Category Archives: Politics

the feared disseminators of complexity

A new discovery, made within Simon Reynolds’ response to the shuttering of Beyond the Beyond: Matti Swiedmann’s Red Velvet Corridor.

Top of the stack of posts at present is this thing, rambling around in Greil Marcus’s Lipstick Traces, Debord’s Society of the Spectacle, Baudrillard… all the intervals in that haunting earworm of a scale that I’m still teaching myself to play. I got as far as this passage before knowing I was on board:

… all this and more runs the serious risk of a common accusation, perhaps an accurate one, of pseudo-intellectualism. I’m not about to mount a defence of every pseud and poseur on the planet or pull off some kind of reversal here, but the way this accusation is levelled all too often amounts to little more than a crude, general anti-intellectualism. It’s the kind of attitude that insists you don’t use too many complicated ideas or terms lest the poor audience are left in the dark, that you must, above all, communicate with the utmost simplicity and clarity, spell it out in terms a child could understand, assume your audience might as well be children in fact. It harks back to a kind of notion of “appealing to the common man” that practically infantilizes the public, and thereby assumes that the priority, rather than perhaps surprising challenging, educating or confronting the mythical reader, is to offer them something familiar, if not comforting then firmly within known coordinates of discomfort. The anti-intellectualism contained often within the criticism for instance of “over-intellectualising” a subject like music flags us down and demands that we cease our attempts to surprise and confront; those who will not lay down arms become the pseuds of popular imagination, the feared disseminators of complexity, those who won’t respect the traditional boundary between “normal people” and worlds beyond their ken.

I guess one upside of the demise of the blog as a popular medium is that there’s space for people to write like this and leave the comments open without having to spend hours of every day wading through the moronic vitriol of replyguy chumps. Blogs may be dead media, but old infrastructures have a tendency of hanging around and being put to new uses once they become unprofitable… Reynolds’s beloved Hardcore Continuum relied upon the graveyards of British industry to be its seeding-bed, after all. It’s nice to know there’s still some of us out here, dancing in the ruins.

In search of a dialectical utopianism : Harvey (2000), Spaces of Hope

  • Harvey, D. (2000). Spaces of hope. Edinburgh: Edinburgh Uni. Press.

Focussing here, for reasons presumably obvious to long-term readers of this site, on Chapters 8 (“The spaces of Utopia”, p133-81) and 9 (“Dialectical utopianism”, p182-95) of what is now a vintage part of the David Harvey canon. Reading these pieces really brought home just how long ago the turn of the century really was, both generally and personally… and that’s particularly sobering in the context of Harvey’s topic, which is the neoliberalisation of civic space. He notes that at time of writing, it had been going on for two decades… and of course it’s gone on another two decades since then.

(Which explains my personal fury at claims that it’s “too soon” to talk about the world we want to build after this unfolding clusterfuck of a pandemic gives way to whatever comes next… people have been talking about it for decades, and have always been told it’s “too soon” to “politicise the issues”. The issues were always political, at least for those on the sharp end. Aaaaanyway.)

#

The front half of Ch. 8 takes a tour through late-Nineties Baltimore that goes a long way to explaining why The Wire was a story waiting to be told, and then pivots gradually into the historical question of the-city-as-figure, of urban imaginaries, as Harvey sets himself up for a proper workout on utopics from his classically Marxist p.o.v.:

When […] we contemplate urban futures we must always do battle with a wide range of emotive and symbolic meanings that both inform and muddle our sense of ‘the nature of our task.’ As we collectively produce our cities, we collectively produce ourselves. […] Critical reflection on our imaginaries entails, however, both confronting the hidden utopianism and resurrecting it in order to act as conscious architects of our fates rather than as ‘helpless puppets’ of the institutional and imaginative worlds we inhabit.

(p159)

Next we get a bit on More’s foundational Utopia, in which “spatial form controls temporality, an imagined geography controls the possibility of spatial change and history”. However, “[n]ot all forms of temporality are erased” by the utopian banishing of historicity. “The time of ‘eternal return’, of recurrent ritual, is preserved. […] It is the dialectic of social process which is repressed. Time’s arrow, ‘the great principle of history,’ is excluded in favour of perpetuating a happy stationary state.” More conjures a nostalgia for a past which never really was, “a hierarchical mode of social relating that is non-conflictual and harmonious. This nostalgic strain is characteristic of much utopian thinking, even that projected into the future and incorporating futuristic technologies” (p160; no kidding, Dave!)

