is there little of no consequence to trying to lead a good life in order to maintain some sort of an unde standing issue of what is ahead can we even know what it means when two individuals have a grasp of the subsequent actions we take or is it a futile expression of the longing we hold for some kind of affiliated response to the sort of future we can only hope to have or is this current dissolusionment an irrelevant state of hoplessness that demands som thing of a change that we can not give whether it b a hope in ourselves or some kind of promise to future offspring of the generational debt that we owe our coming children or is it an inlaid sense of duty our past ancestors we may know that either way th it our current disillusionment must shape the outward look of the kind of future speculation we hop to see whether it be an improvement of social necessity or of the growing technologies that will have unforseeable impacts on the way we will choose to lead our lives and create change that is sustainabl and even potentially positive in order to create a fu ture that is a place for science and man to coexist positive force with the earth as the golden prize co tinues to circulate around as it may for hundreds o ye to come in the hope that we do no harming wha we could instead build and reap a new culture from the confusion and disorientation of mans mis un-
Mission Statement The goal of this zine is to showcase a voice that feels like it’s not being heard. NoCulture is an attempt to allow those who feel underrepresented in mainstream institutions to express themselves through multiple mediums in one place. The agency that we assert by doing this allows a freedom that goes beyond anything that can be granted by any government or authority. The hope of NoCulture is to allow every culture to be expressed with out claiming to be representative of any one culture.
This issue is an eclectic expression. It is a small representation of our current states of disillusionment and how they translate into an interpretive view of the future.
We’d like to thank everyone that took the time to contribute to this effort, we know it wasn’t easy and we’re so proud of what we’ve created together. Thanks for your patience and support in bringing this zine to life.
An endless sea of cuddles, Negeen Etemad and Shannon Bodrogi
Martin Juarez
\\Sarah Bowser
vs. Current voltage watts ohms preamps resistors// signal flow travelin, javelin graspin blisters// rhymes scheme like fiends hoping for utterance// hearing a beat’s call, smelling their lover’s scent// rhythm seduced vocal chords give in and let loose// musical sex juice potion that lets you// transcend land’s end, astral projection// god body evolving, natural direction// away from illusion, color of complexion// spit flow blessin zipcodes next when// fire ignite, travel and get paid// analog funk slaps from the Bay// Hashbrown souffle wordplay// all up in your mouth like toothache// reverberate, resonance make the roof shake// move weight, prop 215 suitcase//
Ari Sandoval//
Infernally Yours
At least some of the people left are still doing their old jobs. Newscasters and I suppose some of the production crew and broadcasting companies in smaller towns still feel that what they continue to strive towards isn’t pointless. I knew I was never going back after the first public newscast. My wife and daughter had to watch me sit stoic for almost 5 hours just processing, as the same, far less than empathetic, voice somberly droned out the news. I don’t even think I heard anything past the first half-hour. It was something about whose fault it was and who dropped the first bomb, but after the punch line, I stopped caring. And when I stood up to face my families tear filled eyes and rattling voices, I just replied, “Well fuck if I’m going to worry about quarterly reports after this bullshit.” And walked away. The story behind that report goes something like this: about a year ago, the powers that be decided nuclear weapons may not be the best offense or defense in a human conflict. Our greater organizations gathered and voted that the world (the democratic parts of it anyway) should vote to decide whether or not to destroy the existing nukes. As one can imagine, this global of a decision ended up just pissing everyone off. The liberals all voted to destroy them and the conservatives all voted to keep them, but in the end it was more of an argument than a discussion. This vote sparked the fuse that blew up in everyone’s hand; we kept the nukes by a slim majority. So quickly did the mistrust surrounding the caucus and subsequent vote smolder into fear and then action. No one is quite sure who pushed their big red button first, or even if it was a governmental power pushing the button, but someone dropped a nuke. Major economic hubs on the planet roared in agony and then screamed in silence as they were flattened, one after another, in the horrifying weeks that ensued. And so we finally reach that prophetic punch line: physicists in surviving cities published a clock (well, a series of clocks, physicists tend to be nitpicky after all). This was no ordinary clock, nor was it a physical clock, but anyone with a cell phone certainly had its countdown running. The planet, human beings and everything green and living had roughly two weeks of living left to do. The radiation in our atmosphere was and is still bringing existence rapidly to its end. That first week was the hardest. I started going on several walks all throughout town. I’m not sure why exactly, but I suppose I get something invaluable out of it. Maybe it has something to do with feeling more connected to a dying world. It’s not that I have become a bigger part or anything, especially since I stopped working, just one that is more aware. I step outside and implant myself next to the other organs that comprise nature, and instead of supplying some vital function, I just watch the organs slowly decay. I was
