Looking Back (2009-19)

How to make sense of this decade?

Through films, books, music? Or life itself, which has veered in a strange direction?

a day in winter; winter in the day.

Books of the Year

Tim Ingold: Antrhopology & Education Rowan Williams: Being Human Olav Hauge: Selected poems Jenny Odell: How to Do Nothing Mounier: Personalism.
Maggie Ross: Writing the Icon of the Heart All very good but what really blew me away, moved me emotionally and not just intellectually were: Ingeborg Bachmann: Malina Denise Levertov: Evening Train.

modern life

Romania

The glory of the day carried things easily when the sun shone; but when the sun passed, things seemed abandoned, they became dissociated, and you had to find a way to take them up yourself.

--Bellow.

Are you messing with my mind?

Why, is that what you want?

The light entered the east window and briefly illuminated the whole room. Late afternoon and a crow up above. I thought of your name. Time settled, tea was poured, introductions were made. 

I set great store by words spoken. 

Why? Mine or yours?

Describe yourself in a few words, then.

I am the Tigris without a fish; a fish without the Tigris.

A bit melodramatic, even by your standards, don't you think?

How else can one answer a (drama) queen?

So, you finally recognize me as the queen?

No, a.

Was I ever really alive?

Why do you ask me, ghost? Has anyone ever told you, you ask too many questions.

I don't have time for your foolishness!

Then for what?

A barbarian at heart! 

Everyone needs their barbarians, Cav.

You know there's no end to this?

That's what I was hoping.

Can you be serious for a moment?

Yes, for a moment.

Why do you take everything literally?

But how else, then?

My mind can't take this any more!

And the rest of you?

You know, you're not funny any more. And there's not much left to say anyway. I wish you well, I do, but there are no bridges across these islands of the heart.  

{The characters in this story bear no resemblance to any person living or dead. Well, okay, maybe to someone who is dead} 

This is how it ends.

.
.
.

The Future of Capitalism?

But there's something odd about Collier's book since he doesn't talk about China, surveillance, debt or climate change. A lot of it seems to be the kind of centrist Labour rubbish of the 90s that helped neoliberalism survive. That or a mixture of nostalgia for reciprocity and 'belonging'

We need: an 'ethical state', 'ethical firms', etc. Well, okay. But a telling line: a state can only be as ethical as the society it represents. Collier is, essentially, an advocate of the status quo. As with others his main emphasis seems to be on how to save capitalism (from what? Itself?). 

Blackburn takes him apart in the NLR:

"The values that family life depends upon—obligation, trustworthiness, commitment—are precisely those that are held to be obsolete in the new capitalism, where work relations are characterized by impermanence and unpredictability; they are systematically undermined by the need for two jobs, travel, relocation."

Exceptions

When the art of perspective was rediscovered in the 14th century, multidimensionality of representation was lost, and religious art, like the doctrine that was its cultural context, ceased to have the transparency and multivalence of icons, and took on the opacity of image that arises from the illusion of control over three dimensions. 

--Maggie Ross.

'Notable exceptions..Rembrandt's..'

2010 - 2020

Dear Reader,

the other day someone asked this fascinating question: what has happened to you, what have you learned, over the last decade. I've got my own thoughts and will share them later but if any of you want to post (anonymously or otherwise), please do and I'll put the comments up here. Would be very interested to know.

~~

Solitude is like a tea ceremony, the celebration of life in all its homely movements taken out of time -- the wonder of the commonplace, the mystery of ordinary life ... Solitude is being poured-out-through. We evolve toward simplicity. We dwell in the Word.

--Maggie Ross.

Time is a river..

The world turned upside down

Things are going to slide, slide in all directions
Won't be nothing
Nothing you can measure anymore
The blizzard, the blizzard of the world
Has crossed the threshold
And it has overturned
The order of the soul

--L. Cohen.

Pollution levels here reached 700 ppm a few days ago (over a 1,000 in India). The recommended safe level is 40! Fires in Australia, California and the Amazon this year have been eye-opening (though maybe you want to close your eyes).

A strong sense that what's written can't be changed (I know people don't want to talk about religion at this late stage of the day).

There's no fooling Nature. The idea that we were in rational control is rapidly changing from being naive to laughable. All those years of 'domestication' are about to be upturned- unless there's an upturning of the social and economic model that we've stuck to for so long.

