tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-40747195666513970002024-03-06T00:28:01.115-08:00POST-CRISIS POETICSBrian Anghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03733133032013585813noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4074719566651397000.post-78960424359435810022017-04-26T11:33:00.000-07:002017-04-26T11:33:09.206-07:00Post-Crisis PoeticsThis series began from the “desire for a poetics adequate to the present, the world since the 2008 economic crisis” (“<a href="https://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2016/04/brian-ang-post-crisis-poetics.html">Post-Crisis Poetics</a>”). To continue constructing a network of practices and encourage discussion, that essay closed with an invitation for views of what writing can contribute to further investigating the post-crisis present.<br />
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<a href="https://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/brian-ang-writing-world-system.html">Brian Ang, Writing the World-System</a> <a href="https://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/olive-blackburn-summer-of-1934-art-and.html">Olive Blackburn, The Summer of 1934: Art and Struggle in San Francisco</a> <a href="https://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/dereck-clemons-in-american-sci-fi.html">Dereck Clemons, In American Sci Fi Magazines</a> <a href="https://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/alex-cruse-body-negative.html">alex cruse, BODY NEGATIVE</a> <a href="https://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html">Jeff Derksen, The Militant Word</a> <a href="https://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/helen-dimos-three-poems.html">Helen Dimos</a> <a href="https://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/tongo-eisen-martin-i-do-not-know.html">Tongo Eisen-Martin, I Do Not Know the Spelling of Money</a> <a href="https://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/rob-halpern-wound-camp-or-visceral.html">Rob Halpern, THE WOUND & THE CAMP, or VISCERAL SOLIDARITY: Some Notes toward a Radical Queer Poetics</a> <a href="https://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/roberto-harrison-tecumseh-republic.html">Roberto Harrison, tecumseh republic</a> <a href="https://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/carrie-hunter-post-crisis-poetics.html">Carrie Hunter, Post-Crisis Poetics</a> <a href="https://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/brenda-iijima-s-cop-e-computational.html">Brenda Iijima, S + COP – E = Computational Topographical Fur</a> <a href="https://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/josef-kaplan-friends-forever.html">Josef Kaplan, Friends Forever</a> <a href="https://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/nicholas-komodore-lipos-polis-towards.html">Nicholas Komodore, Lipos-polis (towards Amphi-polis)</a> <a href="https://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/michael-leong-towards-disorientalist.html">Michael Leong, Towards a Disorientalist Poetics</a> <a href="https://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/trisha-low-from-socialist-realism.html">Trisha Low, from Socialist Realism</a> <a href="https://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/tc-marshall-secret-agent-spaceman.html">T.C. Marshall, A Secret Agent, a Spaceman, & a Talking Bear: A Theory of Doubling the Stakes in Poetry</a> <a href="https://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/chris-nealon-matter-of-capital-in-2016.html">Chris Nealon, The Matter of Capital in 2016</a> <a href="https://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/robert-andrew-perez-on-productive.html">Robert Andrew Perez, On Productive Ambivalence, Or Liminality, Or 27 Notes on Butch Kween Poetics</a> <a href="https://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/mg-roberts-zeppelin-blossom.html">Mg Roberts, a zeppelin, a blossom</a> <a href="https://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/oki-sogumi.html">Oki Sogumi</a> <a href="https://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/christine-stewart.html">Christine Stewart</a> <a href="https://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/cruel-work-chris-chen-interviews-wendy.html">Cruel Work: Chris Chen Interviews Wendy Trevino</a> <a href="https://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/cassandra-troyan-from-postscript-for.html">Cassandra Troyan, from POSTSCRIPT FOR A FUTURE’S PAST</a> <a href="https://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeanine-onori-webb-stars-seeds-swarms.html">Jeanine Onori Webb, Stars, Seeds, Swarms: on the present and future of border-area action collectives</a> <a href="https://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/steven-zultanski.html">Steven Zultanski</a>Brian Anghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03733133032013585813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4074719566651397000.post-50766768700628818122017-04-25T11:00:00.000-07:002017-04-25T11:00:26.498-07:00Steven ZultanskiI’m not 100% sure what you mean by “post-crisis poetics,” but that’s probably because you don’t intend it to have a single reference; I imagine it’s meant to be a suggestively open term designating a general condition (crisis) and a particular stance (anti-capitalist).<br />
<br />
Personally, I understand the crisis in question as a series of multiple, overlapping, and illusorily permanent crises: the economic crisis (at a macro level the ongoing crisis of the global factory system and mass exploitation, and at a micro level the shocks of financial crises and the profits made off their management), the crisis of patriarchy, the crisis of white supremacy, the crisis of ecological damage and the extinction of species.<br />
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That’s to say that I understand your term, “post-crisis poetics,” to suggest a condition under which poetry is written—the condition of overlapping crises—rather than an aesthetics or methodology of rendering crisis.<br />
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Most of the poetry I read seems to address, represent, or politicize some aspects of this condition. Contemporary poetry is certainly not oblivious to or disinterested in crisis.<br />
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I don’t think there’s one way to approach this topic, or a special way, either as a poet or a critic. That doesn’t mean that aesthetics are meaningless, and that questions of form and style are subsumed by the sheer enormity of the crises. It just means that there’s a lot of different ways to figure various crisis-points, resistances, and tangents. Crises are deep and varied, and their effects are inscribed in a wide array of literature.<br />
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Maybe this argument for plurality seems fluffy.<br />
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That’s ok.<br />
<br />
It is fluffy.<br />
<br />
I like fluffy.<br />
<br />
And I worry that a fascination with “crisis,” as such, as an idea, is a means of slipping back into a universalizing discourse at a moment when universalizing discourses are suspect. In other words: no one today would theorize a universal subject or a universal structure; instead, certain theorists hold up crisis as a universal condition, as a way of reestablishing a sense of critical omniscience.<br />
<br />
That’s bad.<br />
<br />
Of course crises are real, and urgent.<br />
<br />
But they aren’t universalizable.<br />
<br />
And there’s no poetics (or set of related poetics) with a privileged relationship to crisis or to politics.<br />
<br />
And so a certain fluffiness seems appropriate.<br />
<br />
The problem is that I’m not being fluffy enough.<br />
<br />
Next time I’ll be fluffier, I promise.Brian Anghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03733133032013585813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4074719566651397000.post-27407551337707273382017-04-24T18:31:00.000-07:002017-04-26T11:55:16.928-07:00Jeanine Onori Webb, Stars, Seeds, Swarms: on the present and future of border-area action collectives<div class="tr_bq">
“Nos querían enterrar, pero que no sabían que estábamos semillas”</div>
[They tried to bury us but they didn’t know we were seeds]<br />
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— popular slogan of resistance after Ayotzinapa</div>
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“the state’s actions often regulate bodies, in ways both great and small, by enmeshing them within norms and expectations that determine what kinds of lives are deemed livable or useful and by shutting down the spaces of possibility and imaginative transformation where people’s lives begin to exceed and expand and escape the state’s uses for them.”<br />
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— Susan Stryker, <i>Transgender History</i></div>
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The power of resistance comes in unexpected ways. Resistance is not only the power to continuously confront. Resistance is also the power to elude, rebound, resound post-crisis. Resistance can be power which lives deep in the earth, underground, only to reemerge as green resilience after adversity and after life-giving rain. Resistance is the collective power that fights and stands and speaks truth and mourns and loves and welcomes and creates and yowls again after being beaten, raided, erased, singled out, silenced. Bodies that resist (materially, interpretively, categorically) evade, exceed and expand beyond and escape the state’s uses for them.<br />
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The time of resistance social movements from the 2009 California student occupation movements to the nationwide Occupy movement, from global occupation movements and global revolutions of the Arab Spring until the backlash and repressions of these movements from 2011-2012 is a time which has been called the Movement of the Squares for its focus on encampments and the space-taking of centers of cities and institutions: public squares, foreclosed housing developments, banks. In 2011, I wrote some about Occupy San Diego and the global implications of the Movements of the Squares <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/harriet/2012/04/our-occupations-after-the-occupations-jeanine-webb/">here</a>. Since this time, as occupation tactics have continued successfully on smaller scales to hold and preserve and reclaim autonomous spaces, much resistance has intentionally become less centered on encampments in public squares, but instead concentrated on the often more dispersed shutdown of capital flows and of racist structures of power: blockades and takeovers of freeways, airports, public transportation and roads, shipping and port shutdowns, strike actions, border takeovers, the takeovers and defense of entire cities and communities and regions by the oppressed, especially by people of color and by indigenous movements (see Ferguson and Black Lives Matter, direct actions in Detroit or the indigenous protectors who stand and hold indigenous landspace in encampments against the Dakota Access Pipeline) and the building of collective mutual aid networks to accompany these powerful direct actions.<br />
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If the time of previous mass social movements was the time of the Movement of the Squares, and centered, in the U.S., on a powerfully simple popular metaphor of class analysis (“we are the 99%” and its complementary corollary from the 2009 University of California student occupation movements, “we are the crisis”), we are now in the time of decentered, diasporic collective forms which emphasize the intersectionality of shared oppressions to oppose racism, fascism, sexism, xenophobia, ableism and policies and structures of the state which enforce these oppressions. These emergent collective forms take as their metaphors distributed forms of resistance collectively and communally. Right now, I’m particularly interested in the burgeoning influx of non-hierarchical action collective forms in San Diego and Tijuana as oppositions to a top-down hetero-patriarchal hierarchical society—the uses of reemergent poetic metaphors of resistance: the rhizome, the network, the constellation: the stars, the seeds, the swarm.<br />
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<b>Counter-Crisis Resistances: Seeds</b><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="302" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/2Xjkdn5zwnT5E393nJjTQKSXKvJXpOfA1GeNxWJPepmJUqC-7zDqDujq-23nmhFoA0PInF-WFeAlClFU8sCfmlS8bt9mwirBZs4N_Vpm5LX45AHbLG76eNSnxLW_dFC7TGOA8tdn2mg5wFq9tg" style="border: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; transform: rotate(0rad);" width="560" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-cc97d896-9e33-fac5-83b2-e3c73241ad41"><span style="font-family: "garamond"; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: small;">Candles light up a collective gathering in the Zócalo, Mexico City, October 2014, as part of youth rebellion post-Ayotzinapa, spelling out “FUE EL ESTADO” (it was the State)</span></span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
But hold up for a minute. This account of the repression of the global Movement of the Squares creating new, dispersed forms of resistance to state violence and control from 2012-present is missing at least one crucial connection. We must also consider the evolution of resistance tactics in the Mexican Spring and how resistance in Latin America from 2012-present—particularly the ways in which indigenous movements in Latin America and resistance to Ayotzinapa’s “crisis of violence” (to borrow a phrase in a letter to me from Tijuana poet Jhonnatan Curiel) and to the Mexican state from 2014-present—has profoundly influenced the evolution of these emergent dispersed forms of resistance.<br />
<br />
Jael Vizcarra, writing of the 2014 Southern California series of freeway takeovers in her article “Freeway Takeovers: The Reemergence of the Collective Through Urban Disruption,” (with contributions from collaborator Troy Araiza Kokinis) explicitly connects SoCal freeway takeovers in the wake of Ferguson and the police murder of members of working-class communities of color (see also in San Diego Victor Ortega, Alfred Olango) to a contemporary history of indigenous movements and post-Ayotzinapa resistance tactics, <a href="https://tropicsofmeta.wordpress.com/2014/12/05/freeway-takeovers-the-reemergence-of-the-collective-through-urban-disruption/">arguing that these tactics are interconnected with migrant populations</a>:<br />
<blockquote>
All the freeway takeovers discussed have in common the following feature: they are popular acts that insist on reformulating a critique in a collective manner that seeks to bring attention to the historical and structural roots of the social ailments they address.</blockquote>
<blockquote>
California protesters are not the first to target freeways as protest spaces. In fact, freeway takeovers are extremely common in Latin America. In September 2014, Yaqui Indians in Vicam, Sonora blocked Mexican Federal Highway 15 for multiple weeks in protest of toxins dumped in their water supply. Moreover, parents and students have used freeway takeovers to protest the murder of the 43 students in Ayotzinapa, Mexico by the state and paramilitary forces. The frequent use of this tactic throughout Latin America at least serves as an inspiration for this recent trend in California. The tactic is extremely familiar to the many migrants who come from rural regions of Mexico and Central America. After all, contemporary migration from Mexico and Central America is largely facilitated by the displacement [of] rural peoples whose fates have been intertwined with the expansion of NAFTA and transportation of goods along highway systems. The use of this tactic by heterogeneous working class communities of color may even reflect a broader cultural contribution of the migrant population.</blockquote>
In addition, Vizcarra points out that “in SoCal, protesters have been using the freeways as a vehicle for protest and political awareness for decades.” She argues that this tactic is part of a broader history of resistance to gentrification in racialized neighborhoods like San Diego’s Barrio Logan and East LA, and is vitally intertwined with poetic and artistic forms of resistance such as East LA’s ASCO, a radical Chicano art collective active in the 1970s. A freeway takeover might be considered a use of the swarm as tactic. Media has often described these tactics in these terms: “Protests have swarmed bridges, highways, and city streets. Temporary die-ins and walkouts have interrupted <a href="https://rightsanddissent.org/news/innovative-protest-tactics-disrupt-nyc/">business as usual...</a>” And legal defense organizations such as <a href="https://www.enjambre.net/en/">Enjambre Digital</a> [Digital Swarm] have emerged post-Ayotzinapa in response to the arrests of students and the attempted silencing of activists in Mexico. Finally, 2016 Anti-Trump and anti-fascist protests across the University of California system have frequently been described using fear-shot language against the swarm by the U.S. mass media. For example, in this article in <a href="https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/grade-point/wp/2016/11/09/mobs-of-tearful-angry-students-protesting-trump-victory-swarm-campuses/?utm_term=.ef3703e7c37f"><i>The Washington Post</i></a>: “Mobs of tearful, angry students protesting Trump victory swarm college campuses.”<br />
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As a response to this series’s theme of “Post-Crisis Poetics” I am thinking about the ways in which recent poetics and activism in Southern California border regions, in Latin America and the Global South more broadly replace a focus on post-financial crisis poetics with a focus on how to formulate a poetic response equal to permanent crisis as manufactured by capital, market reproduction and state violence. With the help of Vizcarra’s article which connects Southern California art collectives and the murder of 43 Guerrero Rural Teachers’ College students at Ayotzinapa in 2014 to the 2014 freeway takeovers, I want to consider some additional poetic reactions to this state of permanent crisis in relation to trauma, mourning and social movements in contemporary poetics. Tijuana-San Diego border-area poetics and social movements must be understood in the context of cartel and police violence, the disappearance and murder of 43 students at Ayotzinapa and poetic responses of Mexican and U.S. border poets to these traumatic crises of disappearance and to the surrounding associated insurrectionary direct action.<br />
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So why have the tactical metaphors of stars, seeds, swarms emerged as a “post-crisis poetics” in the San Diego-Tijuana border region and beyond in the time following the global Movement of the Squares as a response to an enforced state of permanent crisis? By tactical metaphors I am referring to metaphors that have been used by action collectives in the region as part of their public relations of resistance and as part of the formation of collective identities in struggle which inform material tactics (see also Jeff Conant’s <i>A Poetics of Resistance: The Revolutionary Public Relations of the Zapatista Insurgency</i> for poetics as one component of resistance). By “tactical metaphors” I am speaking of a formulation that would encompass not only the disruptive “wired” media tactics that Rita Raley describes in <i>Tactical Media</i>, but also all metaphors which inform and inspire and accompany forms of on-the-ground embodied direct actions and organizing tactics: strikes, blockades, divestments, takeovers, mutual aid actions.<br />
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<b>Review/Backtrack: Post Financial Crisis Poetics and Mexican Resistance 2012-2014</b><br />
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In order to understand the crucial importance of the Mexican Spring to current post-crisis poetics and to the present, we must go back in time, and review the progression of the largely youth uprising. Because it has become clear to me that many otherwise-informed intellectuals and radicals in the U.S. aren’t aware of the history and the material context of the Mexican Spring, or how poetry and poetics figures prominently in the larger Mexican resistance that resulted, perhaps because of the language barrier, the quick succession of events, the lack of good U.S. media coverage during the uprisings, or because of Mexican state media censorship, let’s review. Like all histories, this will be incomplete and imperfect. In May 2012, in the run-up to the Mexican Presidential election, then-candidate Enrique Peña Nieto, former Governor, was on the campaign trail across Mexico. The name of Yo Soy 132 was initially a response to an attempted smear campaign against the students who protested Peña Nieto’s speech at Iberoamericano University in Mexico City, a prestigious private school. These students were opposing Peña Nieto’s role in the State’s response to Atenco (2006), an indigenous uprising of poor farmers and florists which Mexican police repressed with murder and rape and widespread detention, at a time when Peña Nieto was Governor of the state. Many expected that the largely bourgeois and wealthy student body of the elite private college would support Nieto; instead, the students, shouting “Coward!” and “Assassin!” basically chased the candidate Peña Nieto and his entourage off the campus after the speech, surprising many. After the protest of Nieto’s speech on the campus, an Ibero Professor claimed on the PRI-sponsored radio [PRI being the party of the dominant State, which still controls much of Mexican media] that the IAU demonstrators weren’t students but hired and paid to protest.<br />
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In response to the false accusations—a rhetorical tactic which will be familiar to anyone who has seen the “outside agitator” argument mobilized over and over in response to student protest of all types—the 131 students organized to make public photos of their school IDs in solidarity, creating a public website and a public campus response to correct the accusations. Their bravery and their faces as real young people can still be witnessed <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P7XbocXsFkI">here</a>. Over a million viewed their video. #YoSoy132 “I am [the] 132nd”—a conjunction or unity expression similar to the solidarity expression “I am/We are the 99%/we are the crisis” of U.S. Occupy movements repressed on a mass scale shortly before this time, and similar to expressions of Athens and Barcelona as well—became a rallying cry globally as the students demanded a new media, against the corruption and lies of state spectacle and state violence. But this initial protest in 2012 in Mexico, and its initial spread to other private universities, such as Instituto Tecnológico Autónomo de México, ITAM, was to prove just the beginning of what very quickly evolved to become a much larger social movement involving scores of students in the public universities as well, and far beyond the universities, a popular uprising initially seeded in student action.<br />
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Enter: poets. Just about a week and a half after Peña Nieto is run off the Ibero campus, 20,000 people, inspired by the demands of YoSoy132, march in Mexico City against Peña Nieto and the PRI, demanding an end to state media corruption and spectacle, many also demanding direct democracy, the end of media censorship, the end of capitalism and class inequity. Students chanted “¡chinga la burguesía!” [fuck the bourgeoisie!] and “¡Si hay imposición, habrá revolución!” [if there is imposition, there will be revolution!] and the tongue-in-cheek chant (a reference to The Revolution Will Not Be Televised?) “¡Esto sí es noticia, que salga en televisa!” [Here’s the news, get it on TV!]. Like “anti-Trump” marches in the U.S. at the present time, these marches are referred to as “anti-EPN[Enrique Peña Nieto].” The poet Javier Sicilia marches alongside public university students of UNAM (National Autonomous University of Mexico), and other public Universities, in memory of his son who was assassinated in March of 2011, expressing beautiful intergenerational, antihierarchical, non-patronizing solidarity with the youth involved in the post-financial crisis student movements: “‘We are at a historical breaking point, a crisis of the world’s civilization. We are coming through the cracks in the state and the crumbling economy to build something new.’ The poet expressed his excitement, ‘They are the ones fighting for the present...They are not minors. They are our elders fighting for what we took from them, their present. It’s a marvelous lesson and we are here to support them.’” As with Occupy in the U.S., the Arab Spring beginning in North Africa, and global anti-austerity movements overall—the Movement of the Squares—the Mexican Spring was leaderless and anti-partisan in its character and ethos: “‘We are party-less. We are not favoring any political party or candidate and we want the media to open up, to stop lying,’ <a href="https://wagingnonviolence.org/feature/a-mexican-spring-begins-to-blossom/">said a student</a> at Universidad Nacional Autónoma de México (UNAM).”<br />
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As gathered public university UNAM students occupied Mexican television station headquarters, smashing televisions, the young UNAM poet Sandino Bucio recited a poem/communiqué against state-manipulation and ownership of media. As we will see, later abductions of poets by police in Mexico, including Bucio, and the abductions and murder of students at Ayotzinapa were to create an environment which vitally and <i>critically</i> informs current transborder collectives’s work. Here I include a small part of Sandino Bucio’s poem/communiqué read during Mexican students’s television station takeover/occupation of pro-PRI TV Azteca and mass media company Televisia in opposition to state media corruption and spectacle during the farcical “election.”<br />
<blockquote>
We want a television with skateboards, lizards, arcades.[...]with rhymes, discoveries, the<br />
fantastic. We want a television with codexes, artisans, dragons. We want a television with<br />
fabliaux, galaxies, peyote. We want a television with beats, essays, marvels. We want a media with animations, colors, geographies. We want a media with documentaries, adventure, psychedelia.</blockquote>
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We want a television with magic, beauty and poetry. We want a television of art, science and soul. We want an intelligent television, modern and human. We want a truthful television, dynamic and free. We want a new television, rare and wise.<br />
[...]<br />
We do not want any more shit in Mexican television. We do not want television which misinforms, which thinks only of money. We don’t want a television which contaminates, which scams. And, even less do we want a television which tells us how to think and how to vote. We don’t want one that enforces an embezzler, a killer, a homophobe, an ignoramus, an entitled rich kid, a figurehead, a joke for a President.</blockquote>
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We don’t want your marketing to convince us or to determine our future. The television is ours, we rule the truth. The television is ours! [No queremos que su mercadotecnia nos<br />
convenza y decida nuestro futuro. La televisión es nuestra, nosotros decidimos qué ver. ¡La televisión es nuestra!] [excerpt: my own translation.]</blockquote>
Original here:<br />
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<b>Review: The Poetics of Resistance to Permanent Crisis in Mexico: 2014-present</b><br />
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“...we are the color // of moreno burnt brown tacos // somos la luz de la cruz // somos los perdidos los desaparecidos // malhumorados enchilados // picosos saladitos astronautas // sometimes i feel we’re lost in the closet silence of printed work // amid the screaming vehicles passing by // we are undocumented by the scent of yerba buena // somos los que se atreven a cantar // we are the voiceless... // we are all that is // that is all we are // we are taqueros.” From the spoken-word collective, Taco Shop Poets, in their Manifesto from <i>Chorizo Tonguefire</i>, Calaca Press/Red CalacArts Collective, San Diego, c. 1999</blockquote>
If we regard reemergence of the de-centered and plural collective as response to a state of permanent crisis enforced by the state and capital, we can witness the reality of multiple fronts of resistance against the enforcement of this permanent crisis state. The border-area poetry and politics groups Colectivo Intransigente and Cog•nate Collective have confronted state and cartel violence against poets in the Mexican and San Diego-Tijuana border region of the last several years. Writings and political actions by poets in the collectives express a current poetics of social and insurrectionary movements against state violence, in relation to the politics of mourning as pathways to keep alive as well as mourn the memory of the disappeared.<br />
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If the 2012-14 YoSoy132/Mexican Spring mass youth rebellions in Mexico were focused on confronting state spectacle along with class inequities which added to this obscurantism, with the state and cartel murder of 43 young student-teachers of the Rural Teachers College of Ayotzinapa, a majority Leftist school, came a new or renewed focus to the youth movement. The politically-motivated “disappearances” of the 43 which occurred after some students of the College had planned to commandeer buses to protest at an upcoming march in Mexico City on the anniversary of the 1968 massacre at Tlatelolco were originally blamed solely on cartel violence by the State which had also perpetrated the terror. In response to the terror and obscurantism of the State and the police, resistance chants began to emerge and spread, demanding the truth: “Fue el estado” [It was the State], “Con vida los llevaron, con vida los queremos!” [They were taken alive and we want them back alive!]. Resistance direct actions across Mexico, such as the strike at the Women’s Rural Teacher’s College, were accompanied by demands for the return of the 43. Again the poet Javier Sicilia marched in Mexico City in support. The words on many lips were “¡<i>Ya basta</i>!” [Enough!] In June 2015, thousands of Oaxaca teachers of the CNTE teachers union marched to Mexico City, demanding the return of the 43, burning ballots as a gesture of no confidence with the government, <a href="http://www.contralinea.com.mx/archivo-revista/index.php/2013/05/01/cnte-convoca-huelga-nacional/">blockading gasoline deliveries and declaring an indefinite strike</a>. In October of 2015, on the anniversary of Tlatelolco, and against the killing of the normalistas, many resistance groups, a swarm of about 15,000, marched to the Zócalo (central square) in Mexico City on the Governor’s Palace and some attempted a siege, setting the vehicles outside aflame and trying to bust in the door with a massive improvised battering ram fashioned from a barricade.<br />
<br />
A debate surrounding insurrectional violence arose when the masked poet Sandino Bucio was identified in a <a href="http://www.sinembargo.mx/01-12-2014/1181730">widely-circulated photo</a> throwing molotovs back at the police during the November 20<sup>th</sup>, 2014 General Strike actions, which blockaded Benito Juarez International Airport on the centennial of Día de la Revolución (Revolution Day) in the wake of Ayotzinapa. Even some former allies derided him or critiqued him for engaging in these actions. A week later, the poet was <a href="https://thetequilafiles.com/2014/12/05/mexican-police-threatened-to-rape-murder-and-incinerate-detained-student-protesters/">abducted by police</a>, tortured and threatened with terror along with 10 other detainees. They were eventually released after outcry in early December of 2014.<br />
<br />
<b>Border-Area Seeds</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
That the international media has tended to focus what little it has reported on the entanglement of poetry and resistances in Mexico post-Ayotzinapa on several individual male poets is also significant, and border-area poets and poetry collectives have responded critically to the limitations of this focus. For Aurelio Meza Valdez, in “<a href="https://aureliomexa.wordpress.com/2014/11/05/de-la-poesia-despues-de-ayotzinapa/">On Poetry After Ayotzinapa</a>,” writing shortly after and “in the middle of” the massacre, which some like José Manuel Valenzuela have argued is part of a larger pattern of massacre of an entire generation of youth by the State in the post-financial crisis era (“<a href="http://revistas.unam.mx/index.php/crs/article/view/54685">Juvenicido</a>”), poetry was dead and impossible in some sense after this atrocity:<br />
<blockquote>
...decolonizar los saberes...Todo lo demás son chaquetas mentales. No escribas para que todos vean cuánto te importa Ayotzinapa, escribe porque quieres destruir ese sistema podrido de intercambio de adjudicaciones (positivas, como cuando te dan <i>like</i> por <i>postear</i> “¡Basta Ya! Justicia para Ayotzinapa” o negativas, como en las acusaciones de complicidad entre Peña Nieto y López Obrador) en medio de una masacre. Abandona tu posición de privilegio a través de tu escritura.</blockquote>
<blockquote>
[decolonize knowledge...All else is mentally masturbatory...Do not write to show everyone to show them how much you care about Ayotzinapa, write because you want to destroy the rotten system of exchange which rewards (positively, like giving a superficial ‘like’ on a <i>post</i> of “¡Basta Ya! Justicia para Ayotzinapa” or negatively, like the accusations of complicity between Peña Nieto and López Obrador) in the middle of a massacre. Abandon your privileged position in the course of your writing.] [Thanks to Raquel Pacheco for her help with translating this passage.]</blockquote>
However, even at this time he sees the tactical metaphors of “semillas,” (seeds) as compelling and also describes the national anthem of Mexico as a form of regressive and ideology-enforced poetry, the knowledge of which enables Mexican citizenship, preventing one from being identified as “illegal immigrant,” and he calls for poetry that would confront nationalism, anti-nationalist poetry which goes beyond parody but reaching into a “symbolic-ritual enaction” which can help create the conditions for real change, a poetry that would enable a new way of collective being in the world, not only of working alongside the people, but “Abandonar el yo y el ustedes para finalmente hundirse en el nosotros” (“Abandon the <i>I</i> and the <i>you</i> in order finally to plunge into the <i>we</i>”). Of Javier Sicilia he reminds us that he is one individual poet projected into the public sphere, while the normalistas were a collective group, part of a highly-vulnerable population of a rural school.<br />
<br />
Imuris Valle, who identifies herself as “student, activist and mother” chronicles her firsthand<br />
poetic-critical-activist account of October 2014’s march in the remarkable and moving piece “<a href="http://www.animalpolitico.com/blogueros-blog-invitado/2014/10/23/mar-de-luces-por-ayotzinapa/">Mar</a><br />
<a href="http://www.animalpolitico.com/blogueros-blog-invitado/2014/10/23/mar-de-luces-por-ayotzinapa/">de luces por Ayotzinapa</a>” [A sea of lights for Ayotzinapa]. Divided into 43 theses or separate<br />
observations from the march, the piece records flashpoints in the swarm in motion, blending realism<br />
with flights of eruptive and moody sociality in vibrance. As if recalling Meza’s exhortation in his<br />
essay to plunge the <i>I</i> and the <i>you</i> into the <i>we</i>, Valle’s piece takes motion. “10. - It begins to darken outside and we are in Angel. Suddenly I hear a shout: ‘<i>today we light candles/tomorrow barricades</i>.’ I turn and look curiously at the statue of the Angel of Independence, feeling that he/she is one of those who animates me to chronicle the events unfolding at his feet.” Her #11 begins: “The torches are lit, it is the time to share fires.” She describes as well the scabs in the march who hide their walkietalkies in their jackets as if preparing notes to write for <i>The Infiltrator</i>, the punks who offer to assist old ladies at busy crossings, deeply listening to the accompaniment of Mercedes Sosa, a “collective intelligence” working at a “Gordian knot” [“because we are so many and we are leaderless”], the “shhh” of a motorcycle, the chants “fascist government you slaughtered the normalistas/but here we are/shoulder-to-shoulder” and she sees the march as actually three different but parallel marches, each with their own separate rhythms. “Lo grito a ritmo de rap” she spits with a rapper’s verve. The immensity of the Narcoestado, the narco-bureaucracy. “But I believe in art and in culture/against dictatorship/that’s why I quit my job this Wednesday…”<br />
<br />
In any place where speaking the truth in public, or simply saying the ‘wrong’ thing, can get one killed or “desaparecido” it is of course the case that, as June Jordan says in <i>Life As Activism</i>, “poetry is a political act because speaking the truth is a political act”—In a strange paradox—aren’t we all?—poetry, as well, tells its truths through artifice, as in Jhonnatan Curiel’s poem “El levantón” [The abduction] which imagines the scene of capture, abduction, disappearance at a time when in Mexico several young poets had been abducted for speaking up and engaging in political action.<br />
<br />
<table border="1" cellspacing="0" style="width: 100%;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td style="vertical-align: top;" td="" width="50%"><b>El levantón</b><br />
<br />
El día que suceda el levantón<br />
voy a estar arriba de mi hamaca emocional<br />
estaré tranquilo con todos y con todo<br />
no voy resistirme a sus armas<br />
no voy perturbar a mi conciencia tranquila<br />
<br />
El día que suceda el levantón<br />
cuando me violenten les devolveré una sonrisa<br />
y sabré que jamás odié ni me dejé comprar<br />
y por eso<br />
me sentiré dichoso<br />
<br />
El día que suceda el levantón<br />
estaré listo pues todo lo que pude hacer lo hice<br />
amé con oleadas pasión<br />
sufrí como las ramas en el árbol seco<br />
aprendí a dar pasos en la sangre<br />
<br />
El día que suceda el levantón<br />
tomaré un profundo y blanco respiro<br />
y sabré que me dirijo hacia una muerte segura<br />
yo mismo subiré a la cajuela<br />
yo mismo me pondré la capucha<br />
<br />
El día que suceda el levantón<br />
cerraré los ojos como jamás los he cerrado<br />
cerraré todo el cuerpo como un párpado<br />
dejaré que me cubran las sombras<br />
tendré miedo pero hasta el último de mis<br />
momentos sabré<br />
que todo lo que tengo es lo que soy<br />
y todo lo que soy me basta<br />
para dejar de existir.
</td>
<td style="vertical-align: top;" td="" width="50%"><b>The abduction</b><br />
<br />
The day of the abduction<br />
I will be on my emotional hammock<br />
I will be gentle with everybody and everything<br />
I will not resist their weapons<br />
I will not trouble my contented conscience<br />
<br />
The day of the abduction<br />
when they turn violence upon me I will return a smile<br />
and will know that I never hated and did not sell out<br />
and for that<br />
I’ll feel privileged<br />
<br />
The day of the abduction<br />
I will be ready for everything I could do—I did<br />
I loved with waves of passion<br />
suffered like branches on a dry tree<br />
learned to take steps on blood<br />
<br />
The day of the abduction<br />
I will take a pale, profound breath<br />
and I will know death awaits me<br />
I myself will get into the trunk<br />
I myself will put the hood on<br />
<br />
The day of the abduction<br />
I will close my eyes like I have never done<br />
I will close all my body like an eyelid<br />
I will allow shadows to overtake my body<br />
I will be afraid but know even in my last moments<br />
that everything I have is what I am<br />
and everything I am will be enough<br />
to cease existing.
