto Jacoby
#may1968#experiencias68 (at Reina Sophia)

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McLaren in 1989 on Paris May 68 #malcolmmclaren #may1968 #guydebord