there when we contracted our fatal disease, and I will be there when our collective heart stops beating. I was on such a walk when I saw him. Daniel used to be a good friend of mine, or as close to a good friend as one can get in Phoenix, Arizona. We drank together, laughed together and even got to talking about serious things now and again, and this afternoon I had arrived rather unknowingly at his house. I had seen him in his front yard before, only today, he had a shovel. The afternoon was arid and the sun was warm, and for a day preceding the apocalypse, it was kind of beautiful. The thing that caught my eye first was the moisture around him. Dan’s hands and face were soaked, and the shovel bore marks of this liquid. His hands were caked in dirt turning mud and his face was speckled with clumps of it. I remember following the rapidly moving shovel from bottom up with my eyes, first seeing the increasing depth of the hole and then following the river to his eyes. For a man sunk so deep in mud and tears, his face showed a surprising lack of emotion. The salty water kept flowing but he seemed aloof and distant. “Dan?” I said as I approached him. This was not the first time I had seen that look on Dan. He had the same apathetic eyes while responding to an incident with some vandals a few days before. I of course had the good timing to be at his house exchanging supplies when they arrived. They were just some kids, the kind that were bitter but validated now that the world was ending. The answer to how right they felt apparently laid itself in the spray cans of paint they found. Hearing the rushes of air, Dan grabbed his faithful shotgun and ran outside (this was not the first act of vandalism since the clock was published, no one cared anymore). I rushed outside with him, and his wife, Ellen, hung back in the doorway behind the screen. He wore that look as he took aim at them and led the barrel smoothly with his hands to keep it pointed at their skulls. He kept it on as he dropped the barrel and sighed when they were out of range. He faced me and said, “Is this really it? Thank god for my shotgun, but lord, I never thought I would have to use it this much.” His eyes couldn’t find the voice, my voice, which uttered his name. The shovel paused as he searched for the source of this voice, and when they finally did, they looked right through me. I stood bewildered in plain view as his eyes failed to manage even a half-hearted focus. They slowly dropped back to the hole as his muscles tensed and he started digging again. I called his name once more but this time there was no response. I noticed that his front door was ajar and told him that I was going in. I was hoping to find his wife Ellen inside so I could press her for answers. The spade hung in the air for a split second and his shoulder began to turn back towards me and the house as I moved, but he must’ve thought better of it. The porch was still close enough to the hole for the air to be full of the dry hearty smell of dirt, but there was something else as well. Something rancid hung in
I pushed back the door to reveal his wife Ellen in the fetal position on the ground. Her supine position hid most of her head from where I was standing, but a growing need to verify the source of what had become a grotesque stench had taken my attention when I noticed the shotgun, and the full breadth of the situation washed over me. She was dead. The wall behind her was speckled with what looked like the inside of a microwave whose user never covered their leftovers. She had shot herself; just put the barrel in her mouth and pulled the trigger. The gun lay limp, her finger still touching the trigger. I ran outside and vomited until my gagging had run into dry and ragged enough flesh to become coughing. She must have been in there for several days, and upon this realization I ran to my friend and begged him to stop digging, prying the wet shovel from his hands. He fought me for only a second and then walked gently to the end of the hole. His face exploded with emotion and he began crying as only one who has lost everything can. I cried too. “It’s the strangest thing,” he said later, in a sort of melancholy haze, “I remember fighting so hard to keep that gun. We never used it before everything went to shit, but I wanted to keep it because it made me feel so safe. I had a defense. If I had known what it...” He stopped and swallowed hard with closed eyes. “Stop beating yourself up Dan. How could you have known that this would happen? No one can predict a catastrophic world event and it certainly wasn’t you that couldn’t handle it. It certainly wasn’t you that pulled the trigger.” I said. “No.” he said with a steady voice, “the only thing that fucking gun ever did was take her away from me. Listen Greg…” he paused and deeply inhaled for his confession, “ I voted to keep the nukes.” “A lot of people did, what makes you so different?” “That makes it our fault, don’t you see?! We killed her. I killed her. Who cares which country dropped the first one. My pen in that fucking voting booth was the end.” I found Dan two days later, hanging from a rafter in the same room that I found Ellen. His note was pinned to his chest and said, ‘Sorry to and for those still alive who know, knew and remember me. You know what they say, we all have to die sometime. I guess I just decided to do it myself quickly and decisively, to join my wife in spirit and action, instead of waiting with all of you. I don’t know if that makes me a coward, but at least it’s a proper choice. Harrowing advice seems a bit pointless given the circumstances, but you only get to write a suicide note once in your life, so here it goes: Who cares how safe having a torch feels when everyone and everything you know and love is burned to cinders. Good luck living on this dying rock. Infernally yours, Daniel H. Moore’.