More’s and subsequent utopias can thus “be characterised as ‘Utopias of social form’ since the temporality of the social process, the dialectics of social change—real history—are excluded, while social stability is assured by a fixed spatial form” (p160); via Marin’s reading of More, “the free play of the imagination, ‘utopics as spatial play,’ became, with More’s initiative, a fertile means to explore and express a vast range of competing ideas about social relationships, moral orderings, political-economic systems and the like” (p161). However, ‘imaginative free play’ [IFP] is of course entangled with already-existing systems of authority and restrictive governance, and the dialectic between “[IFP] and authority and control throws up serious problems,” and “[c]onfronting this relationship […] must, therefore, lie at the heart of any regenerative politics that attempts to resurrect utopian ideals” (p163). Harvey illustrates the point with Jane Jacobs, noting that her critique of modernist planning relied on its own nostalgic notion of the diverse neighbourhood, and thus “contained its own authoritarianism” (p164).

Next we discuss Marin’s notion of the ‘degenerate utopia’, of which the canonical example was Disneyland—degenerate “because it offers no critique of the existing state of affairs on the outside” (p167), a call-back to Harvey’s earlier side-eye at the emerging phenomena of gated communities and tent-pole urbanisms in Baltimore. But can utopias of spatial form ever be anything other than ultimately degenerate, he asks rhetorically? “The multiple degenerate utopias that now surround us—the shopping malls and the ‘bourgeois’ commercialised utopias of the suburbs being paradigmatic—do as much to signal the end of history as the collapose of the Berlin Wall ever did. They instantiate rather than critique the idea that ‘there is no alternative,’ save those given by the conjoining of technological fantasies, commodity culture, and endless capital accumulation” (p168).

Then some stuff about the failed idealism of The New Urbanism, which at time of writing was still a fairly new phenomenon: good intentions, and a then-novel focus on a more organic/holistic ideal for the city/region relationship. But “[t]he new urbanism connects to a facile contemporary attempt to transform large and teeming cities, seemingly so out of control, into an interlinked series of ‘urban villages’ where, it is believed, everyone can relate in a civil and urbane fashion to everyone else” (p170); this barb is all the more pointed for coming at a time when dot-com optimism was at its height, and the associated (mis)readings of McLuhan came with their own utopian vibes. Some more material about the pragmatism of New Urbanist architects and developers, and then: “In practice, most realised Utopias of spatial form have been achieved through the agency of either the state or capital accumulation, with both acting in concert being the norm” (p173); attempting to take “the outside path” tended to result in “a meltdown of [their] principles” and the reabsorption of such projects into the prevailing logic of development. (In terms of the “smart city”, that acting-in-concert of capital and the state has become pretty much de facto, as noted elsewhere—the system quickly adjusts to incorporate former lines-of-flight into the striation of space, to get a bit Deleuzian about it.)

Next section switches from the problematics of materialised utopias to the question of utopia-as-(temporal)-process—which, Harvey suggests, are plentiful, but rarely described as utopian. “Idealized versions of social processes […] usually get expressed in purely temporal terms. They are literally bound to no place whatsoever and are typically specified outside of the constraints of spatiality altogether. The qualities of space and place are totally ignored” (p174). One problem with these “placeless teleologies” is that they “have the habit of getting lost in the romanticism of endlessly open projects that never have to come to a point of closure (within space and place)” (ibid.).

Now we’re getting on to ol’ Karl, starting with his deconstruction of Adam Smith’s utopia-of-process as enshrined in The Wealth of Nations, “in which individual desires, avarice, greed, creativity, and the like could be mobilized through the hidden hand of the perfected market to the social benefit of all” (p175); there’s been a fair amount of recuperation of Smith in recent years, re-emphasising what I understand to be the moral-philosophical side of a text which was (regrettably) left to the libertarians to interpret for far too long, but I think Harvey’s point here still stands. Plus it’s all in the text itself, and Harvey provides a valuable reminder here that Marx recognised that an unregulated free-market system could only continue through draining the vitality from not just the worker but the land itself. (Cf. McKenzie Wark’s recent stuff on the metabolic rift in Marx, which comes out in e.g. Haraway and others.) Blah blah blah, twenty years of neoliberalism (at time of writing); Thatcher, Fukuyama, Gingrich as Hegelians, ho-ho-ho; emerging stigmatisation of market fundamentalism as utopianism (by John Gray, apparently, who more recently has become… well, let’s not go there); “[s]o why such tragic outcomes to such a supposedly benevolent process?” (p176-7)

