Explore the vibrant world of 江戸門戸, where traditional meets modern and creativity knows no bounds. Dive into a universe of captivating visuals, bold statements, and art that speaks to the soul. #江戸門戸 #Artist #CreativeVision"
#CitizenCanada #scholx #scholzandfriends
「伝統と現代が交わり、創造性が無限に広がる 江戸門戸 の鮮やかな世界へようこそ。心を揺さぶるビジュアル、大胆なメッセージ、そして魂に語りかけるアートの宇宙へ飛び込もう。
#江戸門戸 #アーティスト #クリエイティブビジョン
Explore the vibrant world of 江戸門戸, where traditional meets modern and creativity knows no bounds. Dive into a universe of captivating visuals, bold statements, and art that speaks to the soul. #江戸門戸 #Artist #CreativeVision"
#CitizenCanada #scholx #scholzandfriends
ON PHONES
There was a dinner once, years ago now, that struck me with the force of prophecy. A gathering of friends, intelligent people, funny people, people with whom conversation had once stretched deep into the night, where arguments, jokes, gossip, philosophy, and trivial nonsense all mixed together in that ancient human ritual of communal eating. Yet on this occasion something had changed, though at first it was almost imperceptible. The table remained. The food arrived. Drinks were poured. Bodies occupied the chairs. But the animating principle of the gathering had vanished.
Everyone was staring downward.
For nearly two hours the room existed in a state of suspended social animation. Fingers twitched across glowing surfaces. Faces periodically illuminated by tiny artificial flashes of information. Someone would laugh faintly at something occurring elsewhere, in another invisible dimension entirely, while the actual human beings seated inches away drifted further into irrelevance. Conversation no longer flowed; it sputtered. Presence itself became fragmented. It was as though I had watched a species quietly surrender one of its defining characteristics without even realizing it was happening.
One hears endless rhetoric about connectivity, community, democratization, technological liberation, but sitting there I experienced the opposite sensation entirely. The smartphone did not appear as a communication device. It appeared as an extraction device. An apparatus that harvested attention from immediate reality and redirected it into an endless system of managed distraction. The machine had not merely entered social life; it had colonized the pauses, the silences, the ambiguities, the moments from which genuine conversation and reflection once emerged.
The disturbing thing was not the technology itself. Humans have always invented tools. The disturbing thing was the passivity. Nobody at the table appeared consciously to choose the device over the people beside them. The movement had become automatic, almost liturgical. Reach. Check. Scroll. React. Repeat. A kind of low-grade behavioral possession masquerading as convenience.
And this, perhaps, is the real revolution of the smartphone age: not that human beings communicate more, but that uninterrupted human presence has become intolerable. The modern citizen increasingly experiences silence as anxiety, boredom as pathology, unmediated thought as discomfort. Every empty second must be filled, every lull exterminated. The old capacities — observation, patience, sustained listening, private reflection — begin to atrophy from disuse.
There is an old warning from totalitarian literature that tyranny does not always arrive marching in boots. Sometimes it arrives smiling, offering efficiency, entertainment, personalization, convenience. The most effective systems of control are those voluntarily carried in the pocket, lovingly polished, endlessly refreshed, defended by the very people most subordinated by them. What previous empires achieved through censorship and force, the modern attention economy often achieves through seduction.
I left that dinner with an unsettling realization: if this trajectory continued, entire modes of human experience might quietly disappear. Not through dramatic prohibition, but through neglect. The art of conversation. The capacity for solitude. The strange creative fertility of boredom. The accidental encounter. The undirected walk. The unrecorded memory. The ability to sit across from another person and remain fully there.
So I began withdrawing from the device, slowly at first, then almost entirely. Not because I imagined myself purer than anyone else, nor because technological primitivism holds much appeal, but because I suspected something essential was being eroded beneath the rhetoric of progress. And once one has seen the transformation clearly, it becomes difficult to unsee. The smartphone was sold as an instrument of freedom. Yet increasingly it resembled a portable system of behavioral management, carried voluntarily into every intimate corner of human existence.
The deepest irony is that people now fear disconnection more than domination. Silence terrifies them more than surveillance. To be unreachable for an afternoon appears almost socially deviant. But perhaps the truly radical act in the twenty-first century is simply this: to reclaim one’s own attention from the machinery perpetually designed to fragment it.
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@gopfertami 7 months ago Anarchism is far right. Liberalism is also right wing. On the other side conservatism is right wing but fascist is not. So it was not truly left vs right. But it was labelled as such and we remember it that way. Nowadays left and right is no longer used in its original meaning but rather to address emotions.
@gopfertami 1 month ago (edited) @davidcox9234 anarchism is purely right wing ideology. You won't be able to give a single point from the anarchist ideology which could be considered as left wing.
Reply greatguyaaa @gopfertami This is pure nonsense, Professor Green of Oxford University has a whole book devoted to left wing anarchism. Cancel
The argument always begins the same way: with a young man in black insisting that anarchism means freedom, and another young man—also in black, naturally—replying that freedom for whom is precisely the question. One imagines the scene repeating itself endlessly across centuries: in a Paris café thick with smoke in 1848, in a Spanish union hall before the guns began firing, in an American college dormitory beside a shelf of Austrian economics and survival food. The anarchist enters history declaring war on kings; he leaves it arguing about landlords.
The first anarchists emerged from the furnace of nineteenth-century Europe, where factories rose like iron cathedrals and workers were fed into them with the efficiency of coal. Men like Pierre-Joseph Proudhon and Mikhail Bakunin did not see capitalism as the antidote to tyranny but as one of its newest disguises. To them, the state and the factory owner were cousins—one ruled with soldiers, the other with hunger. Their dream was not the liberation of the market but liberation from domination itself: no kings, no czars, no monopolists, no bureaucratic priesthoods. The anarchist of the nineteenth century was therefore unmistakably a creature of the left, born in strikes, barricades, and revolutionary congresses.
Then history performed one of its usual tricks and shifted the scenery. The twentieth century witnessed socialism hardening into bureaucracy and, in places, outright terror. Out of that wreckage emerged another anti-statist tradition, especially in the United States, where distrust of government mingled with frontier individualism and market mythology. Thinkers like Murray Rothbard arrived waving not the black-and-red banner of workers’ revolt but the pure black flag of radical property rights. They regarded taxation as theft, government as organized coercion, and the free market as the nearest thing to voluntary human order ever devised. To the older anarchists this sounded absurd: abolishing the state only to enthrone corporations appeared rather like overthrowing the monarchy so that feudal barons could govern directly.
And so the quarrel continues. One faction insists that capitalism is merely private government with better advertising; the other argues that markets are what remain when coercive states disappear. Both call themselves anarchists because both despise centralized authority. Yet they are separated by a philosophical canyon. One dreams of communes and federations of workers; the other of contracts and voluntary exchange. The dispute is therefore not over whether freedom matters, but over what power actually looks like when it puts on civilian clothes.
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