Kevin Anderson on 'carbon budgets'. Really good. If we want to have any chance of keeping within +2 C then we can only release 800 Gt of carbon (we release about 40 per year which means about 20 years left). According to the economists it's 1,600 but we're talking about what scientists say.

That means if emissions peak around now there are going to have to be some drastic reductions in emissions assuming the chances of technological fixes (NETs and geo-engineering) are pretty utopian. Zero carbon by 2050 at the global level. That means 13-20% reductions p.a. for rich countries (if China continues to grow at 5% p.a.and is reducing its emissions by about 10% p.a around 2040) so that they're fully de-carbonized by 2035-40. 

Could that happen? If there was a change in how economies are fundamentally run..perhaps. But our addiction to commodities, travel, growth doesn't show any signs of abating (a global recession might help). Also, built in: urbanization, farming, ocean acidification, destruction of the rainforests (therefore fewer 'carbon sinks'). Built in to capitalism: inequality (the richest 10% are responsible for a big chunk of emissions). But also, it's not just the number of people..it's also that as they move from one class to another their consumption patterns will change (changing the demand for food, energy, cement, for example). 

The Amazon, apparently, produces up to 22% of our oxygen. What happens if our lungs become punctured? Remember, Nobel prize-winning economists like Nordhaus think that +3.5 C is "optimal". Is life on this planet going to be sustainable at that level? That's an average figure. Which means land surface temperatures could, on average, be +4.5 C. So, that means that some places might go, for example, +6 C. Think about that for a second. What does it mean for temperatures where you live to go up by 6C (11 F)?  

Personally speaking (I don't know about you, reader(s)), we're heading for the abyss (see ya, and thanks for all the fish). New estimates that with +2 C we could see up to 300 m displaced/effected by flooding. With 3 C the previous figure had been 300 million so who knows what it would be now. what does that mean for the lives of those people? What does it mean politically? Lots of people from this region are going to be royally fucked (not to mince words). Lots of poor people are going to be.

But no, carry on having your soya latte and carry on discussing the merits of Handke, the wonders of Literature. Just please don't mind if I get off the bus at some stage. 

So now you scramble to look for protective masks for the family. This is what it's come down to. 

I've got nothing against greed and stupidity as long as it is local and in small doses. Global levels of it, though, is quite a different thing altogether. Call it want you want: the Anthropocene, the Capitalocene. I couldn't give a fig at this stage. Brace yourselves ladies, the ride has just begun.    

How to think like a human being

I've only read a few pages of one of Fanny Howe's books but I wanted to put this photo up because she's got such a gentle and sad face.

What I did want to talk about was Patricia Lockwood's devastating and acerbic critique of John Updike. Boy, does she bury him. 

Having only read (struggled through) a 100 pages of one of the Rabbit books I'm not, obviously, in any position to comment on P.L.'s brilliant take-down but a few sentences that made me think..

"Rabbit’s life, over hundreds and hundreds of pages, is a scene of sinister American superabundance, like a Walmart that sells both diapers and high-powered rifles; he glides among the people preaching the prosperity gospel of his own body. ‘What saints have to have is energy,’ .."

Okay, so what, you might ask. Another Great White Male hung out to dry. Ain't that a good thing? I think it probably is. I don't particularly see why I should have to listen to some old fogey tell me what it means to be a human being- whether white, male, great or otherwise. Sure, you can talk all you want about 'literary merit' but if the man is an arsehole and writes like an arsehole then I haven't got the time (I think I'll probably skip Handke too, on second thoughts).

Is this the destiny of most fiction? If someone writes about contemporary society then isn't it bound to come across as dated pretty soon? What sticks? Which is a slightly different question from: what sticks in your own mind? If 'Literature' is trumped as extending or deepening our moral sympathies then how does that work if you can't remember a blimmin' word of it?!

But the first question is what I'm interested in right now: are books just a higher form of entertainment and distraction in late capitalism? Do they provide us with a false sense of being educated, sensible, part of a class that can supposedly see beyond the ordinary, can read between the lines and is not, therefore, subject to the same worldly pressures and prejudices of the plebs?

What if behind all the high falutin' words literature and academia are a bit of a con and not very deep at all? What if they're something that helps reinforce the illusion that we're somehow 'civilised' even though, in our daily lives, we can't speak or think like a human being? What if, perish the thought, we're at heart sophisticated barbarians?