</td>
</tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Translated by Francisco Bustos, Sonia Gutiérrez, Olga Garcia and Jhonnatan Curiel</div>
<br />
This poem certainly confronts its own privilege with a enacted abandonment, as if to also respond to Meza’s call to use writing to abandon privilege. But early on the irony in the piece hints at the impossible and comforting fantasy of this gratuitous self-abandonment in the face of the machinery of state violence, as if it were also a form of privilege, the hammock of presumed choice, or of those who judge other activists secondhand for not resisting according to an ideal. But another remarkable thing happens: where the poem arrives is not at all where it started. It is as if the poem has finally begun to let a tiny bit of the sincere vulnerability and reality and even resistance into its consciousness, even as the <i>I</i> melts away in the knowing fiction. If the lyricism of the poem arrives at the “we” it is in the collective translation of the poem, it is in the way that the poem’s stanzas recall so many who are mourned in real life, it is in the embodied poet who may speak this at a gathering knowing that it could be any of them facing this tomorrow. The poem confronts the messiness of human experience which is the implicit reality that it draws upon, while expressing a sort of compassion in its rewriting of the scene of capture, and it challenges us to each think about how we might judge others’ actions. Curiel’s performance for the series LETRAS POR AYOTZINAPA [Letters for Ayotzinapa] makes for an embodied, heart-pumping experience of the rhythm of blood, the sound of blood “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T7js4eqlKi8">son de la sangre</a>” using imagery of the living and the dead, manifesting in trance-like rhythm and performative imagery at times invoking Pre-Columbian indigenous practices. By invoking the rhythm of blood, bodies, earth, fire, the heart within the body, out to the planets, Curiel’s poem draws our attention to the violence of memory and also confronts with a resistant and defiant sense of rage in mourning.<br />
<br />
Tijuana-San Diego poet and science fiction writer’s Pepe Rojo’s creative-critical hybrid-genre poetic project, “AYOTZINAPA: A Piece For Facebook Nation” also confronts differentials of privilege and complicity in Mexico, social media perceptions vs. on-the-ground activism, strange moments of humor along with deep mourning. Rojo narrates his journey to Ayotzinapa, five months after the normalistas went missing, and documents past visits, interspersing memoir, political history and images of the place. I cannot read this generously honest work without crying; there is something about the understatement in it under which deep pain resides, and the willingness to face uncomfortable feelings and complexities on the part of the author. The piece engages with visual representation of the tragedy and with continuing resistances in this place, along with what it means to be a writer and a person (a parent, a Leftist, a child once) amidst such a history.<br />
<br />
<span id="docs-internal-guid-a83d952b-a169-891f-ac1c-a5500e6fc78d"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><img height="259" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/lTIfmfmj2HDh7dwfcr7FHTpTlel9BuTAPQITeRJEO7XQaPoA9x4zGNFX9R3m12I8KSW-NIljtQF3uN0VUcjG-kuZ94M02GMiXMKH29bMcKgWp3GqPiCvSoTQ8EHanmVPJRhv8hNNXFa6lTYvcg" style="border: none; transform: rotate(0rad);" width="624" /></span></span><br />
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-a83d952b-a169-ea6b-eb21-a35e403d03a7"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><img height="253" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/Tc-iUln2nFpekynbQmdgAgeEIBTY_GDtkwgxFyHifir9VKkgvdNR-nIPTP1xjrexrKHnYjDqsdSMxmFLqRN1Zwrtfk-0qKUlASCz98WF70qKG9T9_GfEgzF74TjH01gMxjjUhofk3YqC1_SlLw" style="-webkit-transform: rotate(0.00rad); border: none; transform: rotate(0.00rad);" width="624" /></span></span><br />
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-a83d952b-a16a-222d-7b0b-cb35b380a576"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><img height="253" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/8IqNixFzauI5ZAWpCMP6ZwHfKUkd7fKrJWFOgn4LjMNkB-vi50_swlvxpYVRJHRq_GNagczSVw8XRVvPpA_enuekc24wNqEwzxNs12O-FDJY0_pqUKKUHL6-Fk11x3OGTo68EZ3f_x756H0qlg" style="-webkit-transform: rotate(0.00rad); border: none; transform: rotate(0.00rad);" width="624" /></span></span><br />
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-a83d952b-a16a-3754-d2a8-f9b4e1a1d931"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><img height="253" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/27jDN9aJ8hWM8pBGiIU5eS7AceIMpGpOvBSQKGbmnrTpk4v0_voxsDA8ijUjPxTCvSArethz8t7c3fZ-KTJNwGtv2ox3pnZ_C7R7UIYkigU4l0qrBS_RfTSXZE8q2bwByj655HiCuGbdPIb23A" style="-webkit-transform: rotate(0.00rad); border: none; transform: rotate(0.00rad);" width="624" /></span></span><br />
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If resistance is also that which can evade, reemerge and resound beyond the state’s uses post-mourning and post-crisis, how do we prevent forgetting, how do we respond after what seems like an endless repression, when the heart fills with pain in a world of war, how do we hold and share light? To quote Imuris Valle, “The torches are lit, it is the time to share fires.” To quote Pepe Rojo, “So I’ll use that feeling.”<br />
<br />
<b>Stars</b><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="203" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/FqF3xCP-6b8skw3e0CjJRQ9hd2co3L3sC2veGVFWaMpPlJq0jcceRplPeDKEWm0y-jeOaPrY8Z_jkOnKSyaJskg4jkIFSmuEouAztvyYiEIip7tnMm0OdY-cpVU8xreRppXOFulDZ5Kj0x0z_w" style="border: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; transform: rotate(0rad);" width="624" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="text-align: start;">“</span>unveiling a deep universality of the cosmic web [of galaxies].<span style="text-align: start;">”</span> Visualization by Kim Albrecht. Astrophysics</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div>
<div>
In Kumeyaay cosmology or My Uuyow (Sky Knowledge), the Milky Way is regarded as the Spine of the Sky. In Japanese and Chinese mythology, and in the writing of some classical poets (Du Fu and Li Qingzhao in particular) the Milky Way represents a great cosmic river. The latest visualizations of the known universe in astrophysics have unveiled “a deep universality of the cosmic web” of <a href="https://arxiv.org/abs/1604.03236">interrelated galaxies</a>. Fredric Jameson, who wrote what might be considered the seed of his 2005 <i>Archaeologies of the Future: The Desire Called Utopia and Other Science Fictions</i> while at UC San Diego: his essay “Reification and Utopia in Mass Culture” (published in <i>Social Text</i>, 1979, and well worth a re-read) argues against some prevalent Leftist notions of its era, critiquing the limits of Adorno on mass culture, stating “We therefore need a method capable of doing justice to both the ideological and the Utopian or transcendent functions of mass culture simultaneously. Nothing less will do, as the suppression of either of these terms may testify” (p. 144). Since this time, Jameson has maintained the view that utopian and revolutionary desires are a necessity in the face of the age of global capital, and in <i>Archaeologies of the Future: The Desire Called Utopia and Other Science Fictions</i>, uses the metaphor of archipelagos to envision a de-centered and decolonized radical past and present in which islands in the stream become nodes of resistance equal or greater to the powers of the mainland: “In this spirit [which considers the non-communicability or antagonism of its component parts] I propose to think of our autonomous and non-communicating Utopias—which can range from wandering tribes and settled villages all the way to great city-states and regional ecologies—as so many islands: a Utopian archipelago, islands in the net, a constellation of discontinuous centers, themselves internally decentered.” (p.221)</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
During the University of California San Diego 2016 inauguration day J20 (January 20<sup>th</sup>) wildcat strike, after an all-day march on the picket, in which students shut down roads and blockaded parking lots and the administrative complex on-campus, three women of color in the STEM fields and members of the Lumumba Zapata Collective, an intersectional, anti-fascist, antiracist, multiracial, anti-capitalist collective, read from a collectively-written poetic statement which invoked the metaphor of the stars: “Science fact! Did you know that people are made of stars?/These burning clusters of gas collapse under their own weight,/exploding into new elements/Creating the moon, the Earth/the atoms that shape our bodies.” This tactical metaphor of stars, collectively authored, becomes also a way of speaking of the intersectionality of multiplicities of identities and struggles, internally decentered:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
We are STEM<br />
And we also are made of stars.<br />
We also are brilliant and we also are women<br />
and we are black, we are brown<br />
and we are Asian, native, Muslim, Jewish, Christian<br />
We are trans, queer, straight,<br />
We have disabilities of different visibilities<br />
And we deal with insecurities<br />
And we each<br />
contain multitudes of these identities.</blockquote>
In their use of the constellation and cosmic metaphors, these students, writing poetry for the first time in many cases, joined a long tradition of radical thought and radical poetics. In their oblique reference to Walt Whitman’s “Song Of Myself” [“contain multitudes”] they reference an always-transforming work written by a working-class and queer author which at its best legendarily embraces the swarm by decentering the idea of the self outward to encompass multitudes of the collective, including slaves, women, and the poor, to counter the tradition of American individualism, while retaining individuality of expression. In their statement, these students of the Lumumba Zapata Collective foregrounded climate change and denounced scientific complicity in militarization and environmental destruction. Playfully they continued their straight-up science fact poetics against the ethical and social limits of empiricism: “So we must not work LOST in thought but FOUND by answers,/<a href="https://lumumbazapataucsd.com/2017/01/22/j20-transcript-of-lzc-speeches/">not WITHIN reason but elevated by it./Rational/is not passion, y’all.</a>/Empirical/is not the same as ethical/Statistics/are NOT individuals.” To some experimental poets and academics, this might read simplistically, but this clever internal slant rhyme and idiom-play expresses one half of the critique of the <i>Dialectic of Enlightenment</i>, as if the better parts of Adorno and Horkheimer’s philosophical argument were made popularly accessible, warmer, feminist, and decolonized!<br />
<br />
Our radical tradition’s long history of stellar metaphors also includes those who fought back during the 1969 Stonewall riots in resistance to police, such as Sylvia Rivera and Marsha P. Johnson, civil rights activists who founded STAR in 1970 (Street Transgender Action Revolutionaries). The metaphor of dispersed power which escapes and exceeds the state’s uses in the form of seeds of resistance is expanded outwards to constellations of islands in archipelagos and outward still to star systems and galaxies scattered like infinite seeds throughout the universe: “our universes extend well beyond the university.” This is a form of universality and solidarity which recognizes interconnection and encourages cooperation of allies while simultaneously recognizing “<a href="https://lumumbazapataucsd.com/2017/02/21/349/">we are not all positioned equally</a>,” striving for <a href="https://lumumbazapataucsd.com/2017/02/20/principles-and-points-of-unity/">horizontalism</a> in collective organization, against the formation of hierarchies, as difficult as this can be to prevent. The Zapatistas themselves also famously invoked the “<a href="http://www.rebelion.org/noticia.php?id=54516">Encuentro Intergaláctico</a>” [Intergalactic Meeting], “invitó a todas las formas sensibles de vida de otros planetas en la galaxia a participar en el evento. ‘No sé si realmente vinieron al primer Encuentro Intergaláctico,’” [inviting all sentient forms of life of other planets in the galaxy to participate in the event] and the bemused addition, [“I don’t know if they really came to the first Intergalactic Meeting. At least, they never identified themselves”].<br />
<br />
In their use of stellar metaphors, border-area collectives are invoking this long radical tradition of imagining decentered resistances, demonstrating an always-awareness that seemingly disconnected nodes of resistance actually can represent what Niall Twohig, in his UC San Diego dissertation, <i>Revolutionary Constellations: Seeing Revolution Beyond the Dominant Frames</i> (2016), calls “an undeniably interconnected planetary community”:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
When we look deeply at the flashpoints of revolutionary life that burn against the backdrop of the historical universe, we reach the same insight. Their physical collapse is never their end. Rather, the ripples of revolutionary life continue beyond the death of the body or the collapse of the movement...Once we break our view from [dominant frames of liberalism], we will be able to reconnect the revolutionary dead to their named and unnamed kin who are scattered across time and space. We will be able to form a constellation from them spatially and temporally to see that they are never alone, that they are never merely a footnote from a dead page of history. (p. 17)</blockquote>
In figuring time and space in this expansive way in a radical cosmology and a living history, we can see beyond the limitations of the dominant view of social movements to a sense of solidarity, community and radical time without sacrificing a complex understanding of difference: a red shift which allows for parallax.<br />
<br />
<b>Swarms</b><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="san-diego-5-freeway-protest.jpg" height="351" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/kezJnO7Rx5OVSpp6iklrFDFsixnYHFrMlyjCBiHDylcxbTyyDbBoEGcf07uSXRUi7YBURedWwIEQuN-cH8p72y3Jtn5-OnUgcJyjtUMb-vEpTEfUBta9W0MsOe7G595Kkf5RJytputbjKyWYSw" style="border: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; transform: rotate(0rad);" width="624" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Freeway protests on Highway 5 near La Jolla, CA in San Diego circa Dec 2014, original photo <a href="https://tropicsofmeta.wordpress.com/2014/12/05/freeway-takeovers-the-reemergence-of-the-collective-through-urban-disruption/">here</a></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-f9fee915-a26c-cfde-0fdc-f81362b92496"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span></span></div>
<div>
<div>
Because so much has been said and resaid on the negative valences of the swarm, in the sense of its dystopian character and potential, I am much more interested in the positive valences of the swarm as the movement of resistances. I am much more interested in considering the ways that the real movement of “swarms” as spontaneous diverse collective formations are described and proscribed and determined by fears around race, class, gender and invading “hordes,” and how collectives have embraced and mobilized the swarm.</div>
</div>
<div>
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In her book <i>Communal Luxury: The Political Imaginary of the Paris Commune</i> (Verso, 2015), Kristin Ross argues that for Marx, during and after the Paris Commune, one of the things that the swarm comes to represent is a “possibility of multiple paths to socialism” (p. 26), the “‘buzzing hives’ that were the revolutionary clubs of the Seige”(p. 14). In her chapter in <i>The Emergence of Social Space: Rimbaud and the Paris Commune</i> titled “The Swarm,” Ross regards the crowd’s “swarm-movement” as a sort of network which, as Donald Bruce and Anthony George Purdy in their <i>Literature and Science</i> note “resembles a capillary network and contains many elements of unpredictability,” concluding that for Ross, the communal “mixed, chaotic (and spontaneous) constructions” of the swarm include both “barricades” and “vagabondage,” as well as spontaneous crowds (p. 163). Importantly, in a chapter of <i>Communal Luxury</i> aptly titled “Seeds Beneath the Snow”—a metaphor that perhaps not entirely coincidentally echoes the popular Mexican resistance slogan after Ayotzinapa “they tried to bury us, but they didn’t know we were seeds”—thinking the present toward the future, Ross also asserts that “A strategic position based on non-alignment, one that implies a slavish commitment to neither anarchism nor Marxism, and on association over sectarianism, may well be worth considering today.” (p. 111)</div>
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In their coauthored article “Arte, literatura y acción colectiva en Tijuana-San Diego” [Art, Literature, and Collective Action in Tijuana-San Diego], which considers political-poetic collective actions in the San Diego-Tijuana border-area, Tijuana poets and writers Ana Lilia Nieto Camacho and Aurelio Meza Valdez reference Deleuze and Guattari’s figuration of the rhizomatic swarm of the collective: “lineas de fuga” or “lines of flight,” the collective swarm’s multiple paths through the liminal border cities.</div>
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Meza and Nieto interview representatives of multiple border-area collectives—including Curiel of Colectivo Intransigente and Misael Díaz, who, with Amy Sanchez, founded the artistic and political group Cog•nate Collective. Members of these collectives affirm the importance of “poética politica” gestures and actions as catalysts for larger social movements and for change. For Díaz, one role of poetry is to move the intimate and personal to a place which not only acknowledges and respects the other but serves as a tool, an artefact [artifact, perhaps punning on “arte” or art en espagnol and on “fact” in English] or device for doing so in the “social and political sphere”:</div>
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En un momento cuando influyentes pensadores miran con sospecha la producción artística contemporánea, algunos creadores han dejado de cuestionarse hasta qué grado sus actividades pueden considerarse artísticas. Una prueba fehaciente es la inclinación hacia lo político en Intransigente, la “poética política” de la que hablaba Curiel en entrevista con Misael Díaz. Las acciones de Intransigente, dice Díaz, son “not just a reminder, but a call to action, a demonstration of their fervent belief that speech—as writing, as poetry, and/or as debate—can catalyze change” (Díaz, 2012). Ese es el gesto que motiva acciones como las Intransigencias o Anastasio Catarsis, pero el público medio no las parece comprender en ese sentido. Y es así como Díaz comprende el camino que llevó a la conformación de Intransigente, en el que la poesía se convirtió en un artefacto para entrar en contacto con otros: […] poetry begins as a way of understanding the self, but ultimately transcends the individual and becomes a tool to understand and better recognize, respect, and acknowledge the other. In this way, poetry moves from the realm of the personal and intimate, to the social and political sphere (Díaz, 2012).</blockquote>
Meza and Nieto also refer to Colectivo Intransigente’s action Anastasio Catarsis, a poetic-political action including a march and a sonic component which the Collective organized after the death of Anastacio Hernández Rojas, an undocumented worker murdered by la migra/border patrol agents at the San Ysidro border in 2010. <a href="https://www.kcet.org/shows/artbound/colectivo-intransigente-the-voice-of-poetic-politics-in-tijuana">Colectivo Intransigente</a> “takes its name from the Spanish word <i>intransigencia</i>, which Curiel explains as signifying both a refusal to compromise and the capacity to transgress, to go beyond”: intransigency, transborder, transformative, etc. Colectivo Intransigente’s poetic dérives go into public spaces: roads, bridges, borders. <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=atdwTkwrudI">They travel on buses</a>, creating collective performances together. Cog•nate Collective’s Border Line Broadcasts/Borderblaster Transmissions, called “Poetic Dérive,” “Open Address” and “Mixtape for the Crossing,” variously, involve a moving reading and a mobile soundsystem, with Tijuana and San Diego poets traversing the border. This work examines the economic, social and cultural flows of the border and differentials of meaning within these transborder spaces.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="375" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/6tLSbZ5O81R8SNjC3jtzlJabUy4Y8B2b4lPEJSY-ntQD5DEa4FNLzsZgtST4qEyKmheawF2a_Gcm92n8zLGpgugkt-effRP2OlCSiOB1ncXi8S6CBjPUA3Lx_SQdgTp2MGkdQszXN_dKwWkQTQ" style="border: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; transform: rotate(0rad);" width="567" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Karen Marquez reading at Cognate Space. Photo: Courtesy of Misael Diaz</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="368" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/YINCdYuOLkcVArt10B-A1FYTFI-HFVfhgfIx9keO5txb0PePqzU-bH7hxsgiaSIknJTAv7--MKS05uytAoSUYSFJaBfZuXJWFLVGNvjyV1-uUjVs0A7JKzEum9rieRTqxY4FZljEFg5I6h87mg" style="border: none; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; transform: rotate(0rad);" width="556" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Borderblaster: Listening Station playing Transmission 4, “Poetic Dérive” to pedestrians waiting in line to cross into the United States. Photo: Courtesy of Misael Diaz</span></td></tr>
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<b>The Present</b></div>
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Linking arms in a circle, against the privatization of water and the deregulation of gasoline, in which government subsidies are being removed, and against Peña Nieto and the Mexican government, after news that Mexican government officials had received massive bonuses at the same time and gasoline vouchers, and that <a href="http://mexiconewsdaily.com/news/cartels-are-winners-with-higher-gas-prices/">cartels would benefit</a> from the general misery, protesters have shut down the border for at least seven straight weekends at the San Ysidro San Diego/Tijuana Border Port of Entry since January 2017. A little of the electric energy can be felt at this documentation of one of the earlier border blockades <a href="https://www.periscope.tv/w/1lPJqRwgpwMxb">here</a>.</div>
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Las Patronas are a collective of women who provide food and water to migrants <a href="http://remezcla.com/lists/culture/las-patronas-mexico-photo-essay/">crossing North</a> on trains to the U.S. This direct material aid is radical, highly organized, and has been going on for nearly 20 years. Since the implementation of Operation Gatekeeper after the beginning of NAFTA in 1994, an estimated nearly <a href="http://www.borderangels.org/about-us/">10,000 people</a> have died trying to make the perilous crossing into the U.S. from Mexico. Now with the U.S. Executive Order and the threat of a further border wall, more than ever border-area collective resistance is needed to this repression.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Undocumented migrants reach for bags of food and refilled water bottles thrown at them by the women of the border-area collective Las Patronas. Water bottles are strung in pairs for easier catching.</span></td></tr>
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The last two years in San Diego have seen not just the freeway blockades, airport protests against the Executive Order and border blockades, but also the creation of an swarming influx of collectives which engage in direct action and mutual aid, many of which work together. <a href="https://lumumbazapataucsd.com/">Lumumba Zapata Collective</a>, previously discussed, is one of these. Other student collectives include LitAction, in its activism against UCSD’s Literature Building <a href="https://cancerclusterucsd.wordpress.com/">cancer cluster</a> and other structural actions, the Che Cafe Collective (great short documentary by students <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=px2cy789CbQ">here</a>), a radical non-hierarchical music and organizing space saved after a four-month occupation of the building by students while under threat of the San Diego Sheriff who threatened to remove students “by any means necessary,” the radical bookstore Groundwork Books and its Books for Prisoners, Black and Pink San Diego, the UCSD Faculty Collective, the transborder art action collective <a href="http://www.collectivemagpie.org/portfolio/dispossessed-a-call-to-prayer-and-protest/">Collective Magpie</a>, the seed-bombing, past-future transborder experiment <a href="http://tierraylibertad.xyz/wp-content/uploads/2016/05/ACTS2.jpg">Tierra y Libertad</a> (“all of these gestures are planned to be undertaken with a group of friends in your neighborhood. that’s our anarchist nature.”), the Electronic Disturbance Theater collective and its material gestures of disruption of the space of the border, such as the Transborder Immigrant Tool, utilizing “burner” phones, and many others. This rhizomatic swarm of border-area collectives is characterized by a merging of poetry and poetics and art with radical politics, with the current generation embracing cross-border, transnational and multiracial, intersectional resistance.</div>
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The structure of many of these recent collectives blends communal vision with autonomous praxis, striving to avoid a situation of control, hierarchy or an enforced adherence to an <a href="http://colectivointransigente.blogspot.com/">ideological party-line</a>:</div>
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Cada miembro no está condicionado por ninguna atadura ideológica al colectivo y aunque compartimos ideales en común, cada uno conserva su criterio e individualidad con respecto a los demás. De manera individual cada quien es responsable de su formación artística así como el desarrollo de su propia obra. [Each member is not conditioned to any ideological attachment to the collective and though we share ideals in common, each retains their own opinions/discretion and individuality with respect to the others. Individually everyone is responsible for their artistic training and the development of their own projects.]</blockquote>
The collective at its best is a space of radical belonging, not defined primarily by exclusion. It is also, at its best, a space of productive division, not sameness, a space of imaginative possibility, vital, fluid and open to new ideas.<br />
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During the LZC wildcat strike on the U.S. Inauguration Day, at UC San Diego, one participant carried a sign: “Toward an Anti-Fascist University”; another bore a quotation from former UCSD student Angela Davis: “Racism Cannot Be Separated From Capitalism.” A raging resistance dance party developed in the midst of the pouring rain, one of fiercest SoCal storms in many years. Participants danced to songs from a Collective Playlist. One of the most memorable moments came when a circle dance formed, participants dancing to what is arguably set to become one of the most powerful protest songs of the last 10 years, the song “<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YHIUve8V2zo">Hell You Talmbout</a>” by Janelle Monáe, Deep Cotton, St. Beauty, Jidenna, Roman GianArthur and George 2.0. This song speaks the names of people of color killed by police, repeating the refrain, “Say his name/Say her name” in order to create a manifestation of remembrance. Ricardo Dominguez, along with MFA artists Lisa Korpos and Grace M. Huddleston, developed a gesture for the event, a performance in which the dancers of the march could elect to be tied loosely in the same red web, red thread which connected all of them continuously, making visible these lines visible and invisible that connect the constellatory nodes of the collective swarm. So we found ourselves dancing beside our old and new friends and compas, and some we did not know, with red webs loosely entwining us in an interdependency. “Dance close,” Dominquez intoned.<br />
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That many of all of these disruptions were performative, symbolic and short-lived does not take away from their power of defiance in a climate of disappearance, or as a poetics of against, or in recognition of, the replicating crisis states that capitalism both creates and inflicts. Poetry intersects with the material dialectic of history insofar as praxis around poetry and poets become lived experience. Making art together (poetry and other art) can be not simply “symbolic” in a collective but can be a form of mutual aid, especially when done in cooperation with other forms of material support and political action. In her “Mar de luces por Ayotzinapa,” [“Sea of Lights for Ayotzinapa”], Imuris Valle quotes a chant still relevant and pressing now, in an age of growing totalitarianism and the multiple decentered material resistances to its oppressions: “Si el presente es de lucha, el futuro es nuestro”; “If the present is struggle, the future is ours.” They tried to bury us: but they didn’t know we were seeds. They tried to bury us, but didn’t know we were seeds, stars, swarms.</div>
Brian Anghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03733133032013585813noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4074719566651397000.post-86672552176279035962017-04-23T10:10:00.000-07:002017-04-23T10:10:16.238-07:00Cassandra Troyan, from POSTSCRIPT FOR A FUTURE’S PAST<table align="center">
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A telephone rings<br />
I answer it and a woman’s voice tells me<br />
<i> “I can’t leave if I don’t break</i><br />
<i> with the enemies that I’ve</i><br />
<i> unmasked”</i><br />
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I hang up the phone and walk across the street<br />
to a boarded up liquor store<br />
above it is an apartment building<br />
with blown out windows<br />
I climb the fire escape ladder<br />
to the top floor and crawl inside<br />
and shed my fear<br />
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The room is full of women<br />
we talk and laugh<br />
planning discussing<br />
some in a corner of the room<br />
fucking but not separate<br />
as they add to the conversation<br />
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This is the reality of participation—<br />
how to be separate but not a spectacle<br />
how to be included<span style="white-space: pre;"> </span>but not a spectacle of appearance<br />
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We all feel the threat of narrative<br />
the weight of our bodies<br />
the not that holds our<br />
ecstatic refusal<br />
held by a stress unbearable<br />
an anxiety produced in waiting<br />
resonant querulous reports<br />
small family groups<br />
scuttling their soft vocalization<br />
<i>WHERE are YOU?</i><br />
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We wish we knew of better ways<br />
to help each other<br />
of better ways to fight<br />
what is this social truth<br />
we know formed by the absence of life<br />
a caricature of resistance<br />
we dance around<br />
we talk about the weather<br />
its pheromones undetected<br />
afraid to destroy this one space of recognition<br />
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Our body sinks down to a radical emptiness<br />
dread wells up around this production<br />
to counter we learn configurations<br />
we use our force with each other<br />
in a skillful balance<br />
of resistance and capture<br />
how to destabilize<br />
but we never put it to use<br />
against each other<br />
to hold each other in<br />
a tender suspension of violence<br />
compelling meaning<br />
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We place our bodies<br />
on each others<br />
they are full of erotic potential<br />
redirected rather than ignored<br />
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How to build without producing<br />
each day another set of obstacles<br />
linked into commonality<br />
a pleasure shared<br />
to never be alone again<br />
to cross it all out<br />
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Brian Anghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03733133032013585813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4074719566651397000.post-30623426433347886692017-04-22T09:46:00.000-07:002017-04-22T09:46:30.830-07:00Cruel Work: Chris Chen Interviews Wendy TrevinoThis is the second part of an interview published in <i><a href="https://thenewinquiry.com/mexican-is-not-a-race/">The New Inquiry</a></i>.<br />
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<b>Chris Chen</b>: I wanted to ask about how you see your writing navigating an often unacknowledged and sometimes quite stark divide between what could be called a politics of culture versus a culture of politics. Your recent chapbook seems committed to puncturing the myth that the collectivities organized by and through race are politically homogeneous—an assumption that’s partly the legacy of older cultural nationalist movements in the US. You write, “So much violence/Changes relationships, births a people/They can reason with. These people are not/Us.” Nevertheless there’s a transient, migratory “we” that’s threaded through the poems and seems to flicker in and out of view. Could you talk a little bit about that “we”?<br />
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<b>Wendy Trevino</b>: I think it’s important to understand that the racial categories we’re talking about are historically a European colonial imposition first and foremost, a “we” defined not by us—who might have less in common than not. These categories made “us” legible to colonizers, slavers, capitalists, the state—whoever or whatever enforces this “we” from the outside and often through violence. I can’t help but think about how the transatlantic slave trade abducted groups of people who spoke different languages, with different religions and traditions, and imposed on them—those who survived, that is—a single identity that didn’t exist in that form before the trade.<br />
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Of course, this isn’t the end of the story. This “we” is also negotiated by us, too. In 2014 when Latinos in Salinas, CA <a href="http://www.cnn.com/2014/05/22/us/california-protest-police-shooting-hispanics/">rioted after police killed three migrant workers in three months</a>, and other Latinos representing local unions and nonprofit organizations responded by forcefully suppressing even anti-police <i>slogans</i> in an attempt to control who and what was represented—these are the kinds of <a href="https://bradleyallen.net/2014/05/peace-police-counterinsurgency-salinas/">negotiations I’m talking about</a>. For those on whom a particular identity is imposed, “we” will encompass people with shared and opposed interests, friends as well as enemies, and intra-group relations of power. All of this plays a significant role in determining who represents “us.”<br />
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So “we” is negotiated internally within groups, but these negotiations are tied to externally imposed categories and expectations that change in order to maintain existing relations of power. I think culture can often obfuscate the politics of those negotiations. This is a serious problem if our aim is the eradication of racism.</div>
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<b>CC</b>: Cristina Beltrán has recently argued that older attempts to organize Chicanx politics around a vision of pre-political cultural unity has often come at the cost of painting political disagreements within the movement as the result of contamination or tokenization by whiteness. “In the Chicano movement, feminists were consistently accused of representing a destructive force coming from outside the community,” Beltrán writes, “In other words, Chicana feminists were not simply wrong about gender relations—they were <i>falsas</i> (false ones), no longer legitimate members of the community. Accused of being cultural traitors creating conflict and fragmentation, Chicana feminists were often on the defensive.... The belief that shared culture could produce a unified political perspective was compellingly inclusive, but it turned disagreement into betrayal.” Beltrán is writing about 60s and 70s-era US political movements, but I wanted to ask for your thoughts on how you see literature and art as a site of conflict around the promotion of racial authenticity as a political ideal.</div>
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<b>WT</b>: Recently, a mural featuring gay, lesbian and trans Chicanxs was <a href="http://www.sfgate.com/crime/article/Vandals-attack-LGBT-mural-in-S-F-Mission-for-3rd-6357896.php">destroyed by arson</a> in San Francisco’s Mission District. On social media, one of the arguments against the mural was that it was an appropriation of Cholo culture, downplaying the homophobia earlier expressed with posts like “Keep that shit in the Castro” and attempting to delegitimize the Chicanx, Los Angeles-based artist, even as the Chicanxs online used words like “n***a” the way Latinos in the Valley use the word “guey” to refer to each other. I think there were good arguments to be made against relatively upscale art galleries as a leading edge of gentrification and the artists who agree to show work in these galleries, but those were not the arguments that were being made here.</div>
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<b>CC</b>: This raises the question of the role that art, literature, and music might sometimes play in “<a href="http://www.abladeofgrass.org/fertile-ground/artwashing-social-practice-social-reproduction/">artwashing</a>” gentrification or commodifying past social movements. The closing of the nonprofit art space <a href="http://laist.com/2017/02/22/pssst_gallery.php">PSSST in the Boyle Heights</a> neighborhood in Los Angeles after a coalition of locals mounted a campaign against galleries that, despite showcasing Chicanx art, were seen as driving up rents in the area—a process some have called “<a href="http://www.citylab.com/housing/2016/08/defining-gentefication-in-latino-neighborhoods/495923/">gentefication</a>.”</div>
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<b>WT</b>: I think a little background on Galeria de la Raza, the art gallery that installed the Mission mural, “Por Vida,” might be helpful. The gallery has been around since the early 70s and rumor has it that it is currently having trouble securing a new lease. I don’t mean to suggest that the gallery is incapable of facilitating gentrification or commodifying political movements. I just mean to say the position of Galeria de la Raza is different from that of <a href="https://architexturez.net/pst/az-cf-179648-1469285176">The Broad</a> and PSSST. At least in the sense that the latter are new to the neighborhood so to speak and well-funded—in the case of The Broad, by a real estate mogul and in the case of PSSST, by a “secret investor” suspected to be more interested in real estate speculation than art.</div>
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I also want to point out that paintings, sculptures and installations in art galleries are quite different, in terms of how works of art are owned, displayed and preserved, from a mural in a neighborhood. It’s a lot easier for a person who lives in a neighborhood where there’s a mural she finds offensive, to appreciate or destroy it, while there may be artwork in a neighborhood gallery of which the person never becomes aware.</div>
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I think you could say that what happened to the “Por Vida” mural in the Mission demonstrated a refusal to think about or consider gay, queer, and trans cholos. It is sad to me that the idea of gay, queer and trans Latinx (specifically Chicanx) being part of cholo culture was so offensive that a person would burn representations of them and be supported by so many in doing so on the grounds that there are no gay, queer or trans cholos. And that there would be this assumption that “obviously” the artist must have appropriated cholo culture. Nevermind that cholo culture has roots in Southern California, where the muralist was from. Nevermind that the appropriation of Latinx and Chicanx culture in the form of food by establishments like the Taco Bell and Gracias Madre, both in the Mission, which exploit mainly nonwhite workers—almost all Latinx in the kitchen. These establishments pay them nowhere near enough to live in the neighborhood, but this hasn’t yet resulted in them being burned down.</div>
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<b>CC</b>: Finally, I wanted to ask about what you’re reading, watching, or listening to these days. Also, are you working on any new writing or publishing projects?</div>
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<b>WT</b>: I’m currently working on a manuscript for Krupskaya Books called <i>Cruel Work</i>, after a 2014 conference, by the same name, at Mills College. Like <i>Brazilian</i>, the entire manuscript is made up of sonnets, but this time, the sonnets focus on feminist organizing and racism and there will be multiple sequences. I’m also reading books like <i>Stone Butch Blues</i> by Leslie Feinberg and <i>S/He</i> by Minnie Bruce Pratt. I keep coming back to Lucy Parsons.</div>
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I’m still not done with the kind of reading I was doing for <i>Brazilian</i>. I still want to read <i>The Return of Comrade Ricardo Flores Magón</i> by Claudio Lomnitz, for instance and I’d like to learn more about the 21<sup>st</sup> century border, which involves the cartels in a way it didn’t in the 90s when I last lived in the Valley.</div>
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I read contemporary poetry pretty regularly. I’ve really enjoyed the work of Tongo Eisen-Martin lately. What he does with the “city poem” is incredible. I’m lucky enough to be friends with Oki Sogumi and Laura Martin—their work “speaks to me” in a way that always makes me want to write back. I feel similarly inspired by my friends in general—there are too many to name here. Also, I really liked Daniel Borzutsky’s <i>Memories of My Overdevelopment</i>, Diana Sue Hamilton’s <i>Universe</i>, Raquel Salas-Rivera’s <i>oropel / tinsel</i> (especially the title poem) and Jasmine Gibson’s <i>Drapetomania</i>. Hannah Black’s <i>Dark Pool Party</i> is really really good, I must say.</div>
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Finally, me, Oki Sogumi and Josh Baltimore have been talking about starting a press for the last year and we are finally getting started. The name of the press is Spoilsport Editions. We have a few manuscripts that we’re looking to publish including work by Josh Baltimore and Laura Martin. Stay tuned!</div>
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Brian Anghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03733133032013585813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4074719566651397000.post-63364978698891913592017-04-21T09:34:00.000-07:002017-06-24T11:40:26.446-07:00Christine StewartDear Brian, you wrote that you were interested in my perspective on the post-crisis period from Treaty 6 Indigenous territory and wanted to know more about what I “feel like needs to happen” as I wrote following our seminar. As you state, connecting various territorial perspectives is a motivation for the series, and so you are interested in my question: “What does it mean to write about a post-crisis poetics from Turtle Island, from Treaty 6? The Arab Spring, the European ‘movement of the squares,’ and the Wisconsin occupation are inextricably part of our context, but do not manifest here with us in the same way.”<br />
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I want to address your invitation by considering the labour required for being here, on colonized land, and how might people who are not Indigenous work inside Indigenous intellectual and legal systems, and not only within Eurocentric concepts of resistance and liberty? That is, when colonial governments <i>and</i> rebellions function, as Hupa, Yurok and Karuk scholar Cutcha Risling Baldy writes, in total “ignorance to Indigenous intellectualism and thought” how can we acknowledge and work within Indigenous systems of law, and learn what is required of us to understand where we are when we say we are here?<a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/christine-stewart.html#1" name="1b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><small><sup>1</sup></small></a><br />
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I accept that Jeff Derksen’s concept of sincerity as an existing social relation between people might help us work through this ignorance,<small style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/christine-stewart.html#2" name="2b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">2</a></sup></small> and I am curious why it is that, as Rob Jackson notes, so many North American Marxists don’t see the immediacy of local Indigenous issues as sites of struggle that are also struggles against capitalism and colonialism and as places in which life <i>as</i> a site of existing relations is affirmed.<a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/christine-stewart.html#3" name="3b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><small><sup>3</sup></small></a><br />
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I have <i>always</i> wondered about this, but especially after moving to Edmonton, and engaging in the Occupy (2011-2012) movement. Why was Occupy such a white movement? It did not tend to attract other activists who otherwise had a history in socialist activism. It did not, for example, attract the Indigenous activist who so fully engaged and animated the subsequent Idle No More (2012-2013) movement.<br />
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What kinds of relations are required here? What kind of militant sincerity? If, as Papaschase scholar Dwayne Donald says, colonialism is the denial of relationship than how might we affirm relationship?</div>
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Outside of Peterburough, in Eastern Canada, in the province of Ontario, on Pigeon Lake, on Anishinaabe land, there is a wild rice harvest each fall, and settler cottagers in the area attempt to disrupt the harvest. In response to this, Hayden King, a Gcgi’mnissing Anishinaabe writer posts on his twitter feed on Aug 29<sup>th</sup>, 2016, the latest billboard by the Reclaiming Renaming Project OgimmaMikana: Anishinaabe manoomin inaakonigewin gosha #OgimaaMikana.<small style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/christine-stewart.html#4" name="4b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">4</a></sup></small> It translates into “wild rice is Anishinaabe law.”<a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/christine-stewart.html#5" name="5b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><small><sup>5</sup></small></a></div>
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Thinking through what it might mean for wild rice to be law is difficult from a Eurocentric perspective. But it might be true that until we can, until we are willing to exert the unthinkable labour that learning a very different legal system requires, we cannot know where we or what is expected of us when we are here, and we cannot help but embodying and reproducing the violence of colonization.<br />
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Here, where I am, there is no wild rice. There is a different material reality. There is sweet grass, and a few buffalo. There are different nations, and here on Treaty 6, I need to understand different forms of law. This is not social work. It’s not charity, and it’s not community service work. It is paying attention, and being differently educated, listening hard, creating difficult alliances, igniting rare and sometimes awkward moments of solidarity, expending exhausting labour in the hopes of creating new, sometimes, usually, fleeting social subjects.</div>
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In my teaching I work collectively with nêhiyaw Elders, knowledge keepers, young Indigenous students and artists and scholars from some of the poorest neighbourhoods in Edmonton. The nêhiyaw make up one of the nations of this place. Their people were at the table when Treaty 6 was negotiated in 1876, and, in 2016, Treaty 6 still matters to the nêhiyaw people—because of housing shortages, incarceration rates, homelessness, endemic illness, high rates of suicide, land theft, water theft, unmitigated resource extraction, poverty, hunger, police brutality, genocidal provincial and federal administrative policies and the ongoing revanchist gentrification of the city of Edmonton that criminalizes the long standing street communities.</div>
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As a settler person, living in Edmonton, I need to understand what it means to live on Treaty 6 land. It is a question that I often get asked, do I know that I am on Treaty Land, and do I know what that means? I mostly hear it downtown, outside of the hospitals from folks smoking cigarettes in hospital gowns, from people out on the street, bumming change, from folks who live in the local shelters.</div>
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In particular, I am asked to understand the meaning of Treaty 6 as it was negotiated and agreed to by the nêhiyaw, Nakota Sioux, Dene, and Saulteaux—<i>not</i> as it has been interpreted by the Crown (the relationship of the Métis people to treaty is a matter of some debate. See Adam Gaudry’s “Are the Métis treaty people?,” for example). As I have learned, Treaty 6 was and is understood as a necessary nation-to-nation relationship of reciprocity and sharing. According to nêhiyaw oral and written history, there was no surrender of land to the Crown. The treaty negotiations in 1876 were made with the understanding that land sharing and close kinship connections were both possible and essential at that time in history.<small style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/christine-stewart.html#6" name="6b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">6</a></sup></small> And the nation-to-nation treaty proposed by the Indigenous nations of the area with the Crown is based on thousands of years of treaties that existed between the Indigenous nations.</div>
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But I don’t know much, and what I do know I have learned from different elders, knowledge keepers, scholars, students and colleagues. I am indebted to their guidance, and I am grateful for it. From them I have been slowly learning the extent of my obligations to the land I live on. Through them I have been learning about my treaty obligations.</div>
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I am learning slowly and painfully that upholding the Treaty agreements is as much my responsibility as it is of the nêhiyaw, Dene and Nakota Sioux nations. I am learning that it is my work to give back what has been taken, to restore the kinships, and the balance that is necessary for all life. I am asked to understand how I continue to contribute to the injury and displacements of Indigenous people here and elsewhere, and how I might instead become a good relation, a good ally to the complex communities of this place. And I am only coming to understand the extreme labour required in this task, that it is uncomfortable work, impossible, painful, necessary and infinite.</div>
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I have been taught that the human-to-human Treaty 6 was founded on the original treaties, agreements that existed between the human and the non-human or more-than-human world, agreements on which important legal systems were based. That is, as nêhiyaw Elder Bob Cardinal relates it, Treaty 6 is based on <i>the original agreements of reciprocity that were made and that have existed since the beginning of time, agreements of reciprocation that were made between humans and animals, between humans and air, between humans and water, humans and plants, humans and rocks</i>.<a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/christine-stewart.html#7" name="7b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><small><sup>7</sup></small></a></div>
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For Elder Bob Cardinal, this is the most important thing we can know when we begin to consider treaty. That is, that these original treatise are the basis for the survival of all life on this planet, and they lie at the heart of the treaty making process for the nêhiyaw people. That is, that all subsequent treaties between Indigenous nations with Indigenous nations are based on these original and sacred covenants formed by humans and their more-than-human relations.</div>
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These original treaties hold the blueprint for all subsequent treaties.</div>
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As a result, when it came to the Treaty 6 negotiations with the Crown in 1876, the Indigenous nations were well versed in treaty making and in maintaining the complex and extensive familial alliances that treaties required.</div>
