Anti O
edipus: Anarchism and Schizophonia

DB Indoš, Tanja Vrvilo

Anti Oedipus, a music spring machine, produces several regimes of separation and connection – diagrammatic (from the line of flight to apartheid wall and penetrated wall), schizophonic (persecution of external sound by the other sound in the headphones), territorial (diagonal occupations and decolonization of country and scene), transtextual (pseudo-translation of original text in the headphones by simultaneous live performing of another text), transvisual (editing of hybrid filmscape depicting world in war and world in solidarity), anachronical (deterritorializations of Anti Oedipus from occupied West Bank to the free territory of anarchy, traveling by bicycle from Graz to the short summer in Catalonia), metamobile (false movements within limiting spaces as the smooth spaces of freedom). Anti Oedipus, sliding and springing, connects several forms of becoming: anarchist-syndicalist Durutti, antiwar volunteer Weil, philosophers of desire Deleuze and Guattari, anti-colonial poet Linton Kwesi Johnson, anarcho-architect Weizman, anarchists against the wall, exilic bicyclist Martin Plajh; constructing relations of dehierarchization of soundscapes produced within music and film machines and their external sensors. The diverse politics of experience – poetic-philosophical, pseudo-documentary, bodily, music, mediating – achronically assemble the insurrection against the force that transforms a man into thing, freedom into coercion, idea of solidarity into the idea of enemy, and anarchy into schizophony.

Production: DB Indoš / House of Extreme Music Theatre

Postproduction – Teatar ITD, Culture of Change SC, N.O. JAZZ festival

Authors: Damir Bartol Indoš, Tanja Vrvilo

Performed by: Damir Bartol Indoš, Tanja Vrvilo, Anti-chorus collective: Nikolina Majdak, Adriana Josipović, Darko Jeftić, Kate Marušić, Mirta Jurilj (violoncello)

Rhythmical Psychedelic Archestra: Nino Prišuta, Miro Manojlović, Miroslav Piškulić, Nenad Borović

Agit films: Miro Manojlović

English translation: Vedran Pavlić

Photos: Ratko Mavar, Damir Žižić

Video by: Lovro Čepelak, Velimir Rodić, Željka Kovačević

Collaborator on the project: Ivana Sansević

Sources: H. M. Enzenberger: Der kurze Sommer der Anarchie; G. Deleuze/F. Guattari: Anti-Oedipus, Capitalism and Schizophrenia, A Thousand Plateaus, Capitalism and Schizophrenia; G. Deleuze/C. Parnet: L'Abécédaire, D for Desire; G. Deleuze: Postscripts on the Societies of Control; Simone Weil: Notes of a War Volunteer, Iliad or Poem of Force, Letters form Spanish Civil War; Španija 1936-1939. Zbornik sjećanja jugoslavenskih dobrovoljaca u španskom ratu /Spain 1936-1939. Miscellany of Recollections by Yugoslav Volunteers in Spanish War; Homer: Iliad; Eyal Weizman: Hollow Land Seeing through Walls: The Split Sovereign and the One-Way Mirror; Kodwo Eshun: More Brilliant then the Sun; Linton Kwesi Johnson: Selected Poems; R.W.Fassbinder:Anarchie in Bayern; Carole Roussopoulos, Valerie Solanas: SCUM Manifesto, Sophocles; P.P. Pasolini: Edipo re, Jean Rouch: Les Maîtres Fous; Rudi Dutschke: Bibliographie des revolutionaren Sozialismus.

The performance was co-funded by the Department of Culture, City of Zagreb, and the Croatian Ministry of Culture



Apartheid wall

If moles are the animals in places of confinement,

control societies have their snakes.

We've gone from one animal to the other.

A snake's coils are more intricate than a mole's burrow.

13:50 A truck with olive tree growers from the suburbs of Tulkarem

approaches the south passage.

Surveillance camera on the wall records approach to the south checkpoint.

14:44 A truck arrives at the checkpoint. Olive orchards are in Beit Lid.

But, olive tree growers can't pass through.

A driver talks to the soldiers to convince them to let them pass trought.

A ditch 1.80 wide 2.40 deep impedes vehicle crossings.

14:50 The bus arrives at the checking booth. IDs are checked.

Five women with children are from Nablus and have to leave the bus.

Balls of rolled barbed wire 1.80 tall extend along the wall.

14:59 Women and children get a taxi to go back to the west.

The truck still tries to go through. Olive tree growers are standing around,

the driver goes from one soldier to the other to ask for help.

The electronic sensors detect all atempts of encroachment across the concrete wall.