   

Winter:north

Winter is out for a lot this year

the beach already is stiff

all will be one will be one this year

wings and ice will be one in the world

all will be changed in the world:

the boat will hear its steps on the ice

the war will hear its war on the ice

the woman will hear her hour on the ice

the hour of birth in the ice of death

winter is out for a lot.

Out for the houses the cities

out for the forests the clouds

the mountains the valleys fear

the heart the children peace.

Winter is out for a lot this year

the hand already is stiff

the crying of children is heard in the house

one will we be one life

I hear my house slip with the world..

--I. Christensen

K-Punk

Mark Fisher's book really is very good. Must get his K-Punk.

One of the main ideas revolves on just how over-bearing and dominant capitalism is in all of its manifestations. An ideological system that pretends it is free of ideology, a culture that is anti-culture since there is only the blank slate and empty desire.."pure desire" or preferences, to use the language of the economists, cannot be opposed because it is "natural" or purely subjective-and therefore nothing to argue over. You go your way, and I go mine.

Desires are not subject to re-vision, to political deliberation or ethical reflection. Anything but an individual ordering his or her preferences is paternalistic, one step away from totalitarianism. 'Freedom to' is really 'freedom from'.

What isn't capital now?

Cultural, social, physical, natural, cognitive, human, affective, infrastructural capital. Just don't talk about capitalism. Everything must be put to work, made productive. Nothing can be allowed to rest, remain idle. Time is money. Everything has an opportunity cost or an implicit/shadow price.

Rituals and practices, formerly embedded in historical and social contexts, stood because of the way in which they helped us find meaning in our lives. Now, ripped out of those contexts they are aesthetic objects which we 'consume' as spectators.

The final victory of nominalism. All that remains are signs that don't point anywhere, the sound and the fury.

The world ended in 1970. Since then we've all been ghosts, rehashing lines and slogans from a previous age, sampling music whose styles have gone out of fashion. Nothing new can happen again. As G. Steiner said, there are no new beginnings.        

.. .. .... .. .. ..

Some white people talk a lot of shit about black music and rap and nihilism; or they want to harp on about how Dylan is deep or about how classical music is profound, the pinnacle of civilisation. 

What they never want to talk about is how soulful black music is. And that's because they've never truly understood that music isn't tribal. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ` ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ` ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ` ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ` ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ` ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ` ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ and ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ` ~ ~ ~ ~

The end of an age

crow country

As I was writing this the electricity jumped to a stop. Then it drained from the machines, a siren in reverse. Then-suddenly- the caw of a crow, cracking the silence, startled into awareness, and other birds, as if from a distant past.

Someone sent me this..I don't know the original (forgive me!) but only hear its echo rising through the descending fog.

In the silent courtyard of my home, a crow cawed
Then the sweet rain fell and I remembered you.

--Nasir Kazmi

The birds carry the memory of the stars with them in the morning light. 

Someone is sweeping the leaves in brisk, short movements of his brush. Inside, a janitor cleans the floor with his mop in wide, unnecessarily expansive sweeping movements (when you think he should follow a figure 'eight'). Perhaps his mind is wandering as he works. The movement of my own hands tentative, as the light returns and things find their shape again. My heart rests in silent forms, remembers the words not spoken.

Otto

in the forest, in the heart of the forest, so deep that you don't know if it is the heart. you see trees. today. 'the forest' is a concept. you don't live here. but you might die. maybe you already did that and are just wandering. no, not that. how do you make your way back. there is a something to go back to, you're sure. or maybe you just want to believe it so much that you can't bear the thought of it not being true. 

okay. now. what. what if there is no way. or what if there is a way but you don't know it. if someone just told you there wasn't then maybe you could sort of get by and your old face wouldn't matter. or if you god forbid. lost your memory. this isn't a question of theory. idle speculation. this is where you are, in the midst of it. some line in a book, firmly closed now..will that help. i don't know. go your own way. time. essence of. reason don't matter don't much don't expect. then. something else. auxillary. the old ways. love the only. now. where is this other room. 

your true heart.

k.

Celia says,

"I walk in a forest every day. Actually, it's only a wood. It even has a name, just to confirm: F_ Great Wood.I know its tracks and paths by heart. I shan't get lost. Because here I walk with ghosts who'll guide me back. Beneath my feet a maze of long-abandoned mineworks. Folk who died there, men and women, never got to have old faces. Being old, I think now, is an acquired skill - which I'm working on."

