Making, Mocking & Mutual Aid
My plan for political, spiritual & social resistance in 2025
2025 is for MAKING
Art is always a political, spiritual, and if you do it right, social act of resistance. To make something—a painting, a poem, a film—is to declare your existence against the crushing tide of indifference. To insist that you saw the sky turn an impossible shade of violet one evening and that it mattered, that you loved someone so fiercely it left scars, that you have lived, and there was meaning in the multitudes. This is dangerous work. To care in a world that profits most from apathy is as defiant as throwing any brick through any window.
Making art is resistance because it disrupts the machinery. The machinery wants you compliant, busy, scrolling, buying. Art demands you stop. It asks for your attention—not the fractured, distracted sort, but the whole of it. The attention of mind and spirit. We all know the experience of hearing a song for the first time and feel it rattle loose something buried deep within you. Art rehumanizes us in a system that seeks to reduce us to units of labor, consumers & target audiences.
The act of creating is also a refusal. To write a novel in the middle of societal collapse, to carve a piece of wood into something beautiful when the world is on fire, is to say: I am more than what is being done to me. I am not defined by the violence of my time. Artists bear witness, but they also dream. They imagine futures where the machinery breaks down, where we gather in the ruins and build new worlds together.
They fear the artists, the poets, the filmmakers. Because a painting can ignite a revolution. A song can topple a regime. Art reminds us of our humanity when everything else conspires to strip it away. It reminds us we are still here. And we are not the only ones still trying, still fighting.
2025 is for MOCKING
It’s not that mocking the powerful is some moral imperative — though there’s a case to be made for that too—it’s that failing to mock them is dangerous. Like, actively dangerous. Because unchecked power has an uncanny ability to warp reality itself, to bend the narrative around it in ways that make questioning it feel not just risky but absurd, like asking if gravity is optional. And the thing about the powerful—whether we’re talking about tinpot despots or some smarmy techbro who has pioneered a new way to monetize loneliness—is that their whole deal depends on convincing you they’re untouchable and inevitable, they’re beyond reproach and accountability. Mockery is a beautiful, simple tool for puncturing that illusion.