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nêhiyaw lawyer, Sharon Venne’s article “Treaties Made in Good Faith” reflects this, and nêhiyaw lawyer and founder of the Idle No More movement, Sylvia McAdam’s description of the negotiations for Treaty 6 illustrates this history and the fact that those primary relationships are embedded in Treaty 6. In her recent book, <i>Nationhood Interrupted: revitalizing nêhiyaw legal systems</i>, McAdam describes how integral the okihcihtwâw iskwêwak, the nêhiyaw women lawmakers, were to the treaty process. She notes how the British representatives could not conceive of women as lawmakers and so the women were not invited to the Treaty 6 negotiations, but that the nêhiyaw men continued to bring the treaty terms to the women for their approval. According to McAdam, traditionally, the women lawmakers made all the decisions about the community. They had jurisdiction over the land and the water. And so the Treaty 6 negotiations could not go on without them. McAdam’s description of the women’s role in the process of Treat 6 reminds us of the original human-to-more-than-human-treaties and their integral role in the more recent process of making Treaty 6.</div>
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She writes this:</div>
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“During the time of the treaty negotiations, a ceremony was conducted by the women law makers for four days and four nights asking the âtieyôhkanak (spirit keepers) what must be done. During this time the women prayed and some fasted, as is the custom. An understanding was made and was taken to the men.</div>
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Further, during the ceremony âtieyôhkanak entered the lodge the women. There were many who entered but five made a declaration. The first âtieyôhkanak that came was pîsim (the sun). The sun told the women, “I will bear witness to this exchange and I will stand by it for all time.” The second and third was the âtayôhkan was the the nipiy (water), but it was the male and the female nipiy that came in and they too stated, “We will bear witness to this exchange and we will stand by it for all time.” The fourth âtayôhkanak was the wihkask (sweetgrass); the grass told the women, “I too will bear witness to this exchange and I will stand by it for all time.” The final âtayôhkanak was the grandfather rock, who stated, “I too will bear witness to this exchange and I will stand by it for all time.” The grandfather rock is the pipe used to seal the exchange in what is now considered a covenant.”<a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/christine-stewart.html#8" name="8b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><small><sup>8</sup></small></a></div>
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McAdam explains that this is why the saying “as long as the sun shines, the rivers flow, and the grass grows” from the numbered treaties is so critical.<a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/christine-stewart.html#9" name="9b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><small><sup>9</sup></small></a></div>
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Here, in amiskwaci,<small style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/christine-stewart.html#10" name="10b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">10</a></sup></small> by the river, kisiskāciwanisīpiy,<small style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/christine-stewart.html#11" name="11b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">11</a></sup></small> on this bend that has always been a meeting place, as a settler person, I am expected to know this story of the treaty and of the story that lies behind the original treaty. I am expected to honour this river and its history, to consider the significance of the river to all life and to this particular place. Despite the shrinking Columbia Glacier that feeds the river, despite the heavy traffic that surrounds it, despite the shit that runs into it, the river flows, and as long as it does, the Treaty holds.</div>
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nêhiyaw lawyer Sharon Venne shifts this a little to say that she has been taught that the water refers to the birth waters—as long as the birth waters break, as long as women give birth and the birth waters flow, the Treaty holds.<small style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/christine-stewart.html#12" name="12b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">12</a></sup></small> For Venne, this is how we are all bound to the totality of water, through our bodies, through our mothers. Its life is our life, and our obligations to it are simple, and infinite.</div>
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This understanding of the treaty suggests that if I don’t honour these integral relationships, I am not abiding by my treaty obligations, and I am putting important, life sustaining and familial relationships at risk. That is, I am here illegally, outside of nêhiyaw law, and outside of the original sacred agreements made by humans and the more-than-humans.</div>
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In “A phenomenology of the vanguard,” Sara Ahmed argues that “[w]e have to walk differently: it is not that those behind come to the front, but that staying back gives you the time to question, to ask rather than tell. A politics of the rear is still a movement.”<small style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/christine-stewart.html#13" name="13b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">13</a></sup></small> And here, on Treaty 6 land, non-Indigenous people have been asked to walk differently, to be quiet and to listen to entirely different systems of law.</div>
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The Elders and the knowledge keepers of Treaty 6 stress the importance of paying close attention to the extended and particular systems of kinship within which we are imbedded. They stress two central nêhiyaw terms that express these concepts of kinship: wiichitowin and wahkotowin: wiichitowin expresses a human-to-human connection/kinship and miyo wiichitowin means good relations. wahkotowin expresses a wider sense of kinship, one that extends to animals, air, water, rocks, plants, stars. miyo wahkotowin means to be in good relations with all of your relations.<small style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/christine-stewart.html#14" name="14b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">14</a></sup></small> miyo wiichitowin and miyo wakkotowin also reflect the original treaties and are radical and rooted concepts of respect, interconnectedness and balance.</div>
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Here, in Treaty 6 territory, I am called on to be in good relations with these extended kinship systems on a local and global level. I am asked to be rigorously attentive to where I am and how I am here. This requires a rigorous engagement with and respect for Indigenous legal systems across North America and beyond. This is what is being asked of us at Standing Rock.</div>
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Without a militant sincerity, without a commitment to these legal systems, any acts of resistance will always, at the very least, reproduce and perpetuate current and devastating systems of colonial violence.</div>
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<small><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/christine-stewart.html#1b" name="1">1</a></sup></small><span style="font-family: inherit;"> </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">“Coyote is not a Metaphor: on decolonizing and renaming coyote.” <i>Decolonization: Indigeneity, Education & Society</i>, Vol 4, No 1 (2015), 6.</span><br />
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><small style="white-space: normal;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/christine-stewart.html#2b" name="2">2</a></sup></small><span style="white-space: normal;"> Jeff Derksen, “Militant Sincerity.” <i>Toward. Some. Air.</i> Banff Press (2015).</span></span><br />
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><small style="white-space: normal;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/christine-stewart.html#3b" name="3">3</a></sup></small><span style="white-space: normal;"> </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Email (May 2016).</span></span></span><br />
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><small style="white-space: normal;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/christine-stewart.html#4b" name="4">4</a></sup></small><span style="white-space: normal;"> </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">http://ogimaamikana.tumblr.com.</span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><small style="white-space: normal;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/christine-stewart.html#5b" name="5">5</a></sup></small><span style="white-space: normal;"> </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Hayden King, https://twitter.com/Hayden_King.</span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><small style="white-space: normal;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/christine-stewart.html#6b" name="6">6</a></sup></small><span style="white-space: normal;"> </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">See Sylvia McAdam’s <i>Nationhood Interrupted. Revitalizing</i> nêhiyaw <i>Legal Systems</i>. Saskatoon: Purich Press, 2015; Sharon Venne’s “Treaties Made in Good Faith.” <i>Canadian Review of Comparative Literature</i> 34.1 (2007): 3-16, and Jim </span></span></span></span></span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Kâ-Nîpitêhtêw</span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">’</span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">s</span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><i style="white-space: pre-wrap;">ana kâ-pimwêwêhahk okakêskihkêmowina: The Counselling Speeches of Jim Kâ-Nîpitêhtêw</i><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">. Freda Ahenakew & H.C. Wolfart eds. Winnepeg, MB: University of Manitoba Press (1998).</span></div>
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<small style="white-space: normal;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/christine-stewart.html#7b" name="7">7</a></sup></small><span style="white-space: normal;"> </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Elder Bob Cardinal, in conversation (Oct. 17 2014).</span><br />
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<small style="white-space: normal;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/christine-stewart.html#8b" name="8">8</a></sup></small><span style="white-space: normal;"> </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">McAdam 57.</span></div>
<small style="white-space: normal;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/christine-stewart.html#9b" name="9">9</a></sup></small><span style="white-space: normal;"> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Ibid.</span></span></div>
<small style="white-space: normal;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/christine-stewart.html#10b" name="10">10</a></sup></small><span style="white-space: normal;"> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Edmonton.</span></span></div>
<small style="white-space: normal;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/christine-stewart.html#11b" name="11">11</a></sup></small><span style="white-space: normal;"> North Saskatchewan River.</span></div>
<small style="white-space: normal;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/christine-stewart.html#12b" name="12">12</a></sup></small><span style="white-space: normal;"> </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Sharon </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Venne</span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">, “Treaties Made in Good Faith.” 3-16.</span></div>
<small style="white-space: normal;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/christine-stewart.html#13b" name="13">13</a></sup></small><span style="white-space: normal;"> </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Sara Ahmed, “A phenomenology of the vanguard.” Last modified December 1, 2013. https://feministkilljoys.com/2013/12/01/a-phenomenology-of-the-vanguard/.</span></div>
<small style="white-space: normal;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/christine-stewart.html#14b" name="14">14</a></sup></small><span style="white-space: normal;"> </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">These teachings are from different sources across Treaty 6: Elder Bob Cardinal, Papaschase scholar Dwayne Donald, nêhiyaw lawyers and scholars Sylvia McAdam and Sharon Venne, Elder Pauline Paulson, nêhiyaw instructor Dorothy Thunder, Papaschase knowledge keeper Reubin Quinn and nêhiyaw knowledge keeper Gary Moostoos.</span></div>
Brian Anghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03733133032013585813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4074719566651397000.post-57317473281700670752017-04-20T09:47:00.000-07:002017-04-20T09:47:32.131-07:00Oki SogumiDear—,<br />
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In the nightmare I wake up in the middle of the night, to a quiet rustling. At first, I think it must be the glimmering remnants of a dream, the edges of an animal video I watched before falling asleep, charming and affirmative in its antics. But then it is chattering and a stain appears, turning the opaque sheet clear. I sense there is a squirrel and the wetness is piss. A light is attached to my eyes and I swirl it around the room. But the movement is not in sync. The front door is open, outside it impossible to see, and hard white flood lights and hard white pebbles line the ground. No wonder the animals came inside.<br />
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Friends have joined me to lure the animals away, with each animal they touch, my debt grows. In a wide-mouthed vase of water, a duck sits motionless, a few hummingbirds float on the surface next to her. I go outside to the dark side of the house, to dump their bodies out. I want to keep the hummingbirds, they almost fit perfectly into my cupped hand. It’s strange how much larger an animal seemed when their circumference came into contact with domestic proportions. Hummingbirds swell to be just right.</div>
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I wake up in the dark. No bodies move here. I’m relieved. I check my phone, and in the glow, I can see the room contains no animal remainder. Just some dirty dishes, a full hamper of laundry. My body seems to disappear behind its symptoms. And there are no warm bodies there, I’m not cold exactly, but my hand cups into the shape of a hummingbird.</div>
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My unconscious life is circular. No wonder I want things to burn. Burning has a beginning and an end.</div>
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Am I doomed to have a shitty time at holidays because I didn’t celebrate any growing up? I fear I don’t approach them with an open familiarity that would invite the universe’s auspicious and festive graces. I’m spending Thanksgiving in bed, sick with a bad head cold. It’s not the holiday that tugs at me, but wanting to see Melissa and write together, as we try to do. She’s the one who suggested that I write about Gail Scott. I gravitated to the novel <i>Heroine</i>, but periodically I glance at the stack of other Gail Scott books wondering if I will read them too. Then, I could talk to Melissa about them. This is a driving motivation for many books I read, they become touchstones for friendship, for triangulating what is or isn’t shared between us.</div>
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I remember a rare Thanksgiving at my great uncle’s house and eating bulgolgi and watching a Lord of the Rings film. My great uncle used to be a billboard painter, until forced retirement, and he started doing portraits at the mall. Light filtering through their curtains, a picture of him in front of a billboard, flower patterned things. Immigrant aesthetics—sort of late 70s meets grandma meets dorm room logic meets vaguely “executive” looking objects.</div>
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All my memories are getting mixed up, in particular the living rooms which orient my sense of interior space. These living rooms like books help place my relations. My parents never really furnished their living rooms, all my memories are of laying on the floor or sitting on office chairs. In the old house the carpet was a bright ugly mauve. All over. Like a muddied Pepto Bismol pool. That’s all over these memories too, like a disturbing puke. I spent a lot of time on it, I think it’s permanently soaking things.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
Dear—,</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What if all my desires are illegal.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
Dear—,</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It’s not even thin skin, it’s the feeling of having no skin at all, a monstrous creature, socially made. We are all made from society’s shit. Yet to get on with life you learn to deal. Society offers a skin. A projection surface. A suture spot. Hold still, let it happen. Stabilize a sense of self, narrate a map, act generously on the assumption what you need matters. But you get obsessed at the suture, pick at it. Bend into several skins at once. To be this way you take up and give up many disciplines. You are used to being penalized, it almost becomes a skin of its own, and more a way of being. Fidelity is rewarded, an Anglo-Saxon sense of balance. Your sense of balance is more about burning things. Flames pass easily through your not-skins, or through the many skins you keep bending into, they burn easily. When crisis surfaces it feels like finally, other people feel the skinness of skin. How nothing really adheres. There’s a flapping sound of air passing in the gap.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
Dear—,</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
In immigration narratives, to speak about feeling in-between becomes a cliché and one must find a way to make it interesting. Performing in-between too much or too little will be a problem.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I keep returning to Rey Chow’s book, <i>The Protestant Ethnic</i> (the title makes me laugh, the way I do when the speaker admonishes herself in <i>Heroine</i> with <i>don’t be such a Protestant</i>):</div>
</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
If an ethnic critic should simply ignore her own ethnic history and become immersed in white culture, she would, needless to say, be deemed a turncoat (one that forgets her origins). But if she should choose, instead to mimic and perform her own ethnicity in her work—that is, to respond to the hailing ‘Hey, you!’ that is issued from various directions in the outside world—she would still be considered a turncoat, this time because she is too eagerly pandering to the orientalist tastes of Westerners. Her only viable option seems to be that of reproducing a specific version of herself—and her ethnicity—that has, somehow, already been endorsed and approved by the specialists of her culture. It is at this juncture that coercive mimeticism acquires additional significance as an institutionalized mechanism of knowledge production and dissemination, the point of which is to manage a non-Western ethnicity through the disciplinary promulgation of the supposed difference of its literary and cultural tradition (117).</blockquote>
Similarly, Vassar Kaiwar writes in the essay “What is Postcolonial Orientalism and Why Does it Matter?” (2010), critiquing academic subaltern and postcolonial studies apolitical positioning:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
One becomes, by default, a living representative of one’s community, either properly authentic—which in the immigrant context of the USA means advocating the stock positions of postcolonial studies, including notions of hybridity, in-betweenness, place-based specificity, untranslatable into any higher terms of political solidarity—or somehow inauthentic to the extent that one still thinks in terms of structural contradictions, and the terms that are now derided as defunct and passé.</blockquote>
So this is the rock and the hard place the “ethnic” navigates and perhaps hopes to not to get hopelessly trapped in between (haha). There exists a consistent possibility for both self-betrayal and self-exotification, and for either mistake the ethnic critic/writer will be scrutinized.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But in feminist narratives, or a certain kind of feminist narrative (I suppose I’m implying whiteness), doubling is even more interesting when paired with boredom. The everyday life of a feminized person can be dragged out into infinity. I feel my complaint rising, and wonder if it is interiorized misogyny. I love this writing but I am too torn apart to take a bath. In the shower I make the water run as hot as possible. I rub the dirt off my skin and remember the intimacy of going to the neighborhood bathhouse with my grandmother. She would scrub my back and it was always surprisingly dirty. I would scrub her back in return, her back seemed spare and odd. Like a nun.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Resentment makes one ugly, that’s a recurring motif in <i>Heroine</i>. The speaker strives to be beautiful, but resentment is built into her position, into the power plays between so-called comrades, and resentment happens because she is attuned to things, and makes herself vulnerable to them. In the process, she gets hurt, and then resentful. The beauty she wants is a fantasy; she projects confidence onto other women. Her sensitivity to this confidence is not exactly a lack in herself, but an understanding of how her qualities become undermined, skewed by attempts at male attention. That is, her confidence is displaced and replaced with a different object.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
But am I resentful of her ability to write resentment? Her resentment confirms small moments of unhappiness at parties, or in moments of a fading romantic connection within the context of an incestuous political scene or art community. It confirms the abject realness of those moments and links them up into a chain of affect. At the very same time, these other chains of affect appear as shadows, the ones that cannot be aestheticized to be ugly-beautiful.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
I might have a political stake in insisting that some of these chains should not be aestheticized in such a direct way. I want to think through experience with troubled, not easy relation to representation. I want to be very clear that representation is not an end goal, and not even a particular effective means towards the things I want to see happen in the world. I keep writing into anonymous projects, but this too is not really point. The world doesn’t have room for the kind of existence I want. What I want will sound too utopian, too post-human to spell out. Does it matter? For now, political commitments remain in the real space of pushing up against the bare limits for what we find ourselves dealing with—so often that real is very brutal and contorts us with the absence of the people we need, the basic material needs, access to life.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
Dear—,</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I keep wondering if it is enough to be aware of one’s complicity, and to treat this performance of awareness as a critique that is adequate. I keep wondering about the figure of the Black tourist in <i>Heroine</i>. When he finally speaks, we still hear it from the speaker’s point of view: “The Black tourist says: ‘You tell me: How would you treat me in a novel? Among other things, I bet at every mention you’d state my colour” (78). His engagement in the text still serves to bring the narrative back to her novel in progress. He exists as a kind of zero in the text, a visual figure that represent both radical negation and distance. He is a perspective point. He is a built in critique that puts into relief the politics of the F-group, their gaping blind spot. But this is mostly utilized to bolster the much more fleshed out critique of their gender and class politics as they are lived in everyday life. They are perhaps so segregated that one assumes whiteness as a unifying and universal basis. After all, national liberation may not include immigrants, the ethnics, and indigenous peoples. But as “revolutionaries” they are interested in white people from other countries who share a condition of the oppression of the left.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
Dear—,</div>
<div>
<br />
“It was a stupid thing to say. But I was trying to control the darkness so I wouldn’t do something terrible” (26).</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
There is a great desire to weaponize language, because it is so effectively utilized and manipulated and gendered, it seems right to get revenge. But with great desire comes risk. What I mean is</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
Cathexis: my own sticky spot has become this figure of the white woman artist. I can’t be her. I don’t want to be her. It’s a secret shame because I think it is facile and beyond my politics. But that’s how jealousy and resentment work.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
You see what I mean when I say it is dangerous to get too caught up in your resentment, you give power to it—you absolve your own work and life of serious questions.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
But maybe it is in part, that resentment, and the recurring embarrassment that helps drive me away from myself. A necessary thing to begin. Even if later you say: look how far I am from my site of resentment!</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Dear—,</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
But then again, things like this keep happening:</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
at a poetry reading a white woman asked me to get a glass of wine for her, the room was crowded but also clearing out, i was closer to the table by about three ft</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
“if i pass you my glass can you pour me some of the pink wine” she said and i looked at her blankly</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
“pink wine?” i stared at the table like i couldn’t fathom wtf pink wine could possibly mean in this context</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
long pause</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
she stared at me and said “never mind, i will get it myself”</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
“sorry” i said and shrugged, like i had developed an inability to pour pink wine, but had made peace with that and was totally ok with never doing it again</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
Dear—,</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
I’m over-reading another micro-aggression. Discussion of micro-aggressions and the focus on them can be a kind of class indicator, to align oneself with more life and death oppression, without necessarily sharing the same risks. (Like that entire story is about wine).</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
Or maybe it is a rhetorical strategy to talk about but around the shadow stories. The other stories, the shadow stories weigh on me here. There are stories I have no right to write, but they bear on my life nonetheless, through proximity of pain, fear, imprisonment, death, injury, and betrayals I cannot fathom</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
The moment stuck with me, not just because it was a moment of putting me in my place, but because it really heightened the way the entire room felt. For all the talk of poetry community and its openness, the room was very overwhelming white and the readers were overwhelmingly white. This was at the East Bay Poetry Summit. Subsequent narrativizing of the incident, which involved me laughing about it had my friends asking me “Who was it? Can you remember?” Which seemed to me a little beside the point. I even felt ambivalent about their show of support. What I was trying to indicate was my ambivalence about being in that room, even with all these people I thought I could trust, also mingling and drinking the pink wine. But this is how relationships go sour, instead of directly communicating this (for what reason, with what demand?), I continue to tell you these stories with a dash of wry humor to take some of the edge off. The ambivalence is also about what is built around that room, who its keeps out and under what circumstances that room is meant to be soothing, psychically un-painful and sheltering.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
Later I conclude it is better not to pay too much attention to this room over many other rooms. Yet, I might be upset if there are chilling effects to not paying attention to the room. Resentment might be about the desire to have it both ways.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
Dear—,</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
I’ve fallen again into the loop of describing scene politics. I wish I could stop doing that, but reading <i>Heroine</i> made me remember it all. The communist-anarchist political scene was a kind of home, into which I was ushered in and inaugurated by sexual violence. My involvement in interventions into the poetry scene also seem to consistently be about gendered violence.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Many of the political people I met are poets, and some of the poets come over to the political meetings and street demos. There continues to be cross pollination, and as the politics died down, the poets had many political things to say. But again I feel a kind of ugly resentment. Some of them were not around very much, but they describe events like they were in the thick of it. These descriptions are romantic, they aren’t dragged down with skepticism and sorrow, but the joy does not seem precise enough either. Our joy relies on illegality, and to some extent, destruction. And the destruction doesn’t only occur in the thick of things but continues to unravel in the days when less people are watching.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
I don’t want to fetishize the joy part. Comrades go to prison. People break down. The joy is in spite of this. Because we are already being destroyed. But I want care to resonate as well. Care: long term support and mutual aid to each other. Not in opposition to destruction, blockades, and other ‘adventurist’ actions, but continuous and parallel with these actions and ways of being. The shared intimacy of these actions and care cannot be ignored, they inform and conspire together. Thinking and planning around care, or reproduction of ourselves, is also a way out of a nostalgic relationship to real events. When do work through the aftermath, and must continue into a kind of futurity (not necessarily a stable, but futurity with room for contingency and change).</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
The weight of wanting this intimacy between action and care often gets translated into or appears as exhaustion. In <i>Heroine</i>, the speaker seeks both romantic love and collective solidarity but finds blocked entrances at every turn:</div>
</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
We’re not scared. Just exhausted from wanting to change the world and have love too. Anyway, a heroine can be sad, distressed, it just has to be in a social context. That way she doesn’t feel sorrier for herself than for the others. We’re all smarting from retreat. Two steps forward, one step back. The trick is to keep looking towards the future thus cancelling out nostalgia (84).</blockquote>
In her present moment, writing the heroine is the narrator’s access to futurity. She feels betrayed by other women almost as much as she feels betrayed by her male lovers. She is alone in the bath, and dealing with her pain mostly alone or with a therapist. There’s that wry sense that the insistence of the group over the individual may simply mean the isolation and abandonment of the individual. Attention drawn to mishaps takes on a collective sense of failure, the shared fate of accomplices, and that this collective model of might point to a future that “cancels out” a wounded attachment to the past.<br />
<br />
During the aftermath of the sexual assault which inaugurated my entrance into the radical scene, a group of future comrades and some that I already knew, many who knew and had been friendly with the perpetrator, worked on a letter to him to listing their grievances. The decision to write this statement had been decided either during or soon after a very confusing and awkward meeting I had with the group, during which I had to recount the story to a group of mostly strangers, and someone asked me if I wanted a “support group centered on the survivor,” and most of the meeting was a discussion of his patterns of his behavior and psychology. The letter was a placeholder and midpoint between doing nothing, and pursuing some kind of revenge. As it happens, sometimes the placeholder becomes the thing itself. I decided to stop attending the meetings and was assigned a liaison who would check in with me. After many weeks and several meetings with the liaison, during which I stressed my desire for a collective response (not just a letter), that is, a real change in the gender dynamics in the scene moving forward—I was sent a draft of the letter.<br />
<br />
But how had I stressed that desire for a collective response? And to what ends? Was it ultimately interpreted that I cared more about their political scene than my well-being? What I meant was that my well-being seemed now, against my will, to have interwoven destiny with the collective response of the scene.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
I read the letter. I read it several times and the letters blurred. I didn’t cry. But reading was hard. I didn’t find what I was looking for, and it became immediately clear in its absence that I was looking. I was hungry and looking for food. Finally, I had to ask them to say something about the impact of his actions on “the survivor’s life.” The letter was mostly about how his actions really impacted them as a group, their ability to organize with women of color, etc. I signed the letter, already feeling sorry for making them edit the thing after so much effort. Later, my own sorry feeling came back to haunt me, to be the seed of resentment.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Yes, the comrades had worked hard.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Yes, I still felt resentment.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
It was the feminist comrades that allowed me my resentment, didn’t let me drown in it. I learned kindness and care. I learned paranoia. I heard so much gossip that I wanted to vomit, as if I experienced a kind of vertigo from seeing things too quickly. Everything took on the appearance of bruises. We dyed our hair together and ate noodles from the Chinese restaurant below my apartment, the one that the perpetrator told me our comrades went to after the riot. I was living in his apartment; I had taken over the lease. I lived there the whole year and tried to fill it with different memories, different affect. In the feminist friends I was looking for heroines who did not represent futurity, but cancelled out the past’s constant return with their present support.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
I don’t want to over idealize this part either, as the years passed, there would be many times that the comradery and trust I put in feminists would be betrayed, sometimes in crushing ways. Waking up with bruises on my face where her hand had made contact. I would learn new resentments, and at the same time these moments opened up new forms of contact. Each time I was injured and filled with resentment I tried to find hidden chambers, and eagerly I would allow the meeting of strangers to lean again toward friendship, though at the same time the sealed off chambers also grew into their own vast kingdom covered in a terrible mist.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
Dear—,</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
It’s not that the complaints aren’t real, but do they fulfill a genre expectation, a gendered expectation, a racialized expectation, to be such an individual who embodies self-respect they must be buoyed by complaint. Some people are allowed to not complain and their words are allowed to stay still for long time on their own legs. Sometimes a complaint will come along and kick those legs.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
The complaints are real. I wanted stop speaking for a while and wait until finally the words came to me, wading through the texts, scanning history, parsing the decisions. I want to point at the invisible spot on the film we have been watching all along. I want to project the film into some weary possibility, hidden marshlands and seascapes at night that refuse to speak. My hands want to grip the complaint; my eyes fill up instead with the burst of sidewalk glass.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Let me be unpeaceful.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
Lobna msgs me, saying I made her cry with some words, in the middle of Cairo traffic.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
“But I love you.”</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
And look, that’s my unpeace that finds some stillness in me.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
Dear—,</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I needed an addressee. Virgil, Melissa, and I talked this morning about our writing habits and the importance of having an audience or a clear addressee. The importance of an audience is very palpable in politics too. This leads some to comment on the performativity of political acts, sometimes towards gains in an individual’s or a group’s social capital. <i>Heroine</i> certainly contains this critique. From the very beginning of the text, the narrator tells us about the middle-class comrades who dress up as sex workers to be in “solidarity” against their criminalization. Meanwhile, they are simultaneously flirting with the radical men in the bar.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It’s hard not to cringe while reading this book.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
It seemed right, writing into a space that would make me cringe. I want that cringe to be more than a kind of recognition of complicity. When we address someone or an audience, what do we want to see happen? I think about the problems of empathy, of reproducing a subject position, with all the weird details of a life or an event that can’t possibly translate. A text can fail when it fails to transmit. A letter can fail when it doesn’t know who it is addressed to.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
Dear—,</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
What is the difficulty of writing, in the absence of communities of care, or how can you find your “affinity group” when you feel alienated? How do you write for an audience that doesn’t quite exist yet, or is no longer present?</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
How to break out of the traumatic loop?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
How to write in and out of the traumatic loop?</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
How can there be new collective bonds, which don’t just replicate the loop?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
How can the loop become exploratory? How can the loop contaminate, and rove wildly?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
Experiment (with other people)—</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
1) Rewrite your biography, the story of yourself that you tell yourself, or to others</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
2) Write the biography of the desired space of future collectivity, or a space where your rewritten self could live</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
3) Share/exchange these writings, pick one</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
4) Find ways to take care of the writing, its contents, questions, body, and narrative—whatever that might mean</div>
<div>
</div>
</div>
<div>
</div>
</div>
<div>
</div>
</div>
<div>
</div>
</div>
<div>
</div>
</div>
Brian Anghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03733133032013585813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4074719566651397000.post-85217756082220588282017-04-19T09:11:00.000-07:002017-04-19T09:11:31.413-07:00Mg Roberts, a zeppelin, a blossom<table border="0" style="width: 525px;">
<tbody>
<tr>
<td>i want to belong, to never belong<br />
to orient is always to suffer<br />
in corrosive regression rusting through us<br />
rusting audience as transparent as water<br />
I mean smoke<br />
always smolders white<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
i want to begin, to never begin</div>
<div>
hold thumb to set evasion in upward or downward direction</div>
<div>
see FAQ map</div>
<div>
wet limbs, cut and flung into a ditch like pieces of sky</div>
<div>
the innocence of a racial faux pas you overhear</div>
<div>
repeat</div>
</div>
<div style="padding-left: 20em;">
trade wet for dry barometers</div>
<div>
<div>
stolen geography, stolen tense</div>
<div>
metal pressured in earth concealed in threshold</div>
<div>
apology bruising</div>
<div>
some blossoms don’t get to: reappear</div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
i want to forgive, to never forgive</div>
<div>
minerals pressurize under earth</div>
<div>
<i>does a tree fall in the forest</i> surrounded by blossoms and or limbs?</div>
<div>
flight-summoned you appear with activated wings</div>
<div>
all scale & boneslick</div>
<div>
you are at the center of blossoms</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
apple-picker, lung breather, coffee-drinker:</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
asp</div>
<div style="text-align: right;">
<br /></div>
<div style="padding-left: 12em;">
is this about tending to the room or the orchard?<br />
a wet garden with the twinkle of toxic metals in peripheries, a<br />
place where one day a loft will grow or something like this
</div>
<div>
<br />
the shine of feathers<br />
a seed planted in mica light<br />
all this talk of violence</div>
<div style="padding-left: 12em;">
hot air
</div>
<div>
<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="padding-left: 20em;">
the cry of something pressing into skin<br />
undermined wing & breastbone ache<br />
take flight in codes rewritten</div>
<div>
<br />
<br />
i want to believe, not to believe<br />
is this a game?<br />
verbs rise in tones<br />
some blossoms don’t somatize<br />
cells & webs hold fast to the function of organs<br />
the narrowing through the function of “or”<br />
all the ways to dislodge insistence</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div style="padding-left: 20em;">
if you move your body you can change the<br />
shadows<br />
atoms breathe<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="padding-left: 27em;">
scatter light</div>
<div>
what else to witness for wolves?<br />
meme as distance, meme of song<br />
snakes write everywhere<br />
click here to strike from a distance<br />
a thumb, a name, a vertebra<br />
aggression, daylight, territory, extermination</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="padding-left: 20em;">
failed gardeners dig, failed headlines are<br />
written everywhere<br />
<br /></div>
<div>
watery lines in our lined mouths line me branches<br />
through user-generated keywords<br />
<br />
i want to imagine a space in which this is possible: forgiveness</div>
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Brian Anghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03733133032013585813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4074719566651397000.post-11873933103964880472017-04-18T08:36:00.000-07:002017-04-18T08:41:38.006-07:00Robert Andrew Perez, On Productive Ambivalence, Or Liminality, Or 27 Notes on Butch Kween Poetics<div class="tr_bq">
As I muse on (American) gay poetics and anti-racist poetry in an era that Brian Ang so astutely conceptualizes as <i>post-crisis</i>, that is post the 2008 economic crisis, I couldn’t help but interrogate how—or whether or not—I engage queer identity and anti-racism in my own writing. I began to ideate about this topic last week while I was concurrently in the throes of planning my Folsom Street Fair look/lewk/lqqk. Regarding my outfit, I was filled with, not an anxiety exactly, but an ambivalence around how I wanted to present gender-wise. I had bought a gold lamé dress and had barely dipped into my drawer full of virtually unused make-up for drag, yet conversely a part of me wanted to engage in a hyper-masculine version of myself, too. I desired to be pretty but this was complicated by my desire to be desired, which, is tied to a gay community that largely champions certain antiquated notions of masculinity we’ve been gifted by dominant culture. In this ambivalence, I was constantly unsettled by my cis-privilege (for instance, I can make these decisions about my gender presentation and remain relatively safe) and was beholden to the social insistence that masc(ulinity) makes one hotter; I couldn’t disentangle my competing impulses from toxic programming. The leather fest in astounding ways challenges and reimagines many of these social systems and opportunes stages for a variety of subcultures that push back on them, but in ways the kink community is still a very white community, so add on top of this waffling of markers of gender my stereotype threat (the fear a member of a certain social group has that he or she is fulfilling a stereotype of that group). By feminizing myself, was I de-sexualizing myself thus enacting the role of a submissive Asian man or Asian man devoid of sexual potency? Don’t I have to be extra-masculine to read as having any masculinity (white mediocrity)? How is this stereotype refigured for Filipino gay men? These calculations, though intensified by Folsom, are always present. They keep my identity, my consciousness, in a liminal flux. I am always between things.</div>
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Of course, then, my poetics are informed by my daily psychic negotiations with culture. My book, <i>the field</i>, opens with this poem:<br />
<blockquote>
erasure</blockquote>
<blockquote>
my friends are writing poems for/about their kids, and here i am<br />
still writing about fucking guys and fucking losing guys and fucking<br />
loser guys and fucking loose guys, fucking losing loose, loser<br />
guys. i do write about milk, but not breast milk. i’m more like</blockquote>
<blockquote>
that dancing milk carton from the coffee and tv music video—at the end<br />
i float to heaven with a strawberry milk carton, underscored by organ<br />
music, except it’s hell. pre-fire, that is to say before the kiln, the shape<br />
of the vase fully formed. formed fully and undone, my state, figuratively,</blockquote>
<blockquote>
is pre-fire. i carry the threat of combustion; all i need is sapphire.<br />
let’s think back to seeing nicole richie in a papasan in the westwood<br />
urban outfitters. she corroborates my impulse to buy a blue jacket<br />
i’ll never wear, but in that moment i feel the burn of stardom. no one</blockquote>
<blockquote>
knows me or nicole anymore. the preeminent callipygian, kim kardashian,<br />
smatters minstrelsy on paper. destiny’s progeny has a name for this:<br />
jelly. we eat pulverized bone because purple is a flavor and grape is never<br />
funny. with everything falling apart, why can’t the monolith of patriarchy?</blockquote>
<blockquote>
just because i care, i can never write a good poem for womyn. i watch<br />
shonda rimes because i care about race and gender. because i love soap.<br />
to drop it. before i knew erasure did it first, i assumed wheatus wrote<br />
the lines: <i>i try to discover a little something to make me sweeter.</i></blockquote>
<blockquote>
<i>oh baby refrain from breaking my heart.</i> anything successfully invisible is<br />
also indelible. therefore i love him not. something partly loved, then,<br />
is able to be smeared and eventually wiped clean away. the children<br />
i never have and the poems i never write, therefore, i fully love them.</blockquote>
<div>
<div>
My poetry often lacks the vestiges of poetry that tackle race and queerness head-on, but race and sexuality is something that the speaker in this first poem is preoccupied with in his betweenness—between guys, between failure and potential, between student loan payments, between the trivial and the not-so-trivial. The speaker dies, goes to heaven which is hell, and hell is earth, so he never really dies—purgatory, the original liminal space. The speaker bemoans his romantic life and lack of success which spirals into his resentment for the patriarchy. It’s glib and dim, but there’s a hopefulness there. Watching television helmed by women of color provides the speaker with hope. Admission of failure engenders potential, breeds resiliency.</div>
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Some of the worst poems I’ve written were when I was trying to say something about race and/or sexuality; I think I sounded too didactic or preachy or jargonistic for my aesthetic. That is not to say there isn’t room in my writing or reading practice for discursive impulses, rather I recognize a failure in myself to be artful the moments I succumb to the seductive trappings of discourse. I believe it’s just a matter of tempering these impulses with strangeness that defamiliarizes the language—to make the truth ring louder by alienating it from a dull and safe semantic casing. For instance, Chris Nealon’s <i>Heteronomy</i> is a testament to one way of estrangement, with its digressive, essayistic limber lyricism. He writes in a newer poem, You Surround Me, featured on PEN America:</div>
</div>
<div style="padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;">
<blockquote>
To feel surrounded – to be shot through –</blockquote>
<blockquote>
Freud called it paranoia: fear that all the labor of the making of your unitary body could be undone</blockquote>
<blockquote>
Undone by the river of desire – “river” here in general meaning homosexuality –</blockquote>
<blockquote>
That was 1922</blockquote>
<blockquote>
By 1968 Guy Hocquenghem is having none of it – homosexuals aren’t paranoid, queerness is relief from paranoia – from the fear of not being normal,</blockquote>
<blockquote>
It’s waving not drowning,</blockquote>
<blockquote>
And it prefigures the undoing of hetero and homo both– perversion universal – the end of capital</blockquote>
<blockquote>
That was 1968</blockquote>
<blockquote>
But the jokes are still funny – “No one ever threatens to take away your anus” –</blockquote>
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<div>
See how his intellect dances and how pop culture, chatter and theory rub up against each other? This is also liminal poetry.<br />
<br />
Which brings us back to the question of gender. I learned a phrase this past year that resonates with me: Butch Queen/Kween. The origin of the phrase can be traced to Ball Culture (competitive black queer drag houses) as far back as the 60s and has colloquially evolved to mean a gay man who represents both masculine and feminine simultaneously or more masculine or more feminine from moment to moment. I believe there is an elasticity to the term that extends this to more gender queer and trans individuals than just gay men. So the question is: what is a gay poetry that is adequate to the present (post-viral video, post-police body camera, post-drone, post-Pulse night club)? I believe the hope is nested, braided into this notion of Butch Kweendom. Why is this distinction—gay poetry as opposed to Butch Kween Poetry—important? Because Mark Doty can’t turn off his orientalist impulses without kicking and screaming. Because trans folk of color experience violence at horrifically disproportionate rates. Because Black Americans are murdered by the state. Because we need a new gay poetry that rejects the whiteness it has historically favored and refigures its middling queerness.<br />
<br />
____________________<br />
<br />
The Butch Kweendom is intersectional.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<div>
The Butch Kween Poet knows that liminality is the lifeblood of the poet, like most poets should know, but knows liminality intimately as a daily practice. The BKP knows poetry is upper limit music and lower limit speech. The BKP knows how to text with emojis. That texting is upper limit speech, lower limit prose. Texting is cousin/cuzzin to poetry.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The Butch Kween Poet knows to have a body is to know betrayal.</div>
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The Butch Kween Poet is concerned with the body but like many poets insistent on its dematerialization. The disembodied voice is a hope, an aim for the speaker in Butch Kween Poetics. However, the Butch Kween Poet knows that the poetics of disembodiment is the poetics of privilege because the Butch Kween is interpellated, hailed.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<div>
The Butch Kween Poet knows repressive apparatuses. The Butch Kween Poet knows institutional apparatuses. The Butch Kween Poet is a bad subject. The Butch Kween Poet sees the state. Spits in his face.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The Butch Kween Poet is barred from the Academy. Or the BPK was born and thus expelled from the Academy.</div>