Chris Proudfoot
Austin Montanari
Shannon Bodrogi
Max Naff
Teller-Ullam Design I leave this town, now a desert of bones. The windows all blown out of all the homes. Cars are skeletons when the gas goes dry. Like birds in trouble we tried to fly. But our wings were clipped by megaton blasts. The tan lines on mountains is all that lasts. I remember the night when we all thought we knew. Tomorrow is tomorrow, in form alone is true. But all the atoms of your brain will change. Then are your thoughts your thoughts when the parts rearrange. Algorithms as relations map product to page. Senses to synapses makes a relational cage. Is the computer and screen not just a reflection. Is the mind and face not just a projection. If I think, then there must be a thought. If a product is sold, then it must be bought. If there is a search, then a question was asked. If the truth is covered, then it must be masked. This was the problem when we all awoke. The morning when all the politicians spoke. With phrases of concern and dead looks of worry, each one finished their speech in quite a hurry. The watchers of screens finally opened their blinds. The lights in the distance melted their minds. It was no simulation or model of real. This was hydrogen fission that was bending the steel. They wondered in moments, hours relative to death, ‘Are these the last words spoken in my last breath?’. They were and we all died that day. No matter how many words we forgot to say. When blast hits buildings, physics can tell. When man has weapons, earth is hell. Our forms and videos and user blogs, did nothing to lift our consciousness out of this fog. Tablets and phones dissolved into hands. All the people of power left all their plans. As I sleep in life for this last time, I do not ask what was the crime. This is the future of our forefather’s dream. This is the reality that we now redeem. No regret or anger pointed to the post. Yet without the shell, can there still be a ghost? Stephen Roberts
Edo Escobedo
“To know” Modern Man’s Atavism Scene: Sea-water, Sea-water, Sea-water, The rocks and The ocean and The plants, Ostensible Oscillation of all that is. Modern Man: Light is here, Dark has come and left, And the sun, And the moon. Look, Water. More, feel more... Hammers, Spears, Hammers and Spears, But push-rocks.. They sink. So much of this, all around, It is not enough, I am trapped, I see water. Meat does not sink, Wood does not sink, Floaters squawk, you do not, sink. Squawk! Squawk! Squawk! I see water. They, Those so thick, Those so browed, They say: Your eyes don’t see. Squuaawwkkk! They say: You sea water. Giovan Alonzi
Nihilism++: Anarcho-transhumanism hopeless liberation.
as
Anarchotranshumanism An·ar·cho·trans·hu·man·ism [an-er-ko-tranz-hyoo-mun-niz-uhm] noun 1. An emerging ideology of the refusal to accept traditional human limitations such as death, disease and other biological frailties in classical anarchist analysis based around ideas of combating power structures.
The future holds a horror we cannot begin to imagine. Through the increase of pervasive technology that will not only dictate our interactions and the ways we move through space to the inevitable panoptic (in the Foucaultian sense) society, the future holds nothing good. This is the first premise; one that forwards the idea that things will get worse, especially on the technological front. We will see, within the next hundred years, horrible technological advancements that will only forward a patriarchal, oppressive agenda. It is through that lens that we can begin to see the need for anarcho-transhumanism. There is a need for a theory and practice that not only takes into account how pervasive technologies change our relationships (for better or worse) in today’s world and how we can challenge their inherent oppression, but also towards a logical expansive view of future technologies and how we as anti-authoritarians must fight them. Anarchism has failed, and will continue to fail to prevent these advancements, unless strides are made to actively combat these technologies. The Nihilist approach sees no usefulness in the fetishization of technology as solutions to our problems. Capitalism cannot be smashed with a piece of code any more than it can truly be smashed with a hammer. But like the hammer breaking a store window, a malicious piece of code or anti-authoritarian AI seeks to fight the war anarcho-transhumanism sees as the next battleground. The continuation of a threat to the social order must come out of a blended technique that grabs all the tools in the toolbox. All too often, usually from anarcho-primitive circles, a total rejection of all “technology” and “civilization” is seen as the only way to an oppression-less society. The fetishization with re-wilding makes a lot of sense if you imagine that there will be any land to re-wild on. The rediscovery of primitive technologies for survival is useful, of course, but the further exploration of technological conquest by those who are against the state can bring the power of these resources away from the monopoly of the state and capitalism. Gregg Horton