15:10 All strangers between the ages of 16 and 30 who are residents of Tulkarem,

Nablus, Jenin and the surrounding villages, are not allowed southward.

Dirt road for army patrols, paved road for border police.

15:37 The truck turns back to the west.

Fine sand to preserve footprints.

Imagine a town where anyone can leave their flat, street, neighborhood,

using their card that opens this or that barrier. But the card may also be rejected on

a particular day, or between certain times of day.

It doesn't depend on the barrier but on the sensor that is making sure

everyone is in a permissible place and effecting a universal modulation.

Seven Durruti's deaths / Five Nights of Bleeding

For some reason or because of mistake two orchestras have been ordered for the same song.

One plays silently, another one loudly.

They don't keep the same rhythm. They start from the beginning, and several more times,

and then they stop trying to come together.

You can see raised fists everywhere.

Finally, the music stops, fists go down and you can hear only the murmur of the crowd

in the middle of which is Durruti.

Next to the flags of the anarchists there are the colours of all antifascist groups.

Cars search for the exit by driving backwards. The crowd doesn't move, it occupies whole cemetery.

The night is falling. Durruti will be burried the next day.


Anarchy anarchy
Below the glass window a face in the white scarf

On the hearse a flag

red and black

Durruti is calling you to enter

Durruti is calling you to come

His funeral becomes


By death becomes legend

And death betrayal

Still with fist raised

The short summer of anarchy


On the other side University clinic

The building with seven floors

The enemy has conquered the upper ones

and our people the lower ones

When the enemy saw a kilometer away

a car which was stopped

they waited for the passanger to leave

and then fired the shots which wounded him mortally

Still with the fist raised

The short summer of anarchy


Durruti's driver told me

After lunch we went to the frontline

We came to the crossroads

Towards a group of fighters
He came out and ordered them to return

Reddish clinic was in front of us

We heard the bullet when he fell

We put him to lay on the back seat, he was hit in the chest

I drove to lazaret, the rest you know

Still with the fist raised

The short summer of anarchy


How he died

How did that happened

Convinced that it was an assassination

Policeman shot him from a high window

But, if not, who killed him

One of those who were standing next to him

It was an act of revenge

A year

after death

The exhibition was opened

There was a shirt

which he wore on the day of his death

It was lying in a glass case

A hole, a hole of gunpowder


Naranjero is an awful gun

an orange tree

On the afternoon of the 19th a messanger came from the frontlines

Clinic. Red clinic. Fell to the enemy

We stopped.

In front, at the wheel, driver Julio, next to him, Durruti

He took his zbrojovka naranjero

Open the door, hit the floor of the car with naranjero

A bullet hit him in the chest, real shot-through

orange tree

No-one wanted to tell the truth

Still with fist raised

The short summer of anarchy


After the debacle of anarchists on Gabaritas hill

Durruti fell at the front


from behind

It was belived he was killed

by Durruti’s friends

or communists

or a stray bullet from Franco’s trenches

Yes, I had some suspicions

his friends

finally said

that it was an accident

These were his comrades, why would they lie

Still with fist raised

The short summer of anarchy

Why don’t we search for watermelons / Want fi Goh Rave

Tuesday, 18 of August

Getting up at half past two in the morning. My backpack is already ready.

Fear because of the glasses. Dividing the load: for me, maps and dishes.

Silent march. We cross the river in two steps. Waiting. The German will make us soup.

I stay and mind the soup. In the meantime, others approach the house.

There they find a family. A seventeen-year-old son – handsome!

Order: everbody back, take the peasant's family as well.

The German, we transformed him into the cook, curses: no salt, no oil, no vegetables.

The comrades return. Peasant and his son. Fontana greets with raised hand,

looking at the youngster. They greet him back. The youngster returns the greeting back because there is nothing else.

Cruel coercions.


17 of August

By car in the morning

Young driver with his dear next to him


Everybody to the cornfield

We escape to shelter

I throw myself into the mud

They give me a gun

Short carbine

I shoot up


Through the bush

Heat, some fear

Why don’t we look for watermelons


17 of August

By car in the morning

Young driver has his dear next to him


Quickly over the river

One cadaver, blue, swollen

Burnt, others keep looking

And what, it is about burning

Three enemy cadavers


Through the bush

Heat, some fear

Why don’t we look for the watermelons


17 of August

By car in the morning

Young driver has a dear next to him


Grueling tension

We sleep on straw

Boots in the corner, good ceiling

We scream at sanitary official

He wants to turn the light of

For the first time I felt afraid


Through the bush

Heat, some fear

Why don’t we look for watermelons

Seeing through walls / Matin Plajh to Lyon by bicycle

In Graz, where I was living as an emigrant, I made a deal with an Austrian man to go to Spain together. We have decided to go by bicycle and to meet on August 23, 1937, at a certain spot.