Because the process has to quite literally come to ground, come to place—and “the conditions and manner of this spatial materialization have all manner of consequences” (p178); something something unevenly distributed, intensification of existing spatial inequalities, egalitarianism of free markets revealed to be no such thing in the long run.

The free market, if it is to work, requires a bundle of institutional arrangements and rules that can only be guaranteed only by something akin to state power. The freedom of the market has to be guaranteed by law, authority, force, and, in extremis, violence. Since state power is usually understood in terms of the monopoly of the forces of violence, the free market requires the state or cognate instituitions if it is to work. Free markets, in short, do not just happen. Nor or they antagonistic to state power in general, though they can, of course, be antagonistic to certain ways in which state power might be used to regulate them.

(p178)

Point being, in a mirror image of the failed materializations of the spatial utopias running into temporality, “the utopianism of process runs afoul of the spatial framings and the particularities of place construction necessary to its materialization” (p179).

So we start the final subsection of Ch. 8 by observing that “materialized utopias of the social process have to negotiate with the spatiality and the geography of place, and in so doing they also lose their ideal character, producing results which are in many instances exactly the opposite of those intended” (p180), and return to Smith-influenced free market systems, which don’t render the state hollow as often assumed, but rather deepen its control and influence over some parts of the social process which chasing it out of other more traditional (and populist) functions. All this “explains why so much of the developmental pattern in a city like Baltimore is justified by an appeal to the rhetoric of free-market competition when it in practice relies on state subsidy and monopolization” (p181), as well as why eras of successful globalisation and free trade have tended to occur in symbiosis with the hegemony of a single dominant power such as Britain or the US:

A surface veneer of competitive capitalism therefore depends on a deep substratum of coerced cooperations and collaborations to ensure a framework for the free market and open trade.

(p181)

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Now, then, Ch. 9—where we explore the challenges of building “a utopianism that is explicitly sociotemporal” (p182) as an attempt to dodge the problematics of place and process when considered in isolation: a “dialectical utopianism”, as Harvey decides to label it.

First we get a bit of jousting with thinkers who were a bit higher on the totem-pole at the time: Lefebvre “refuses to confront the underlying problem” of the spatial-material utopia, namely “that to materialise a space is to engage with closure (however temporary) which is an authoritarian act” (p183), while Foucault’s notion of the heterotopia gets a drubbing which hints at much the same lingering resentment of postmodern theory most often found on the right; the heterotopia was “[e]xtracted by his acolytes as a hidden gem within his extensive oeuvre” (a saucer of milk to the corner table, please, waiter!) and “became one means […] whereby the problem of Utopia could be resurrected and simultaneously evaded” (p183; not a reading of the heterotopia as I recognise it, certainly, but hey, Marxists gonna Marxianise amirite?). It’s not all flicking bogies at the pomos, though, as Harvey concedes that heterotopia “has the virtue of insisting upon a better understanding of the heterogeneity of space”; however (and unsurprisingly), “it gives no clue as to what a more spatiotemporal utopianism might look like” (p185), not least because that was not at all Foucault’s theoretical bag.

Next we turn again to the temporal, and a good few pages engaging with Roberto Unger, who “avoids utopianism by insisting that alternatives should emerge out of critical and practical engagements with the institutions, personal behaviours, and practices that now exist” (p186); Harvey glosses his position as the claim that “[o]nly by changing our institutional world can we change ourselves at the same time, as it is only through the desire to change ourselves that institutional change can occur” (ibid.). Unger’s approach is fundamentally abstracted from the spatial, for which Harvey partly lets him off the hook, but is less forgiving of Unger’s (poststructuralist) hesitation to identify a direction of travel; “like Lefebvre, he wants to keep choices endlessly open” (p188). This is for Harvey a limit and flaw of the anti-authoritarian left:

What the abandonment of all talk of Utopia on the left has done is to leave the question of valid and legitimate authority in abeyance (or, more exactly, to leave it to the moralisms of the conservatives—both of the neoliberal and religious variety). It has left the concept of Utopia […] as a pure signifier without any meaningful referent in the material world.