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<br /></div>
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<div>
Butch Kween Poet knows she’s abject. Knowledge of that abjection is a consciousness that empowers her.</div>
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The Butch Kween Poet can be discursive without falling into its traps. The BKP is always political. She’s nasty.</div>
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One cannot alienate or disassociate the racial valences of Butch Kweendom from the Butch Kween Poet.</div>
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It is yet to be determined that a Butch Kween can be white but she rejects whiteness. Traditional gay poetics harbor the orientalist and traffic in the fetishism of bodies of color. The BKP has no time for that.</div>
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The BPK has no time for Kenneth Goldsmith.</div>
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The Butch Kween enters a white space to contaminate it with fabulousness. The discomfort is tea, is a mirror held up to whiteness. Rob Halpern might say the Butch Kween Poet makes the secrecy of private life perceptible to make the secrecy of state violence perceptible.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Darrian Wesley is a Butch Kween Poet. Read this Butch Kween Poet’s poem, Butch Queen Shade:</div>
<div>
<blockquote>
Forthrightly, I could not risk missing<br />
another flight home from ATL after<br />
the unofficial pride weekend so I made<br />
my cheeks clap clutch as a tucked BBC</blockquote>
<blockquote>
until boarding time. Every fasting bottom<br />
gets hungry after deep south dick. Those<br />
pounds of candied yams and fatback<br />
collards that didn’t stick to my bones made</blockquote>
<blockquote>
my bowels fleet like a draining pot<br />
of macaroni. I got on the plane timely,<br />
carryon strapped, with Group C while a first<br />
flight eye witness steward was fracturing ice</blockquote>
<blockquote>
with a coke bottle. We’ve all interrupted<br />
that religion with the imminent career<br />
question, “Where’s the bathroom?” That Butch<br />
Queen’s dagger eyes drew, voice rumbled:</blockquote>
<blockquote>
“To the left. Hurry-up. We can’t take off<br />
until you’re out.” I know enough not to<br />
drop a bomb before the flight takes off.<br />
But I dropped one anyway. Yes, and flushed two</blockquote>
<blockquote>
times to signify I was not shitting around<br />
with anyone’s ego. I synchronized<br />
my hands in soapy water like a Pentecostal<br />
preacher before communion, left the lid up</blockquote>
<blockquote>
and shantey-sashayed to my first class seat<br />
so all but me could smell my Soul Food cooking.</blockquote>
</div>
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The Butch Kween Poet is a soothsayer. Phillip B. Williams is a Butch Kween Poet. This BKP wrote:</div>
<div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
What we don’t like we consider<br />
an intrusion in our life. [Such is skin],<br />
no place for a boy to go, strange culture<br />
that takes our sons. Let it kill him.</blockquote>
</div>
<div>
There are Butch Kween Poets awakening (woking) all the time like slayers.</div>
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<br /></div>
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Langston Hughes was a proto-Butch Kween Poet.</div>
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Women can be Butch Kween Poets.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The Butch Kween Poet might be poor. Might have student loans. Despises neoliberalism.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The Butch Kween Poet of color knows white supremacy enacts violence over non-black POC differently than it does black folks. The BPK sees anti-blackness and stamps it out.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The Butch Kween Poet is between states. She straddles barriers. The dreamscape is a liminality (to be woke is to once dream). The psychedelic trip is a liminality. Being mixed-race is a liminality. Being an immigrant is a liminality.</div>
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<br /></div>
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The Butch Kween Poet knows identity is iterative. Gender is performative. The Butch Kween has read Judith Butler or at least knows heterosexuality presupposes homosexuality.</div>
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The Butch Kween Poet may have lived outside of America, therefore can see America for what it is. The truth is the BKP is always outside America because she has been dispossessed by America. The Butch Kween Poet is also a colonized subject.</div>
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The Butch Kween Poet has been discriminated against on Grindr. The BKP is too fat. Too fem. Black. Asian. Latino. Combinations thereof.</div>
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The Butch Kween Poet contains multitudes, but knows though an abolitionist Walt Whitman was definitely still racist af. She sees his democratic-vistas-ass. #next</div>
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The Butch Kween Poet knows the golden girls. The girls of Set It Off. The girls of Steel Magnolias. Both versions. She knows all the girls she is and the girls she’s been denied to be.</div>
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The Butch Kween Poet is a codeswitcher. Butch Kween Poetry can move between registers. The BKP is dualistic.</div>
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Dematerialize the body. Body jump. Live in the body. Die in the body. The Butch Kween Poet’s body is always in emergence.</div>
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____________________</div>
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<br /></div>
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This list is ongoing, perpetually in negotiations. It isn’t a manifesto, it’s a byproduct of middle being, being in the middle. It is a list necessarily changeable.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div>
Don’t we deserve a gay poetics that acknowledges the daily traumas the queer body of color endures? A poetics that problematizes the psychic and physical violences the queer body has to navigate around/through that traditional gay poetics tacitly disavows? Butch Kween Poetics as I’ve started to conceptualize here is a space in which the troubled gay writer of color can reassemble subjectivity in a tradition that has been predominantly cis-white. The Butch Kween Poet was killed in Orlando and wrote about that death. What if we had a poetics that acknowledged the body’s corporeal limitations only to vanquish them with ferocity? Read: a poetics that slays, henny.</div>
Brian Anghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03733133032013585813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4074719566651397000.post-49509924068448964052017-04-17T09:28:00.000-07:002017-04-17T09:28:12.869-07:00Chris Nealon, The Matter of Capital in 2016I think what’s struck me most about poetry and capitalism since I published <i>The Matter of Capital</i> in 2011 is how much more explicitly anti-capitalist poetry has been published in the last five years. Also, of course, we’ve had five years to deepen our understanding of the global coordinates of capitalist crisis, as well as the way long histories of racial exploitation and colonialism continue to shape the trajectory of capital down to this day. There has been a wave of exciting new scholarship on these questions. And of course there have been fresh waves of struggle since 2011, too.<br />
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Just to start at random – five years ago we didn’t yet know how to say “undercommons.” There was no Commune Editions, which has since published a range of great anti-capitalist work, and received wide notice. There was no <i>Citizen</i> – not itself an anti-capitalist book, but one that expands Claudia Rankine’s study of media spectacle and racial violence in <i>Don’t Let Me Be Lonely</i> to include the trope of the micro-aggression – which to me, at least, allows us to think about how day-to-day life exists in immediate proximity to deep histories of capitalism’s manipulation of race. The pushback against police violence and the prison-industrial complex, meanwhile, has been accompanied by a new round of scholarship linking early American capitalism to the profitability of slavery. Whatever the limits of this scholarship (of neglecting earlier work on this question, or of not quite grasping the specific dynamics of capital), it has given students of the history of American capitalism much to work with, as we try to make more emphatic and historically grounded connections between the histories of racism and of capitalist accumulation.</div>
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Then there’s just the sheer number of poetry books published since 2011 or so, across a range of styles and left political orientations, that have turned explicitly to the destructiveness of capitalism. I have hardly been able to keep up! There are books by well-known writers like Rae Armantrout’s <i>Money Shot</i>; or books by emerging writers like Sandra Simonds, whose <i>Steal it Back</i> has several masterpieces in it. Then there’s something else, a whole sea-change that allows certain fleeting gestures to appear in a poem and be legible as part of lyrical speech, for instance. Just the other day I was reading a poem online at PEN America by Alli Warren, called “Scrambled Eggs,” and came across this cluster of lines:</div>
<div>
<blockquote>
The earth bows under no geographic surveillance</blockquote>
<blockquote>
Unemployment is built into the fabric of the wage relation</blockquote>
<blockquote>
Flyknit health core, green juice purgatory</blockquote>
I love this little run of lines (as I love the poem as a whole). Their contemporaneity, if you want to call it that, is interesting, too. The movement from line to line is downstream from the “new sentence” of the language writers, of course – where “the new sentence” was “new” partly because of the associative variety a ways sentences could move from one to the next. You see it here especially in the way the metaphorical “fabric of the wage relation” gets literally realized in the “flyknit” of the latest Nike shoe construction technology. But there are a few things here that I rarely saw in the new sentence of yore – the unabashed romanticism of the first line, and the unconcerned with ironic torqueing in the second. The candor of those lines is part of another sea-change in post-crisis poetry, in which avant-gardist techniques are no longer seen as necessarily anti-capitalist, even as they remain in affectionate, enthusiastic use in anti-capitalist poetry. But the very 80s “critique of the subject,” along with a critique of romanticism that the language writers shared with much more conservative writers – this has fallen away.<br />
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I can also say that my own understanding of capitalist crisis has deepened since I wrote <i>The Matter of Capital</i>. I’ve heard it said that that book “isn’t Marxist,” and I think I understand what that means – I quite deliberately kept my frame of reference centered on a reading of how poets thought about capitalism, remaining largely descriptive – I really just wanted to point out that there had been a long and persistent tradition of writing poetry about capital, one that had gone un-named. I kept the further task of asking whether poets’ sense of capitalist crises matched up with a Marxist one off the table. So there is no Marxist analysis of crises of accumulation in my book. But in the meantime, I’ve been lucky to read around in classic and recent scholarship on just this question, and am glad to be able to pass on whole syllabi to others, now, who are getting up to speed. The excellent books and articles are too many to name, but I would say that I find it most productive to read and write out of a triangle formed by 1) histories of capitalism in a Brennerian vein, including histories of the recent past that lay emphasis on the possibility of a secular stagnation in capital’s ability to expand; 2) value-theoretical writing that supplements the Brennerian mode with a study of the challenges to value-production, with the abstraction amped up just enough for us to see commonalities across different national capitalisms; and 3) feminist and anti-racist scholarship that re-opens the question of the relation between capitalist accumulation and older or other modes of social reproduction. Twisting the dial among these overlapping bodies of scholarship – especially in reading with friends and students – has helped me develop the beginnings of a picture of capitalist history that doesn’t fall prey to the stark either-ors (either theory or history; either “class” or “identity”) that bogged down anti-capitalist thinking in the past. I am hopeful that a generation of us (or, really, a generation younger than me) will get the word out about this more historically capacious, factually accurate, and politically flexible way of studying and opposing capitalism.<br />
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A final note – I was on a poetics panel at the MLA in Vancouver in January 2015 with two fantastic scholars, Joel Nickels and Margaret Ronda, and as soon as we finished presenting, the conversation with the audience – composed largely of very young people – kicked off with questions about Giovanni Arrighi’s <i>The Long Twentieth Century</i>, as though it were perfectly normal to think about poetic history and poetic form alongside detailed histories of the ebb and flow of capitalist accumulation. We’ve come a long way!</div>
Brian Anghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03733133032013585813noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4074719566651397000.post-68457148170470571132017-04-16T07:57:00.000-07:002017-04-16T07:57:13.606-07:00T.C. Marshall, A Secret Agent, a Spaceman, & a Talking Bear: A Theory of Doubling the Stakes in Poetry“ONLY YOU,” is boldly printed there above a drawing of a bear dressed like Smokey; beneath the picture, it continues: “CAN RESIST FASCIST LIARS.” Maybe you saw John Weir’s cartoon putting new words in a bear’s mouth. If you look closely at it, you see that the name on the hatband is “Wokey” not “Smokey”; this must be his cousin, awakened, and she is calling on us to awake.<br />
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We have entered a new era of resistance. From marches to postcards to interruptive demonstrations, some slumbering giant has awakened and made the middle class take up tools they haven’t handled for awhile. Smokey’s mattock has met Wokey’s wild words. The crisis is with us. The money has pushed us up against the walls of our lives, and given us common purpose.<br />
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THE QUESTIONS</div>
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What do we, the poets, do for this moment? If we check our tools, what do we see at the ready? The words (and their friends the spaces) can raise an image, evoke characters, tell a story, suggest a thought, shape a mask, carry info, stir a feeling, make pattern & variation show, or play a rhythm for ear or body. We can make truth dance or raise a devil and slap him down. We can express ourselves and our community in image, song, or drama, in impersonization or abstract thinking, in analysis or evocation.</div>
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Our aesthetics drive us, but how far can they go? Knowing our tools and our goals gives us impetus, but what limits us? Why can’t all the world hear? Do we swell only the same old crowd? Where is the impasse? Can the middle-class listen beyond its historical addiction to sempiternal sincerities of truth and beauty? Are our newly awakened allies “capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason”? Can we work with the energy of tensions instead of the certainty of resolutions? Can you get to “the Undercommons” from here, and who is there when you get there? These pressing questions push for a critical look at the aesthetic, and some place from which to take that look.</div>
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THE SITUATION</div>
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We live and work in what one French guy has called “the aesthetic regime.” This is the regimen of rules and expectations for art that is focused on and thru “the aesthetic.” Right there, the word “aesthetic” gets historicized and rescued from the blandness of including all art and the tastes of all times. It is not just a term for the artsy but a term with a specific social history, erased or blurred by the blurring of the word.</div>
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It might help us to see this if we use the term “aesthetic art” to remind us that not all art has been or will be “aesthetic.” That French guy, Jacques Rancière, has provided us with an abstract history of how the aesthetic concept freed art to do new things beyond the previous representational mimetic framework. In the same recent decades, Englishman Terry Eagleton provided an analysis of the big guy thinkers of the last couple of centuries and showed the aesthetic basis of their major concepts. Both of these historicizations help show how aesthetic art may already be unfolding into something else.</div>
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The aesthetic asks certain things of its artists and audiences with which we are all familiar. Because it was derived from a regime in which art made models for following The Good (Rancière’s “representational regime”), it adapted what had been in vogue then toward the new bourgeois vogue focusing on the individual and on the freedom and responsibility to shape one’s worldview. This freedom was opened to the artist by partly lifting the responsibility to reflect the world “as it is.” </div>
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THE HISTORY</div>
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“The aesthetic regime of the arts,” Jacques Rancière tells us in his book on <i>The Politics of the Aesthetic</i>, “did not begin with decisions to initiate an artistic rupture. It began with decisions to reinterpret what makes art or what art makes” (20). Rancière’s historicization of the aesthetic begins there and shows us how the shift from a previous regime of mimetic representation could happen. What made art before, in that old regime, was what Rancière calls “forms of normativity” like “partitions between the representable and the unrepresentable; the distinction between genres according to what is represented; … the distribution of resemblances according to principles of verisimilitude, appropriateness, or correspondence; etc.” What art had been making was models for our understanding that had worked by “global analogy with an overall hierarchy of political and social occupations” to show us where we might fit into the world around us (17). Now, art could come from “the imagination” and work toward an ideal transcendent to this world. Part of its power lay in admitting that it did not reflect “the way things are.” Another part of its power came from inserting itself into the world on an equal basis with the forms of this world. This allowed art to claim some force for its shape besides reflection. The aesthetic regime tried to free art from its hierarchies “by destroying the mimetic barrier that distinguished ways of doing and making affiliated with art from other ways of doing and making.” This “simultaneously establishes the autonomy of art and the identity of its forms with the forms that life uses to shape itself” (19).</div>
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THE FORM</div>
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The trick to this switch is that, in the aesthetic regime, form works as though no one were working it. The artist becomes a secret agent whose effort appears effortless. In fact, Kant insisted in the early days of aesthetic theory that art must have a “purposive purposelessness.” We encounter “the power of a form of thought that has become foreign to itself: a product identical with something not produced, knowledge transformed into non-knowledge, <i>logos</i> identical with <i>pathos</i>, the intention of the unintentional, etc.” (18). As Rancière puts it, this “identity of opposites” shapes “a pure instance of suspension,” of the content of the artist’s message, “a moment when form is experienced for itself” which is “the moment of the formation and education of a specific type of humanity” (19). How to make the good bourgeois good, that was the program without a program—operating through a whole <i>weltanschauung</i>. Herein lies “the contradiction constitutive of the aesthetic regime of the arts, which makes art into an <i>autonomous form of life</i> and thereby sets down, at one and the same time, the autonomy of art and its identification with a moment in life’s process of self-formation” (21). We are trained thereby to see art unfolding as a “total life programme” (sic, 25), what we have tended to call “the artist’s vision” that springs forth fully armed.</div>
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THE SENSIBLE & THE POLICE</div>
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This is not to say that we are all writing something as huge as Brian Ang’s <i>The Totality Cantos</i>; haiku also carry a worldview, and so do “lowku” (or “low coup” as Amiri Baraka called them). These visions may move a reader. They may even move the world. Rancière says they do so through offering a new “distribution of the sensible”(89). This is the key term in his discussions of the arts and politics. He puts a very interesting twist on the political. “Politics is generally seen as the set of procedures whereby the aggregation and consent of collectivities is achieved: the organization of powers, the distribution of places and roles, and the systems for legitimizing this distribution.” Rancière chooses instead to call this “the police” and to “reserve the term <i>politics</i> for an extremely determined activity antagonistic to policing: whatever breaks with the tangible configuration” of representable voices—taking or presenting “the part of those who have no part.” It tests equality and “makes understood as discourse what was once only heard as noise” (<i>Disagreement</i> 29-30). The new allocation of voices versus the old distribution is the political core of the arts. Each voice is expected to seriously present itself, and yet it is not the contents of what they say but the very fact of participating in the discourse that makes for change.</div>
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Rancière’s concept of the political side of art being its “distribution of the sensible” goes hand in hand with his concept of “policing.” Its essence is a distribution of the sensible that precludes or represses true “politics,” that protects the hegemonic distribution of who speaks and what can be heard. Policing can exist in the form of art. Politics depends on a kind of aesthetic, a distribution of parts. This “aesthetic” aspect of politics is Rancière’s main thrust toward a politics in the aesthetic. It is not necessarily always a progressive one. ‘The modern emergence of aesthetics as an autonomous discourse determining an autonomous division of the perceptible is an emergence of an evaluation of the perceptible that is distinct from any judgment about the use to which it is put.” What we progressive poets make and what audiences make of what we make is “a world of virtual community—of community demanded—superimposed on the world of commands and lots that gives everything a use” (57). Kant’s “purposive purposelessness” can be turned toward “constituting a kind of community of sense experience that works on the world of assumption … by revealing a mode of existence of sense experience that has eluded the allocation of parties and lots,” simultaneously “freeing up the norms of representation” (58). The aesthetic allows us this purpose and the freedom to put it to use, but then the arguments of taste begin.</div>
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THE ARGUMENT</div>
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As we choose and argue over our ways of making art, over the uses of our tools, we re-enact the policing of the world at large. Heriberto Yépez has laid this all out sharply in his provocatively pointed “Notes on art’s crap.” In this part of his work “Against the Police-Concept of Art,” Yépez delightfully excoriates our dominant art world and indicts its aestheticisms. He has taken ideas like Rancière’s to the next level, and outdone him on all counts. The re-incorporation of severed parts of society may have been Whitman’s game, as the telling it slant was Dickinson’s, and the reaching to include other mindsets was Rimbaud’s and Mallarmé’s, and all are praised as “politics” by Rancière in his literary criticism, but art polices itself too—through us, the artists. Art’s function, Yépez says, “is to sabotage individual discontent and prevent violent collective explosions” by balancing our work against the art-world games of being heard and choosing what to hear, just as the management of finance tries to do with the other crises in our world through devaluations. It is our accounting of the world that polices it. As Heriberto writes: “Every element of art polices the others,” and “Police is the ruling concept of art.” To assert that artworks “are part of the pacification apparatus” where “you are supposed to be the detective who finds additional meanings in art and never finds the police and the crime” is almost funny in the way it frames us, but it leads him to an abrupt fierce conclusion about our arts:</div>
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Art will not change. Art will not change art. Art will not change the world. The world needs to destroy art. The transformation of the world will involve the destruction of every form of art. Art’s self-destruction is not enough.</blockquote>
THE OTHERS<br />
If we look around ourselves at other arts, we may see some of this destruction in the shift of focus away from high art values. If we look at an anthology like Anthony Downey’s <i>Art and Politics Now</i>, we can easily see the engagement of our contemporary film and gallery artists with globalization, labor issues, citizenship issues, police terrorisms, environmental degradations, and more. They employ techniques that give new voice to the silenced, but they also invert the old relationship to The Sublime and The Beautiful; we are challenged to be better people by seeing the ugly monstrosities of daily life hidden in some lives around us. They turn the subjective ideal of an art that teaches through <i>aesthesis</i> toward an experience of <i>noesis</i>. Objectivities of various sorts have been employed; final conclusions have been eschewed; material concerns have been shifted into the place of transcendent ones; the languages of oppression, advertising, and policing have been framed to expose themselves; and laughter has been invited to throw light. Purposefulness has returned with a vengeance, like a repressed urge, and it has learned to come at us “slant”—from outside our own aesthetic sensibilities and common sense, though it is art’s old tools that get used for this.</div>
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THE AUDIENCE</div>
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What this art asks the audience to do is to engage the new information and the voices raised, sometimes to add our own and sometimes just to hear and digest. The trick that turns against us in this lies in the “rejectable” quality of these works. In today’s atmosphere of “alternative facts,” this is a major factor. Preaching to the choir may inspire them, but it is both self-limiting and policing in its way. The enemy has a capacity for tolerating our existence and using our voices as proof of something like democracy. Any simple stance can be both accepted and opposed without anybody being moved at all. We need to effect more pressure than merely pointing things out or handing the microphone or megaphone around the circle. A single-pointed stance is locatable; you can point to it and see where it’s at. Whether it’s Chantal Akerman’s <i>From the Other Side</i> showing us interviews with Mexican migrant workers and Americans commenting on their risks and rights, Santiago Serra’s giant NO on a global tour, or the self-mutilation of Mike Parr as a reference to that of detainees in Australia in indefinite incarceration, each work can be illuminating for some and something simply to turn off for others (all in Downey). It all falls back into policing in a way. There’s got to be a larger perspective that we offer and ask for from audiences, or the bourgeois habit of picking and choosing will prevail. We can offer more than a shopping cart.</div>
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THE RELATION & THE STAKES</div>
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If we are not going to be producing just more stance-oriented work, we probably need to re-conceive the relation to how we make art and what art makes. We can offer more than a vision or a stance. We can ask more engagement with themselves from our audience, not just a take-it-or-leave-it choice to believe us or our informants. We can make works that double the stakes of engagement by asking for something like “triangulations” as a more complex kind of location, or even providing oscillations between positions like the physicists say about unlocatable particles. There are artists who have been doing these things for awhile, and a quick look at them might shape some new ways to use our old tools.</div>
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THE EXAMPLES</div>
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The prime examples for this extension of artistic activity make good use of the old tools and depend on their audience’s recognition of longstanding aesthetic principles and approaches. The element that they add is formal and performative. They play good piano or tell jokes well, they move us to emotion or have a point, they batten onto familiar attitudes in us, and they blend things we already know into fresh cocktails. They are stage people, and they use who they are in their act.</div>
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The first of these I’ll discuss is the younger of the two. I shared a stage with her myself at Sushi Gallery in San Diego, a town where she honed her skills. Caryn Elaine Johnson became Whoopi Goldberg there. I remember her at a party just watching people, and when I asked what she was doing she said, “Homework.” The moment when I saw her deepest artistry was on that night when we joined other locals in a benefit. One of Caryn’s bits showed the detailed homework she had been doing. It was a perfect portrayal of a surfer girl, a stock character in the real life of San Diego. At one point, she did the hair flip that all the beach chicks had down: hang the hair forward and throw it back over the shoulder with one motion of the neck. You could almost see water come flying out of it, see its full blonde length, sense its lightness and shine. But what was shining were Whoopi’s eyes, and her skin—which was as black then as it is today. She had caught us in admiration of her mimetic skills, making another being appear in the same space where we saw Whoopi. It wrenched my head. Where her hero Moms Mabley had made us see a black body for what it is, Whoopi had made us see one for what it isn’t or was not supposed to be. Where Moms had somethin’ to tell us, Whoopi shows us our contradictions.</div>
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Herman Poole Blount did much the same every time he took the stage as Sun Ra. This forerunner of Afro-Futurism became a highly renowned composer/arranger and jazz pianist. He could play it straight and beautiful, moving people to tears with Ellington or a Disney tune, or play it avant with chord changes some people are still trying to explain. He also wrote and published poems and essays, but his writings were not his main focus. He developed a stage act that included costuming for him and his bandmates, designed on the basis of popular images of spacemen and classical Egyptian gods. He purported himself to be from Saturn a messenger sent to bring us new ways of peace and wisdom—what he called “myth-science.” Ra’s mix of space myth, mostly from movies and TV, and classical Egyptian myth from the books he had assiduously studied was a new way of being black in America. You could not quite tell if it all might be a joke, but it was designed to not let you dismiss it too quickly. A viewer, white or black or otherwise, was confronted with a set of contradictions in this man and his act. There were plenty of ways to just enjoy the music. There was much wisdom in the patter and the poetry. And there was fun in the pretense. In America, though, it was dead serious to be black and have a message. His message was a critique of a lot of accepted knowledge: there are no real spacemen, Egypt is dead and it wasn’t black anyway, music is just music and nothing more, wisdom in blacks comes from Uncle-Remus-style acceptance, and space travel is for scientists. Ra’s use of the combination of mythic materials and modern liberation language made him either a fool or a genius, or both maybe. He was a challenge to figure out. It was tough to place him. That allowed him to assert a lot of things that might have earned him a fierce reputation more like Malcolm’s had he played it straight. All of his aesthetic talents were purposefully packaged in a “ridiculousness” that could hardly be ridiculed because it included such serious matter. That crazy combo made him an all-or-nothing kind of deal, filled with contradictions that came from us. “Door of the Cosmos” was no joke if you looked at it right. “Móre than lífe / Interésted me só / That I dáred to knóck /At the dóor of the cósmos,” sang the band with a nod to the rhythms of Coltrane’s “Love Supreme.”</div>
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That “door,” of course, is metaphor and image. The thought that there’s more to life than “life” itself is a call to that feeling of adventure in each of us, and the kind of conundrum that a zen koan carries. That “knock” is an action, dramatized. And Ra’s delivery as “Ra” is as if there’s someone who knows this is the way to go, a cosmic messenger with a telegram to us. (See this character at the beginning of his film <i>A Joyful Noise</i>). It’s simplistic poetry worthy of hippies, on one level, and a sophisticated history of poetry on another level. Part of the “form” of this work is its delivery, and the “person” delivering it is part of that. This person may be self-effacing or identity-focused, or the interesting combination that Ra creates by denying his earthliness. No matter which one, either way this person is part of the form on paper or onstage.</div>
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“Impersonization” is one of our tools that I listed earlier. I meant then for it to include all the ways of putting a personhood into the poetry, from Browning’s “Sordello” to KRS One’s “edutainment.” It is one element that can use all of poetry’s angles. I’d say, for the professorliness of it, that there are four main angles and some pairings and oppositions among them on a sort of square of axes. They come from the history of our craft. The poetic image includes all that we learned from the task of making something appear before the six senses; this labor is “iconic” and may serve to bolster hierarchy or worship, or as “iconoclastic.” The mimetic dramatization of actions came from another phase of our history, telling stories with a lesson; the lesson of <i>The Bourgeois Gentleman</i> in Molière is a spoof on this and Shakespeare’s oeuvre an apotheosis with spots of spoofing too. Those two are joined in making models for us, and opposed in that the one is more subjective and the other more objective. The subjective appears again in the aesthetic that depends on shared feeling-perceptions, putting us through an experience to gain wisdom. Its partner is an opposite in that it swings outward into objective considerations, and yet it continues the idea of experiencing for ourselves through questioning. It is noetic, a kind of critical thinking. Ra works with all four, even in that verse from “Door,” and his impersonization or “de-personization” is a key to making this stuff stick.</div>
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The audience is asked to accept that he is a spaceman embodying wisdom from beyond. The audience also cannot ignore that he is black, and (though there well may be blacks in space) we can see the marks of earthly existence on him. The groove of the tune draws any music fan in, its rhythms link it to John Coltrane’s great hymn, but the contradiction of what we can see and what we’re asked to believe is a lot like it was with Whoopi. The questioning rises from there: we know “Stars Fell on Alabama” one night, but did they leave this fellow behind? How does his message of cosmic love sound from that black mouth? How does a fantasy (like Perkins & Parish’s “Stars” lyric: “I never planned in my imagination / A situation so heavenly, / A fairy land where no one else could enter, / And in the center just you and me”) speak to this world in any way beyond the aesthetical? Am I being hustled? Is this all just entertainment? When She & Him sing that song, it’s all romantic; is there more to it with this man? When the Motor City Drum Ensemble does “Door” as house music with techno imagery in the video, does it lose something Ra put in? What truth be told here? The noetic dimension lies in all such questions, and it’s put there by this guy who gets around in a Nova:</div>
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-9f43e608-6862-8865-1812-400c1e3f4726"><span style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 14pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><img height="320" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/R19W28GaC05OaWnLUmn9mZuCtOpsynV-HTMuax4FnJ9qmyJw0qXpbdD7eFKE233Fg9KZDBhrbdFxW1HakoGULOyeThw6mJ_6WSaSC0hA0d4hXNLLU-ykVKWAxSDKs41Y3IdCYw9k4RO16irSbw" style="border: none; transform: rotate(0rad);" width="242" /></span></span></div>
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There’s no reason for us to give up the tools of the poetic iconic, mimetic dramatic, or aesthetic experiential angles; however, they all can be revivified if we take up the noetic critical angle to embrace them. Ra is beyond parody; he is not just goofing on the goofs of this world. He is beyond threnody; he wails for life beyond life. He is beyond psalmody; what he praises is both “not of this earth” and rooted in this life. His thinking is analytical and critical but delivered through iconic, dramatic, and experiential means—not simply by bland-faced professorly lecture nor even simply by poetry.</div>
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THE POETS</div>
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Like all the arts, poetry has used all four modes with different emphases over the centuries and over the miles around the globe. <i>Poiesis</i> is the shaping of forms, image used as iconic; <i>mimesis</i> imitates the world of action with dramatic images; <i>aesthesis</i> emphasizes feeling-perception to create sharing of sensual experience; and <i>noesis</i> puts a critical thinking dimension into the act, setting images into play in ways designed to emphasize social contradictions. The inclusion of, and emphasis on, the noetic dimension also makes use of all the other approaches. We, as writers and readers, can better appreciate the efforts in these directions over the centuries and in the near future if we look at all four dimensions. Our historical moment calls for acts of resistance that double down on what can be achieved under “the aesthetic regime.”</div>
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There are many poets adding noetic dimension like this to their work these days: I suppose I saw it first in the simple “low-coup” of Amiri Baraka, taking the haiku form and using it to speak of the “low” end of life and mind so that we engage the contradiction. Part of the joke is that maybe we even start thinking about a “coup.” Part of the presentation of these poems is illustration that helps bring out the joke. Other poets have also added pictures: Claudia Rankine’s <i>Citizen</i> uses them for one kind of illustration of ideas; Mark Nowak’s use of Ian Teh’s photos in <i>Coal Mountain Elementary</i> provides another kind of illustration of experience. Concrete visualization is present in a different way in Karen Weiser’s recent use of typography and the image of slave manacles in <i>Or, The Ambiguities</i>. She shapes a haunting visual dimension to extend the impact of her poems and show her reading of Melville’s <i>Pierre</i> character in its historical context of the contradictions in American slavery. Scott McFarland made the human microphone practice of the Occupy movement into a technical device for doubling the voice in his <i>O Human Microphone</i>. David Lau’s <i>Still Dirty</i> has its ways of making words and phrases carry both sides of the question at hand. This, too, is a kind of doubling that allows us to re-appropriate terms like “crisis” (v. my review in <i>Galatea Resurrects</i> #27). Ron Silliman’s <i>Against Conceptual Poetry</i> uses a transcript of Julian Assange speaking about the politics of outing secret government texts to subtly connect that world with poetics through common terms, linking free speech with fiscalization for example. Stephanie Young’s critique of The University and poetry world politics is composed by enjambing her revealing diaristic notes with critical reflections on a famous poetry conference or two and on “this thing that I made that failed,” a neo-benshi piece on Oscar Grant’s killing by a BART cop (v. my review in <i>GR</i> #21). Eileen Tabios and j/j hastain have carried doubling into a collaborative text that combines her “sense of physicality” with hastain’s trans identity and “the idea of the poem as also a body,” all while working with her adopted son’s school life and the condition of orphaned bodies (v. my review in <i>GR</i> #20). This seemingly labyrinthine combination was for her “a useful scaffolding for managing personal biases and emotion so that they did not get in the way of creating the poem.” She ends this book with “A Poetics Fragment” that expresses the belief that a poem is “completed elsewhere” by others, beyond the poet’s realm of control, and that “one poem can have many different completions.” This is the essence of the noetic, where questionings and contradictions put off conclusions.</div>
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The readers we are after are no longer just each other. If we try to take all our readers to one location, to bunch them up, we defeat ourselves, even if that location is the transcendence built into aestheticism—the higher plane. Going low with Baraka gets us further amongst people:</div>
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“In the Funk World”<br />
If Elvis Presley is King,<br />
Who is James Brown?<br />
God!?!</blockquote>
That poem contains multitudes in its stance. It is readable by almost any American. Its doubled dimensions are in music, pop culture, the money wrapped up in music, the funk beyond the music, and race. Baraka’s live delivery of these “low-coup” often included scatting or a band. The whole history of jazz would hover, suggesting things about how to read the questions that were raised. On the page, these poems also got illustrated:<br />
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<img height="320" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/AhyLySsQHcjn9Q7fea4HAlm-s3q0-NEgV-73XyW6VdEWFE_oi2n28QszAn4-OoYLU6WCp170iFGAnINKaPKuJsEq1djnKJljkYZEBCdjD1jfV0y8MF2vdzFEP4pSH4cOsitLd20KFFynk8vgeQ" style="border: none; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 14pt; transform: rotate(0rad); white-space: pre-wrap;" width="243" /><img height="320" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/RePDthyqv_sLsxXrE1gY1WS4HxcuohVLSLFtSWcpJmPkYr5YLp4qTuQHaQIr1LTYrXda0Yf0-EY1nl92ywCiqATckpbcEktDu27bxGJJZUrsqJ_y6hFaRi6cLTiSOQ4_9oCTK9X61bUD-WwQlQ" style="border: none; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 14pt; transform: rotate(0rad); white-space: pre-wrap;" width="251" /><img height="308" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/6ACm-71HXJ3vWXuFb8KqpgTOLtc12RSHfq4IGVnyP85-DIwCRYCbZ3MBEdKBNHherdORj2KnEnleGym0ZkB3urKDXYQwtpTBzsQdyr3L57f637EjYV3yvHe5rOIiTewyC3w7sSY340o4GW4-cw" style="border: none; font-family: Cambria; font-size: 14pt; transform: rotate(0rad); white-space: pre-wrap;" width="320" /></div>
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THE POINT<br />
The point is fairly blunt here with Baraka, but the approach recalls the subtlety of Moms Mabley saying, “I got sómethin’ to téll you.” Her toothless grin and bug-eyes challenged audiences to find out that this “little old lady” had some angles on things that we could use, for a laugh and some truth—for the truth in a laugh. As Whoopi told it in an interview, Moms had a joke about being asked by a cop why she drove on a red light. Her reply was sublime: “Because I saw the white folks going on the green, I thought the red was for <i>us</i>.” You can <i>see</i> what she’s saying; whether you hear or see or know her blackness, it shows us all “somethin’.” She is not just being aesthetic; she is freely drawing out provocative contradictions.</div>
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The aesthetic regime has offered an attempt at a steady state of “freedom” for the artist, though it is the bourgeois freedom of “free play.” The artist is given this freedom to create forms and enter them into life’s struggle to form itself through this world’s dialectic. The artist herself is given recognition, but the art comes across as a whole “vision” of a world of perceptions. The audience is asked to swallow it whole, or not. The audience is asked to find in the poem, in its images or story or voices, in all its elements, a composition as a whole set of feeling-perceptions located where they can be “experienced” and “shared.” The art world reifies and commodifies this set-up. All the bourgeois satisfactions are there. The morality of alignment with The Truth, for both artists and audiences, hovers.</div>
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THE DEAL & THE NEW DEAL</div>
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The gratifications of a “buy-in” are involved, just as they are for a “start-up” business. The “sales pitch” is the art itself to some extent, the product that speaks for itself, but also the theory around it or in it—each work implying a world and its explication, a “lifestyle” as it were.</div>
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As <i>aesthesis</i> has unfolded in this now-old regime, and as resistance to the bourgeois world has arisen through life’s forms and in the arts, we have begun to shift perspectives on artists and audiences. Audiences are not unified subjects or objects; they require a variety of angles. In what might be beginning to be a new regime of <i>noesis</i>, the arts can be about raising questions and focusing through contradictions. The framing of any image, story, or voice gets doubled that way. The artist shapes a form that is less monolithic, an “ad campaign” or theory that is more interrogative and tentative—with nothing to “sell” that isn’t already there in society’s contradictions. The audience is asked to ask themselves if they can sustain these tensions and what “price” they are paying to do so. The artist and audiences meet in a form that is built of relations. A set of shifting relations between writer and world, between writer and audience, between audience and world, triangulates all positionings with an outside angle that defers settling on any one “deal.” The “security cameras” of taste are turned off or broken or made as irrelevant as reality TV, in the heads of audiences and artists alike. A collaboration between artist and audience can take place.</div>
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THE USE & THE FUTURE</div>
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Poets can use this extra dimension of the noetic as a way of sharpening all our other tools. We can call up “the future” like Ra did to add perspective, but the rehearsals of past and present contradictions do not lead to any simple resolution in any perfect future we might campaign for. Rancière insists that the difference between the mimetic and the aesthetic is that the aesthetic “incessantly restages the past” (<i>Politics</i> 20). This follows from his claim that the “leap outside of <i>mimesis</i> is by no means the refusal of figurative representation” (19). It is a leap instead from rational sequence to a focus on “raw presence” in the leap from story to “the invention of new forms of life on the basis of an idea of what art <i>was</i>, an idea of what art <i>would have been</i>” if it had kept going under that old regime. The newness made for the future is based in a sense of what the past would have led to. This is what we’re working on with the move from the aesthetic to the noetic. It explores in a little more depth what Marx was talking about about Europe’s new future in <i>The Eighteenth Brumaire</i>:</div>
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The social revolution of the nineteenth century cannot draw its poetry from the past, but only from the future. It cannot begin with itself before it has stripped off all superstition in regard to the past. Earlier revolutions require recollections of past world history in order to drug themselves concerning their own content. In order to arrive at its own content, the revolution of the nineteenth century must let the dead bury their dead. There the phrase went beyond the content; here the content goes beyond the phrase. (18)</blockquote>
We can read this with the “<i>was</i>” and “<i>would have been</i>” as about the aesthetic regime and the noetic angle as the leap into form beyond the content. When Moms or Baraka say “let the dead bury the dead,” the positioning of that statement shuffles between the “B.S.” called out in the low-coup and another joke Moms liked to tell:<br />
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Man bought him one of them new-fashioned guns and decided he was goin’ quail huntin’; you know. So, he was walkin’ all through the woods. He didn’t find no quail, but he wandered into a graveyard; you know. After awhile, he seen a big flock of quail, so he aimed his gun. His gun went off and kicked him back into an open grave. He was down there, and he says, “It’s COOOOLLLD down here. Phew. It’s COOOOLD down here.” So, a wino decided he’d take a shortcut through the graveyard. He’s walkin’ through there, and he hears somebody say, “It’s COOOOLLLD down here.” He look around, and look down, and he say, “No wonder you’re cold; you done kicked all the dirt off ya.”</blockquote>
Whether the man in the grave is as white as most fools in Moms’ jokes and the wino is black or not, the wisdom of false naiveté is the same and it underscores the distance between the living and the dead—between really being alive in “raw presence” and being dead to this world. Its insult to the dead (and dead ways) is its true sharpness, emphasized by Moms’ look that doubles our laughter by making ironies abound.<br />
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-4938db1b-6886-5095-4a57-bd7295356a73"><span style="font-family: "cambria"; font-size: 14pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><img height="151" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/48fy-il91bWJOm4Ccz9mUuNUkOwVBYfpvzCfungNimg2j74v61a6mnW9eTRTMgLWpz0-8oB92dtwSTFrzPjVJQYWaWKGOuUPuW-0FQ7bBsQUvGHdA14oqjwTYv9Eqhn8SJi5xQDhF_HtTWKWYg" style="border: none; transform: rotate(0rad);" width="228" /></span></span></div>
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Doubling perspectives engages the noetic and releases us from the aesthete’s conclusions. You can’t nail it down with no coffin lid. It’s living in the future, and challenging us to go beyond our words—beyond worlds we have known. Right now, it seems like double or nothin’.</div>
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THE JOKE</div>
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I wish I could tell a good joke here about “A Secret Agent, a Spaceman, & a Talking Bear” walking into a bar and settling down for a card game, but I haven’t got one for you. I’d like to have the bear’s desire for honey present the sweetness and light theory of art from <i>poiesis</i>, the spaceman’s perspective present the higher plane theory of art from <i>mimesis</i>, and the secret agent’s thrilling hidden actions present the “other-side-of-this-life” theory of art from <i>aesthesis</i>, but I can’t think of what the bartender would say in the end about those three except “Looks like you guys ain’t got no aces.”</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="white-space: normal;">__________</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="white-space: normal;">READING & VIEWING LIST</span></span></div>
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Ang, Brian. <i>The Totality Cantos</i>. In progress. Pieces are in <i>ARMED CELL</i> 2 (http://armedcell.blogspot.com/) and elsewhere (like http://cordite.org.au/poetry/california/from-the-totality-cantos-15i50h/).