I didn't find him at the place which we agreed upon, so I decided to go alone by bike.

I travelled via Leoben to Kalvang, where I stayed for a night at a villager's hayloft. I countinued, via Roteman and Pongau (near Salzburg), spending the nights at haylofts. On the fourth day I reached Johberg (Tirol). On fifth day I reached Insbruck. It rained every day. I was wet. Finally, I arrived at the border crossing station Schlackhof on the river Inn. I decided to wait until dark to cross the river with the bicycle on my shoulder. I took off my shoes and trousers, and started towards the stream. However, it was too deep and too swift, so I had to give up. I swiftly put the bicycle on ma shoulder, crossed the bridge, and then started towards Martinsbruck, where there is Swiss border crossing station.

Something is still bothering us: the story of Oedipus.

The first part is imperial, despotic, paranoid, divinatory.

But the second part is wandering, Oedipus’ line of flight,

the double turning away of his own face and that of God.

Rather then borders to be crossed in order,

or which one does not have the right to cross – hybris,

there is a secret border.

Oedipus passes through all three secrets.

The perception of the secret must be secret itself:

surveillance is not less secretive

then what they are in a position to disclose.

There is always a perception finer then yours,

a perception of what is in your box.

A secret society commands its members

to swim in society as fish in water,

but society must be like water around fish.

His name is Atheos,

he wanders and survives on positive line of separation.

The outcome is no longer murder or sudden death

but survival under reprieve, unlimited


When I arrived to the village, a man in uniform came from a house. He looked at me, but didn't say anything, he was probably a postman. I climbed on my bicycle, and left as quickly as possibly. At the end of the village there was a crossroads with signposts. On the left, there was a road to St. Morritz, and on the right, to Davos via Fiel. I decided to head towards Davos. After walking for 17 kilometers on foot, I arrived at seven in the morning to the Fiel summit (2883 m).

At the end, I belived that, after all this difficult and hard walking, I will rest a bit by cycling downhill. However, I had to walk again because the brakes broke. In one village I bought for three francs a liter of warm milk and some bread, and the I went to a small glade, away from the road, where I lay down and soon fell asleep. I woke up in late afternoon and immediately got on my bike. Around three in the afternoon I reached the suburbs of Zurich and saw a police officer for the first time. It was Saturday. Next day it was Sunday, so I immediately left via Baden-Brid

to Basel. I arrived in Basel at around 10 in the morning and found a union. They recommended for me to go immediately to Jura, where it might be easier to cross into France. I waited until dark, and then put my bicycle on the shoulder and started. So I came to a glade with a border marker. I left quickly so the border police woudn't find me. Before entering Bezanson, I shaved, washed myself and cleaned the suit in a stream. I spend the night in a haystack. I slept there better then if I were in the finest hotel.

According to the Article X, incoming Palestinians would not 

see the Israeli security personnel, they would see only

a Palestinian policeman and a raised Palestinian flag.

A control point stands in front of one of several one-way mirrors

facing the incoming passengers hall. 

Late in the afternoons, when sunlight fell through the outside window of the control room facing west, the light level between the control room and the now darkened hall, rendered almost equal by the setting sun, made the one-way mirror just transparent enough to expose the silhouette of the Israeli security agents and with it the designed charade of prosthetic sovereignty.

Next morning I reached a suburb of Lyon. I asked a worker where the unemployment

office is located. He wanted to know about the situation in Austria, and I said

to him that the clerical fascism is rulling the country. He shook his head and gave me

an address in a street which I forgot. I left my bicycle in a courtyard, climbed to the first floor, where everyone greeted me with: Bonjour Comrade! On the third day they told us to prepare for departure. We were driven to a vineyard at the foot of the Pyrenees and there we exited the bus. We were all given a pair of Spanish espadrilles so we could move more silently. When we reached the last mountain crossing the guides warned us to be completely silent, because below us there was a stream which represented the border between France and Spain. We reached Figeras on September 7, 1937, around four o'clock in the afternoon.

This, that / Time Come

The hero of the Iliad is force.

Force employed by man, force that enslaves man,

force that erases man’s flesh.

The spirit blinded by the force it imagined it could handle.

That X that turns anybody into a thing.

It makes a corpse out of him.

Somebody was here, and the next minute there is nobody here at all.

The hero becomes a thing dragged behind a chariot in the dust.




We see it in its grossest form, the form that kills.

How much more surprising is the other force, the force that does not kill,

or that does not kill just yet.