(p188-9)

Next section, and we get a passing look at utopian fictions (or rather utopias intended as fictions first and foremost): Le Guin (of course), Lessing and Piercy as well as the earlier white-guy canon of the form. No mention here of Moylan or the lineage of sf scholarship, but Harvey clearly identifies the critical utopian modality when he notes that “[s]uch novels typically recognise that societies and spatialities are shaped by continuous processes of struggle”, and that the form “lends itself […] to a much stronger sense of sociotemporal dynamics” (p189). Then a quick (and largely complementary) look at KSR’s Mars trilogy, leavened with a caution (via Levitas, of course) that utopianism cannot be left to art alone, which ends with the claim that KSR’s work “holds out the tantalising prospect of an inner connexion between actual historical-geographical transformations (understood with all the power that a properly constituted historical-geographical materialism can command) and the utopian design of an alternative spatiotemporal dynamics to that which we now experience” (p191). Amen, brother.

The penultimate section sketches Harvey’s program for grounding a utopian project “in both the present and the past”, and it’s not without interest, involving as it does a quick summary of the contradictions inherent to the free-market utopian project that took place under the USian post-ww2 hegemony—but it’s surplus to my requirements for this particular reading and glossing. The very final section contains that sobering reminder I mentioned at the top of the page:

The broad rejection of utopianism over the past two decades or should be understood as a collapse of specific utopian forms, both East and West. Communism has been broadly discredited as a utopian project and now neoliberalism is increasingly seen as a utopian project that cannot succeed.

(p195)

Published twenty years ago. Sheesh.

Should we thus abandon utopianism, asks Harvey to close, or treat it with the same cautious distrust as ol’ Karl? That’s a nope:

Utopian dreams in any case never entirely fade away […] Extracting them from the dark recesses of our minds and turning them into a political force for change may court the danger of the ultimate frustration of those desires. But better that, surely, than giving in to the degenerate utopianism of neoliberalism (and all those interests that give possibility a bad press) and living in craven and supine fear of expressing and pursuing alternative desires at all.

(p195)

To try is to invite failure, but to not try is to ensure it. Twenty years further down the neoliberal mudchute, I think that’s an argument that’s more ready to be heard than ever before.

At least I hope so.

neither unprecedented nor revolutionary / bioethics, biopower and the pandemic

OK, this is gonna be a long one. And if the C19 situation is fraught for you, then consider this a content warning—I’m going to talk about mortality and our societal attitudes to such.

I’ve been wanting to write something like this for a good few weeks, but have frankly been too much of a coward to do so. I’m only now stepping into the arena because I can follow in the footsteps of Silvia Camporesi, an bioethicist currently under lockdown with her newborn child in Northern Italy. After setting the stage in the present, Camporesi returns us to the pivotal moment of serious outbreak, and to a well-intended attempt at medico-ethical transparency which ran afoul of the polarising morality-machine of media in an age of attention economics.

The document [that the Italian College of Anaesthesia, Analgesia, Resuscitation and Intensive Care] released in early March aimed to guarantee ventilators for patients with the highest probability of therapeutic success – that is, those with the ‘highest hope of survival’. The criteria adopted were utilitarian: age and pre-existing medical conditions were factors that pushed a patient down the line.

The document provoked an uproar. The media feasted on it, spreading the panic. The situation in Italy was certainly exceptional due to the sheer number of cases presenting themselves each day. It’s likely the first time that many of these doctors, especially the younger ones, were being faced with such harrowing choices. Yet, from an ethical point of view, the document was neither unprecedented nor revolutionary.

She goes on to compare the triage process to that used in deciding how to distribute organ transplants, while pointing out a significant difference, in that folk in need of transplants can conceivably sit in a holding pattern for some time before a suitable donor is found; a C19 patient may die very fast if they can’t be given a ventilator.

