There’s a special feeling that comes from holding something you made yourself, something printed or folded or stapled together, knowing it only exists because you willed it into being. I first felt that in a high school hallway, sometime in the late 1980s. Postcard and zine I made and sent to a stranger. The title of the zine is a slogan from May 68’s riots in Paris Someone had been posting anonymous anarchist texts on the public display boards around my school. Dense, serious stuff, earnest to the point of being unintentionally hilarious. My friend and I read one and immediately started laughing. Neither of us was especially political, more practicing contrarians, and what got us wasn’t the ideology but the sheer absurdity of the gap: revolutionary ambitions pinned up next to notices about parties, private tutoring lessons, and lost books. So I started writing parodies. Same format, same display boards, except mine were openly ridiculous: manifestos for things that didn’t matter,…
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