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The sickle, the fasces, the clenched fist, and the talons of an eagle—in the 21st Century, these one-time tools of revolution are now the weapons of mass destruction. Waved into the sky amidst naïve proclamations that war is the hygiene of the world and reckless promises that social utopia follows a necessary and catastrophic violence, they have reaped nothing but economic collapse, inhumane persecution, and the assurance of a devastating environmental meltdown. Transformed into vessels of nationalism and ideology, they have hardened into unwieldy and ineffectual weights.
This is the architecture of Modernity, which we make both our home and our adversary. We lurk in the dips and crevices of these monoliths, slowly spreading through the cracks, seeping into the pores, splitting, splintering, and shaping. At times we are a wooden wedge, a stream of water, or a star-nosed mole. We persist, we pervade. Beneath the rocks and amidst the gravel, deftly camouflaged or out of vision, we seek out a place for ourselves. Ours is a generation that finds meaning in all digressions.
In 1914 our predecessors scrawled “BLAST” across their manifesto’s bright pink cover—the book itself a monument to the Modern World, an obdurate object to BLAST and be BLASTed. However, the last century of reckless violence and destabilizing nihilism has taught us that BLASTing is not the solution. We replace our drive for destruction with the ongoing possibility of intervention and conversation. And thus we pose our manifesto in the form of a question, one we hear ourselves calling aloud almost everyday: WTF? Relentlessly, earnestly: What The Fuck?!