But here’s the important bit:

The fact that we Italians think that these decisions are exceptional reveals the ways that our privilege has concealed the reality of finite healthcare resources. One of my bioethics students, Caitlin Gardiner, is also an Accident and Emergency (A&E) doctor in the UK. She reminded me that, in her native South Africa, such balancing acts are the norm. There, as she told me, only the tiniest fraction of patients who are ‘not too sick’ – that is, not too old, not living with HIV/AIDS, not too ill or too premature, if they’re babies – get to receive intensive care. And death from tuberculosis (another infectious respiratory disease), after being denied access to intensive care, is entirely normal. There are lessons to be learnt from the Global South, such as how to have humane but open discussions about prioritising patients. It’s best to have this kind of conversation in a non-emergency situation, when the emotions of patients, relatives and clinicians aren’t running quite so high. Arguably, we should talk not just about whom to intubate, but also about when to withdraw ventilation if a patient with a better chance of survival were to arrive. Beyond the context of a pandemic, developed countries don’t typically face these quandaries, which explains the moral distress on the COVID-19 wards in northern Italy, where doctors and nurses have been reported weeping in the hallways.

Camporesi goes on to discuss the intergenerational dimensions of the lockdown responses, whereby (to simplify a great deal) the young and less-at-risk are being cooped up and, in many cases, put in a situation where their already precarious employment circumstances are totally hosed—this being the same generation that (unavoidably) will have to pay off the debt incurred by the lockdown response in taxes and (more likely than not) endure yet more years of austerity in state provision. She also points out that the evidence that any of this will be any more effective at dealing with the virus in the long term (by comparison to, say, the Swedish approach) is extremely thin, to the point of being almost entirely based on speculative models assembled quickly for an audience of policymakers—i.e. for people whose working notion of futurity is rigidly delimited by the current electoral cycle.

For the sake of clarity, this is not to endorse the UK government’s much-discussed early-phase “herd immunity” strategy; I’m not doing that, and I’m pretty sure that Camporesi isn’t, either. (Nor is it to side with the misinformed rent-a-mobs besieging statehouses in the US—though there is perhaps at least one level on which we should sympathise with them, even while believing their actions to have been purposefully misguided by manipulative hucksters and shills.) The point is to get beyond the prevailing moral binaries and start grappling with the really tricky shit… and we can start by reiterating a crucial distinction which is getting lost in the discourse. To re-quote Camporesi again:

The fact that we […] think that these decisions are exceptional reveals the ways that our privilege has concealed the reality of finite healthcare resources.

Over the last fifty or sixty years, those of us with the privilege to be among the middle class of the Global North have grown accustomed to the idea that no one has to die before their time. That idea is illusory on two levels.

Firstly, it relies on a quantitative metric whereby the goodness of a life is measured by its length. This contradiction has its ultimate expression in the absurd and tragic immortalist aspirations of the transhumanists, and is tied up with the logic of accumulation: if capitalism is the game of seeing who gets to die with the most stuff, then the longer you’re in the game, the better chance you have of placing high on the leader-board. But the contradiction at the heart of that morality is manifest in privatised and for-profit provision of social care, an oxymoronic project in which miserable conditions for workers and inmates alike do little to disguise the extractive logic of the underlying system. The fact that it is this same for-profit system of social care where so many of the C19 deaths are concentrated is perhaps the grimmest irony I’ve ever encountered in my life so far.

The second level of illusion was pointed out by Camporesi further up. It’s never been that “no one” should die before their time, it’s that no one like us should die before their time—nice white middle-class people with money. Outside of the Global North, people die “before their time” all the fucking time—indeed, increasing numbers of them die in the course of their trying to get into the Global North. But that doesn’t merit much of a response, save either fleeting feelings of pathos which can be alleviated by charitable donations, or a more callous (but in some respects more honest) dismissal of those lives as being less deserving of duration.

It is the collision of these two illusions, and their simultaneous shattering by an Outside Context Problem which has demonstrated that a system over-optimised to the point that it has no slack is a system with no long-term resilience, that is causing the ongoing epistemic rupture. The grief over loved lives lost is real, and a significant part of the societal trauma, but there is another level of grief at play as well—namely the grieving of the shattered imaginary world in which this sort of thing wasn’t meant to be possible: the grief for deaths, but also the grief for the rediscovery of death in the abstract as an implacable and fundamentally unfair aspect of being alive. Death doesn’t care about your class, your education, about where you were born or how hard you worked. Death just ends you anyway. And our ability to assume otherwise is, to reiterate, a pretty recent (and unevenly distributed) thing, as Hugh Pennington’s memories of the all-but-forgotten flu pandemics of the late 1950s and early 1960s make clear.