Love that- especially the use of the word 'shan't'. Will try and and say something about it soon.

"When we have reached the point that we no longer know where we are headed, we have gone as far as it is possible to go."

"In a stark warning over global heating, Mark Carney said the multitrillion-dollar international capital markets – where companies raise funds by selling shares and bonds to investors – are financing activities that would lift global temperatures to more than 4C above pre-industrial levels."

--The Guardian.

Those in the know, know. Handke, Trump, Brexit..all that is going to seem like peanuts pretty soon. Occupy yourself with the Kardashians or with Literature. Good luck to you. No, I mean it. 

What was that song by Lauryn Hill:

you can keep the money

you can keep the power,

I got my eye, on the Final Hour.

What did the day bring forth but an accumulation of strangeness. You read into the dark, the words barely visible in the last of the living light. You carry the book with you like a talisman. Settle on the green bench under the tree. Not much is understood but the white of the page becomes bright, clear, as the sun goes down. A gentle breeze, with something of winter, North, in it reminds you of former times, some other life you once lived..

The day spent. Few words, almost invisible, like an old man who looks back on his life, askance at the world he no longer belongs to. 

The birds in the tree above are restless but not distraught. The hour is upon them. A frenetic remembrance of home. High above them the pigeons settle on the ledges of the brick building which is otherworldly in this light. Everything is free to finds their true nature, their own version of North. Humans, even if still, are lost, bewildered.

Herr Lukas looks for the stray cats, carries two metal plates of bones and a syringe for them. 

You can’t make out the last words in the evening. Organic material falls on the open book, leaving a faint green smudge. A small red ant scrambles quickly over the cold text. Luckily it climbs my warm hand and I avoid any more smudges- which in this case would have been a single death. 

The lights come on. Orange light falls on the page and now there are shadows too next to the black ink. The light flickers or the breeze picks up a degree so that the rustling of the leaves above is mirrored on the page. My own ‘I’ is no less stable. I haven’t been reading anyway, just observing and thinking about my own life as I look into this silent mirror I’ve placed on my lap. Some of the pages are just holding together. You fear that sections might randomly come loose and then you’d have to read it closed.

winterground

S crushes some garlic in a pestle and mortar, the rhythm of her hand movements carrying something from another place, a long time ago. Awareness of mortality rises to the surface, heightened by the dim artificial lamplight that burns futilely in the morning light that moves to fill the house. Like the moon in the late morning, unreal, undecided, out of place. 

It feels like Spring. Your frame of reference is the hour-by-hour but the seasons seem out of joint. Perhaps it's only a global imbalance in the cosmos and not you.

There is a kind of silence here. Other places and times have words, sounds. 11 and the light has become more even, entering its long phase. Still, you carry within you last night's dream where you were there, though I can't recall your face. In this late stage of the day one must do without images. 'And then, face to face...'.

I note the hours by the pages turned. Time has passed without any sentences being marked by/with the lead pencil, whose blunt tip makes double lines, as if to emphasize something. There are whole stretches where nothing has happened- or, you just haven't been in tune. You've been reading the book for years, so it's almost become personal- not because anything inheres in you but simply because of the passage of time. So it is.

And the old distances remain old, even now.

The light is so frail, I'm sure I've lived through this life before.

How far away my old hearts seem. Was I ever alive?

Now it's as if my heart has moved many miles away. While I've been here all the time, South, adrift.

I've forgotten how to speak (don't flatter yourself, kid, it's a general ailment). Some words passed down, unknown. That's the way it goes. The books, words, people, and images falling back into mystery. The light is brief, carries with it its own darkness, waiting to reverse, faltering under its own weight.

What is not gathered is far more- perhaps the main thing.

Why, then, speak of your heart instead of absences if not out of an old habit? As the heart no longer nourishes the heart it hoped to nourish. As I write this clouds gather, making the letters on the keyboard hard to see. Acknowledge your own faults, mistakes.

I must have lived many days like this once, my face darkening in the backyard sun, my hands shielding me from its glare. The kitchen doors flung open, bits of broken conversation and laughter from long ago floating though the smoke while all the time you concentrated on the flowers making their way through the cement floor. Now, I grown dark, is it so very different? Except the voices have fallen away..

As winter comes on
our fate to have the colder moon born in us.

Lines from K. Irby and yourself.