While I was in Hebden Bridge, I looked out of the window of a coffee shop one Friday at lunchtime, and saw a small crowd of schoolchildren on a climate protest. Sensitized by being in England, it dawned on me that what I was seeing was a rebellion of the natives against the colonizers – the inhabitants of the future marshaling resistance to the colonizing present and to the extraction of the resources that they will need to thrive.
The response of colonizing powers to uprisings has been chillingly consistent. […] It’s hard to stay optimistic when the worst of history is repeating itself, and writing a thousand words about colonial atrocities isn’t exactly helping. I want to be able to say with total confidence that we’re not going to open fire on anyone’s children for standing up against us and demanding a better world, but it’s really, really hard.
The notion that the present is colonising — or, in economic terms, externalising — the future is a powerful, if distinctly bleak metaphor. But I think it also contains some cause for hope regarding the ultimate result of this struggle, provided we lean into the metaphor a little further.
If the future stands for the colonised territories, then the past stands for the colonial core, the base of power from which the colonial project is directed and sustained as both project and narrative, through and into the present.
And we are currently seeing a substantive and drastic remapping of the past, a new narrative being pieced together by ever more subaltern voices: the enslaved, the oppressed, the exploited, slowly and painfully dragging into the light the stories of their subjection.
Empires collapse from the center outward. As the hold of capital and whiteness (which are effectively synonyms) over the past is loosened, its ideological supply-lines and recruitment strategies are thus broken and undermined. This would seem a good explanation for the recent surge in overt attempts to reassert this narrative, which previously had relied upon euphemism, effacement, and a veneer of scientism. The old metanarrative is breaking down, and we are living through the ever-more-desperate attempts of its primary benefactors to shore it up.
The hazard of collapse is the absence of a new narrative to take over from the old one. Deb goes on to say that:
… there absolutely is a path through to a better future for everyone, one that’s sustainable and resilient and equitable. But we have to learn to see it, to stay focused on it, and to follow it down. That’s the work.
That IS the work. It is all of our work — not just to tear down, but to replace. This holds true for physical systems as well as social ones — which, as I hope you know by now, are so entangled as to be inseparable.
Network is a verb. A network is a becoming, a thing that happens — a performance taking place upon and across a physical substrate. The engineering of the latter is part of the poetry of the former, and vice versa.
I bought the K-Punk collected works of Mark Fisher late last year, and have slowly been working my way through it, going through phases of reading a few pieces a night before bed when I haven’t been reading fiction. I think I’m maybe ¾ through the thing now, factoring in for the notes and references; it’s a huge breezeblock of a book, the sort of thing that makes a Neal Stephenson novel look like a pamphlet by comparison.
Aside from the actual content of the pieces themselves, which are almost invariably stimulating, the book as a whole has a vibe to it, which one must assume is driven in some part by my knowing its provenance. One aspect of the vibe is a sense in which it shames me: Fisher was an incisive thinker and an astonishingly productive writer, and this book represents merely a selection of his non-professional extra-curricular writings, much of it produced while he was struggling to support a young family as a casualised lecturer in a minor FE college. I look at the quantity and the quality and the continuity of it, and I look at my own output in recent years, and I wonder what the hell my excuse is, when this guy was cranking it out relentlessly, building up a body of thought, an edifice of theory and observation and insight. His elevation to a sort of secular sainthood since his suicide is thus as understandable as it’s unsettling. I find the constellation-face image that they used for the cover tasteless and mawkish, almost exploitative. I wonder if he wouldn’t have found it contemptible himself, even as I wish he were still around to have an opinion on it.
(I should note here
that although I know that I read a few K-Punk pieces on the blog
circuit “back in the day”, having recognised a few of them in the
course of reading this book, I was not a regular reader of Fisher,
and had only become aware of him as a significant figure around 2014
or so, probably due to his reinvigoration of the notion of
hauntology, which was – and still is – very influential among a
lot of people I still follow and read today.)
The other aspect of the vibe of the book is what I’m calling a “contact low”. It’s probably exacerbated by the curation of the collection, and also by the fact that I’m deep into the specifically political-theoretical section of the book at this point, but the exhaustion and enervation of the man just pours off the page, like writing had become a habitual method of exorcism for channeling away some of his fury and frustration at the circumstances. He looked deeply and critically into the abyss, but he was always looking for lights in its darkness, and I think that’s where my contact low is coming from at the moment: reading his posts about the student uprisings of 2010, the riots of 2011, reading his hopes that they marked a turning point, or at least the first hints of a turn, away from the relentlessly festering mulch of capitalist realism – hopes I shared at the time, though I couldn’t have expressed them in the same terms, or with the same incisive clarity. And I think of all that’s happened since, and how I struggled with it, likewise looking for any light in the darkness… and rather than a turn to the left, we ended up with fucking Brexit. In the absence of any personal connection to him, it would be reductive and crass to assume that it was some sort of final straw for Fisher, but I remember clearly my own experience of the first few months after the referendum, and to call it a massive psychic trauma would not be to understate things at all. I was all out of hope; I guess that maybe he was, too.
Three years later, here we are, staggering into what we must presume is the third and final act of this surreal piece of political theatre, with all the themes and major characters having clarified themselves down to caricatures of the grotesques that they began as, but still no sense of how the thing might end, or if indeed there will ever be any resolution to this seemingly hopeless shit-show of a situation. I’ve been struggling psychologically this last couple of weeks, after a nine-month period of mental stability and relative contentment that’s almost without precedent in my life to date, and which presumably has a very great deal to do with finally having a decent income that results from doing work I actually believe in, among other factors. Indeed, my life is better than it ever has been, in almost every respect; I am both privileged and fortunate, though I decline to downplay the role of hustle and effort on my part in getting me here. We’re all running hard in this Red Queen’s Race; I was lucky to have people around who picked me up when I tripped and fell. Would that everyone was so fortunate.
I’m not blaming Fisher’s writing for my little turn to the bleak, to be clear – but I think it’s surely in the mix, alongside a weird viral lurgy I picked up a few weeks back, the dismal dynamics of this week’s weather, and the reactionary carnival freak-show of the Tory party trying to determine who among them can best rally their dementia-adjacent membership of 1950s cosplayers and authority-fetishists. It’s OK to be low from time to time, particularly when there’s so many things to feel low about. We are victims of the privatisation of stress; the tragic gift of Fisher’s work was to identify, describe and give a name to the thing that destroyed him, in order that we might eventually destroy it in return.
There are reasons to be hopeful, if not optimistic, about the bigger picture; you just have to look away from the big-top clown-show to see them, and then you have to write and talk about them, because hope is a flame, and if you blow on it enough, it might start to catch. I’m wary of making promises to myself, or to the imagined public that is whatever audience remains for this here blog – but I also want to try to alchemise my experience of the times we’re living through in the way that Fisher did, to turn the shit into gold. I think it will help me to stay upright if I document my hopes and fears, and I hope it might be helpful to others as well.
There IS an
alternative. There are many alternatives, and we can explore them.
But I think one of Fisher’s most crucial, if under-discussed points, was that we can’t explore them alone.
So it’s time to step outside again and find the others, and to begin the work, despite the terrible weather.
“The work is never finished. The work will never be finished. There will never be a nice, comfortable utopia where we can rest on our laurels and sip strawberry daiquiris by the pool and trust that now things are Fine and we can all relax. Utopia is not a stable system. It doesn’t last. The best we can hope for is five minutes, an hour.”
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