I am a socialist. I believe that the entire point of a collectivised healthcare system is to minimise the inevitable suffering of our mortal existence, and to distribute what suffering cannot be done away with as fairly as possible, without regard to the privilege of circumstance. That neoliberalism has twisted that ideal into this lottery of misery is beyond tragic, and has made me very angry for a long time. The C19 situation has only amplified that anger. I am not for a moment suggesting that the UK government’s herd-immunity approach was ethically valid.

But I think it’s long overdue that the reasons for its ethical invalidity were discussed truthfully. Yes, to have followed that strategy would have resulted in far greater numbers of deaths than are even now currently occuring—but that scale of deadliness is in no small part a function of the socioeconomic structuring of UK society as currently constituted. As the experiences of Germany and other countries have shown very clearly, the rate of mortality could be much lower—and that’s nothing to do with the virus itself, but rather the systems in place to deal with such an eventuality.

And so you get the UK lockdown situation, where the vast majority of people accept the need to endure the restrictions so as to minimise the deaths and suffering that would result from a less draconian response—because contrary to the Hobbesean mythology at the heart of liberalism, people are for the most part decent and compassionate, and would hate to think that they’d caused someone else to suffer through their (in)actions. But you also get a very successful manipulation of the narrative by the government, whereby the real and genuine horror of the consequences is positioned in such a way as to obscure the cause of their scale—a cause which was always-already political.

It is entirely right, and entirely human, to grieve for the deaths and suffering of individuals who contract a symptomatic case of C19. It is also entirely right, and entirely human, to point out and decry the systematic and wilful mismanagement of the social contract that has resulted in the number of those deaths being so huge, and to question what might be the long-term consequences of the panicked yet still highly performative and politicised responses to that circumstance; it is not a question of either/or, but a question of and/also. By keeping the focus on the immediate catastrophe, those same people whose actions have made the scale of the catastrophe possible are laying a trail down which they will abscond from responsibility, not just for the catastrophe itself, but for the decades-long aftermath to follow.

(And if that sounds cynical, well, hey: I grew up in Thatcher’s Britain, and then came of age in the ideological vacuum of Blair’s. I’ve seen the successful adaptations that neoliberalism selects for, and the vast majority of the current crop—on both sides of the house—seem like some tiny Pacific island crowded with moral mutants, the halting state of a game to determine who can best compartmentalise their own humanity in order to secure and hold an abstract notion of power for its own sake. None of them ever saw a catastrophe they didn’t fancy themselves fit to manage, because you don’t even make it onto the island if you don’t turn up with that mindset already fully internalised. I know we’re supposed to hate the game rather than the player, but I’ve rather lost patience with that position of late.)

It is my hope that the C19 crisis might do something to dispel the illusion of immortality that capitalism confers upon the privileged. This is not because I somehow relish the thought of people dying, or consider it “necessary”; if you’re looking for the social Darwinists in this situation, you should be looking at the architects of the lockdown, who are quite willing to exploit our emotional response (and, it seems, doing a bang-up job of it, too) in order to get away with retaining their own grasp on power.

Rather, I hope we learn to become more accepting of the uncaring randomness of mortality for two reasons. On an individual level, I think it might serve to make us more appreciative of the time we get—and in a world where pandemics like this are likely to be an increasingly regular event, staged against the unfolding deep-time catastrophe of as-yet all-but-unadressed climate change, we’re going to need that ability to live for the moment.

But on the societal level, I believe that we need to get reacquainted with the randomness of mortality because it serves to remind us that, whether within privileged societies or more globally, the current distribution of death and suffering—and indeed of risk more generally—is mapped by class and race and gender.

We cannot defeat death. But we can seek to distribute it without making tacit decisions about who is more deserving of life—and the first step to doing that is accepting that we cannot expect to be kept alive forever, and that the quality of the time we get matters more than the quantity.

I don’t want older people to die in lonely agony for the sake of corporate profits and political advantage. Nor do I want younger people to live straitened lives of penury and panoptic sousveillance against a backdrop of ecological collapse.