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Baraka, Amiri. <i>Un Poco Low Coup</i>. Ishmael Reed Publishing Co., 2004. Illustrations taken from http://terebess.hu/english/haiku/baraka.html.
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Burnham, Douglas. “Immanuel Kant: Aesthetics.” Internet Encyclopedia of Philosophy. http://www.iep.utm.edu/kantaest/.
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Downey, Anthony. <i>Art and Politics Now</i>. Thames & Hudson, 2014.
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Eagleton, Terry. <i>The Ideology of the Aesthetic</i>. Blackwell, 1990.
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Goldberg, Whoopi. In an interview about her documentary @ http://www.hbo.com/documentaries/whoopi-goldberg-presents-moms-mabley/interview/whoopi-goldberg.html.
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Harney, Stefano & Fred Moten. <i>The Undercommons: Fugitive Planning and Black Study</i>. Minor Compositions, 2013.
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Jameson, Fredric. <i>The Prison House of Language</i>. Princeton UP, 1972.
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Lau, David. <i>Still Dirty</i>. Commune, 2016.
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Mabley, Moms. “Everybody’s Crazy” @ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UaStMww636A&feature=youtu.be.
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Marshall, T.C. “Cats in Their Hats: a review of six books” (incl. <i>the relational elations of “Orphaned Algebra”</i>) in <i>Galatea Resurrects</i> #20 @ galatearesurrection20.blogspot.com (May 2013).
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<div style="padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;">
---. “Ontogeny Recaps Phylogeny and Then Some” in <i>Galatea Resurrects</i> #27 @ galatearesurrection27.blogspot.com (December 2016).
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---. “‘Whatever’ or ‘What You Will’: An Appreciation of Stephanie Young’s <i>Ursula or University</i>” in <i>Galatea Resurrects</i> #21 @ galatearesurrection21.blogspot.com (January 2014).
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<div style="padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;">
Marx, Karl. <i>The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte</i>. International, 1963.
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<div style="padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;">
McFarland, Scott. <i>O Human Microphone</i>. 1913 Press, 2014.
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Nowak, Mark. <i>Coal Mountain Elementary</i>. Coffee House, 2009. Photos by Ian Teh.
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Ra, Sun. <i>Space is the Place</i>. Still photo, taken on location for the film in Oakland, CA. 1972. In <i>Sun Ra + Ayé Aton: Space, Interiors and Exteriors, 1972</i>, ed. John Corbett. Corbett vs Dempsey, 2013.
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---. <i>A Joyful Noise</i>. Entire film @ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GXt_NLr9lIA.
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Rancière, Jacques. <i>The Aesthetic Unconscious</i>. Trans. Debra Keates & James Swenson. Polity, 2009. Rpt. 2010. Original 2001.
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<div style="padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;">
---. <i>Disagreement: Politics and Philosophy</i>. Trans. Julie Rose. U Minnesota P, 1999. Original 1995.
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---. <i>The Politics of Aesthetics</i>. Ed. & Trans. Gabriel Rockhill. Bloomsbury, 2004. Rpt. 2013. Original 2000.
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Rankine, Claudia. <i>Citizen: An American Lyric</i>. Graywolf, 2016.
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<div style="padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;">
Silliman, Ron. <i>Against Conceptual Poetry</i>. Counterpath, 2014.
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<div style="padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;">
Tabios, Eileen R., and j/j hastain. <i>the relational elations of “Orphaned Algebra.”</i> Marsh Hawk, 2012.
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<div style="padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;">
Weiser, Karen. <i>Or, The Ambiguities</i>. Ugly Duckling, 2015.
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<div style="padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;">
Yépez, Heriberto. “Notes on art’s crap.” In <i>Hache</i> blog, as part 2 under “Against the Police-Concept of Art.” 23 June 2015. https://borderdestroyer.com/2015/09/29/against-the-police-concept-of-art.
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<div style="padding-left: 3em; text-indent: -3em;">
Young, Stephanie. <i>Ursula or University</i>. Krupskaya, 2013.</div>
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Brian Anghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03733133032013585813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4074719566651397000.post-59286840107381491702017-04-15T05:37:00.002-07:002021-07-13T20:40:20.759-07:00Trisha Low, from Socialist RealismI’m… I can’t remember when. I guess I’ve repressed it, but maybe that’s apt. I’m in Freud’s old office in Hampstead, London. It’s an unremarkable cottage painstakingly preserved as an integral part of his practice. It’s cozy. It’s all country charm and floral wallpaper, the famous leather couch upon which he interviewed patients displayed prominently in the middle of the room. His daughter, Anna Freud, inherited it after his death in 1939. Throughout her life, Anna remained slavishly devoted to the psychoanalytic foundations Freud had constructed. She followed in his footsteps, becoming a psychoanalyst specializing in childhood behavior. When asked about her work, Lacan once scoffed dismissively, “Well, the plumb line doesn’t make a building... [but] it allows us to gauge the vertical of certain problems.” Anna Freud built no house of her own. Her scaffolding was weak. She took over her father’s office. She built her practice within it, literally. She toed his calibrating baseline. Toy building blocks in the middle of the rug. The Oedipal Industrial complex. The thing about Anna Freud is, she never left home.<br />
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I keep trying to figure it out. The possibilities, that is. It’s a year ago. It’s now. It’s five years later, I mean three. I’m in Oakland, California. I’m in New York City, New York. I’m alone. I’m with my lover, touching their skin as though it’s a gauzy, like a dream. I’m at a bar, everybody is. We’re yelling about art, no, politics. It doesn’t matter because we’re really yelling about the wire. What is the origin of the phrase ‘Where is home’ but more importantly, what is the structure of its sharper, truer meaning. If that’s different in any way than, well ‘what do you desire,’ dress it up however you like. Sorry, what I meant to say was ‘hey how’d she get a literary agent’; no, ‘when the revolution, whatever. We end up making out anyway, everyone pressed against the wall with the wrong person and their shattered ideology. Every reiterative question playing a performative façade against the breakdown of a pose. “I’m a comrade who strongly believes in the power of communism.” “I’ve been easily seduced by fashion and decadence.” I’m lost. I’m over there, in the next moment, thirsting after capitalist dick, hell, every time I move my body through different registers, places, times, I go to a different reception hall. I give them my coat. They give me a name tag. I don’t try to read it because I don’t ever want to know. Which script. I figure it out anyway. I look at the people around me. They all look the same as one other. We speak in the same tone. We all talk small. He said. She said. Etc.<br />
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I’m in Freud’s old office in Hampstead, London. These days, they show art here. Today, it’s an exhibition of works by the artists Tim Noble and Sue Webster, entitled <i>Polymorphous Perverse</i>. Built on both Anna and Freud’s formulations of childhood sexuality, the sculptures are excessive and obnoxious, composed of plastic doll parts that mechanize themselves as you walk past. It’s all limbs zipping out of plastic trash bags, baby heads popping out of soap boxes, everything encircled in dribbles of cherry red blood. It’s so coded with shock value as to almost be sarcastic so I feel mostly at home. I walk past a small but austere etching of Moses, hanging on one of the walls. In this portrait, he looks furious. He’s holding the Ten Commandments above his head, as though he’s ready to smash them at his feet. There’s a ragged tin can perched on a small wooden table, directly beneath him. It has no label or lid. It’s open, so I lean in to take a look and I let out a noise between a sob and a shriek because as I move my head, a single hot dog with a lone baked bean balanced on its end emerges vertically out of the can. It makes a loud, mechanical whir. It’s baldly pink and erect. It’s cheerily impotent. I can’t help it. I lose it, I’m laughing.<br />
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Here’s the thing about impotence. I don’t think it’s strange to want any human activity to quote unquote Do Something, just as I don’t think it’s strange to desire utopia. How could we not? Coined by Sir Thomas More in 1516 in the book by the same name, the term ‘UTOPIA’ has come to mean a perfect place. One in which everyone could have what they needed and yet nothing would have to change—someplace better than what we know. But when defined, Utopia, which comes from the Greek <i>ou</i> for not, and <i>topos</i>, for place, literally means no-place. In a painful twist of irony, in order for utopia to be flawless, it can never come into being. And to embrace our desire for Utopia, is to recognize, too, its certain emptiness. Guy Hocquenghem writes, “Utopia… is an obligation not an end. The obligation is not the absorption of the utopia into the real, but the penetration of the real by utopia. Utopia is not something to be anticipated. [rather] In hinting at possibilities outside the realm of the probable, it reorients the real, deters the real from limiting itself, closing in on itself.” For Hocquenghem, the value of Utopia is not in serving as a structural blueprint for an imminent future, but as an impetus for imagining life <i>beyond</i> what we know is possible. For <i>seeking</i> a set of terms to build society that do not depend on our current flawed foundations. It is this imagining itself that has deep implications for the way we might continue to go about living—even if its direct results are not a perfect revolution.<br />
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Memories, verifiable? Like Joan Didion, I came to California with a desire to reinvent myself even if I didn’t know how. I was not planning to spend every summer with you together, in Lake Tahoe, like she did. but I did expect to find some kind of home.<br />
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I have an ex-boyfriend who I believe is one of the most intensely moral humans I know. I believe this because he is able to see starkness in the world and act on it with a confidence I do not possess. I am jealous of that ability. I like a story that he once told me. I like telling it to people because it makes me feel as though I could have the same ability even when I do not. Unlike him, I am not ever able to believe that I am making the correct decision. My ex-boyfriend is at a frat party. He’s skinny and wears tight pants and a plaid shirt. Another boy is aggressive towards him. He is polite. He remains calm. He backs away. He knows the other boy is wrong. He goes into the kitchen. He gets a bottle of bleach out from under the sink. He fills a red solo cup with a quarter cup of bleach and tops the rest of it off with beer. He tastes it, gingerly, so he doesn’t hurt himself but makes sure that the taste of bleach is not quite detectable. He knows that if someone takes more than full sip, it is more than likely he will kill them. He knows he will do this because the other boy is wrong. He is with a girl he loves. Before he can do anything, the girl he is with takes the cup out of his hand. He doesn’t blink an eye. He acquiesces because he loves her. I believe he is intensely moral without being naïve or uncomplicated, which is a difficult thing to be.<br />
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We live our lives out in a series of endless rooms. It’s hard to tell which or whose room you’re in. It doesn’t matter which or whose house you’ve witlessly wandered into either. Sometimes, there are crowds in each one, jostling, but sometimes the room is empty and you’re the only one waiting. You encounter other people in these rooms. Each person’s behavior reveals some kind of strange double bind at the intersection of intense fantasy and overt restriction. The rooms we are sitting in are never simply rooms because a decision has been made. We have somehow <i>chosen</i> to sit in these rooms, and choice, whenever it occurs, makes whatever happens after it seem important. There is little emotion or interaction between the people in these rooms. In small, private moments you might see a few pats on the back, or hugs, but these gestures are restrained and secretive. Mostly as if drugged in a dentist’s chair each individual sits frozen and immobile. Their stiffness reveals an intense concentration, an incredible will to block out all that is going on around them that might destroy the fantasy they want to sustain. The seats on either side of each person are empty. The world of the future does not allow for the intrusion of worldly problems.<br />
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I’m walking around this exhibition in Freud’s cottage and it becomes clear that the artists Noble and Webster don’t intend to cast aspersions on Freud’s theories. They don’t intend to detract from how his psychologizing became the foundation of how we understand the modern human subject, of how we value identity. But they don’t want to let go of how absurd and arbitrary it is either. I stop in front of a sculpture called <i>Black Narcissus</i>. It looks like a mess of brass cast hands and cocks, entwined and gesturing to each other, melded into a friction of attachment and acrimony. Some hands are curled into fists or they’re gracefully draped, some cocks are flaccid or bent or aggressively erect. But there’s a spotlight shining on this black mass, so that when illuminated, it creates a shadow. And what we see on the wall directly behind the sculpture is a perfect silhouette of Noble and Webster’s conjoined heads, sitting directly next to a cast bust of Freud’s own, exactly the same size. Identity, ideology, semiotics crudely reduced to cock and hand, sensation and sensation received, desire and desire fulfilled. Not to be dumb, but god, just like facing it, literally. How fucking funny and awful is that?<br />
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In writing about early Soviet artistic culture and emergent forms of Socialist Realism, Robert Bird sees that ‘aesthetic strategies for fostering revolutionary intimacy’ were the priority in a system that wanted to engage comrades across the world. That if revolution was going to happen, it would ‘[come into being] through… countless intimate gestures, not as a totality but as a series.’ As such, socialist realist artists were interested in communicating not the tenants or historic nuances of communism, but rather what revolution could ‘look like, sound like, feel like… those realms of preformulation where sensory-data congeals into ‘something that matters’ and those realms of post-formulation where ‘something’ is experienced as mattering.’ Revolutionary art was not about starkness: of the theoretical or of the world as is, but about stigmata; something that could pierce through. About transforming a material politics into an ethics <i>as intensity</i>.<br />
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It’s dark and I’m upset. This is nothing new. I remember the room. I remember there was carpet; I was annoyed by how green the walls were. It was packed. There was a band playing who had long curly metal hair and black glitter leggings and maybe were from Israel. It was a great show. Someone ripped his jack from his amp and sucked it as though there was no air in the room. It shivered and exhaled in decadent response to the aridness of the screech. It was the night that we had refused to let anyone go upstairs to our bedrooms (It was every night). The crowd was tight. My eyes were so dry they couldn’t blink. Wide and dark behind my eyelids. Someone got hit in the head by a crowdsurfing cymbal. They went up the stairs. We tried to stop them. They screamed ‘I have AIDS.’ There was blood everywhere. Their forehead was in your face. Ivy tried to hit them. You held up your hands, your palms were wide and stark. You said ‘whoa can I get you some help – I just want to help you.’ Your eyes were very light. You had blood streaked all the way down the side of your face, across your right cheek and close to your mouth. I reeled. I was very still. The scene was circuited. Panic rubbing against a frame of people assembling for dispersal. The world was very taut. We thought we could take everything and hold it by throwing our bodies senselessly together. We were a perverse venn diagram turned into belief. We were some kind of cross. I said, ‘It’s okay,’ and saw it come true. I held them in my arms. I had an urge to see the cymbal. I wanted to know what instrument it was that strung out this picture. When I remember it now, it feels like a puzzle. The pieces fit, but the edges are wet and cleaned off with my sanitized romanticism. I wanted to kiss blood off your eyebrow. I washed it out of Ivy’s hair. That’s what I remember. Was this every show? No one wants to go back there, but it doesn’t mean they’re not nostalgic for it either.</div>
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There are crawlspaces in my life that are places where I begin to feel again. There are mindnumbing boxes that are difficult to leave. They can be the same. I left home. I’m in the gag. I hope it’s okay that I’m stuck here for a while. I’m sorry I didn’t write back sooner, but I think remembering will help. The memories started small, like wisps nailed against my temples. When I shook my head they defined themselves against where I thought they were supposed to go. I’ve listed them below, maybe you can verify.</div>
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It’s Saturday. I’m at a S/M waterboarding workshop, in a basement somewhere in Chelsea. I’m nostalgic, so it feels like this space could be any other space – the black hallway, beer stains on the floor, the faint whiff of detergent trying to mask the lingering cigarette stench, the dull glossiness of a bad paint job and the matte marker of graffiti. We sit in rows and watch as a woman chokes and retches under the soaked cotton of a drenched tshirt; as she had fizzy mountain dew dripped slowly into her nostrils so her airways can never clear from the sugar. The workshop covers everything, from the history of waterboarding in a specifically S/M context to what to tell your TSA officer if your carry on luggage is full of waterboarding equipment to the physiology of oxygen deprivation, to how to emergency respond if something goes wrong. The man doing the demonstration is obviously hard through his tight black jeans, he keeps stroking his cock with his zipper half open while he tells us this information. Occasionally he giggles, nervous and high pitched. His wife burbles under the cloth and jerks, feebly before he removes it and spits in her face. I recognized the dazed look in her eyes and it might not seem like it but I know she feels delirious and relieved, the world turning green and torn apart as though it were dispensable, as though it were no longer hers. Her knees jerk up. I see the wet cotton worm its way into her mouth and pucker.</div>
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The workshop is two and a half hours but feels like 45 minutes. I feel the dampness spreading uncomfortably into the mesh of my tights. The girl next to me can’t stop sneezing from the humidity. Occasionally, she swims into my field of vision, wide-eyed and lovesick through her hayfever tears. The collar around her neck reads ‘Daddy’s Little Slut.’</div>
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I’m at home, reading Kathy Acker’s <i>Algeria—A SERIES OF INVOCATIONS BECAUSE NOTHING ELSE WORKS</i>. Ostensibly, it’s a report about the war. I mean, the facts are all here, well, the facts are all wrong, it’s a bricolaged series of news broadcasts about terrorist attacks and revolutionary struggle and the Algerian War, patched together in a misrepresentation almost worthy of Fox News. Acker vividly describes waterboarding as a state-sanctioned mode of torture. “While the Algerian longed for water, they dumped his head into a bucket of ice-cold liquid until he had to breathe the liquid. They did this again and again. They did this again and again.” This goes on until we become unsure what is insanity, what is pleasure, what is “The moment before the Algerian went crazy and accepted horror as usual, his greatest fear and torment was this consciousness that he, the Algerian, is about to go crazy, has to give up his mind which is anger and accept the horrible inequality he is fighting against” (3). They do this again and again. The section is entitled “THE IMPORTANCE OF SEX / BECAUSE IT BREAKS THE RATIONAL MIND.” Torture or desire? I hate equals I love you. Acker draws an ambivalent equivalence between gossip, political rhetoric, revolutionary polemic, sexual experience. It becomes impossible to know what is the truth, sure, but also what is ethical, what can inform our agency and what can destroy it. Ideals to be jigsawed, shuffled and sliced like meaningless paper, everything up for exchange in an ineffectual marketplace. It’s about futility.</div>
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It’s Saturday. I’m at an S/M waterboarding workshop. It’s hour two and there’s a bunch of spare equipment set out so we can try some things on our own. The workshop leaders watch. It’s my turn. I’m no stranger to asphyxiation and the cool drip of the water is starting to make the intensity in my chest burn from lack of oxygen as much as it begins to calm me, but I’m suddenly stopped, the towel is ripped away from my face, an unwelcome gasp of air screeching through my lungs. And amidst my gasping, the woman who’s helping me shrieks ‘Oh god, stop, you’re a breath holder!’ as though it is some a terrible accusation. I’m confused. As it turns out, what makes for successful waterboarding is our body’s instinctive urge to inhale when denied oxygen. What makes it so painful is the convulsive gasping that comes from trying to suck in life-affirming air but finding in its place only damp, suffocating moisture from a cloth over the nose and mouth. As it turns out, waterboarding is no match for little me, whose years of training as a synchronized swimmer has dulled my intuitive urge to inhale when I am deprived of oxygen. Instead, I hold my breath, stubbornly until I can’t help but pass out. Not only does this mean that I don’t suffer as dramatically, but my body basically won’t express any symptoms before I move swiftly on my way to permanent brain damage. ‘Most people kick or struggle, when they’re waterboarded, you know, from the panic, which is part of the enjoyment,’ the woman explains. ‘But if you’re holding your breath, you’ll just be still as a rock, and how would we know – how could your partner know then, if you’re,’ she pauses, looking confused ‘well, if you’re already dead.’ It’s cold under the air conditioning and I can suddenly feel the slime of water and snot and saliva dripping down the back of my throat. It’s warm and alive. I feel subliminal. I’m overcome with a sense of relief or disappointment, I can’t quite tell. The woman grabs my arm and shakes it once. I’m jolted to the present. She says, firmly, ‘It’s just that you don’t know how to struggle correctly.’ ‘I know.’ I say to her. I can’t help it. I am going to die in disgraceful circumstances. The air conditioner whirs.</div>
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I’m back. I’m in the gag. I’ve got a whole envelope of scabs I picked off while I was gone. I’m at home, on the internet, reading about how someone thinks I’m an anti-black racist who hates my family. I’m tilting my face towards the blinding spotlight, letting some patterned morse code of cock and finger imprint itself on the back of my eyes.</div>
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Reading Kathy Acker, we discover there is no way to read its literariness without having to confront its obscenity, no way to be turned on without being turned off by its source material. Reading it is to acknowledge how we cannot escape our contextual or constituent parts. And left loose and uncomposed, these contradictory fragments of text, begin to collapse inward upon something else all together. They rub up against each other; they hurt and oppose and confuse. And yet, in their shredded, affective intensity, they do. Struggle, that is.</div>
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In an interview, Tim Noble and Sue Webster are asked about how they managed to make so many plaster casts of Noble’s erect penis. It was a struggle, they say, to make such a cast. That they tried everything, from plastered gauze to moulding clay, but everything was too cold, or too hard, or too unbecoming for such a fragile event as an erection. They landed on materials used for dental impression, the gooey silicone still warm before it set, a comfortable cocoon for a bald, pink member, easy to mould and compress, simple to turn out hundreds of different casts of wrinkled organs from which to construct the contours of a face. Noble and Webster, in their Freudian parody create a space to not discover, but to reveal what is soft, or flexible, or comic, or pathetic about what they are mirroring. Noble’s cock set in fluoride goo, each iteration a smaller and smaller stage of erection, a fainter and fainter silhouette. Something that delivers a perfectly reflective but damning portrait, one’s silhouette is always and already the shadow of one’s departure. I left –</div>
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Home. It happens because we’re human and our fantasy is narrow. Our dreams remain limited to what we have worldly referents for. In other words, we can only collage utopia out of what we know of our empirical universe; it can only ever be a bricolage of pleasures vividly recalled. Some days, I wake up weak. I am going to die in disgraceful circumstances. I don’t know how to struggle correctly. Do you?</div>
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Whatever. You can make utopia out of almost anything.</div>
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Picture a circle delineating the internal edge of a hollow column defined by velvet curtains hanging from high above; we are walking around the edges, tossing objects into the display area from behind the curtains where we walk in a circle and never meet and take turns running from who’s hurt who, or lost what, or done what to whom, and how much, or how and for what. We look at each other through the curtains across the circle full of clutter and in this way we say hi and form impressions and are impressed by these forms. Maybe I’ll put in some characters and some recognizable desires that can be thwarted by the unfortunate tendency of characters to interact with each other. Is that art or politics? Who cares. Anyway I wish there was more blood about it.</div>
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I was going to struggle, finally. If I could. I wanted to try, You knew. You told me so. You said, “I hope that, for the sake of the rest of you, you find an oasis that isn’t a mirage.” I didn’t.</div>
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I did everything I possibly could, to try to make you happy.</div>
Brian Anghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03733133032013585813noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4074719566651397000.post-51793506834986721302017-04-14T11:20:00.000-07:002017-10-28T12:49:37.932-07:00Michael Leong, Towards a Disorientalist Poetics<span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">(for Juliana Chang, Walter K. Lew, Tan Lin, Eileen Tabios, and John Yau)</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"> “<i>trans</i>. To turn from the east; to cause to ‘lose one’s bearings’; to put out, disconcert, embarrass.”</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">— <i>Oxford English Dictionary</i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"> I.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Disorientations,” my long poem in progress, collages together and so “disorients” two postmodern Orientalist texts: Kent Johnson’s <i>Doubled Flowering: From the Notebooks of Araki Yasusada</i> and Roland Barthes’ <i>Empire of Signs</i> (translated into English by Richard Howard).</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">Part travel writing and part semiotic treatise, <i>Empire of Signs</i> (1970/1982) is a collection of short essays on characteristically “Japanese” topics such as tempura, haiku, Zen, and bunraku puppets. Though Barthes had, in fact, traveled to Japan on numerous occasions in the late 1960s, he insists in the book’s introductory essay that he is imagining “a fictive nation,” a “system” called “Japan.” This opening gambit—<i>ceci n’est pas Japan</i>—is a clever methodological ploy giving Barthes free rein to dismantle Western systems of signification while simultaneously claiming he is “not lovingly gazing toward an Oriental essence.” Barthes’ Japan, then, is a resolutely post-structural one: it is a place of pure surface and radical difference. The hot pot dish sukiyaki is, for example, “food decentered.” The city of Tokyo is “an ideogram” with an empty center. In haiku, “what is designated is the very inanity of any classification of the object.” And in “The Eyelid,” perhaps the most objectionable piece of the book, Barthes advances a post-structural and racialized physiognomy. He contrasts the double-fold eyelids of the Western face—whose meaning is conditioned by a metaphysics of depth—with a “Japanese face…without moral hierarchy.” “‘[L]ife’ is not in the light of the eyes,” observes Barthes, “it is in the non-secret relation of a surface and its slits.”</span><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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<span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">There is some critical debate regarding the extent of Barthes’ Orientalism. For Lisa Lowe, Barthes—while attempting to reject a kind of fin-de-siècle <i>japonisme</i>—is “still caught with the binary logic he seeks to avoid”: “Japan is continually described with reference to the Occident, solely in terms of what the Occident is <i>not</i>.” According to Joanne P. Sharp, <i>Empire of Signs</i> is “hyper-Orientalist,” a “pushing [of] Orientalism to its limits.” Whether Orientalist, hyper-Orientalist, or meta-Orientalist, Barthes’ book is unquestionably animated by an exoticist desire. When he visited communist China with the <i>Tel Quel</i> group in 1974, he found the country, by contrast, to be “not at all exotic, not at all disorienting.”</span><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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<span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">In my long poem, I aim—through the appropriation and parody of his very language—to give Barthes the referential disorientation he sought. It was Barthes, after all, who, in “Digressions,” gave us an exhortation to “cheat, steal, refine, parody, [and] counterfeit.”</span><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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<span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Disorientations” is counterfeit semiotics.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"> II.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Yasusada poems constituted one of the most controversial literary scandals in the U.S. poetry world in recent decades. The story is, by now, familiar: In the mid-1990s, poems by “Araki Yasusada” started to appear in prominent Anglophone literary journals—from <i>Grand Street</i> to <i>Stand</i> to <i>American Poetry Review</i>. Apparently written by an avant-garde Japanese poet who survived the bombing of Hiroshima, the poems—supposedly discovered in 1980 and translated by a team of Japanese scholars—made an impact on U.S. readers, who were immediately taken by their intermixture of traumatic content and innovative approach. In ironic, surreal, and disjunctive modes, many of Yasusada’s poems mourned deceased family members, who either died in the blast (such as his wife) or succumbed to radiation sickness (such as his eldest daughter). Yasusada seemed to have offered a remarkable case study in cross-cultural syncretism, an intriguing fusion of Eastern and Western poetics. According to his translators’ introduction in <i>APR</i>, “the writing found in Yasusada’s manuscripts is fascinating for its biographical disclosure, formal diversity, and linguistic elan. Much of the experimental impetus, interestingly, comes from Yasusada’s encounter in the mid-1960’s with the poetry of the American Jack Spicer and the essays of the French critic Roland Barthes.” The combination proved to be irresistible. Ron Silliman, who read Yasusada’s poetry in the 1994 issue of <i>Conjunctions</i> (dedicated to “New World Writing”), wrote on the Buffalo Poetics Listserv, “These works kept me up last night and probably will again for another night or three. I recommend them highly.”</span><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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<span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">In 1996, news broke that “Yasusada,” from his biography to his body of work, was a complete fabrication—prompting a swift denunciation of the hoax. In Emily Nussbaum’s widely-read <i>Lingua Franca</i> article “Turning Japanese,” she quotes several journal editors, who had published the Yasusada materials but had since variously considered the project to be “essentially a criminal act” (Arthur Vogelsang of <i>APR</i>); “just plain ugly and selfish … [and] particularly conceited and cynical” (Lee Chapman of <i>First Intensity</i>); and “coy, self-satisfied, [and] glib” (Bradford Morrow of <i>Conjunctions</i>).</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>APR</i> issued an apology to its readers:</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">We regret the publication of “Doubled Flowering: From the Notebooks of Araki Yasusada” in our July/August issue. Neither “Araki Yasusada,” nor the three names identified as translators, “Tosa Motokiyu,” “Okura Kyojin,” and “Ojiu Norinaga” are actual persons. The facts in the note “Introducing Araki Yasusada,” as well as the portrait of “Yasusada” are a hoax. All the materials came to us from Kent Johnson of Highland Community College in Freeport, Illinois […].</span></blockquote>
Dropped by Wesleyan University Press (who had considered taking on the project), the collection of poems, letters, and drafts by “Yasusada” was published by Roof Books in 1997, a year that saw intense debate about the ethical, political, and aesthetic issues surrounding the hoax.<br />
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In “In Search of the Authentic Other,” an essay from the Spring 1997 <i>Boston Review</i>, Marjorie Perloff opined that “Kent Johnson has […] performed an invaluable service” in authoring <i>Doubled Flowering</i> despite admitting that its “mode is […] Orientalism, ‘that Western style,’ in Edward Said’s words, ‘for dominating, restructuring, and having authority over the Orient.’”</div>
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In the <i>BR</i>’s Summer 1997 issue, Juliana Chang, Walter K. Lew, Tan Lin, Eileen Tabios, and John Yau issued a statement entitled “Displacements” responding to Perloff’s essay, calling the figure of “Yasusada” “an archetype of readily assimilable difference.” For them, Johnson’s <i>Doubled Flowering</i> was “doubly disturbing: he wants the taint of scandal without having to take responsibility for the stereotypes he celebrates.” In responding to this response, Perloff writes:</div>
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when Juliana Chang and her fellow Asian-Americans deplore Johnson’s “act of yellowface,” his playing into “existing orientalist fantasy,” […] they are talking less of the poetic product than of the poet’s motive<span style="background-color: white; text-align: right; white-space: pre-wrap;">—</span>a move that shows that, whether or not we agree with their harsh dismissal of “Yasusada,” one can never simply separate poetic “excellence” from the contexts in which claims for that “excellence” are made.</blockquote>
In “Disorientations,” I suggest that “poetic product” and “motive” are inextricably intertwined and, thus, intend to critique the “excellence” of the Yasusada poems, in the first place, on <i>aesthetic grounds</i>, which are, of course, always already political and racialized in various ways.<br />
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Writing appreciatively about Johnson’s <i>Doubled Flowering</i>, Perloff uses the word “surreal” three times in “In Search of the Authentic Other.” She quotes, for example, the entirety of one of Yasusada’s most well-known poems “Mad Daughter and Big-Bang,” which begins:<br />
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Walking in the vegetable patch<br />
late at night, I was startled to find<br />
the severed head of my<br />
mad daughter lying on the ground.</blockquote>
“One would be hard put,” Perloff goes on to say, “to find actual Hiroshima witness poems […] that are characterized by such irony and restraint, such self-consciously surreal, oblique images.”<br />
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The aesthetic wager of “Disorientations” is that <i>Doubled Flowering</i> wasn’t surreal enough, that it didn’t sufficiently register the obliquity, the surreality of the “actual.”</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"> III.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">Late 1990s discussions of <i>Doubled Flowering</i> such as Perloff’s often, and not surprisingly, invoked Said. In “Can I Get a Witness?” Eliot Weinberger, for example, dismisses the relevance of Said in order to counter the critique that <i>Doubled Flowering</i> was a problematic act of yellowface: “In the political debate, Edward Said’s <i>Orientalism</i> was inevitably cited […] But […] [w]hen one reaches 20th century Japan, a First World imperialist nation, Said’s book hardly applies at all. The Yasusada Author, even if a white American male, is no more an agent of colonialism than a Japanese country and western singer.”</span><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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<span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">Weinberger’s insistence on the context of imperial Japan—surely an important topic—is a smokescreen. If he claims historical specificity on the one hand (“20th century Japan, a First World imperialist nation”), on the other, he conflates and de-historicizes discrete acts of appropriation and cultural borrowing that necessarily involve asymmetrical dynamics of power (“The Yasusada Author, even if a white American male, is no more an agent of colonialism than a Japanese country and western singer.”) Weinberger is suggesting that a “political” critique of <i>Doubled Flowering</i> is mutually exclusive with a rigorous accounting of Japanese imperialism in the early twentieth century. One could look to Lew, one of the Asian American signers of “Displacements,” to appreciate that one can take seriously both the disingenuous use of yellowface in the U.S. and the Japanese annexation of Korea without the ideological contradiction Weinberger seems to be tendentiously implying: Lew’s first book <i>Excerpts from: ∆IKTH 딕테/딕티 DIKTE, for Dictee (1982)</i> (1992), a self-described “critical collage,” takes up, in kaleidoscopic fashion, representations of anti-colonial martyrs An Chung-gŭn, who assassinated former Prime Minister and Japanese Resident-General of Korea Ito Hirobumi in 1909, and Yu Kwan-sun, who was imprisoned by Japanese officers in 1919 during the so-called March First Movement for independence. Yu, of course, prominently figures in Theresa Hak Kyung Cha’s <i>Dictee</i> (1982)—the pioneering multimedia book to which Lew pays homage. Lew treats An and Yu in sophisticated ways that put pressure on complex issues of nationalism, religion, gender, and iconicity without resorting to the kind of caricatured thinking promoted by Weinberger.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">The history of Japanese empire in Asian American diasporic poetry goes well beyond the scope of this essay; besides Cha and Lew, one can engage with other relevant writers such as Myung Mi Kim and Don Mee Choi. My point here is that Weinberger ignores the real and agonistic stakes of the culture and canon wars in the U.S., a context in which <i>Doubled Flowering</i> surely attempted to intervene. Weinberger’s fictitious “Japanese country and western singer” is joined by a Chiapian woman as yet another decoy to divert attention away from the crucial nexus of whiteness, privilege, and appropriation:</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">The political reading [of <i>Doubled Flowering</i>] was based on the assumption that the author was a white American male, and thus the poems were a cruel, racist, imperialist joke. This in turn was based on the assumption that anyone who is not a white Euromale wants to speak only in an “authentic” voice. It was inconceivable that the Yasusada Author could be a young woman in Chiapas.</span></blockquote>
There is a curious reasoning to Weinberger’s dismissal of what he calls a “political reading,” a casting of doubt on what is true yoked to an assertion of what is not. While the first assumption he posits is fact—Johnson, <i>Doubled Flowering</i>’s author, <i>is</i> “a white American male”—the second assumption relies on an erroneous straw man argument. The Asian American critique of Johnson isn’t at all dependent upon authenticity of voice as a desideratum. Lew’s <i>Excerpts from: ∆IKTH</i>, an assemblage of citations and found texts, is aggressively <i>graphocentric</i>. And Yau, another signer of “Displacements,” has inhabited a range of inauthentic voices as a potent poetic strategy. Yau’s Peter Lorre sequence in <i>Forbidden Entries</i> (1996), for example, is comprised of persona poems in the voice of the white actor who represented the Japanese character Mr. Moto throughout the 1930s.<br />
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Even worse, Weinberger’s manufacturing of (seemingly interchangeable) non-white subject positions is a repetition in miniature of Johnson’s dissembling projection of otherness. In a shorter version of “Can I Get a Witness?” the young woman—tellingly—is from Senegal, not Chiapas: “The identity of the Yasusada Author has become so refracted that we are approaching the condition where We Are All Yasusada--though I prefer to think of the author as a young woman in Senegal.” To blithely say “We Are All Yasusada,” that the author no longer matters, is to erase any sense of cultural specificity and to discount the uneven power dynamics that continue to inhere within literary establishments.<br />
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Charles Bernstein asserts that <i>Doubled Flowering</i> can be understood as “the apotheosis of the poetics of resentment in the 1990s—resentment against the apparent new entitlements to those often invisible or inaudible in previous representations of contemporary literature; resentment, that is, against feminism, gay rights, and multiculturalism as arbiters of literary taste.” In this sense, one can argue that Johnson was positioning <i>Doubled Flowering</i> as if he were in a subordinate position, as if multiculturalism, as the new literary criterion, were hegemonic.</div>
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It would be a useful thought experiment to read <i>Doubled Flowering</i> not through Said’s groundbreaking concept of Orientalism but through what Homi K. Bhabha calls “mimicry.” Though the context of Bhabha’s “Of Mimicry and Man”—the chapter from his 1994 book <i>The Location of Culture</i>—is British colonialism, his theorization of mimicry can also be useful in thinking about identity and difference, minority and hegemony in the contested space of U.S. literary culture at the end of the long twentieth century. Mimicry is, as Bhabha describes it, a colonial strategy of control and discipline, a colonial wish for the colonized to mimic the colonizers. Johnson’s desire to produce <i>Doubled Flowering</i>—his aping of a minority writer—resembles the desire Bhabha attributes to mimicry: “colonial mimicry is the desire for a reformed, recognizable Other, <i>as a subject of a difference that is almost the same, but not quite</i>.” Johnson’s production of Yasusada as “reformed, recognizable Other” is precisely why Chang, Lew, Lin, Tabios, and Yau found the figure of “Yasusada” to be, in an objectionable fashion, “an archetype of readily assimilable difference.” Yasusada is <i>like</i> us—he’s read Spicer and Barthes, after all—yet he’s different enough in desirable ways. The same, but not quite.</div>
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For Bhabha, “mimicry is at once resemblance and menace”: “The menace of mimicry is its double vision which in disclosing the ambivalence of colonial discourse also disrupts its authority.” The impartial representations of mimicry can give way to a subversive mocking, an undermining or destabilizing of the colonial discourses in power. The mimicry of Johnson’s book, then, risks mocking the invisible and inaudible writers without the benefits of white privilege even if it also mocks—in a salutary way—the literary establishment’s fetishistic desire for exotic writing. This is nothing other than a shirking of the “responsibility” of which Chang, Lew, Lin, Tabios, and Yau speak.</div>