The Primitives “Are you sure you’re ready for this? Once we cut it out you’re one of us. You’ll be in violation of the Decree and officially be dubbed a treasonous party against the State.” He looked at her incredulously, and then down at his arm to where his Hard Drive was and began thumbing it as he sat kneeling in front of the stump…They’ll never be able to find me... To them he was the sum of his DNA, school records, blood type and dietary habits, but to the Primitives he was nothing less than himself. “We’ve gone over this I knew what I was getting into when I came out here, I’m not a fucking idiot.” “Alright, just making sure. The last guy that was as zealous as you are changed his mind halfway. Couldn’t stand the thought of losing ‘who he was’. The botched ones always bleed more.” The thought of someone considering their Hard Drive their identity disgusted him. Most city people thought that way…Nothing sounds more relieving than disconnecting from the Server… I’ll control my identity… They sat there waiting for Tuvi to tell them everyone was ready when she came rising out of the Valley, “Lees, everyone’s packed, they should be heading this way any minute. They were getting the kids ready for the walk when I left, so we can start the ceremony soon,” she walked over to a redwood that had all the supplies laying out before it on a blanket. She took a seat next to the surgical picnic that was only missing the knife. Connor was troubled at the thought of the kids watching, “Are the kids going to see you cut it out of me? That seems kind of fucked up.” “Most of these kids had their own ceremonies, and the rest have seen it done before,’ she said with a laugh, ‘They’ll be ok, Connor.” “If you say so, I already feel shitty about making everyone migrate on my account.” “Don’t worry about that, it was time we migrated anyways, we’ve already been here for two weeks, your ceremony makes it easier for me to convince everyone, actually.” The thought of him doing her a favor seemed laughable. She’d been taking care of him since he arrived, showing him the way the Primitives did things and allowing him time to learn, never judging, only the hint of understanding and amusement when he struggled. “Do people have a hard time migrating?” “Some do. They get attached to the land, which is understandable. It’s beautiful out here. But a fundamental part of being a Primitive is the migration. We’re trying to forget the notions of attachment and ownership the state has made us susceptible to. Not to mention if they catch up with us they’ll execute everyone one of us.” “You don’t need to sell me on it, I’m here right?” “You are, and the State knows it”…Fuckers… “Hopefully till now they haven’t been suspicious of your extended camping trip. But once your Hard Drive goes black they’ll know you’re with us, so we’ve got to move fast so the Cloakers have time to cover our tracks.” They heard the rustling of the footsteps of the group…We’re going to start soon… Their heads bobbed up and down as they came up from the valley…They’re not carrying much... The elders were last to be seen coming forward, each holding at least one small hand as they brought the children to the front. Lees asked for everyone’s attention, and for a moment the forest was the only thing that spoke. “Thanks everyone for packing up and getting ready as we set out towards another migration day. We all know what we’re doing
here before we begin the walk. Connor has chosen to come live with us amongst the land,” Connor looked for the reactions in the faces of the elders where a mixture of pride and quiet resolve met his eyes. “Today we remove the remaining control the state has over him by cutting out and destroying his Hard Drive. Sean, the blade please.” Sean had taken a seat next to his mother at the base of the redwood. He couldn’t have been older than 16. He stepped forward and took the knife from its holster, handing it to Lees. When Connor saw it, he felt a burst of panic grip him…Better not be dull… When he first arrived to the group he couldn’t understand why all these people, the Elders especially, chose to follow Lees as their Guide. When she took the knife from Sean and turned back to Connor, she saw the panic, returning his look with one of understanding making her appointment clear to him. He heard her clear her throat, but couldn’t take his eyes away from the knife. It looked like any ordinary knife…Who else have you cut…Lees began the induction, reciting it just how she told him she would, “Connor, today we remove all control The State has over you. In doing so we invite you to walk with us. As a Primitive you must respect what is not yours, which is all things. As a Primitive you must not desire what is not yours, which is all things. As a primitive you move with the land and the group. Connor, do you understand the full weight of your vow?” Connor’s eyes broke from the blade and moved to hers. “I understand.” “And may I begin your seccession?” “Yes.” He felt metal on skin, and…Fucking shit… the sharp pinch of the first flesh breaking. As she held his hand in place over the stump she did her best not to look at his face and focused on the incision. The more of his flesh that the knife tore open the more his head swam as the metallic scent of his spilling blood filled the air. By the time she’d finished the third and final side of the square the earth underneath him was rocking. Tuvi approached them with