It will surely kill, it will possibly kill, or perhaps it merely hangs,

poised and ready, over the head of the creature it can kill,

at any moment, which is to say at every moment.

It turns man into stone.





This that

This that

Here! There! Here!

Where is the enemy?

On the edge of field of vision

Spot on window

Shadow behind the barricades

This that

This that

Here! There! Here!

Stature high

Hair chestnut

Face longish

Eyes blue-gray

nose, mouth shapely

Distinguishing marks none, capability capable

Here! There! Here!

This that

This that

Is di shadow in trench behind you

Is I stan-up rite before you


One dead

That's all

Occupation, factory worker

That's all

Loyal and confidential

That's all

Of good behaviour

That's all

Unit infantry

That's all

Military service number


And that's all

Bequest old leather jacket

Khaki pants, shoes with holes

Two pistols, binoculars



One dead

And that's all

Sounds in trench / Sonny's Lettah

What could it mean that we dream of ossuary?

What is the place for desire?

Where is my desire headed,

passing through a pile of bones?

Is my desire following the herd?

What is my position in relation to the herd?

Am I a part of herd, am I outside of it,

or in its center?

Creating assemblages, constructing the relations,

all of that shapes desire.

That is Anti-Oedipus.

Jack Freeman

International Brigade

Abraham Lincoln

October 22, Aragon

Dear mama,

How are you?

In one or two days

I’ll write again to you,

I am still bodily

and mentally good.


The most important thing

about these war sounds

is never to worry

about a bullet you hear.

Bullet travels much faster than sound,

it’s way past you by the time you hear it.


Comrades explained the sounds to me

Bullet near you sounds more like

a whine then a whistle

but in the distance

more like a whistle.

I would duck in the trench

When anything whizzed, whistled, buzzed

You can’t duck the first burst

Ricochet buzzes

when it hits the ground

or rock or something

and bounces off

and you can get out of the rest of the burst

The same goes for artillery

Trench mortars and heavy stuff

Trench mortars like fat cans

The barrel points straight up

And the shells go into the air

You look if they’re going

to your left or right,

But if they’re coming directly

There’s nothing to do but hope.

They whistle for a long time

That increases the agony.


Bullet travels much faster than sound,


it’s way past you by the time you hear it.

Between ours theirs lines

Between two wheels

Trench mortars against the runners

When I hear them whistling

I drop to be out of any

shrapnel or flying bits of shell.

Once the whistle is behind me

I know I’m safe.


Bullet travels much faster than sound,

it’s way past you by the time you hear it.

When I hear the whistling

the sounds reach a high point

Whistling away from me

When the whistle approaches

comes overhead

waiting is hard

waiting for it to quiet down

but it’s coming louder

and crash

and dirt.


As it’s put out here:

You’ll never hear the slug

that gets you.

This is my education

of the tenth day in the trench.


Six months

after leaving home

Five in Spain

Be of good courage

Till I hear from you.


La vista


Walking through walls

We never left the buildings and progressed entirely between their homes.

We carved several dozen routes from outside the town into its centre.

We were, all twelve of us, inside their homes, no one was in the streets,

we hardly ventured out.

We had our offices and sleeping encampments in these buildings,

even our vehicle was placed in carved out area within homes.

We studied an aerial photograph to find a wall connecting the house we were in

with the house to its south.

I took the hammer and started working, but the wall wouldn’t break.

For the first time we faced the wall that was built of concrete rather then of cinder blocks.

We detonated at least four blocks

until the hole became big enough to go through.

We sprayed on the wall:


in order to regulate the traffic and to find way back through the labyrinth

we carved out through the city.

More then half of the buildings in the Nablus had routes, from one to twelve

openings in the walls, floors or ceilings,

chaotic manoeuvre without clear direction.

Imagine it, I’m sitting in my room, which I know so well:

this is room where I play violoncello every day.

And, suddenly, that wall disappears with a deafening roar,

the room fills with dust and debris,

and through the wall pours one soldier after the other, screaming orders.

You have no idea if they’re after you, if they’re come to take over your home,

or if your house just lies on their route to somewhere else.

Imagine the horror when four, six, eight, twelve soldiers,

their faces painted black, submachine guns pointed everywhere,

antennas protruding from their backpacks, making them look like giant alien bugs,

blast their way through that wall?

Pointing to another wall now covered by a bookcase:

And, this is where they left. They blew up the wall and continued to our neighbor’s house.

What is happening with Solidarios / Mi Revalueshanary Fren

We are all terribly tired, it was a very hard day.

I would now like to summarize the conclusions.

Subject money: abolished.

Subject marriage: abolished.

Everything is free.