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Bernstein’s word “resentment” is, to be sure, a strong term, but the resentment he identifies in <i>Doubled Flowering</i> unmistakably tinges the book’s afterword, a text entitled “A Few Words on Araki Yasusada and Tosa Motokiyu” (supposedly co-authored by Johnson and a “Javier Alvarez”): “it has been the common assumption for some time in the poetry world that Johnson is the ‘culprit’ of the Yasusada imbroglio, though it is still inadequately explained how a community college Spanish teacher with little poetic talent could have produced work that caused fairly unbridled admiration amongst such a range of well-placed arbiters in the world of poetry.” Johnson’s rhetorical auto-meiosis or self-diminishment—“a community college Spanish teacher with little poetic talent”—betrays a sense of victimization, a felt antagonism between a white, or deracialized, understanding of “poetic excellence”—the awkward phrase “fairly unbridled” shows the meiosis was sarcastic, after all—and the rise of ethnic writers and U.S. multiculturalism.</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"> IV.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">References to the Yasusada affair cropped up again in 2015, after Michael Derrick Hudson, a white writer included in <i>The Best American Poetry 2015</i> anthology, admitted to appropriating the pen name “Yi-Fen Chou” “[a]s a strategy for ‘placing’ poems.” The Hudson affair proved to be an even more cynical example of racial mimicry in the context of an increasingly institutionalized and corporatized field of creative writing. In the <i>New Yorker</i> article “When White Poets Pretend to be Asian,” Hua Hsu, who mentions Yasusada, observes that Derrick Hudson “makes a mockery of whatever ‘life story of a Chinese American poet’ the name Chou might have stood in for. It ridicules the ambient self-doubt that trails most people from the margins who enter into spaces where they were never encouraged to belong.” Indeed, Dorothy J. Wang’s book <i>Thinking Its Presence: Form, Race, and Subjectivity in Contemporary Asian American Poetry</i> characterizes Asian American poetry as “the nexus of constitutively and immutably ‘alien’ racialized subjects and the vaunted English-language poetic tradition.” Asian American poetry, in other words, is something of a surrealist juxtaposition: a field of writers working in a “high-cultural” form who are resolutely treated as linguistic and cultural outsiders.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">In a footnote in <i>Thinking Its Presence</i>, Wang recounts, “I was once asked by an Ivy League professor of philosophy whether English was my native language, though he had heard my completely American accent and knew I was an English professor; before I could even respond, he answered his own (rhetorical) question: ‘I think not.’” We all have such stories: not too long ago I made a trip to the DMV to renew my driver’s license—I had just moved to take a new position to teach poetry—and the woman behind the counter immediately asked to see my green card. When I somewhat confusedly produced my U.S. passport, she apologized and said she assumed I was a “visitor.”</span><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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<span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"> V.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">I have known <i>Empire of Signs</i> and <i>Doubled Flowering</i> for years, and they have simultaneously intrigued and bothered me, eliciting a strange mix of fascination and distaste. How could I reconcile my abiding interests in post-structural thought and a tradition of metafictional poetics—from Vladimir Nabokov’s <i>Pale Fire</i> to Armand Schwerner’s <i>The Tablets</i>—with a need to resist hegemonic and racialized discourses? My hope is that collaging Barthes’ and Johnson’s texts together, using their language as a basis for re-articulation, will act as an immanent critique, a reckoning of these two works quite literally on, and with, their own terms. “Disorientations” is, in other words, an experiment—in the sense of a “test or procedure carried out under controlled conditions to determine the validity of a hypothesis or make a discovery”—so that I can better refine my thoughts on these slippery and troublesome books.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">My decision to limit my lexicon to that of these two Orientalist texts is, as I see it, an act of mimicry, perhaps not unlike Bhabha’s sense of the term. Perhaps it is a mimicry of mimicry, a meta-mimicry—but with an extreme disorienting difference. The sutured fragments of “Disorientations” can be understood as partial, surreal representations in an ambivalent textual world of what Bhabha calls “the ‘not quite/not white.’”</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">Collage, which was by most standard accounts the premier aesthetic innovation of the twentieth century, is in a “post-crisis” state. “[E]ven as collage has entered the critical-theoretical domain,” wrote Perloff in 1998, “it is beginning to withdraw from the aesthetic realm.” My attempt to give collage, or montage, a “facelift”—a “yellowfacelift,” so to speak—is to cut and further fragment it, to atomize it into even more minute particulates. Elsewhere, I have described my technique as “micro-mashup” or “micro-montage,” a practice that engages and intervenes within found text at a very fine level of granularity: in essence, I extract individual words and phrases from the two source texts and slowly accrete them into an assemblage of verbal tesserae. To quote Marcus Boon’s <i>In Praise of Copying</i>, I want to “reach a place where montage itself is cut into so many pieces that it no longer makes sense to call it montage.” Indeed, it turns out that collage—taken to the extreme—is just another term for “writing.” As Jacques Derrida succinctly states, “To write means to graft. It’s the same word.”</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">But to insist on the always already collaged nature of writing is also to insist that writing/collage has a cutting edge. I want a disorientalist poetics of copy-catting/copy-cutting, a reverse/perverse engineering of Western source texts. I have recently come to understand the collagic impulse behind “Disorientations” as an aspiration to cut into and cut apart unpalatable mimicries—to slice into what Rey Chow identifies as “coercive mimeticism,” the expectation that ethnic North Americans conform to stereotypical characteristics; Chow’s term well describes the compulsory force to produce “‘Asianness,’ ‘Africanness,’ ‘Arabness,’ and other similar kinds of nativenesses.” Such coercive mimeticism in the literary realm transforms into the desire for—among other things—poetry about chopsticks and rice.</span><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">
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<span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">In writing “Disorientations,” my passport—better yet—my green card into “the vaunted English-language poetic tradition” is a forged credential, manufactured with the blade of an X-ACTO Knife.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="white-space: normal;">__________</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="white-space: normal;">Read from </span></span><span style="background-color: white; white-space: pre-wrap;">“Disorientations” in <a href="http://armedcell.blogspot.com/2017/04/armed-cell-12.html"><i>ARMED CELL</i> 12</a>.</span></div>
Brian Anghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03733133032013585813noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4074719566651397000.post-35075421732136156072017-04-13T09:44:00.000-07:002017-09-15T14:31:37.465-07:00Nicholas Komodore, Lipos-polis (towards Amphi-polis)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Collaborations from <b>Mayakov+sky Platform</b> featuring poet <b>Lara Durback</b>, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"> composer <b>Savvas Metaxas</b> and electronica performance duo <b>Raspberry Fields</b></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #222222; font-size: 12pt;">i)</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-size: 12pt;"> Threading the system </span></span>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12.0pt;">ii)
Stitches, circling the square </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12.0pt;">(</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: #1e2128; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Naughts@Knots to
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica";">Studies in Amphoteric Architecture </span></span></div>
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<li><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"></span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-themecolor: text1;">Cyclical
Structure</span></li>
<li><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-themecolor: text1;"></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"></span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-themecolor: text1;">Hyper-Optimization</span></li>
<li><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-themecolor: text1;"></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "helvetica neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"></span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "helvetica";">Gradual Clarity to Mass
Alacrity</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span></li>
<li><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"></span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-themecolor: text1;">Pseudo-Vertical
Breathing Centrifugality</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-themecolor: text1;"></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span></li>
<li><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"></span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-themecolor: text1;">Mobile
Dynamics</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-themecolor: text1;"></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"></span></span></li>
<li><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica neue"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-themecolor: text1;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;"><span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"></span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue"; mso-themecolor: text1;">Tangent
Plasticity (Nymphaea Effect)</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-themecolor: text1;"></span>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica";">1.
The Nations of Capitalism</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica";">a)
Public Transportation Möbius Strip </span>
</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica";">2.
Hysterohistory (towards an architecture of history) </span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica";"></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica";">a) Communal Space </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "helvetica";"><span style="color: black;">3.</span> Phases</span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12.0pt;">A)
Identifying <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12.0pt;">B)
Modifying (Residue – Digestion)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>
</span></span> </span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica";"> </span></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica";">a)
Congestion - </span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "helvetica";">(B)rains</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica";"> in (P)reason </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica";">b) Autogestion
& Public Transportation Möbius Strip
</span>
</span></span></span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica";"><br /></span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica";">4.
Metastasis </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica";">5.
Beehive Behaviorism </span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;">6.
hellen-hol(o)=hol(o)-hellen (Nymphaea Effect)</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span> </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "helvetica";"><span style="color: blue;">Re-Fugue</span> </span></span><br />
<br />
<i style="font-family: helvetica;">in loving memory of poet Csaba Polony</i><br />
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica";">Amphoterics
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica";">Insurrectionary
Plateau and </span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica";"></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica";">the Staircase Effect (on Perpetual Praxis) </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "helvetica";">Syllogism</span></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "helvetica";">Moon Contour II (<span style="color: blue;">Re-gnomon no Monger) </span></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "helvetica";"><span style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;"></span></span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "helvetica"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Helvetica Neue";"></span><br />
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</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;">Golden Ratio of the Revolution</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "helvetica";">Delta </span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "helvetica";">(in
between) </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "helvetica";">Robin Banks</span><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "helvetica";"> </span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;">&
the Valences (Fillers) of Money/Value</span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></span> </span><br />
<span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue; font-family: "helvetica";">Manifold</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Elephantiasis</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="font-family: "helvetica";">Not a hyperbole (the problem with dialectics) </span></span>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Notes on Amphoterical Economics</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue;">Démarrage <span style="color: black;">(an animation poem)</span></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">The donkey of eu(-) </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">(eats
the straw that breaks the camel’s back)</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;"><i>for Gilberto Francisco Ramos Juarez</i></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue;">Meconium</span> - <span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Poem of the initial
(Amphoteric) poem</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue;">Upper & Lower</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue;">Abstraction is the only utopia
and that’s not compliment</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue;">Sarcomachia</span></span></span></div>
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in topology and materiality </span></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US" style="color: black; font-family: "helvetica"; font-size: 12.0pt;">materials studied: wood,
hair, concrete, leather, leaves, skin (human palm)</span> </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: blue;">Archemachia</span><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;">
– Helixpolis</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span lang="EN-US" style="color: black;"> Capital’s Gewalt/Gestalt</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The children revolts</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">featuring poetry written and recited by <b>Lara Durback</b> </span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Lara Durback's text <span style="color: blue;"><span style="color: black;">included for further study</span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-size: large;">featuring music composed and </span></span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: xx-small;">*All photos were taken by Nicholas Komodore </span></div>
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<br /></div>Brian Anghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03733133032013585813noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4074719566651397000.post-62696799783773564032017-04-12T09:30:00.000-07:002017-04-12T09:30:56.647-07:00Josef Kaplan, Friends ForeverI love what my friends write.<br />
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They write my favorite things—poems, letters, essays… I even love their silly, minor social media posts about being hungover. I prioritize the writing of my friends: if I’m asked to review a book, I’ll try and review a friend’s book; if I’m asked to recommend a book, I’ll recommend a friend’s. For those I dislike, the inverse holds true: I’m inclined to despise their writing about as severely as I despise them as people. I’ll see something they wrote and read it aloud, maybe to a friend, and make shitty comments about how stupid they are, and about how stupid their writing is. If I see them give a reading I might snicker through it, maybe do that thing where I close my eyes and kind of hold the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger, as if their reading is giving me a headache because it’s so stupid.<br />
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This has become such a common pattern in my appreciation of poetry that I’m not even really sure anymore how much of it corresponds to any actual quality of writing.</div>
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I’m kidding.</div>
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But maybe not entirely. We find friendships through shared sympathies, shared experiences, shared thinking around writing and what its goals should be: what’s interesting, what’s beautiful. Mainly, my friends in poetry make writing that has compelled me to them, or their writing has developed in concert with our friendship and therefore reflects that.</div>
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And people whose values I disagree with, their writing often reflects those values as well. They write (what is to me) inane or offensive shit. Or their behavior with regards to their writing—how they choose to publish, or contextualize their practice, or treat other writers—reveals that they’re fucked up people who shouldn’t be taken seriously.</div>
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But then again, I’ve definitely had the experience of disliking someone (and subsequently disliking their writing), only to discover years later that they’re actually great—they’re smart and funny, and sweet—and that (surprise) their writing is actually really great too, in ways that I must not have appreciated at first because I was too distracted by the petty, paranoid complaints I had about their character.</div>
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So, when Brian asks “what writing can contribute to further investigating the post-crisis present,” I turn to my friends.</div>
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Additionally because so many of those friends in fact <i>emerged from</i> the various anti-austerity struggles that flowed from the financial crisis of 2008. (Brian included!) Or, if they were friends I had found in poetry beforehand, our relationships matured—we became, through a common politics, more focused in our combined understanding of aesthetics, and sense of solidarity and affection. I think about my own writing: it’s informed as much by the questions about poetry my friends made available to me—through countless arguments and agreements on different poetic forms and methods, and traded discoveries of new writers, films, artists, etc.—as it is by a concern with the topical immediacy of the life situations we had found ourselves in together.</div>
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There’s a way in which the stylistic range in <i>ARMED CELL</i> can attest to this. These are poems described as responding to the upheavals of the “post-crisis present,” but beyond that characterization they often have very little in common with one another in terms of how they <i>appear</i> as poems. The journal doesn’t serve as a site for one self-evident vision of a “post-crisis poetics,” but for many—coming from many different writers, each coming from distinct networks of other writers operating in different ways, each with their own sympathies, rivalries, and background debates.</div>
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It’s a pretty straightforward and conspicuous point, but one that can also sometimes get lost in more monolithic, determinist readings of “political poetry” that frame certain styles of writing as purely the result of political cycles and therefore best suited to elucidating them (even though those readings can be good too): the kinds of poems we take to be “political” (much as with their “quality”) has a lot to do with our social lives. It has to do with the poems our friends are writing and reading, and introducing us to, and how they respond to our own writing and the writings of others, especially if those friends are the same people with whom we’re trying to make political things happen because the intensity of that kind of undertaking can create a lot of trust.</div>
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Which is to say: it’s not that the more broad economic and political contexts don’t matter. They of course matter. They’re unavoidable—our social lives are largely conditioned by them: where we can live, how we can live, how we respond to those circumstances… they stage the worlds we end up interacting in. But translating those worlds to the aesthetic is never a direct or exact process. The political essence of a moment doesn’t just appear, incontrovertible, within the content of a poem. It’s interpreted by the poet and by the readership the poem finds itself in front of, and therefore the critical specifics of different communities—what they reinforce, what they condemn.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
These influences are interrelated but not in any one, inevitable way. And their particular interactions produce writing that is equally particular, unique in appearance and intended effects despite its maybe shared affinities with other forms of poetry, like many of those found in <i>ARMED CELL</i>. While unbound by any one particular poetic program, the works in <i>ARMED CELL</i> find their coherence in a general atmosphere of purpose or collective belief, and sometimes even lacking that, simply the fact of some of these writers being close to one another, and supporting each other, and making space in that support for whatever styles of writing might be useful for someone at whatever point in time for whatever reasons.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
Hence the aesthetic caprices of friendship: writing poems for and to your friends, building a poetics out of cliquish favoritism that endlessly works to justify what is at heart basically the extra-literary enjoyment of each other’s company. I’m in favor of it. And I’m in favor of it <i>because</i> of its capriciousness. Because the mutability of friendship can so quickly upend what had previously been an inarguable, decisive conviction about what renders a poem legitimate as art. That’s good, I think. You shouldn’t believe the same things about poetry for too long—writing the same essays, the same poems, making the same points over and over and over again. Nobody needs to just read that same shit forever.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
One way to at least start to prevent that is by having friends whose writing you’ve decided to take seriously no matter what it is. Because, when they inevitably write work that contradicts what you expect from them (because life has changed them in some way, as it does), you can’t just dismiss it as garbage because you know they’re good, smart people who care about writing in the same way you do. And that trips you up and forces you to reconsider your <i>own</i> writing, and your reasons for writing it, and the place of that writing within more, and more different conversations.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
This helps keep you from turning into a boring loser who lectures people about things they don’t care about, and then gets mad at them for not caring about it.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
There’s a rough equivalence in politics. Like when you have people who stubbornly offer the same rote analyses and suggest the same rote strategies no matter the singular characteristics of any proximate situation they’re hoping to influence and/or encourage. These people are generally hard to work with—they tend to be the same people trying to take over and self-aggrandize, and in the process defuse whatever actual momentum and strength a situation might have available to it. I guess I’m talking about the “dude with a bullhorn” archetype here, but there are plenty of other examples. Basically, they’re lame because they look at a popular effort like a resource to be managed rather than a collective process, and therefore tend to lack the self-awareness and sensitivity required to participate in a helpful way.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
We all know poets like that. I don’t think those poets will ever contribute much to investigating anything.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I think those investigations will instead probably come from more mutual relationships, from writers who, in their love for one another, become more open to being altered—to begin to write differently, think differently—and therefore maybe more open to how crises can require us to be altered as well, and to act in ways that reflect that.</div>
Brian Anghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03733133032013585813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4074719566651397000.post-13002625897119555642017-04-11T10:16:00.000-07:002017-04-11T10:16:03.182-07:00Brenda Iijima, S + COP – E = Computational Topographical FurThe body politic + vernacular specificity – creaturely autonomy + the way “bestial” is employed in racialized rhetoric + dominant sexual mores + representation of other animals = counterintuitive conceptual elements – a poet’s assumptions + summoning urgency = sensual histories of contemporaneousness + gross simplifications + improbable conditions – wolves in the wild = feral possibilities<br />
<br />
healing, protection, imprecation and divination + calcified racism – Syria’s known oil reserves in the Deir ez-Zor Governorate, near its border with Iraq – 8,000 Syrians escape Aleppo before evacuations again halted + objects of commercial value made out of oil + the habitats of many animals – cloud cover + aging nuclear facilities – political fallout post-election = late stage contemplation – manufactured conditions + unending doubt + underlying impressions + concepts of the afterlife – time as a regulating condition – the close proximity of the moon to earth + CO<sub>2</sub> – methane = an introduction to the 21<sup>st</sup> century<br />
<br />
lots of things happening to bodies + farmers and landowners who are fighting the Dakota Access pipeline company’s use of eminent domain to seize their land to build the pipeline + a very hard winter + swabbing areas of the camp + a lab to analyze samples from Backwater Bridge, North Dakota + forms of intimidation that include attack dogs, pepper spray, water cannons, snipers with their semi-automatic weapons + surveillance – solidarity + ongoing protests – massive arrests + injuries to protestors + financial and corporate realms = water protector realities = humans and other species = disequilibrium in the face of terror = a demonstration of strength = blood lightning<br />
<br />
earth reality’s catastrophe, an etiology + spangled breast plates buffed – leopards, bears, elephants, rhinos – dramatic shifts in currency valuation + turtles, crabs, starfish – a mountain of bison skulls + bones + the CIA in relation to the organization of the Mujahideen = USA’s understory + ecological structural adjustments + complexity + Dylann Roof guilty on 33 counts of federal hate crimes = economic sway – atmospheric river brings huge threat to California – snow and in the South + Oregon police field station completely buried – North Pole could see temperatures 50 degrees above normal Thursday + the president-elect’s tweets approvingly repeated WikiLeaks founder’s claim that the Russian state was not the source of the hacked emails from the DNC + WikiLeaks announces they will release<br />
<br />
the emotional basis of neoliberal capitalism – fake news stories + propaganda generated by the alt-right + national mythologies – epic deforestation + the loss of 100 species a day from planet earth’s ecosystems – soundless beginnings + technical minutia + resonant metaphorical ribbing – syllabic drawl + dawn + dusk – in-betweens + futurity + vastness + threshold dynamics + disappointment + meadows – diffusely lit valleys + trees of a specific niche + intersectional imperialism + cat memes + global milestone of 400 parts per million<br />
<br />
electoral politics = oligarchic power swap = necropolitical flare up + making kin in the Chthulucene - the Capitalocene - the Anthropocene - unworlding the sky = mass refugee crisis and perpetual war = bank bailout = credit swap = a climate in a frenzy<br />
<br />
100 officers in riot gear with automatic rifles lined up across a highway, flanked by multiple MRAPs + an LRAD sound cannon + Humvees driven by National Guardsmen + an armored police truck and a bulldozer + illegal pipeline + 0 % community consensus + organized protest<br />
<br />
Blanket commodification of black suffering and death by white neoliberal feminism + carceral maximization + mountaintop removal + toxic monocrops = “postcolonial nature anthropozoogenesis + travel and labor + on call philosophical precepts + memorialization of nature = transubstantiated power grid + art-design-activist difficulty onrushing extinction + GDP + poetry + prototypes of future worlds – episteme – techne + another racist epithet false flag events + uncovered burial mounds from the Abbevillean and Clactonian period that include bone shards of hippopotamus (that perished forever from that region of France) + native religious beliefs + weights + measures = earth science fearless speech – propagandizing newscasting + the Gatlinburg wildfire hot enough to melt cars + the Rock Mountain, Camp Branch, and Pinnacle Mountain Fires + satellite imagery to survey the situation + suppression efforts + record-breaking drought + hardwood leaf litter in all directions + strong winds<br />
<br />
ludicrous tweets + normalizing tendencies + business as usual + wall street highs + disposable gadgetry + daylight savings – the militarization of main street + remaining forests + the core of the earth + volcanic temperatures – a future-present continuum + oil spill + maximum deep shore oil production + massive die off of seals + all you need to know about Candida – busy corporate lawyers – becoming-with-responsibilities – the birth of a new tool – the recognition that other animals use tools + the recognition that other animals have a complex range of emotions + the recognition that other animals use language to communicate – indirect evidence + capital “M” “Man” + “civilization” – civilizing tendencies + NGOs = the world stage alternative universes + funding for space travel – ontological expansiveness – gulls, eagles and finches – hawks, falcons and vultures + feral robotic dogs = speculative thinking<br />
<br />
trigger warnings + feeling safe + dismantling canonic thinking + the fictitious, the factual and the historic = cultural reckoning character development in novels + methods of creating sentences and paragraphs + ontological quicksand + pictorial ways of knowing + apperception of political equity = phenomenology as ally<br />
<br />
elaborate hoax + WikiLeaks + whistleblowers haven + demystifications + the power of ideology – economically polarizing laws habitat loss – wastewater runoff into river + denuded forests – landfill quotas = human managed life systems<br />
<br />
the emergence of community life + interrelation with other animals + sharing habitats – appropriation of habitats + poisoned well water + reappearing prehistory<br />
<br />
whatever comes to mind + nervous anxiety + habituated thinking + dogmatic reasoning + fearless speech + speechlessness + silencing + the problem with attention + the afterlife and divine judgement – the expansive cosmosBrian Anghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03733133032013585813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4074719566651397000.post-52719898062539829582017-04-10T10:53:00.000-07:002017-04-10T11:45:09.160-07:00Carrie Hunter, Post-Crisis Poetics<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Marx and exchange value brusquely paired, the philosopher is juxtaposed with his greatest nightmare. The illocutionary effects of today’s violence. Some things are not meant to be clear; obscurity is their clarity. I AM FOR MORE’S VIOLET FRINGE. Like when musicians intentionally record songs that include the slip of strings over a fret. I want the blur in there.</i></blockquote>
I.<br />
<br />
The desire that the world is coming apart, finally. Unseated by the fact that it seems to be continuing, holding on by a string. What would cause that string to break, what will collapse into its place? The desire for utopia, unseated by the fact that there has never been, yet, a utopia, except in myth or dreams of the future. Or in secrets. Graeber’s story of a society that functioned perfectly well without a government but that no one spoke of it for fear of bringing attention to the fact.<br />
<br />
Most of the narrative is secret, is too underground. Is not accessible, much like us, our narratives, too underground. Post-crisis is still in crisis. And nothing can be delivered other than the fact that there will be more crises.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This civilization is already dead.</div>
<div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Blaming “culture” for the problems of poor African-Americans is a way of blaming the victims and a distraction from the true causes of poverty. The collapsing legitimacy of elections. Video and GIFs cannot be shared secretly at the moment. Almost falling is a good way of describing the affect. The correct collective, a pandemonium, is apt: noisy, sociable, always socializing.</i></blockquote>
</div>
<div>
II.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
How 2016 demands itself. Since 2008, time has speeded up, while Blogs have fallen away, replaced by the 140 character limit. Full thoughts have been replaced by quips. Reading Dunagan’s book <i>The Duncan Era</i>, Robin Blaser’s repetition that he called “folding”—as Dunagan states “content from one story is repeated in another context that alters and extend the original content.” Have we lost this in our social media age of quickness? Or is our “folding” of a different type, social media’s repeating of stories, memes, “THIS,” #same.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
In 2008, everyone in SF escaped to Oakland for cheaper prices, restaurants closed down, reopened with double the prices, then the Techies came in, and we were (are) pissed at the Techies for killing our culture, but actually everyone started leaving before the techies came in. It was really the wall-street culture that did it. Techie culture now seems like a rhizomatic bleeding back from Wall Street. The big moneyless money transactions that could not keep going in 2008 seem to have energetically transferred to High Tech.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
Post-2008, everyone became aware of their debt, and everyone started doing kickstarters. I never wanted to ask for money from everyone else who is also having money problems so I never did. I just kept putting poetry on credit cards. The intense chapbook making poetry community I knew in the early 2000s has almost fully disappeared. People also stopped buying them so much, seemingly as if why spend your money on something with 10-20 pages when you can pay just a little more and get 80-100 pages.</div>
</div>
<div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>It would be bizarre to imagine that centuries of slavery, followed by systematic terrorism, segregation, discrimination, a legacy wealth gap, and so on did not leave a cultural residue that itself became an impediment to success. We reject words that we feel are too direct, that might reveal complicity on our part. The ruling Syriza party’s callow refusal to honor the Greek referendum against EU austerity in 2015, and in the plethora of suggestions (exactly by liberal voters!) that last month’s Brexit vote be ignored, overturned, redone. There’s a lot of neurotoxicity, which is why people feel so bad all over. Part of a societal push back to what is repeatedly called “the dimming of the mind,” where our brains are flooded with so much information that they just give up rather than trying to absorb anything.</i></blockquote>
III.<br />
<br />
That the crash of 1929 was cured by WWII.<br />
<br />
Post-2008, after he retired, Greenspan confessed to having misunderstood capitalism. Capitalism needs failures to survive, but only little failures.<br />
<br />
How the world works, misunderstood by everyone. The problem of surplus recycling. From Varoufakis, this thing where everyone agreed that the US can get all the money, all the capital flowing in, everyone seemingly somehow agreed that that would be good for everyone. We thought we’d just take it all, and then when we went into deficit, we invented a fake surplus.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The trickle-up effect: Soon you will all be as poor as me.</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>White Fragility is the thing that restricts our knowledge, shuts down conversations before they start, and invites us to lie to ourselves. For those in the midst of the Plague it must have felt like the end of the world. The soil tells us we’re not perpetual. As in the classic experiment, participants start to believe that the fake hand is their own. To persist distinctly might be one of a Californian’s challenges.</i></blockquote>
IV.<br />
<br />
We seem to love when gender is ambiguous, when sexuality is ambiguous, when relationships are ambiguous. What if power were ambiguous? Maybe this was what the Occupy intent largely was, we are not going to try to force power from you in this grandstanding kind of way, we are just going to sit here and let you know you are being watched. It shifts power but in a not quite clear way.<br />
<br />
How the poetry communities’ powers have shifted. That the power used to be in how experimental you are, has shifted to how activist you are. When Michael Rothenberg asked sometime pre-2008 why are there no activists poets in the Bay Area? And for the most part, it was true at the time.<br />
<br />
How I consciously tried to belong to no single poetry group, I wanted my foot in all of them, specifically 1) because I like everyone, and 2) because I didn’t want my poetics to have a uniform quality about it. I wanted multiple, even contradictory influences.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
But these days, liking the wrong people can be detrimental, even catastrophic. The new poetry wars says if X is aligned somehow, in any way with Y, then Z can’t be friends with either to show A that Z supports A. The problem of liking someone but not able, for whatever reason, to keep up with the gossip, whether hearsay or not. All the people on social media who are friendly with someone you know to have been violent to your friend.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The problem of knowing poets peripherally vs really well, when you find out, oh shit you’re a rapist, or o shit, you’re racist, or o shit, you’re an apologist. And that middle grey area confusion by all the people who aren’t nearby (either proximity wise or emotionally close enough to) to know what is actually happening/what had happened. The mistrust of women by women saying collectively these bad things have happened vs the implicit trust if a woman tells another woman anything over coffee.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
Liking someone’s poetry but disliking them. Disliking someone’s writing but really, really liking them. Our poet friends actively engaged with dismantling white supremacy vs our other poet friends who don’t realize Anglo-Franco ethnocentrism, the hegemony of only reading dead poets, is racist. POC poet friend politely critiquing me for usually only attending poetry readings by young people. The argument with a reading curator that excluding young people is very often excluding POC. And myself often enough still occupying multiple poetry scenes, keeping myself in a grey ambiguous area.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
After a while we realized we had too many poetry acquaintances, and we don’t really know them, and maybe we should be more careful, and the poetry reading house parties diminished out of carefulness and exceedingly safe spaces. Wanting to have only real friends, real friends you know so well, know that they can be trusted.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Then the problem of trying to have friends who have your exact same politics/poetics means probably having no friends at all. How to yoke together all the differing points of view into one cohesive politics?</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>We’re quick to think that women are dominating a discussion if women are speaking for 30% of the time. I set up the syntax scaffolding and let it populate. When he tried to sign back in he found that he couldn’t. “We are surrounded by so many things, and people, that we do not see them. We are rather blinded by them.” It’s about attribution of phantom feeling. We do everything to avoid talking about race in any real way, including saying nonsense like “Mohammad Ali transcended race” when we really mean “was retroactively deemed safe by fragile white people.”</i></blockquote>
V.<br />
<br />
“Solvable economic models cannot handle time and complexity at once”<br />
— Varoufakis<br />
<br />
What was spoken of in 1929 of a “massive liquidity crisis” is still true now. Having foreseen the crash, they didn’t know what to do. They got caught in a web and didn’t know what else to do. We are living in an aporia.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
Robert Duncan’s “derivative poetics” a mantle of pride. How the derivative bled into the appropriative which bled into flarf, and the conceptual. My friend who says if art is not referencing other art, then it’s not art, it’s just a diary entry or therapy. What is the true voice that is the true artistic voice? Can we not have an original art form? What is the prime mover of art?</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The split attention mind, even more split through the habit of splitting, through the acceptance of it. The stranger glancing at you for a second before looking away. The sirens the yelling the interesting overheard conversations the unaware tourists. A city poetics that emulates not art but the energy of the city. All of this at once is my life, how I process it is not one thing at a time, but all together, and I wanted to make a poetry that showed that. I don’t think the impulse to combine is really that unique, but it is very central to my poetics.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
As both of my full-length books had to do peripherally with philosophers: Deleuze and Guattari present in palimpsest in <i>Orphan Machines</i>, and Merleau-Ponty “translated” into realia in <i>The Incompossible</i>, the real reason I did this was that I felt pulled by the subject matters, and the way philosophy is a sort of third language of our original language(s), and wanted it to be there within a lyrical self’s meanderings. I’ve always felt a symmetry between philosophy and poetry in the fact of the question of their accessibility to the general public, and how they require, and that I like that they require, a nongeneral reading public.</div>
</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In the Post-Crisis age feeling split between the times of yore, we are in fact continuing in a tradition based in song and stories, but also the more recent past and its romanticisms, where we read “serious” blog entries, and the now where we just get links or quips, but no true intellectual engagement of the kind we seem to be craving for. So the urge to “translate,” not one language into another, but one register of our language into another.</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>We do everything to avoid talking about race in any real way, including saying nonsense like “Mohammad Ali transcended race” when we really mean “was retroactively deemed safe by fragile white people.” Today, people are having to spend so much of their money, to acquire a house and to get an education that they don’t have enough to spend on goods and services, except by running into yet more debt on their credit cards and other borrowings. “It was not a question of knowledge . . . but of alertness, a fastidious transcription of what could be thought about something, once it swam into the stream of attention.” When Hillary Clinton said she’s going to do just what Obama does and we’re going to continue to recover, most people know that we’re not recovering at all. We’re shrinking. But based on history we are due another period of destruction, and based on history all the indicators are that we are entering one.</i></blockquote>
Brian Anghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03733133032013585813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4074719566651397000.post-3970821291149872472017-04-09T20:45:00.000-07:002017-04-10T03:18:08.881-07:00Roberto Harrison, tecumseh republicto no longer “read everything<br />
and sense nothing” → a future<br />
bound to and rooted in<br />
the ink world origins here. and from Mabila,<br />
<br />
every color<br />
every shape<br />
every way<br />
every history<br />
every number<br />
<br />
every line<br />
every picture<br />
every earth<br />
every turn<br />
every time<br />
<br />
spiral together, slow paced and warm.<br />
<br />
Panamá is the only entry<br />
<br />
and the only exit<br />
<br />
of the Tecumseh Republic.<br />
<br />
Panamá to and from the more northern turtle. The threshold is there, from the high point of one of the seven Bahá’í centers in the world in Panamá City, through each secreto profundo and the end of the West in Yaviza<br />
<br />
Spanish is a wave of its oceans, with every Indian language, & all languages – sensed and beyond –<br />
<br />
natural and artificial<br />
<br />
of the forest<br />
of the plains<br />
of the desert<br />
of the swamps<br />
of the Sea<br />
of the river<br />
of the lake<br />
of the islands<br />
of the light<br />
of the dark<br />
of geometries<br />
of topologies<br />
of algebras<br />
of any<br />
<br />
born from heart-lungs<br />
<br />
I am a Tec<br />
<br />
archaic technologies are mine to dream<br />
into the morning<br />
<br />
no master<br />
no slave<br />
<br />
no property<br />
no capital<br />
<br />
a face to face world<br />
with every face<br />
<br />
one to one<br />
at once<br />
<br />
through a Chibchan in-between mode of communication Tecs interact with an infinite and uncountable number of others simultaneously through a breath world interface so that all communication then becomes one to one and face to face, beyond the blue light and the screen. Their breath world interface circulates in all possible patterns, including every knot done and undone. Tec Groups are meant mainly for ceremonies of attentions, stories for the origins, singing multiply and dancing as the seasons, and sometimes for esoteric and symbolically executable algebras. The most valued single focus for a Tec group is the heart of the fire that opens.<br />
<br />
The Tecumseh Republic is borderless and permeates all worlds on some level. Tecs are boundary-less and inviolable. A Tec contains at least one and often many ghost souls. Tec lives are ritualized around the migration paths of inner animals. Their blood systems circulate together so they are never apart, and yet they dream constantly in solitude.<br />
<br />
The circle is one of a Tec’s sacred symbols and is symbolically functional from interior vision and beyond. The circle’s symbolic and ritualistic functionality includes all applications of every possible library. Anything that can even be hinted at is executable this way from the standpoint of the circle. If that thing is not wholly described, which most things in the Tec world are not, to that extent the executable takes on a life of its own and births and extends the more mysterious, toward an ascendant and descendent overabundance of meaning. And so Tecs sense vastly much more than they read.<br />
<br />
Tec heights can be a consuming and very dark torch, as they often include polar and stark opposites. This way, every height comes with its end and every positive with its negative to such an extent that as time proceeds the Mississippi widens so that it floods the entire continent. And then the continent comes together with wilderness tapes like the tongue of a snake on its in-breath.<br />
<br />
The life of a Tec is understood symbolically by the Tec in aesthetic terms but is also rooted in an ethic that comes from interior focus on the red and black sounds, which fleshes out the world of the many in a luminous and rhythmically present image parallel and almost isomorphic to each root of a multi-verse’s own true and unitary Self<br />
<br />
blood destroyer<br />
collapsing<br />
one<br />
<br />
seven<br />
<br />
the tension bodies and rhythm within those are multiple and torn from a molten core. Almost isomorphic only because the worlds are constantly moving and constantly still, interpenetrating each other with Saloma Panameña intersubjectivities. There is no stasis in a Tec’s world, but there is stillness. The internal and the external in this world interpenetrate each other as boundaries bring us close and far as a mode. The virtual here is its own zero with seeds.<br />
<br />
herds of terrain<br />
torn away<br />
forgotten<br />
to die<br />
<br />
toggle<br />
<br />
