Revolutionary Suicide. Bolted upright out of bed this morning with the thought I was a “reactionary suicide.” (Meaning, in Huey Newton’s parlance, I was being killed by my obligations; being killed by doing as was expected of me; being killed by having no moral qualms with being killed by doing the obligatory things) and toward the conclusion of the day (having in the interim read about Newton for the first time from a writer who was not Newton himself) realized he may have had his own problems in this regard, which did not and ought not neutralize, but did for the time somewhat diminish, the impact of his rhetoric and ideas . . . .
More interestingly, when I thought of those not dying our stupid obligatory addicted deaths, I thought suddenly and possibly erroneously of the person who dressed extremely well, the person who dressed with extraordinary panache, the fashionistas, as we say, as the antidote; these were the true revolutionary suicides, I suddenly believed. Not the ones with guns, with arguments, with slogans and banners and books; but snappy dressers the ones who “put it out there” everyday, while the rest of us not only did not “put it out there” very often. No, indeed, we often concealed.
Question of: which does one more passionately resist, the Federal Government, or dressing in a lively and becoming fashion?
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