The subject of prison and penitentiary system: abolished

“Das Elend der Philosophie”, um das noch hinzuzufügen, expliziert in der auseinandersetzung mit Proudhons “Philosophie des Elends” die materialistisch gewendete Dialektik im Gegensatz zur idealistischen Kategoriendialektik Proudhons.

Die literaturgeschichtliche Darstellung der Probleme der Nationalökonomie von ihrer “klassischen” Begründung an, zeigt sich als Problemgeschichte der antagonistischen Gesellschaft.

The life in this society is pure boredom. No aspect of that society concerns women. The man is responsible for money, marriage and prostitution, for work and for the automatization of society. There is no human reason for money and work. For women in civil spirit, for responsible women, for adventurous women, there is nothing left but to overthrow the government, to eliminate the monetary system, to establish complete automatization.

Everyone has a possibility to freely exit FAB or to enter FAB.

Universities are accessible to everyone.

Hospitals are accessible to everyone.

All laws, decrees and orders are abolished.

Ohne der ketzerischen These von Korsch aus dem Jahre 1950, daß Marx “heute nur einer unter vielen Vorläufern, Begründern und Weiterentwicklern der sozialistischen Bewegung der Arbeiterklasse ist”, vollständig zuzustümmen, scheint uns Korsch darin ganz recht zu haben, daß die historischen Alternativen und “Weiterentwicklungen” der Marxschen Formung des Sozialismus, also die Beiträge der utopischen Sozialisten, die von Proudhon, Blanqui, Bakunin, den deutschen Revisionisten, französischen Syndikalisten und den russischen Bolschewisten…

An den die I. Internationale sprengenden Auseinandersetzungen zwischen Marx und Bakunin werden wir das später verdeutlichen.

Read on.

Murder and specially defined counter-revolution are punished by exile to BRD.

The institution of church is abolished.

All “temples” on the FAB territory are hereby ordered to become museums.

He is responsible for war. Proving the manhood costs innumerable lives, including his own. Since his own life is worth nothing, he is more inclined to disappear in explosion and glory, than to drag around for fifty years.

Councils for awakening are being formed.

Do not become enamored of power!

Yes, anarchists have always readily talked about free love. And they were Spaniards, after all, and it is ridiculous when Spaniards say something like that. That is only from the books. Spaniards have never agreed to the liberation of women. Not at all. I know them by heart.

One older comrade once told me:

“All is good with that theory of yours, but anarchy is one thing, and family the other, that’s how it is and that’s how it will be.”

I have an apron around my waist, I washed dishes and made a dinner. A friend who came tried to make a joke: “Hey, Durruti, listen, what you are doing is woman’s job.”

I told him: “Let this be an example for you. If you think that real anarchist has to sit all the time in a bar or a cafe while his wife works, that you still haven’t understood anything.”

With Buenaventura I did have more luck. He wasn’t as backward as the others. But he did know with whom he has to deal with!

What is happening with the Solidarios?

There were twelve of them:

Sunday, 16 of August

Durutti: I am a worker, just like you

when this ends, I’ll work in a factory

Is there hatred against the rich?

Even more among the poor

Won’t it be bad for the joint effort?

There will be no more inequality













That was an era of self-defense

from white terror:

One: will everyone work equally?

Who will not work will have to be forced

Who doesn’t work will not get to eat

Second: how did they live before?

Work by day and night, bad food

Children work barefoot as day laborers

A small girl age fourteen

Works as a washer for two years

Twenty pesetas for twenty year old

Two pesetas for own declassment

One doesn’t want to get separated from his friend,

The other wants to return the weapons:













If you refer to freedom,

You must have courage to say what you think,

Even if no-one will approve of it –

I don’t like war:


Revolution doesn’t bring higher consciousness,

We see how the forms of pressure develop

Opposite to the libertarian ideal of anarchists

On one side, cynicism, cruelty

On the other, brotherhood, humanism

We have military coercion, class differences

Humiliation, moral decay

I took a train to volunteer

By my free will, I have given up

It was a short summer of anarchy

Should the obligatory military service be discontinued?

Yes, it wouldn’t be bad.


Artistic carpenter




Textile worker




House painter



Little international brigade

From all the countries

It captured a fifteen-year-old boy

Who fought for the fascist

He was sent to – Durruti

He spoke to him about the advantages of anarchistic ideals

He gave him a choice: to die

Or to cross to the side of those who captured him

He gave him twenty four hours to think about it

He refused and was shot

The death of that boy kept bothering me

Although I found about it only later

Did they love him? Many say yes.

Why? There is no answer.






Day laborer







What is going on with the Solidarios?

There were twelve of them.


E ad to go


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Jus like Apartied

Soon gaan