leafy binding in one hand tweezers in the other. Lees took the tweezers and did her best to gently insert them into Connor’s fresh wound. He could tell that she was doing her best not to hurt him but he wanted her to do it faster and spare him the drawn out agony. They washed away the blood, which did little but make room for more to spread its way across his arm. He could feel the metals touching as the tweezers grabbed hold of the Hard Drive…Last time… Lees pulled the small square out...God Damn….Tuvi began wrapping the binding around his arm. Lees walked towards the group, arm extended holding the blood covered little square out for everyone to see…All data of me… A half inch… She knelt over and picked up a rock as she made her way back to him. Tuvi finished the binding with a final tie that made him wince as Lees placed the Hard Drive on the stump. She knelt next to him and placed the grimy stone in the palm of his unbandaged arm. “You can take a minute if you need one, we’ll wait.” His head still swam and the thought of lifting that stone seemed difficult but he didn’t want another moment…No more waiting… “No more waiting.” His arm raised into the air and came down feebly, but with resolve on that micro Hard Drive, his very first birthday present. Lifting the stone away he saw it laying in fragmented pieces on the stump, covered and sitting in a pool of his blood was everything the state knew about him…Never more… Grabbing his arm, Lees helped him to his feet. “How do you feel?” “Light.”
Negeen Etemad
Chantel Elizabeth Beam
The Manifesto for the Downtrodden
Remember to stay vigilant.
In trying times such as these, it’s important to keep your wits about you, for even now there are serpents waiting to slurp the blood that beats in your veins. This will not be easy, but you already knew that and everything worth having in this life has come at a price, so it shouldn’t be much of a shock. The trick is to act as if nothing is wrong, as if you are prepared for it, waiting for it even, because that’s what you’ve been doing for years and look how far it has taken you. But as you already know, feigned nonchalance will soon turn into indifference, and indifference is a virus no matter how hard you try to spin it. This charade has finally come to an end, and it is with this in mind that you set out to make your mark on the world, wary of the mistakes others have made and determined not to fall into the trap of delusional contentment. But this is not some doe-eyed walk in the park. No one is here to hold your hand, to push you on a swing and whisper sweet, soothing nothings to calm the turmoil that is bubbling in your boldly beating heart. This is something else entirely, a manifestation of all your life’s struggles and hardships, the final payoff that you’ve worked so hard for and there is nothing anyone can do to stop it. For too long you’ve sat wondering what it is you’re all about when in reality you’ve known it all along. This is what you were made for and this is how you make it happen. The only enemy you have is yourself.
Remember to stay motivated.
Remind yourself what it is that you want. Make a list, something visual that you can look at every day. Tack it to your wall above your desk or tape it to the bathroom mirror. Place little notes on the fridge. Let it seep into your subconscious and tickle parts of your brain that you didn’t even know existed. Take walks early and often,
learn to clear your head when the hustle and clutter of everyday life becomes too much to handle. Never, ever lose grip on what it is you’re searching for, because that constant search is what separates you from the rest of the world.
Remember to stay conscious.
Unplug your iPod. Disconnect the cable box. Talk to your neighbors; bring them casseroles and home-made cookies. Get to know the liquor store cashier down the street on a name-to-name basis and never be ashamed at the amount of beer you buy. Ride the Muni and write down what you hear, because sometimes all it takes is a stray sentence wafting to your eardrum or a simple nuance that you would have otherwise overlooked had you not been so self-absorbed to set that motivated, subconscious part of your mind off. Run with it and see where it takes you.
Remember to stay positive.
You’re certain you’ve heard this more times than you can count, but now it is more important than ever. Positivity is a cure to the virus of indifference. There will always be darkness, no one can escape that, the trick is to not trick yourself into thinking that things will never be joyous and hopeful again, that yes, it was a good run, but the run is over, your legs are trembling and there’s no way in hell you could ever cross the finish line. But you can and you will, the only enemy you have is yourself and you’ve known that all along. One day all this will stop, and enemies and positivity and motivation and vigilance won’t have anything to do with anything. So enjoy it, because one day you won’t be able to.
Jacob Wiley
Shannon Bodrogi
We’ve really enjoyed our time working on this zine.
We’d like to thank all the incredible people that contributed. It meant so much for us to have accomplished what we did together.
SPECIAL THANKS TO Pirouz Mehmandoost Brenda Montano Gianni Gigliotti
see you later cowboys