THe Indignified Manifesto

We, the indignified, shaped by the inconsiderate and led by incomprehensible incompetents, now take our stand. We have done so much with so little for so long that we can now turn whatever we have into whatever we want. We are the people not blinded by having our head so deeply buried in someone else’s asshole that we can’t see what is right in front of our face. 

We know no national boundaries. We are not contained by our gender, race, or sexual preferences. We span the generations and have no political allegiance to brightly colored flag teams. We are not blindly devoted fans. We are not dictated to by popes, presidents, prime ministers, peckerheads, pricks, or pimple-popping priests, prophets, or potentates. We carry everything within us that we need to guide us. We don’t need you. 

We have been beaten, demeaned, spat upon, jailed, passed over, and ignored – and yet we still find ourselves standing. We bend but can never be broken. The indignities of the world, the indignities of power – have been heaped on us but we have not broken. We will not break. We are unbreakable. You cannot steal our dignity for we have none. We are, Indignified. We are rendered immortal and unbreakable by our lack of caring what you think of us. You cannot win, because we are not playing. 



The Escape Artist’s Confession

I spent a lifetime running from what I was expected to be. I was not born to be American, capitalist, or some tired worker following a script of failure handed to me at birth. I was not born to pay bills and beg for money from people who earn more from my work than they allow me to have. I was not born to build a petty fiefdom of exploitation. I was not born to be a prisoner in your shadow cell, dancing upon the walls for the amusement of those sitting around the fire. I am not your toy. I am not your plaything. I am not your employee. I am not your servant. I am not your boss, your employer, your livelihood. I am not your keeper, your tender, your dependent. I am, but I am not what you insist I become. I will not be broken.

Vagobond was my rebellion against the American Dream—a middle finger funded by freelance gigs and expired visas. Almost no one understood what it really meant. It was a question. Can I survive outside of your shit? Can I live without being a part of your societal bowel movement? 
Indignified is the answer. Shit me out and leave me behind, society. I’m happy to be free of your toxic bodily enclosure. Take my dignity, call me shit, and flush me as far away from you as I can go. Passing through the bowels into the bowl through the pipes into the sewer, and eventually to the sea. Take that dignity you try to tell me is important, you try to sell to me, and let me be free, like a turd floating in the ocean. What need have I of dignity if I am free of your gaze, free of your bodily constraints, free of your toxic nature. 
There is no dignity in shit. Yet, shit builds the world. Gives nutrients to the growing. Carries seeds to far away lands and allows them to grow. What you call shit, I call evolution. What you call dignity, I call enslavement. I’d rather be shit than gold. Gold doesn’t grow, change, or foster evolution – it just stays the same. Inert, millions of years, unchanged, shiny, soft, untarnished and unchanged. Locked in asteroids. Locked in vaults. Give me life. Messy, dirty, indignity of life. I’d rather evolve. I’d rather escape your vaults, your rules, your control systems. 

Escape is a first step – but only a step. Now I build where I land. I build on the land. I land on what I build. I burned my lifetime of journals, my résumé of important sounding jobs, every apology I ever wrote, and I am watching the American dream dissolve in an acid pool of oligarchy techsploitation. Control systems dividing up your output and giving you nothing in return. Except less control over your own existence.

What remains are seeds in the soil and the refusal to inflict the generational trauma of bullshit exploitation onto any other human. This is a Molotov cocktail loaded with flower seeds. This is a nail file hidden in a loaf of freshly made bread. This is a rebellion.
This is not a protest.
This is a workshop on bootlegging —a master class on forging exit visas from stolen time and hijacked ink. This is a goddamn revolution and if you don’t care, you are missing the point. We don’t care about your gods. We make art from your money and money from your art. Your heart on a board with a dagger through it, that’s what the system has given you. We offer more. We don’t want your heart or your dagger. We are bored with the existence offered to us. We are done being controlled.


PRINCIPLES
I. IGNORE THE MAPS AND BORDERS
Borders are spells cast to make prisons. Nationalities are control systems disguised as reward cards. Passports are receipts for stolen lives and stolen land.
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The moment I realized I could write fiction and live realities where a university campus could replace a border zone or where a man with no nation (and nothing else) could walk into a bar or join a community server and leave with an invitation to join a commune or stay for free in a city where he had never been and knew no one—was the moment I became dangerous.

Your move: Burn the atlas in your mind. Then torch the ones in drawers.
Use the ashes as compost for a community garden.

II. BUILD LIKE A FATHER, NOT A FOUNDER
I’ve created companies and a child. Only one didn’t betray me. (Hint: She’s the one who laughs.) Instead of building companies to make money, raise companies like children who you want to live in a better world. Put your energy and love into nurturing instead of extracting. Build community instead of employment. 
In Baoism, there is a saying : “God is the space between two people sharing rice.”
Every cooperative, every story, every back-alley kindness is a chapel the state can’t tax.

Your move: Plant something that outlives you.
(I recommend planting fruit trees and writing fairy tales where the dragon keeps the gold to make art with.)

III. WEAPONIZE EXILE
Otaru is my hideout. Satoshi Manor is my headquarters. The crows? My intelligence network. Find your mountain, find your cave, find your place where you can go when you are unwanted, unwelcome, or uneasy. Then turn that place into an impregnable fortress of creativity and refuge from the storms of life. Share what you learn there.

Displacement isn’t weakness—it’s a crash course in empire’s weak points.
(Data: 54 countries. 12 failed attempts at playing their game. 1 child taught to think for herself.)

Your move: Turn your survival guide into a workshop on smashing the state. Not just the country you live in, not just some nation, but smashing the control systems that have been used to put borders on your mind.

(See: The Mountain Manifesto, 2024 edition.)



TACTICS
FOR WRITERS:
Publish what power calls “unmarketable.” Sell it through encrypted donations.
Example: Rough Living: Tips and Tales of a Vagobond – now archived as a cautionary tale.
FOR PARENTS:
Teach them to fix what’s broken (bikes, systems, hearts).
Trade skills, not stocks. Leave them tools that don’t need you or your name to function.
FOR ARTISTS:
Make beauty that’s secretly a crowbar.
Hang your manifesto in their banks as “decoration.” Use it to pry open the vaults from inside.


INVITATION
This isn’t a newsletter. It’s a mutiny.
I’m drafting these words in a Japanese industrial port town where tourism is the main industry. You’re on a device that tracks you.
We’re already compromised. We might as well build in the ruins of the so-called civilization we were born into.

Take this manifesto.
Add a clause of your own.
Pass it to someone the system pretends doesn’t exist or the system exploits.

We meet at dawn in the stories we’ve left behind.

Bring:
Your contradictions and abnormalities.
A bottle of something strong enough to dissolve borders.
A skill to share (permaculture, culture-jamming, modern-day alchemy, and counterfeiting welcomed).

We have worlds to burn.
And better ones to birth.

I am Indignified,
—CD Familias
Satoshi Manor, Otaru
May 1, 2025