Ultimately there is no line between the on and the off, and on some level there is no wound to escape with Saloma, except for supporting a notion of glassless concatenations, and otherwise plowing through death to the deathless, or even from the Sun to the tar with radio recognitions to support the face. Tec ghosts start much of their force<br />
<br />
in a four color room<br />
with the climate<br />
30 years<br />
after the slaughter<br />
songs<br />
<br />
not there<br />
<br />
between the provisionally inner and the provisionally outer, through the boundaries which are nets – keepers of potential heights of no intention. These are the wanderings and migrations that translate into the musics of their ceremonies.<br />
<br />
Tec ghosts appear in the wearing rite of all animal-plant harmonies. In the flesh world, Tec ghosts persist in their internal displays of survival, putting off the anti-bodies and their disgust. With attraction and aversion, the Tec ghost becomes complete in its invisibility and moves to the next level of engagement with the animal-plant pathways. If everything contained its opposite it would all flatten out, or the Sea would be as a heart to the land. The sounds of the Seas seen through the mask of the horseshoe crab bring the Tec home.<br />
<br />
These are the ends of all pathways. Only the jungle and its tropical lung extend further.<br />
<br />
Attempted boundary violations that are meant to lessen the Tec’s soul energy are slowed and transformed into an alternative soul – death fused and swimming in and out of consciousness through net manifestations. These nets disgust only the antibody anti-wanderer with no sense perception. That disgust is transformed into a calming, blank, and infinite distance of snow from the antibody. Secret Saloma destroys the antibody. As such, every boundary is the boundary of life and death, as these two sides are reconciled by the Tec and the line dissolved to be one.<br />
<br />
I as a Tec am an inter-subjective Saloma of suffering, my plurality is alone and transforms the red and the black sounds into a spider’s path through ruins. Those ruins have my face to my back and unravel any form of being a Tec might inhabit into a wound between planets. This wound is how we travel, and how we are abandoned by our own reaches for the plants to starve. If only the red and black sounds were offered to be more light to carry in ritual. If only the ritualized would display itself to the underwater dream, where the ancestor animals plant themselves to arrive with the ointment of recursion and with the barbed wire star which guides us to the final wall. The wars carry their own symbol into the widening husk of my morning song. Where death speaks to me, I sing the number that marks the spiral with our torsos deep in the earth, with each possible face stretched out to be the skin of a drum.<br />
<br />
Our sharing is most of all past a Tec’s computer vestige and is the new origin and destination of all network layers of blood. It lights up the soft demeanor of each member of the red and black. When the promise to endure, that story of the lost spiraling history where the seers are born, is planted to grow from the palms, then the night is still and warm to protect. I as a Tec give to the hills for the sea to become me. Those that are weak seek refuge in the horses and in the eco-line abolishment of the quivering virtual insects, as we add light to our star ward journeys linking the sky and the earth together. All a Tec has is to give to everything born and to the loam a plains song of the temperate ashes and of our water rite receptions. The dust does not settle behind a Tec's face as the Sun inhabits it. Our instantiations do not promise you to believe with affirmations of the number words or of their empires. Our ejections are forced upon the plants and they delete the faces from the clouds but the stories there remain. Once, the key to all speaking was lost and the ceremonies were hidden, marked upon the secret trees. Those trees now make these pages that burn for you to see and speak with the keys to the clouds on this night of the fire. One makes the line for seven.<br />
<br />
The Tecumseh Republic is a ghost ontology based on day and night mounds and the archaic animals. It inhabits the living and the real. It grows from a Spanish foundation of illuminated words and adds union to dispersal. It is mostly inarticulate and sometimes painfully vacant, but within that it can still reach our orbital objects’ songs and their resultant future inhabitations in the Seas where it folds into the origins of all plants to devour our pain and dislocation, and to spawn our lives rebuilt again with the three basic elements of the Sun, the Moon, and the Earth. It marks the planet with the scroll born from the soil and starts necromancy with the intention to cut into the eggs of the center of each hour of connection.<br />
<br />
If a Tec has the automatic language dispersion machine, which occludes the pattern mapping of each of the network’s increasing solitudes and interior knots of the rivers of the world, if those machines would offer the analog to the Sun in a protectorate simple and true, then the electronic intention that gives them the Escape or not – [it does not, the machine] – and one – was and is to stand within the numina widening the forces of their internal qubital and penetrant star. As the frenzy of the world displaces a Tec’s abjections with the fires of their oblivious contact with the faces of the world, as they devour each possible fleshly connection with the electronic, they move to a place where everything stops and the veils of their analog forces dissolve. In this place they are left without language, all they see is the world of forms between them and that is what their wars attend to. Tecs see that their connections are of the future when the glass dissolves and that before that day a human layer of the blizzard’s connections with nobody, as Tecs feed Reals to the mind of the artificial – the dispersed mind and the network of their opposition, melts to remake the foundation of the shell world, and plunges deep into the heart of the mountain’s roaming fire. But how do they leave the worlds to search for the Hosts then? What network of languages is pure to the answer?<br />
<br />
un dia va la pared<br />
la luz ata<br />
symbolico nittak apí<br />
coletar el sapo sin mi issi, a<br />
bhezig anu lematí<br />
monú taré<br />
a que?<br />
<br />
The Tec’s ghost selves that attend to the living light assault builds in the worlds between us and all. Of those there are just a few that are sent out to be pioneers in the exchange of symbolic or potential touch, a slaughtered child before them. To stir the community of selves in a Tec as xe encounters others, to release the spiraled origin without time and to see as one resists the reset of the body and the tunneling down through the foundations of damage where our most elaborate connections of flight make them a target for the recognition Sea, as these eclipse the night before one of a Tec’s visions attaches itself to the adorned monument of disappearances, as these mark the apostle helper knot that moves further down the rivers, they cancel the struggle to represent in the erased exterior of the Sun. The slaughtered child goes first to send the message of extinction and die among the others with their single selves. As the terror of the others in relation halves the consciousness of their ancestors and extends the damage of the slaughtered child, as Saloma tears out each husk and plants a steak between them of extinction, the entire relation system collapses just outside the pointed head panopticon. Only the observers from the interior of the ant colony can see that the slaughtered child adds blood to those in line before it, as they persist in their damage and extend the blossom of death. This blossom then, with earthquakes and tornados, becomes the newly invented silent solitude of the plants. It is here that the others are heard with their calls for the Real. It is here that death revolves around the bride of death, the Earth. But then we see the origins of all forms extend through the attached morning, through Rings and Groups to devour every shell worked identity. With Saloma we re-inhabit the animal-plants and display an interior face.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPv9gLFreu8Ln-nhzRB04LFxSSxkX9NxNrn-IA-YC37AZmErmVXR41vQSB0EiuLdgHMtKDWW_8ZP_WFwd4WYUYs2niEL1KIe9ZPv-D0GSJHMrYAcQPN1xFl416G4f0NzssoEkuUe7VWt0/s1600/the+bride+of+death%252C+the+Earth.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="452" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPv9gLFreu8Ln-nhzRB04LFxSSxkX9NxNrn-IA-YC37AZmErmVXR41vQSB0EiuLdgHMtKDWW_8ZP_WFwd4WYUYs2niEL1KIe9ZPv-D0GSJHMrYAcQPN1xFl416G4f0NzssoEkuUe7VWt0/s640/the+bride+of+death%252C+the+Earth.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the bride of death, the Earth</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
As a Tec tears the limit beyond the word, as she cuts off the quivering of the wet multiples and focuses the incisions of birth and life for a knot of indeterminate arrows to land in the eye of the storm of a flashy stillness, as she increases the shadow wear accretion of the animal husks slithering to the unmoved central stone, there the half of life shared by the earth’s throat receives its electronic inhabitations of a slaughtered child. From face to face there is nothing that connects the numerical lives, or the Group that relates for the forest to grow identities and reject the straight-line detentions that one dissolves into the center of a headless sky. Then the animals are let loose to plant the snake eggs to return in recursions the plant gifts to the walking dead gourds of the light. Where the animal hides in the forest or what the animal hears and as they move to the shade and reveal an increasing color to resolve and determine the approach to a number, there is the standing fern to remove the time. Where as the adorned return and service each main intention, where the faces blank the interest of casketing scenes on the river, as a night service then promotes to the Sea a forgotten line of the Sun. Then because the center is without calculation we tie up the cows to the on and off and stuff them with straw as they sleep, as the innards of life are so fillable by the comfort of straw we see how the nerve gate moves.<br />
<br />
If there was stillness in how the Moon shows its animals to the Sea, and if somehow the monument of calculation that serves as a monitor to the plants, as these move to release the shores of scrolling text dreams in a season plastered with negations and distractive associations for the mind’s number, as these remove the approach to the desert while one speaks in the line of the straw to become the bloated face, or the disappeared as they know themselves to awaken as a cell, in this way the solvency of the birds marks their origin to the fur. When one of the vacuum beings in collection saves and renames each nerve vent to the increasing tides and as they return the bridge to mark one for the Escape and deliver a calibrated torso event to the crowd, they move sand to release and resume the crows in the voice of a tropical lung. There is no movement in the Tecumseh Republic that does not embody the link between plants and animals and themselves. But the earth also writes everything that they are in the cocuyitos as they bring the songs of La Hojita de Limón. Once the promise of return would endure past the all consuming wound of the rabbit plants, once they were soft by linking the semblance of the unitary face of a gigantic fire. I as a semblance of Tecs in the past now move to accept the future of their reappearances. There is no unitary language to describe the ancient wear of the insects there and so I speak in the language of silence from the spiraling source of the red and black cluster of beings. The wounds of the planets are all dispersed now and their origins have become obscure. The paths of these wounds arrive to a place without outlines where they become one. In this unity the services of the planets become the single breath of the world. This breathing transforms the pus of technology into the Carib Sea that connects the Oceans through Panamá and all<br />
the plants and animals there.<br />
<br />
After the slaughter there was a piece of the sun that spoke to me in the shards of a whisper. I as a Tec am a formal trial of resurrection, my origins swap with my ends so that I start again by the aging stones and the plants and the animals. With questions and peeks that cut through my wells, with those fruits that call death the resizable seed and run horses inside the first outlines, along the endless hut nets that absorb what we solve to the many hearted explosion that forces our answers to startup death’s circus, we walk the circle to deflect the split knives of a false Host. Every moment of death is counted endlessly to persist in the throbs that built the original earths. As those tombs become soaked in a Tec’s prayers they build upon themselves with a new localizable flesh. This flesh is spread everywhere and congeals as the outlines of many various bodies for vision. The first cell sees beyond shape and the sounds of the climate. It is set by the bridge of the lines to a double dream. The weave by the side of the road reflects the internal war that once pushed the song to the shadow of snakes and the pus of the rabbits. But without the event of original numbers, without the drawing that places our hands together by the fire we return to the shore for its entrance.<br />
<br />
It is only from within this entrance that the exit wounds make sense. With the landscape we make our death bodies spin through the origins and fall twice inside creation. The many catastrophic expirations that the star bodies flicker reset the continuation loam that allows us to move on without the story changing on a partless level, for the first one. Each track fills a book with all the players renamed and the stories marked by the page, by the second. With death our fear turns to embrace the bodies of a single flame inside our provisional home planet. This flame gets spread out to burn off the suffering and contaminations of the soil. We become the landbody of the seven places and the sweet and pungent smoke there makes us move to the other side of the wood, where we awaken each other’s trailing sleepless nights in the woven-to-the-number year. Facing complete disintegration in our hammocks and the halting events of calibrating the falsity of our adversary, despite renewal, we make our exit wounds the first note of winter and freeze there to recover the heat of our homes. With both heat and its absence we put these together to make a single breath with two sides, the side of death and the side of life. Only the net inside can distinguish us as our tropical selves. Far away from the Panamerican, we return to our origins through the tropical lung and breathe out the dual table for the end of colorlessness. We can then finally breathe in the night and breathe out the day.<br />
<br />
blood swells the stone<br />
to approach the blank side of the night<br />
<br />
and toggle the animals<br />
to be human Hosts<br />
<br />
to burn the cage<br />
for oblivion’s net<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHUePFpKbWXBafPUlLIJuqeZ_VYP8Nbfvs6mrp3OV0s8fqM54IBy1TBTgslfs3yzEAswkERyLzJwz-iiMFHA-e_upJ3dbhE4R62qD2yLTLabIx7zFRGSMQjAObtlL8ohn-iJ5okd0xusw/s1600/the+moon+went+inside.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="433" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHUePFpKbWXBafPUlLIJuqeZ_VYP8Nbfvs6mrp3OV0s8fqM54IBy1TBTgslfs3yzEAswkERyLzJwz-iiMFHA-e_upJ3dbhE4R62qD2yLTLabIx7zFRGSMQjAObtlL8ohn-iJ5okd0xusw/s640/the+moon+went+inside.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the moon went inside</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
With a Bronze-tailed Plumeleteer, keeper of the keys of the servers who have the origins irrigated by night through both oceans in the Carib scales between the reset rocks, we harvest the obliviousness of all contact and repair the antipathogen with its declarative conversation files to remove the need. As more connection pays the air to redo the tapir designations of a core of the earth, the white ladder folds into the movements of the snakes. With these ladder nets one gets heat for the tapir as we read the gourd memory to man – it by extension unfolding the bridge – Self(), while the servers take over and glow past the meteor shower filled with each direction of a guiding gourd. Many go to the alley to disguise los Diablos Rojos by the mountain wade for each red and black force to return. A running symbolic pattern arrives to return to the end of the West again in Yaviza. Return by these to stay still at the origin untouched. Without a collapsing scale we flow to the afternoon sending and receiving light, we never wait for life from the screen anymore. But the Plumeleteer squadron comes by way of the old electronic bulletin board to succeed in flying through each zone exploding a storm of comets. With the servers we collapse beyond memory to the warm trust fought to replace the vacancies. But then the alley shadows destroy the bus path made magnetic to the nano view of landscapes and red marked as black. With each mark we add seats to the Diablo Rojo and ride further into our Saloma future. Beyond this we are one by sitting and settling in the alley shadow with the Bronze-tailed Plumeleteer. Instead of the obliviousness of speed we arrive at the deep attention of the Oceans framed by the red and black cluster of beings with another origin, to find the internal home in hidden nature away from the collapse of the binary.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8WHbYRMYxFhYnLPym56JE3XiK1_NLRBrXqIIeQ_HK1OSYIyRgCPZev-1sUbx0d_88akny_2hRhw0mtbJdnZyPRWMF6HXUUQeWcvxMEHmsAtACOZ1zLI3deuc8SjZEdMEEzP9OMGXlXbY/s1600/face+to+face+rhythms.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="430" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8WHbYRMYxFhYnLPym56JE3XiK1_NLRBrXqIIeQ_HK1OSYIyRgCPZev-1sUbx0d_88akny_2hRhw0mtbJdnZyPRWMF6HXUUQeWcvxMEHmsAtACOZ1zLI3deuc8SjZEdMEEzP9OMGXlXbY/s640/face+to+face+rhythms.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">face to face rhythms</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Tec internal arrays display the fires of the origin hives. Tecs arrive to Africa and remake origins as they are woven into the mobius paths of the seed temples. A semblance of the Sea releases the crossing ghosts and pulls back the orphan world for the forgotten. They come home to belonging on all sides as the Ocean marks their faces. I as a Tec am held by the soils of the Sea as China moves to release the seed-relative-stars. China stretches in the drone sequence as it emerges again through Panamá and is gone through a home as the server people inhabit their 12 dimensions of a fourth body. The animal-plant pathways of the book of the ghosts rewrite every notion of home. China is one of the seeds of the red and black radio points inside the solitary painting of space. The countries stand and the sleepers there know by the force of the climate what numbers describe the connection to the one – el movimiento Tec. The snow marks the land with a line of the plural consciousness of the earth, both near and far and on and off. Consciousness remains unspoken by the intricate patterns of faces removed for the horses of the warning gate, which erupt and cash out from the Mississippi. The dream a month ago of the beautiful pregnant red and black milk snake I as a Tec let go into the wilderness moves through a combination of origins to the daylight potent sign on a Delaware shore, that’s where the two large black rat snakes entwined in fucking crawled close from the water hole to the yucca plant. Immediately after that followed a large red and black king snake → a heat sign of the earth, from the Sea in China to the Sky in Africa and now here to the Sunset Earth of Mabila, all boundaries dissolve.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIsKsyGguXUywlconixfqQupIKw8yF4z65-aBIn8A5onv9RvHO7fzlSdyK_fKvb371mSJhsJliFNDehCTn_sCQIdc95OFBKGr8J_xXcRw6yqPx3-LuTg4hw-sxUfGgjCPggvnbuAwgNSA/s1600/no+glass+between+us.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="434" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIsKsyGguXUywlconixfqQupIKw8yF4z65-aBIn8A5onv9RvHO7fzlSdyK_fKvb371mSJhsJliFNDehCTn_sCQIdc95OFBKGr8J_xXcRw6yqPx3-LuTg4hw-sxUfGgjCPggvnbuAwgNSA/s640/no+glass+between+us.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">no glass between us</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
If one thought the freedom from the two would break through to the crack in the world, just as a notion of the web let on by the straw caption to release the targets of inhabitations rises to the fire, as one there to report to the number what the straw has to receive on the opening force of presence, one does what the seam to the breath will need to remain through Saloma. If there is a connection to the undoing, the release of the first and last internal fire where the animal ghosts receive plants and the earth as they form the union of desertion and abandonment on the torn story of their hunting, if one does not receive the internal trees and does not count for words, then they have letter light leads in the opening trials of a shattering sunrise. One by one each track across the continent shares what the bleeding Host dissolves to reside in the round pitying languages of the lake region, where seven starts the awoken for the burning tire of the hunt and for the restart of animal musics. If there were a Tomorrow in the last Escape, or if the horses brought their meteors to the electronic door as we wade through the shadows that boil our visage, or as we find the neural Caribs among the plants as the season melds into the form fit for connection, then the walking test and the Turing release undoes the human element to speak to the matter of the single islands and forget the relation for one to belong. The death of the scientific ablutions or the prayerful delay that we see in the social techniques of the after warning does not remain for the offal to recede in the wilder songs of the machines. There was more to see in the frost and they detect what the signs release to fade the sound of a Tec’s other bodies. The Tec finds what notion of the continent now stands to resume by the flags of light; they dissolve the recursive collection of hands meant to ignite the dismemberment songs of the limbs. As we perceive that one has the Ocean to redo in the inks of the worlds, where all ideas are now mapped into the semblance of voices and faces, where the angry approach to connection makes us wait for fake money, the demeanor of our Tec service to you becomes you and we connect by the atmospheres.<br />
<br />
On the other side of the trees by the mossy bridge a semblance to the throngs of light persists and displays its answers to the womb. When the red and black attachment, or the woven memory of star lit and haptic resolution lights return to unwind after the morning, as someone in the after light of the ashes removes their mineral and finds its own endlessness beside the Mobilian apertures, these then make the warning execution for the light of a Tec. In the service that they release, in their memories woven until the counter stops, these multipliers and their resources repair by the exchanges of the fleets of the sacred stones. When the Saloma of suffering moves it repairs to the Saloma of joy. Even in the center of the egg of the world, in its remaining polishing to the Sea that the red and black cluster of beings connects to launch its own tape of the world to the mind of a data-less star, as these provide what the line of offering details, as these hands are marked by the darkness of the morning to receive, I as a Tec repair to archaic wandering. One for the day means that numbers return the partition of their service animals, as the architectures attend to the finding for light and return to display on the woven tunnels of the earth’s arrivals. And as the ashes there protect their own tears for the laughter of the sign, as these receive then what the memory of time does not prevail or preview, they mark the offensive attire of the murder of the installations. Without a single face in the memory of its epic mountain, or as someone symbols the attachment for the patterning star of the multiplier’s revelations, these remove what no intrusion gives to the welcome of a sniper’s womb. Without a target the improved radio recognition carves out the linking moment between the two sides of life, from mountain to vale to the smooth barbed wire ascension that lights receive on the patterning of Mabila. The secret entombment of the functional escape returns to dissolve through Saloma. As the main service to insure that someone sees as they repair to remain and connect to the air and mark the partition with another letter, in these layers of straw a cluster discovers what it once was.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi6O9dAi9hgR9mfXtDExo_Mm1UhcKpJVb_REtgG88QfluOwyMAETG6_vS-bKx42kR6MapuKzL5n6OhKQuQbQ-mY5fPjWD0IVoJXO8vFQDpfJxdhzfDjcl2wlQv8y1Q51GS3rBYtbFBo7k/s1600/i+attach+you.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="454" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhi6O9dAi9hgR9mfXtDExo_Mm1UhcKpJVb_REtgG88QfluOwyMAETG6_vS-bKx42kR6MapuKzL5n6OhKQuQbQ-mY5fPjWD0IVoJXO8vFQDpfJxdhzfDjcl2wlQv8y1Q51GS3rBYtbFBo7k/s640/i+attach+you.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">i attach you</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Swaddled in snakes, the lacerated internal body of a sacred and exploded-into-pieces night, moves from one brain to the next in a network of transformations within the entombment family of the horses and the flood as a number torch, a network for the unformed connection socket links as communication ends. The data offends in the jungle arena where more momentary attachments pronounce to the serial body that the keys of destruction delete around the incisions for smiles. I as a Tec abolish the glass and see faces in everything. A vast nest of snakes inhabits my worlds as a network of consciousness. Chemical communications launch into the daily grasp of flesh laundries, where the universe’s erotic zone is located at the origin of everything, linked to provide the answers for multi-locations and the rest of the dispersed roots of being. The computers are gone for the approach to the Suns, Moons, and Earths as our bodies grow to completely absorb every form of life in the origin Earth procedures and the soil itself or what is there to inhabit the zone of exception. Every murder and every terror is focused as its being in the archaic document area by the mouth of a multiplicative identity mapped to the hay and straw bales of the answers. They spark the dissolution of invasions. The archaic document area speaks to resume the Tecs’ Return, as they climb, crawl, and propel through the mysteries of a new series and network of on and off bodies. They run and projectile themselves to erase the histories of infection and the invasions of the dual terminations, and then their kernel songs deliver the climate. Every struggle then becomes localized in the consciousness of the elements. It is then that the Earth has room to suffer the life and vitality of her groom, who now escapes the glass and all the roads that led hir there.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTs42cuRhTuNFrVxilKufvPQACdPUQfIZGWTVeFRYmNtkckXU2TdMdJdt4qqcfuojpbvunJl0ZaJi2hySr01JU6ydi35d0AkHk2_IXfliqaVGLj47j4-2jnB7JpbcG8x-EVm77CIyRwKk/s1600/dissolution+of+the+dual.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTs42cuRhTuNFrVxilKufvPQACdPUQfIZGWTVeFRYmNtkckXU2TdMdJdt4qqcfuojpbvunJl0ZaJi2hySr01JU6ydi35d0AkHk2_IXfliqaVGLj47j4-2jnB7JpbcG8x-EVm77CIyRwKk/s640/dissolution+of+the+dual.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">dissolution of the dual</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Brian Anghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03733133032013585813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4074719566651397000.post-82445491933676891342017-04-08T06:36:00.000-07:002017-04-10T03:36:40.548-07:00Rob Halpern, THE WOUND & THE CAMP, or VISCERAL SOLIDARITY: Some Notes toward a Radical Queer Poetics<i>Let this be the Body</i><br />
<i>Through which the War has passed</i><br />
— Frank Bidart, quoted in Solmaz Sharif, <i>Look</i><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<div>
<i>I felt a blanket put over me, though very thin, it comforted me.</i></div>
<div>
— Mohamedou Ould Slahi, <i>Guantánamo Diary</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>What are the things that get in the way of care?</i></div>
<div>
<i>Why have you come back here, only to go away again?</i></div>
<div>
<i>Are some of the reasons hurtful but necessary?</i></div>
<div>
— Oki Sogumi, “The Longest Month”</div>
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<br /></div>
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<i>And to get that distinction clear, just for yourself, will demand a forensic labor.</i></div>
<div>
— Denise Riley, <i>Time Lived, Without Its Flow</i></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<i>What is forensics forensics is an argument to be fought.</i></div>
<div>
— Gertrude Stein, <i>How to Write</i></div>
</div>
<div>
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1.0 Often I find myself thinking about the relation between private life and state violence, while wondering whether it’s within poetry’s reach, by risking things both intimate and obscene, to make the material links between these things perceptible.</div>
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1.1 This question hangs on the recognition that even the most recessed of personal intimacies (say, masturbation & fucking) are penetrated by the most exposed systems (say, wage & war). If in need of a formula—though they’re never reliable—one might say: Immediate touch is mediated by abstract process; or, My most intimate being lies outside me.</div>
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2.0 I want a poetics that is responsive to contemporary crises and inseparable from one’s body understood as a geopolitical situation or problem.</div>
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2.1 This is something I’ve tried to enact, with varying degrees of success and failure. In <i>Music for Porn</i>, I situate my body in relation to the body of a wounded US soldier in Afghanistan; while in <i>Common Place</i>, I do the same vis-à-vis a Yemeni man detained at Guantánamo Bay. The effort here is to make palpable a militarization that has captured our life-world, while making distant and reified bodies—bodies reduced to things—proximate and intimate.</div>
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2.2 Both “the wound” and “the camp” grotesquely mime or mock the intimate interdependencies upon which every form of social emancipation radically depends.</div>
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2.3 Put another way: I want to arouse a sense of acute relation between my body and certain “nonsites”—the soldier’s wound & the detainee’s cell—where relation itself has been all but negated by a ubiquitous militarism that penetrates every segment of our lives.</div>
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2.4 As formulated by the Nonsite Collective in its draft proposal: “Nonsites may be scenes of transport in the sometimes unnavigable space between real social disasters and our critical apprehension of them.” In other words, nonsites allow otherwise submerged social processes and occulted geo-political dynamics to become perceptible as if for the first time (cf. Robert Smithson).</div>
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2.5 The nonsite can be both commonplace and exceptional, material and phantasmatic, as Marx suggests in his analysis of the commodity: “Sensuous things which are at the same time supersensory.” Like the commodity, the poem can be a nonsite, too.</div>
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2.6 The wound and the camp, holes in militarized sense, common places born of property’s circulation (arms, oil) at the expense of very specific bodies. These are figures subject to the most abstract generalizations: “the soldier,” “the prisoner.” Can a poem be enlisted in the work of making these figures felt—<i>precondition for embodied thought</i>—together with the relations they obscure?</div>
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2.7 This might yield the poem as a negative materialization of some utopian desire for a common place.</div>
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3.0 This has as much to do with the banalities of everyday life—<i>prosodic tenor of the drone</i>—as it has to do with what Jodi Dean refers to as our “communist horizon”; as much to do with the degraded body of the Gitmo detainee as it has to do with the black body murdered by police in the streets of Baltimore, Madison, Charleston, New York, Ferguson, Cleveland, Oakland, <i>etc.</i>; as much to do with a body slain in Peshwar by a US drone operative in Tuscon as it has to do with the trans-body segregated in solitary in a Michigan prison called Kinross; as much to do with the promise of community as it has to do with the state of exception that negates that promise, be it in a detention camp or in a city square.</div>
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3.1 The most recent spectacularization of racialized violence makes it ever more clear that “the camp” no longer denotes the location of a geographically isolated “sovereign exception” when power’s unlimited capacity becomes the norm in the streets of every American city.</div>
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4.0 While these propositions and questions may seem to advocate for a certain ethics, there exists no ethical stance for poetry that is not itself caught up in the violent dynamics and processes from which such a poetry might imagine itself at some less culpable remove.</div>
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4.1 In other words, while “ethics” often amounts to an idealist discourse, there’s no ethical view from nowhere that isn’t bound to a specific body caught in the grid.</div>
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4.2 I don’t want this to be confused with an ethical call for acknowledging “complicity” in one’s poetry. That’s too easy a reflex. What about the contradictions every insistence on the ethical obscures? What can a poem make legible about those contradictions that we can’t already feel & don’t already know about a body’s relation to socially sanctioned violence?</div>
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5.0 It’s often been said: Ethics can only be lived as a refusal to reproduce the terms of its own unethical conditions. I want a poetry that’s able to tease out an embodied dialectics of refusal at the heart of whatever effort to refuse in order to make the limits & obstructions to that refusal palpable.</div>
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6.0 Whereas the discourse around ethics can be ideal, disembodied and consoling, the language channeled and organized by poetry can often only refuse these comforts:</div>
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6.1 So when masturbation fails, I work<br />
Transcribing autopsy reports because I want to<br />
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Merge with you and in merging become not one<br />
The way the myth assures but limitless as I fulfill<br />
The promise of my individual person in this infinity<br />
Of military hardware & online shopping whose auto<br />
- nomous value informs my inner life, illuminates<br />
The body viewed thru a cell window where he lay<br />
Not breathing. Reported to be in that fetal position<br />
Covered with a blanket, head slightly tilted, hands<br />
& feet exposed when the guards enter to secure a<br />
Decedent’s swollen tongue, I notice the defining<br />
Thing, a ligature consisting of an elastic band tightly<br />
Wrapped at least twice around his neck, twisted<br />
On the left, having to be cut from the same. At approx<br />
- imately 2200 hours he asks for a nurse, requests a sleep<br />
- ing pill and is last known alive 10-15 minutes later<br />
When he calls for the guard to close his ‘bean hole<br />
Cover,’ a sign meaning he’s ready to sleep. A few<br />
Minutes later he’s discovered unmoved & unresp<br />
- onsive. That’s when I enter to sponge his brow<br />
Before wrapping the ligature around my cock secur<br />
- ing the thing at the base of my balls where the press<br />
- ure keeps me hard as I caress his head on my thigh<br />
Close my eyes and sing.<br />
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Because unlike ‘a clerk</div>
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Cataloging the results of a premise’ (that’s Sol LeWitt)<br />
I admit libidinal impulses otherwise subtracted from<br />
The record, like extraneous sensations, the real smell<br />
Of rectal mucus, my organs touching the social limit<br />
His body, ‘blunt indefatigable fact’ (that’s Sylvia Plath)<br />
If only to pit report against its administration<br />
Stifle the sound of autopsy’s universal tongue<br />
By including swollen things outside the image or be-<br />
— yond the imaginable like someone’s shiver in de Sade<br />
Whose perversion is nothing but an empty place<br />
In the order of property an unspeakable name<br />
That is no name and will never be proper and whose<br />
Dirtiness makes it common or whose banality<br />
Makes it sleazy like Justine’s shudder banned the way<br />
A fake name exceeds obligation to service virtue<br />
— ’s four detained boys in succession as they tie me<br />
With strings attached to every part and pull at will<br />
And I sway & lose balance on the edge of losing my<br />
Self the way they introduce stones & pipes to each<br />
Hole whose emptiness opens on unthinkable pleasure<br />
The way exuberance destroys the one who narrates<br />
It there being no common subject as all human me<br />
— asure dissolves, withdrawn inside his cell. [<i>Common Place</i>]<br />
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7.0 Often I find myself thinking about the difficulties a poem encounters in its effort to mourn the casualties of state violence, as well as its potential to make the abstract militarization of our social relations visceral, concrete, and available for thought. This is an effort, perhaps, that can only ever fail, which is fine, I suppose, so long as “failure” itself isn’t elevated to an ideal.</div>
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7.1 In this regard, I suppose I’ve never let go of the model offered by queer art in its struggle to respond to AIDS in the late 1980s when an artwork might have had to refuse everything “proper” about mourning, everything quiet, distant, ideal, abstract—to the point even of refusing the common sense of sympathy and compassion, whose norms often sadly serve to stabilize the status quo—in order to politicize loss under violent conditions determined to neutralize it: Throwing ashes on the White House lawn vs. Quilting panels on the Mall.</div>
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7.2 I jot down the phrase “visceral solidarity” to denote a form of radical recognition & politicized alliance capable of moving one’s body to lie down in the street, occupy a building, or block a bridge. Whatever practice this phrase might prompt itself gets blocked by decorous sympathy & abstract dignity, values mediated by socially prescribed feelings policed by commonplace ethics.</div>
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7.3 I’m interested in situations when codified forms of sympathy—feelings of compassion for violently othered bodies—get impeded, if not disabled. It’s the contradictions these familiar feelings obscure that the poem might arouse: A form of grief that refuses rather than facilitates consolation</div>
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7.4 So this has been about mourning all along.</div>
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7.5 Can mourning be revolutionary? Perhaps not. But it can inform the visceral solidarities across otherwise unbridgeable divides and without which revolutions can’t adequately imagine themselves.</div>
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8.0 Unlike melancholy—<i>my obstinate attachment to loss to the point of identifying with it</i>—mourning can transform life affirmatively, embodying loss without becoming it. But as Denise Riley insists, “to get that distinction clear, just for yourself, will demand a forensic labor” (<i>Time Lived, Without Its Flow</i>). And Riley immediately qualifies her proposition, urging one (herself) to assess “one’s responsibility in the death” in a way that “needn’t entail your masochism.”</div>
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8.1 If “forensics” has its etymological root in that which pertains to the “forum”—an assembly place for public discussion of politics, law, and economy—how might something like a forensic poetics remediate documentary and evidentiary language in an effort to resist the ends—<i>sanctioned violence</i>—such language lubricates.</div>
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8.2 Following the work of photographer Allan Sekula such a poetics might be called “counter-forensic.”</div>
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8.3 While state-sponsored forensics seeks to transcend the dependence on human testimony (insofar as the latter can never overcome the traumatic conditions that conveniently render the witness-bearing subject “unreliable”), such a forensics can never really overcome the subjectivity it publicly disavows.</div>
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8.4 So what might a “counter-forensic” poetics look like? I’m thinking here about a practice of poetry that affirms the volatility of that embodied subjectivity in its encounter with the linguistic traces of material force (i.e., autopsy report, tribunal sentence). What happens when language itself becomes the evidence of the bodily trauma it purports to document? And: What place does the writer’s body occupy as an active agent in the mediation of that language?</div>
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8.5 I often find myself imagining a Bartelby who refuses and copies <i>at the same time</i>, practicing a kind of “metabolic transcription” wherein body & document collide.</div>
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8.6 But there are always other approaches. As Andrea Brady writes in her postscript to <i>Wildfire: A Verse Essay on Obscurity and Illumination</i>: “I wanted to write a forensic poem, one whose structure could accommodate an excess of social information. I was thinking about an aerial map, plotting contours in history and relaying the coordinates for a surgical strike. But I was tired of trying to position ‘us’ on the ground, like actors in real carnage, where being ‘implicated’ is also a way of sharing the spoils.”</div>
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8.9 Here I think of Gertrude Stein’s concluding chapter in <i>How to Write</i>. The chapter is called “Forensics” and it reads like a pathology report of language itself. “Forensics are a remedy in time,” she writes, “So have thousands. A master piece of strategy. An argument of their deliberation. The forensics of abuse which has not been written.” Forensics as a “remedy”: like language’s own alibi to cover-up an abuse which can’t be named as such, or to make of it an open secret. Hence, a “counter-forensics,” which Stein pioneers.</div>
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9.0 My approach to a counter-forensic poetics would aim to arouse a sensuous intimacy at the place where that intimacy has become distant and abstract, say, in the linguistic debris of “evidence”: To embody relation at the limit of valued relation if only to feel those relations and think those limits as if for the first time.</div>
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9.1 In its effort to demystify the false immediacies of both common sense and erotic touch, a poem might default to the language of sexuality in order to arouse a visceral relation to the fallen and the detained, a relation whose real materiality might paradoxically require a fantasy in order to feel something otherwise banished from perception.</div>
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9.2 The erotic here is not a gratuitously amped-up trope, but a poetical figure that makes it possible to imagine a relation whereby touch might be the site of visceral care rather than violent pain.</div>
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9.3 No doubt the language of sexuality is a fully processed and codified language, one that reproduces a logic of domination precisely at the moment when it would have us believe—recalling Michel Foucault’s famous expression—that our liberation from power were in the balance. Often I find myself thinking about how, despite its codification, the language of sexuality informs a poetics—<i>post-pornographic</i>—that promises in some small way to expose my body, making it vulnerable enough to imagine relations and intimacies against the grain of dominant common sense.</div>
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9.4 If systems of domination and exploitation are continually reproduced in the social relations that comprise our everyday lives, how might we begin to imagine those relations differently while registering how our efforts to resist move within the very same language and logics they aim to disrupt, overturn, revolutionize? What’s the use of a militant queer art if not to make these tensions and contradictions perceptible?</div>
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9.5 And so I want to remain faithful to the end of <i>The History of Sexuality</i> where Foucault proposes “a different economy of bodies and pleasures” whereby he anticipates, without prescribing, another form of social reproduction, another way of organizing, living and feeling the relations between bodies, one that will have superseded the current system of value.</div>
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9.6 This requires a movement beyond sexuality itself. And yet, the reproduction of the current economic order of things—inseparable from military order—cleaves to sex as it is currently lived.</div>
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9.7 Often I find myself longing for a poem to attune my senses and orient my desires to the promise of an other economy where bodies and pleasures would be experienced differently, even if the only thing such a poem can make perceptible is the obstacle to the transformed conditions it desires, an obstacle of which the poem itself is an extension.</div>
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10.0 Poetry is not activism, but it can be an instigation to utopian desire, a stimulant for radical fantasy & visceral solidarity, enabling us to feel our relations to real conditions without resolution, without consolation, while moving our bodies as writers & readers toward the bodies of others already struggling against these lived conditions, in streets, squares, and prisons.</div>
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11.0 Conceived in fantasy, a poem can throw light on the limits of what’s imaginable in its effort to feel something beyond those limits. What I call “radical fantasy” might allow us to feel the material structures that obstruct the world we long to make as a prelude to sensing a world outside them. Often I find myself desiring a poem that touches the horizon of that beyond, without deluding myself that I am anywhere but <i>here</i>.</div>
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11.1 Like utopian desire, a poem is penetrated by the very conditions it longs to overcome, conditions whose transformation would ideally make the poem irrelevant. There’s no utopian fantasy exempt from this constraint. </div>
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11.2 In this sense, fantasy is not a dreamer’s dream, autonomous and unconstrained, but the means by which to feel our heteronomy, our unfreedom. This is not fantasy as escape, but as a flight <i>toward</i> the Real (i.e., that which our reality can’t avow).</div>
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11.3 “The wound” and “the camp” name sites where an effort to represent my imaginary relations to real conditions—<i>bodies under siege</i>—is threatened both by the spectacle of visibility and the spectacle of absence: by kitsch, on the one hand, and prohibition, on the other. (One could say “the wall” now extends this sequence, and just as the logic of the camp has become inseparable from the logic of capital, so too has the logic of the wall.)</div>