Morality is easy. Ethics is hard.

synthesis is an ever-complicating process

Here’s a gloriously rambling thing from Matt Colquhoun that starts off talking about dialectics. Hence my choice of title—I’m currently undergoing a sort of dialectics of my understanding of dialectics (if that’s not too pompously meta a way of putting it), and I keep getting sychronicitous little gifts of other people’s thought, like this one, that arrive just at the right moment to prod me along.

The piece wanders around to Colquhoun talking about what his new book was (in part) an attempt to do, where this bit leapt out at me:

A death is one of those moments — if not the only true moment — where a person’s thought really starts to come apart from within. Without a self to maintain the boundaries, all sorts of things start flying out of it. And what we see emerging on the left, when faced with Mark’s posthumously rendered thought in particular, is either an attempt to cancel Mark outright or instead just a sheering off of his work’s unattractive bits. Either Mark doesn’t deserve any attention whatsoever because he wrote an essay like “Exiting the Vampire Castle” or we shouldn’t talk about that essay and just focus on the nice bits about party political organising.

Mark was so much more than either of those things. And this isn’t just because Mark was some great and complex thinker but because he was human. This kind of complexity is present within everyone. But today we live in a culture that rejects this absolutely, on the most mundane level which, I think, is the most damaging. Like, most will reject an argument like this with alarmist examples like the fact someone can be a member of the communist party and they can also be an abuser. That’s a alarmist contradiction of a certain type and one that must be cut out without a second thought. Of course I agree that abusers and bullies are really bad, and I have no interest in affirming their existence, and I’d be quite content bullying them out of the things I hold dear, but today we find people can be excommunicated for having far less troublesome contradictory thoughts than these. You can find yourself socially shadowbanned for simply not following The Narrative, and the people who will deplore this kind of whingeing the most are, of course, those involve in the sorts of institutions that maintain the narrative, whatever it may be.

I hadn’t read the infamous Vampire Castle piece before I bailed on social media, but when I finally did read it, I recognised in it not so much my own experience but the fears and anxieties that had been building up in me for some time before. Perhaps it’s indicative of a particular twisted form of narcissism (or, indeed, of the acute case of mental dysfunction I was going through), but at the time I was less worried about by being censured for broaching The Narrative than I was of finding myself pinned into a caricature of my own ideas. It took a while to realise that those are two sides of the same coin, and furthermore that the phenomenon is ubiquitous, albeit variable in degree depending on where you’re looking.

(And now I’m intrigued by the possibility that I preemptively shadowbanned myself, on the basis of an emotional calculus whereby it’s somehow less painful to exile yourself than to face the possibility, however marginal, of being exiled.)

It’s an indication of just how persistent and wide-reaching the issue is that—even now, even here, on this all-but-unread blog—I feel the need to caveat that point with a statement to the effect that “of course I’m not saying that Twitter is the problem, or that I have all the answers, or…”. So perhaps my synthetic path is to henceforth abjure further such abjurations in my work and in myself… which is easier said than done, given the extent to which those anxieties are a core feature of my psyche, and have been for as long as I can recall.

But nothing worth doing is ever easy, is it?

amphibiosis / the war against viruses will not take place

A fairly Harawayian staying-with-the-trouble perspective on the politics of this pandemic and all the other pandemics yet to come, from Charlotte Brives:

It is not against viruses that we should be waging a war, but against the political and economic systems which, far from being conceived as protection against the precarity (this itself being variable!) of human and non-human lives, use it and accentuate it because it is inherent and indispensable to the domination of neoliberalism and its way of operating. But these systems accelerate both the production of pathogenic agents, thanks to the industrialisation of farming and agriculture, and their dissemination, thanks to highly intensified exchanges within the general interconnectedness of spaces. Systemic standardization is incompatible with amphibiosis – with the amphibiotic condition of living beings.

[…]

If there is any meaning to the idea of political ecology, it’s about seizing on the diversity of the common futures of humans and the multiplicity of other living entities, in order to establish other conceptions of living environments long devastated by current economic systems. This will require using whatever administrative means necessary to act against the harmful effects of industry and mad financial logic, for example, and in favour of restoring adept public health services (with the budget and tax implications that entails). Our futures, which we necessarily share with others (human and non-human), depend on it. Because the next virus will be different. And our response to its emergence needs to be different as well.