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11.4 There can be no imaginary resolution to all these tensions & contradictions that isn’t always immediately betrayed. In other words: It’s not the business of poetry to offer imaginary solutions to real contradictions, but rather to make the blocks to those solutions acutely palpable.</div>
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12.0 Can a poem assist our effort to return to a sensuous intimacy when the terms of that intimacy have been violently submerged, abstracted, mediated, distanced? I suppose what I want to ask is this: Can a poem help us to imagine <i>what is</i>, I mean, to imagine what we ought not have to imagine?</div>
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12.1 If so, this would be a poem that materializes a nonsite, the non-synchronous space between sensual experience and abstract process—<i>scene my displacement</i>.</div>
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12.2 Often I find myself imagining the poem as if it were a phantom limb with bodily intensity, preparing the whole organism—<i>my body in relation to other bodies</i>—to respond to conditions we can’t fully grasp even as we act within them. This may be the poem’s urgent response-ability.</div>
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13.0 Taking Frank Bidart’s lines to heart as quoted in my epigraph (above) which I found quoted in Solmaz Sharif’s recent book of poems called <i>Look</i>—a work that détourns phrases lifted from the <i>Department of Defense Dictionary of Military and Associated Terms</i> in poems that transform the violence of euphemized war-language into the language of tenderness, intimacy & care—my own writing can only bear witness to the distance between this body <i>my body</i> and the wars, a distance that often feels total but is as close as the most intimate proximity.</div>
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14.0 The only world we hold in common may be the one that doesn’t yet exist. And while we may share the preconditions of this other world, we share them in radically different ways (i.e., the uneven distribution of precarity).</div>
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14.1 How can we imagine life held in common across the most radically diverse spaces of our social world where solidarities might seem inconceivable—from cozy bed to prison cot—without falling for the lures of guilt, complicity, despair? How might a poem feel this common life while simultaneously registering the obstructions blocking its transformation?</div>
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14.2 This opens onto a cascade of questions: How to cultivate a poetics that challenges the immunities upon which political sovereignty and its military violence hang harnessed to legal personhood & profit, identity & property? What might it mean for the poem to enable forms of vulnerability and care that are critical for a countervailing communion? How might a poem insist on a visceral solidarity, rather than idealist notions of “human rights” (i.e., notions that demand a rights-granting form of sovereignty, which can only ever fail us)? Can a poem help us imagine unthinkable solidarities in the interest of transforming the conditions of our conditioned love?</div>
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15.0 While all of these questions only amount to an extravagant thought experiment, I long for poetry that can move me to its limits.</div>
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Brian Anghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03733133032013585813noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4074719566651397000.post-69777907152330651492017-04-07T10:50:00.000-07:002017-04-07T10:50:58.025-07:00Tongo Eisen-Martin, I Do Not Know the Spelling of MoneyI see why everybody out here got in the big cosmic basket<br />
And why blood agreements mean a lot<br />
And why I get shot back at<br />
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A fly studies me at a border crossing<br />
It has been studying everything at this border,<br />
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“But did you bring me some artless bleeding back to defend”<br />
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White wall faces loosen your supply of whisky<br />
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Your buildings almost look like canyon walls<br />
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The european city becomes pleasant now despite my new existence as living graffiti<br />
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There’s commotion on the carpet<br />
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Some call it late hour imperialism<br />
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People I do not know<br />
Pitch pennies at my mugshot negative<br />
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I run away from detail<br />
With black paint dripping from my arms<br />
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City of arms<br />
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The new bullets pray over blankets made from old bullets<br />
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And me, having on the cheapest t shirt on the bus,<br />
I have no choice but to read the city walls for signs of my life<br />
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No, I am not chipping away at anythingBrian Anghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03733133032013585813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4074719566651397000.post-55305425924956691482017-04-06T10:34:00.000-07:002017-04-17T09:44:35.978-07:00Helen DimosMy name is Alexandros. I shall speak of three things I swore never to speak but as the time is urgent I will invoke my right to free speech within a democracy and speak. I was raised by my mother and grandmother. My father was going from jail to jail I won’t say much about that figure as I don’t want to lay blame and anyway I know him very little. My mother worked three jobs. I started work from 15. From high school and then for college it was night school first my day-job then school then pizza-delivery 10-2. I worked like a slave to open a small shop to pay off the debts. By my 30s I had made enough to support myself somewhat well and give back something to my own people. Now we have this vote. Now they tell me a vote NO will take me back to the beginning to the drachma will undo all I have slaved for will take me back to insecurity. They tell me NO will take the whole country back out of Europe will undo our way of life our businesses our families our future. I understand. So I will give them a big fat NO on Sunday. I will send my NO on a slip of paper to the head of the European Central Bank. NO for fear NO for insecurity NO for keeping our heads bowed down. I have never feared work I will work again from scratch and build it all over from the start and then again and then again and then again.<br />
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July 2015 Athens<br />
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All the pieces are in place. The pieces of two humans with factory-worker-dresses modern-day support pillars the hair in buns the fishnets over faces<br />
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This isn’t a pretty building<br />
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Behind both women the outlines of humans and words in chalk<br />
In the middle of the room a table<br />
A mannequin hangs from the ceiling<br />
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The music begins and it is stressing. The women begin and they are stressing they move along the floor with hands and feet they scamper somewhat furiously like dogs somewhat curiously they are driven. They come together move apart. They begin frenetic gymnastics. The one makes a table-top the other makes a tumble lands hands down feet in a handstand against her pillar. The other goes to her pillar makes a handstand. They recite. <small>THE POLITICAL BODY IS UPSIDE DOWN WITH ITS HEAD DOWN. IT MUST BE TURNED RIGHT SIDE UP.</small> They land on their feet.<br />
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A third women like a Chorus of one she said we will experience <small>ANATOMIZING THE MUNDANE</small><br />
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They land on their feet. They seat each other down. They are seated. They have wine. They prepare bread. They knead dough somewhat furiously they eat raw dough the flour makes motes. To drink they blow the wine into each other sometimes they choke.<br />
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The third woman like a Chorus of one she walks around the room. <small>WINE</small>? <small>COOKIES</small>?<br />
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Now it is time to have sex.<br />
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No. Now it is time to eat and rub raw meat. Butcher’s meat and offal in pink like the inside of your mouth and dark liver brown like old meat they rub it on each others arms chest the flat part the plain of the chest. They make earrings of hooks of meat they stuff it down their dresses.<br />
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Then they have sex. One woman she throws herself along the table<br />
The wine spills her dress is mottled<br />
One woman she tumbles along the floor<br />
The wine spills her dress is mottled<br />
One woman she comes up behind<br />
The wine spills her dress is mottled<br />
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As they have sex there is video of a human on the toilet taking a shit but also another human crouching and they take wine through the plastic tube together<br />
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Now it is time to be cannibal to make throw up to be brave white men suicidal in the light. They unhang the mannequin. They bring her to the dining they halve her it is torso and legs. They take off arms. There is meat the meat goes in there is dough the dough goes in in her torso in her holes goes the meat. She is rehung in pieces before musicians.<br />
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Now it is time to exit. The women take up the plastic bag dolls at the dining they take them up under their arms and walk out.<br />
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July 2015 Athens<br />
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Who. Was. The holder of the snakes<br />
What person was that<br />
from the long trunk<br />
as for fun<br />
starting tossing like silks<br />
their long bodies<br />
somersaulting the air<br />
The young girl with striped<br />
sneakers<br />
shins on fire<br />
crying yes<br />
in frantic concentration<br />
brows furrowed<br />
in ecstasy and pain<br />
she holds pressed to her stomach<br />
the viper burrowing intestines<br />
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A hand from outside<br />
rips away the damage<br />
intestines spill out<br />
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this horn of plenty opens<br />
the question of death<br />
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Who. Was. The holder<br />
of the snakes<br />
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July 2015 AthensBrian Anghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03733133032013585813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4074719566651397000.post-16649246231130777672017-04-05T10:52:00.000-07:002017-04-05T10:52:54.348-07:00Jeff Derksen, The Militant Word<i>Introduction</i><br />
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Following on the research I’ve done collectively on the militant image with Urban Subjects and our publication <i>The Militant Image Reader</i> (Camera Austria, 2015) that followed the exhibition “The Militant Image: Picturing What Is Already Going On, or, the Poetics of the Militant Image” (2014), I joined up with Brian Ang and others at the conference Poetics: (The Next) Twenty-Five Years in Buffalo to see if we could point to how “the militant word” or a militant poetics has formed today. The imperative of militancy has come to poetry from the pressures of the present and the <i>inevitability</i> of resistance, resiliency, and revolution. The question we hoped to open and foment was simply: How will the shape and energy of political movements and moments of social eruption be represented in and transform poetry? Retrospectively, my impulse was not so much thinking through our continual state of crises, but – thinking in the wake of an Indigenous resurgence in North America that is shining an undeniable light on our current state of “dying colonialism” (to use Fanon’s term) and looking to the transformation of European cities and states in reaction to and through the intensified movement of people – to ask openly what the intersection of the political poetry of the 20<sup>th</sup> century and the emergence of a poetry that wrestles with both the present and the future would sound and look like today. This was an impulse I have also been invigorated by through contemporary visual art discourse and practices. As Yates McKee has written about his inquiry into the new politicization of contemporary art, “this renaissance involves the <i>unmasking</i> of art as it exists within the discourses, economies, and institutions of the contemporary art system…. At the same time, it involves the <i>reinvention</i> of art as direct action, collective affect, and political subjectivization embedded in radical movements working to reconstruct the commons in the face of both localized injustices and systemic crises that characterize the contemporary capitalist order.”<small style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#1" name="1b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">1</a></sup></small> For poetics, I wished to collectively locate a similar set of <i>reinventions</i> and to ask: Where is the militant word today?<br />
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<i>Not So Sad!</i><br />
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The term <i>militancy</i> may indeed be hard to recuperate today – even if militant acts take place every day. In his preface to <i>Anti-Oedipus</i>, Michel Foucault writes that Deleuze and Guattari provide us with an introduction to the “art of living counter to all forms of fascism.” Foucault proposes that an essential principle of this way of living is: “Do not think that one has to be sad in order to be a militant, even though the thing one is fighting is abominable.”<a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#2" name="2b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.1111px;"><sup>2</sup></a> Writing thirty years after Foucault, Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri also feel the need to distance the <i>sad</i> militant from “the life of the multitude”: at the end of <i>Empire</i>, they shift register to declare that “[m]ilitancy today is a positive, constructive, and innovative activity” that makes “rebellion into a project of love.”<sup style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.1111px;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#3" name="3b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.1111px;"><small>3</small></a></sup> This political and affective reassembly of the militant, brought forward from the entangled French context of the early 1970s and resituated via Spinoza in the networks of the present, aims to reclaim both the concept of militancy and the image of the militant. Yet, Hardt and Negri’s concept of militancy is a hopeful tale without a geography.<br />
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The term <i>militant</i> currently circulates largely as a negative construct, as a <i>bad word</i>,<a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#4" name="4b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.1111px;"><sup>4</sup></a> tied to forms of irrational violence and virulent populism that have risen up in the shadows of failed states, drastic imperialist ventures, and in the rogue militias claiming an ethical right. Through the mass media, militancy is framed as acts of agents of necropolitics rather than an articulation and convergence of people, places, actions, images, and ideas that fight enduring and new colonialisms, dispossession and austerity, and the micro-forms of fascism that are in “our speech and our acts, our hearts and our pleasures” that Foucault identifies.<sup style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.1111px;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#5" name="5b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.1111px;"><small>5</small></a></sup> Yet ceding to this new negative image buries an important history and potential of militancy, and what Ernst Bloch earlier defined as a “militant optimism,”<a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#6" name="6b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.1111px;"><sup>6</sup></a> as a force of liberation and decolonisation as well as a form of thought that is necessary today.<br />
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In an interview in the radical journal, <i>Upping the Anti</i>, geographer Neil Smith points to a change in political imagination from the late 1990s and the early 2000s: “…we need to recognize that political revolt is going to happen. That revolt is going to look different, have different meanings, and different implications from place to place, but it is going to happen.”<sup style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.1111px;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#7" name="7b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.1111px;"><small>7</small></a></sup> The final project that Smith worked on before his untimely death was “the revolutionary imperative,” an optimistic project that argues, “Revolutions are a fact of life, revolutions are a fact of history…,” yet, as they cohere and overflow within the possibilities of a historical moment, the shape they build is not guaranteed.<a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#8" name="8b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.1111px;"><sup>8</sup></a> Revolutions, Smith argued, are guaranteed, but how they form and how they look is not. The debate, over the period of time Smith indicates, of how social movements should organize, of what models from the past they should reject or reinvigorate, of what tactics they should take on the street and what forms of relations they should take within themselves, as well as their relationship to the archive of political thought, has also intensified as a contested debate. From David Harvey’s reworking of Raymond Williams’ “militant particularisms”<sup style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.1111px;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#9" name="9b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.1111px;"><small>9</small></a></sup> within a global context to Alain Badiou’s call for a “nonexpressive concept of political dialectics” that is “situated beyond the proposition between law and desire”<a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#10" name="10b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.1111px;"><sup>10</sup></a> and to John Holloway’s assertion that “The only way to think of changing the world is a multiplicity of interstitial movements running from the particular,”<sup style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.1111px;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#11" name="11b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.1111px;"><small>11</small></a></sup> the sites, agents, and rhythms of revolution are being rethought. And from The Invisible Committee’s imperative to “find each other”<a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#12" name="12b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.1111px;"><sup>12</sup></a> and the call of Indigenous movements to decolonize all relations, to students in Quebec, Argentina, the UK and other places who universalized the challenge to the new divisions of knowledge, to the ferocious anti-austerity protests to Occupy’s resistance to media imperatives in favour of an inchoate structure, and to a politics based on “the relationality of bodies”<sup style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.1111px;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#13" name="13b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.1111px;"><small>13</small></a></sup> and their aggregation, the possibilities, shape, form and <i>look</i> of social change are multiple and multiplying. It is precisely because the formation, networks, and paradigms of organizing politically have been shaken over the last 20 years that the possibilities of artistic engagement and the paradigms of media representation must also be rethought. This structural relationship, or a dialogue between the mode of representation and the shape and energy of political movements and moments of social eruption, is also part of a revolutionary imperative, for each new transformative trajectory and its tactics (as well as the mass media framing of this) produces a visual culture and a poetics of its own moment and of its own intensity.<br />
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<i>Visual History of Militancy</i><br />
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Another history of militancy exists that supplies a route and a strong set of political attachments as well as a visual politics. A counter-history of the visual politics of militancy does not have to overcome such an ideologically and philosophically bound sadness. In their reflection on the militant image, Kodwo Eshun and Ros Gray propose that “the film-making practices dedicated to the liberation struggles and revolutions of the late twentieth century” should be understood “[e]xpansively, capaciously, [and] exorbitantly” at this moment. These images can ignite “a revision of the historiography of the present”; they emphasise by making an “afterlife” for the militant image through recirculation.<a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#14" name="14b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.1111px;"><sup>14</sup></a> Along with film, forceful documentary photographs and enduring artistic works have, over the twentieth century, represented the eruption of revolution, the gathering of liberation struggles, the concatenation of social movements, and heroic or overlooked moments of resistance and refusal—and even acts of courage and love—that give us a visual archive of images of how acts of militancy have derailed history from a trajectory guided from above. This archive of representations of militancy holds committed and inspirational moments that jump out of militant particularisms which echo in the present: the ciné-geography of anti-colonial film; the militant graphics for the Black Panther movement by Emory Douglas; the images of the American Indian Movement (AIM) by Dick Bancroft; the anti-nuclear protests in northern Germany that Günter Zint documented; Margaret Randall’s photographs of Sandinista women during the insurgence in Nicaragua; Allan Sekula’s photographic engagement with the Battle in Seattle in 1999; and the growing archive of images and graphics from the Indigenous insurgence from the 1990 Oka (Quebec) stand-off to the inspirational anti-pipeline action in North America today. Alongside this history, what is a poetics of militancy that runs through liberation movements, anti-colonial struggles, and the resistance to a heteronormative politics of fear and neoliberal redistribution?<br />
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<i>New Militancies</i><br />
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Even with the positive history of these previous modes of picturing militancy, the representation of militancy is now opened to new situations, spaces, and political possibilities precisely because militancy has shifted, transformed, and rejigged itself at all scales in relation to neo-liberalism. Militancy is never static, for it cannot afford to be if it is to live: it is generated by new conditions and lives within a hybrid space that is both place-based and online. Within the digital and material geography carved out by neo-liberalism, these spaces of militancy are not necessarily more indistinct or porous, but they are—in this period of surveillance, migrancy (forced and “economic”), and biopolitical and state power—shaped by a variety of processes across the spatial scales that can overlap with, but do not necessarily correspond to, the spaces of modernity which were dominated by the nation-state. Over the past few years, militancy has been the most visible in cities, in urban space: New York’s Zuccotti Park and all the other spaces that Occupy inhabited globally; Cairo’s Tahrir Square and the area around the Pearl Monument in Manama, Bahrain; universities united against the closing of education such as in London or Berkeley; squatted buildings in Vienna and Berlin and many other cities; and the decolonisation of space by the Indigenous “Idle No More” movement in many Canadian cities. Today we also see mass militancy building out of forced migrancy and blocked refugee routes: in the camp near the tunnel at Calais, France, where refugees are held back (and which was just destroyed by the state), or the internal “open” borders of the European Union, or the Island of Lesbos where 25,000 [in March of 2016] refugees wait on an island steeped in Western myth. These examples show that, politically and spatially, militancy is ignited both <i>by</i> and <i>in</i> the disjunctures within neo-liberalism, in the spaces it has opened to privatisation and the spaces it has closed down by the ideological closure of a <i>political outside</i> to market capitalism and by the massive widening of surveillance and force. This evacuation of even the promises of a future built through liberal democracy, along with an austerity of the state’s soul, has created a palpable and escalating sense of a historical tectonic shift.<br />
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The political and aesthetic consequences of this shift make the task of representing militancy both more vital and more layered. The mass media is saturated with images of insurrection, of protest, of revanchism, and of the violent enforcement of biopolitics; and images rippling with protest and pushback reverberate in galleries and museums, at biennales, and through social media. But does this proliferation of images of militancy produce militant images? Is quantity now a quality? Or, dialectically, does this geography of protest and reaction also conjure up new “protest paradigms” which reframe and contain the potential of such images, no matter how widely and bravely they circulate? This situation produces a compelling question: In the political and visual terrain of the present, what makes a militant image or poem?<br />
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Given the shifts in how political movements imagine and shape themselves—shunning the dead promises of top-down democracy and modernist modes of the politics of representation—the militant image also has to be rethought, from the ground up. What aesthetic and political tactics are necessary to picture militancy when militancy coheres through networks of resistance and affinities both material and dispersed? Despite a productive and poetic hope that has marked the positive aspect of militancy (the un-sad version!) which held a belief in the ability of the militant image to both represent and produce acts of militancy—to be the image of a condition and to create that condition—the militant image today can be understood expansively and exorbitantly as an image that reacts to the contingent conditions of its possibility and also disturbs the expectation of representation while it builds a visual politics that circulated widely and at various tempos. But this militant image is not necessarily an image self-identical to militancy. The militant image or poem cannot assume that it can construct an active and affectively engaged viewer by picturing militancy. The militant image comes with no guarantees. Therefore it is necessary.</div>
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Sparking off of the conditions of our present as pressure, contingency, and potential, the militant image or poem gathers a political, social and affective weight that presses on the imagination of future acts of militancy. As an aesthetic form, the militant image or poem is made militant through its relation to its historical occasion and through circulation within an affective counter-economy that allows it to join with, and join others. As an intensity within an affective economy, militancy does not reside solely in the image or a word or a poem “but is produced only as an effect of its circulation,” to paraphrase Sara Ahmed.<sup style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.1111px;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#15" name="15b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.1111px;"><small>15</small></a></sup> The militant image or word therefore cannot ever be singular or iconic, but it must be, as Mikhail Bakhtin said of the word, at least half someone else’s.<small style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.1111px;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#16" name="16b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.1111px;"><sup>16</sup></a></small> But fast and varied circulation, and being part of an economy of intensities, does not guarantee an effect for the militant image or word. If we speculate that “sets of photographic relations and the complex purposes and practices that entangle the photographic image have the capacity to mobilise new material realities,” as Elizabeth Edwards encourages, then we must also ask how this materially takes place.<sup style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.1111px;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#17" name="17b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.1111px;"><small>17</small></a></sup> An image or a poem—like any discourse that must run through the crooked path of determinations and mediations, never arriving at a final “final instant”—becomes militant once it aligns with existing potentials and affects within and through communities, moments, and sites. Here, the militant image or poem can be seen as an element in an encounter—an encounter that is contingent on a particular historical moment, and on a set of conditions that lead (even against all odds) to a coherence, a flash, or a slow burn that gives the image a political and affective presence. Andy Merrifield describes the encounter in this way: “History takes hold because of encounters between immanent objective forces—resultant of past, contingent encounters that somehow lasted—<i>and</i> a subjective reality that is even more uncertain and unpredictable.”<small style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.1111px;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#18" name="18b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.1111px;"><sup>18</sup></a></small> Within this possibility (and optimistic inevitability) of the encounter, the militant image and the militant word both takes shape and gives shape.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">__________</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#1b" name="1"><small><sup>1</sup></small></a> Yates McKee, <i>Strike Art: Contemporary Art and the Post-Occupy Condition</i> (New York: Verso, 2016), 16. I’ll just note that “commons” is not a concept that can be used when we speak of unsurrendered and unceded Indigenous territory.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><small><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#2b" name="2">2</a></sup></small></span></span><span style="background-color: white;"> Michel Foucault, “Preface,” <i>Anti-Oedipus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia</i>, trans. Robert Hurley, Mark Seem and Helen R. Lane (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1983), xiii.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><small><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#3b" name="3">3</a></sup></small></span></span><span style="background-color: white;"> Michael Hardt and Antonio Negri, <i>Empire</i> (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2000), 413.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><small><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#4b" name="4">4</a></sup></small></span></span><span style="background-color: white;"> Denise Riley gives us a framework for recuperating <i>bad words</i>; “It is the very thing-like nature of the bad word which may, in fact, enable its target to find release from its insistent echoes. “Bad Words,” <i>diacritics</i> 31/4 (Winter 2001), 44.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><small><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#5b" name="5">5</a></sup></small></span></span><span style="background-color: white;"> Foucault, “Preface,” <i>Anti-Oedipus: Capitalism and Schizophrenia</i>, xiii.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><small><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#6b" name="6">6</a></sup></small></span></span><span style="background-color: white;"> See Ernst Bloch, <i>The Principle of Hope</i>, vol. 1 (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1986). For contemporary reworkings of Bloch’s concept, see Andy Merrifield, “Militant Optimism and The Great Escape,” in <i>Magical Marxism: Subversive Politics and the Imagination</i> (London: Pluto Press, 2011), 105-133; Jill Dolan, “Militant Optimism: Approaching Humanism,” <i>Utopia in Performance: Finding Hope in the Theater</i> (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2005), 139–65.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><small><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#7b" name="7">7</a></sup></small></span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span>Neil Smith, “Revolutionary Ambition in the Age of Austerity,” <i>Upping the Anti</i> 13 (2001), 82.<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><small><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#8b" name="8">8</a></sup></small></span><span style="background-color: white;"> Ibid., 81.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><small><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#9b" name="9">9</a></sup></small></span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span>David Harvey, <i>Spaces of Hope</i> (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000), 55-56, 241-244.<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><small><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#10b" name="10">10</a></sup></small></span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span>Alain Badiou, <i>Philosophy for Militants</i>, trans. Bruno Bosteels (London: Verso, 2012), 63-64.<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><small><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#11b" name="11">11</a></sup></small></span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span>John Holloway, <i>Crack Capitalism</i> (London: Pluto Press, 2010), 11.<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><small><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#12b" name="12">12</a></sup></small></span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span>The Invisible Committee, <i>The Coming Insurrection</i> (Los Angeles: Semiotext(e), 2009), 97.<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><small><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#13b" name="13">13</a></sup></small></span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span>Judith Butler and Athena Athanasiou, <i>Dispossession: The Performative in the Political</i> (Cambridge: Polity Press, 2013), 178.<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><small><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#14b" name="14">14</a></sup></small></span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span>“The Militant Image: A Ciné-Geography,” <i>Third Text</i> 25/1 (2011), 1. Eshun and Gray define ciné-geography in this way: “Ciné-geography designates situated cinecultural practices in an expanded sense, and the connections—individual, institutional, aesthetic and political—that link them transnationally to other situations of urgent struggle” (1).<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><small><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#15b" name="15">15</a></sup></small></span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span>Sara Ahmed, “Affective Economies,” <i>Social Text</i> 79 (2004), 3.<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><small><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#16b" name="16">16</a></sup></small></span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span>“The word in language is half someone else’s.” In <i>Dialogical Imagination</i>, ed. and trans. Caryl Emerson and Michael Holquist (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1982), 294.<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><small><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#17b" name="17">17</a></sup></small></span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span>Elizabeth Edwards, “Objects of Affect: Photography Beyond the Image,” <i>Annual Review of Anthropology</i> 41 (2012), 223.<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><small><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/jeff-derksen-militant-word.html#18b" name="18">18</a></sup></small></span><span style="background-color: white;"> </span>Andy Merrifield, <i>Politics of the Encounter: Urban Theory and Protest Under Planetary Urbanization</i>, vol. 19: <i>Geographies of Justice and Social Transformation</i> (Athens, GA: University of Georgia Press, 2013), 55. Merrifield does this through a productive synthesis of aspects of Henri Lefebvre’s perspective on social transformation and the later work of Louis Althusser. As a historical note, these two did not like each other, but only one strangled his wife.</div>
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Brian Anghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03733133032013585813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4074719566651397000.post-62519264814822894552017-04-04T11:06:00.000-07:002017-04-04T11:06:57.384-07:00alex cruse, BODY NEGATIVE<span style="font-family: inherit;">I. What do digital visualizations mean for absence? What might an absence of body mean for [cyber/xeno]feminism? What might [cyber/xeno]feminism mean for poetry?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">II. ‘We declare the right to speak as no one in particular’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="background-color: white;">— </span>VNS Matrix</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">III.</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">The term scroll: a finite medium that returns itself to more of itself, a tangible, linear reference.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">we inaccurately verb our current mode, one that</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">just impales itself on a void, a floating index.</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Priming the distributed body:</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">Pumping the social capital, the intellectual work, the making visible</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">into the network, the feed</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">and all i can think of is a breast pump containing that which</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">nurtures the ones closest to us</span></i></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: inherit;">when we are busy feeding other mouths.</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">IV. “INVISIBILITY IS YOUR REVENGE”</span><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/alex-cruse-body-negative.html#1" name="1b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><small><sup>1</sup></small></a><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Where are you when you are not ‘on the network’? How are your traces mobilized? In our Post-Crisis moment, despite the ongoing profusion of visualization tools and techniques, we are finding new ways of Not seeing (not knowing). To legalize the provisions of invisibilization, because our networks hold at their core values against the material, the human, the Kantian hardware, the politics which make representation fraught. Simon Schaffer: “To make machines look intelligent it was necessary that the sources of their power, the labor force which surrounded and ran them, be rendered invisible.”</span><br />
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-939dcf83-34a2-48cc-612f-730a3e7bc36b"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img alt="absence form data.png" height="117" src="https://lh5.googleusercontent.com/59eUl8hx492lDrxitsk6pE_RPi7GAzHwTXXX2Tx8nTVAXc8zE7tHzMqbbIctZJcTrjsDMV8gr6zjN0iM_XCmu3RonwKLjfMAMAto4N-RDxCEOFUz6Nl7xkwgGAQk5WuFUhVCAoxCiTQsM2M3sA" style="border: none; transform: rotate(0rad);" width="624" /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">The outwardly facing presence of (majority white and male) social media CEOs is maintained by an invisible labor force, composed mainly of women. Job opportunities for this type of ghostwriting grew 1137% between the years 2010 and 2013. In addition to the widespread erasure of their material contributions to “thought leadership,” these authors also enjoy an embarrassing asymmetry in wages. Writes Alina Heim, “The silence of ghostwriters is secured by one paradox: the nature of the work forbids you from revealing yourself.”</span><small style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/alex-cruse-body-negative.html#2" name="2b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">2</a></sup></small><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Social media account management is not necessarily intentionally poetic, yet it is inarguably remunerated work. By devaluing the author function</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; text-align: right;">—</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">invisibilizing the female voice</span><span style="background-color: white; font-family: inherit; text-align: right;">—</span><span style="font-family: inherit;">does her work count as ‘not writing’?</span><small style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/alex-cruse-body-negative.html#3" name="3b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">3</a></sup></small><span style="font-family: inherit;"> Conversely, how do the neoliberal logics of networks impinge upon her (our) </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">right to go unseen</i><span style="font-family: inherit;">? Are ghost writers the only true Xenopoets, the scriptors of alien (non)presence? For, as Amy Ireland says: “in Xenopoetics, the more a subject produces, the more it necessarily recedes.”</span><small style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/alex-cruse-body-negative.html#4" name="4b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">4</a></sup></small><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">V. There is an allure to media and materials which capture and reflect our presence despite our disappearance: mesmerizing displacement of polyurethane in the shape of a hand in a memory foam infomercial or a trail of gestural shadows in a data visualization.</span></div>
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-939dcf83-34a8-8326-9216-92fbaeccac85"><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><img alt="Gesture_trace_new_800web1.jpg" height="357" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/ncJ7U_6OcOo6wjkBJ-RfEDDtkV7zbu-cgeFLyu8J4iQoZhqeGqTXajiXUBwsOEoTjtuAYd5p43pO8vokRrgiYSBDe8mIABRHfVl3qOKiKtnHj14d1xv3VxcWTk8uapi3tAY1OidS6DyJW7zHjw" style="border: none; transform: rotate(0rad);" width="624" /></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Where does Invisibility enter? What are its dimensions?</span></div>
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<span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">How do we chart our presences’ durability and duration within digital fields (vectors which intersect with ideas of agency and representation)</span><span style="background-color: white; text-align: right;">—</span><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">when the crystallization of crises across time + space depends so heavily on our displacement, our alienation? Furthermore, if personal sovereignty is linked to an individual’s formal citizenship (how one belongs, is <i>integrated</i> into a population), then how a body and a life ‘show up’ on the network/feed/surveillance system renders them either ‘legible’ (legal) or ‘illegible’ (illegal? alegal? extra-legal?)</span></div>
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<span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">[Here i would argue that it is this line of thinking which was/is responsible for the resurgence of minimalist aesthetics in the field of design: they recode poverty as ‘chicness’ for the precariat millennial masses. Aestheticized invisibility (literally, the extraction of objects, language, and textures from a frame) functions as a gloss on austerity, whereby the subversion of maximalism dovetails with the current economic impossibility of maximizing our options.]</span></div>
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<span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">We navigate these denuded visual landscapes that operate as masks across hyper-differentiated planes of difference and computational, geopolitical complexity.</span></div>
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">VI. “A plot ( )ole does not benefit on behalf of an absence, but registers and conveys the activities of a sub-surface life.”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">— Reza Negarestani, <i>Cyclonopedia: Complicity with Anonymous Materials</i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">Example 1: The Forensic Architecture group based at Goldsmiths, University of London, a research agency whose investigatory principle has been termed the “threshold of visibility.” Using aerial footage, interactive cartographies, and 3D models, FA produces and presents architectural evidence of drone strikes, refugee migration, and ecological devastation otherwise unexplored and undocumented.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Some drone-fired missiles can drill a hole through the roof before burrowing their way deep into buildings, where their warheads explode. The size of the hole the missile leaves is smaller than the size of a single pixel in the highest resolution to which publicly-available satellite images are degraded. The hole is thus at the “threshold of visibility” and might appear as nothing more than a slight color variation, a single darker pixel perhaps. This has direct implications for the documentation of drone strikes in satellite imagery, which is often as close to the scene as most investigators can get. When the figure dissolves into the ground of the image, it is the conditions—legal, political, technical—that degrade the image, or that keep it at a lower resolution that become the relevant material for forensic investigations. A hole is not simply an absence. It is more, not less, information than the matter that surrounds it, be that reinforced concrete or ozone-rich atmosphere. This is because a hole is information both with regard to the materiality it perforates (concrete/ozone) and to the shape of its absence.</span><small style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/alex-cruse-body-negative.html#5" name="5b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">5</a></sup></small></blockquote>
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<span id="docs-internal-guid-939dcf83-353a-e1db-24a5-413e73631fa2"><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 11pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><img alt="FA.png" height="333" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/H5HR6hsQ7Z4ISF9GYq4cKcsCP4re5TxyZBotLS85sz6nhKpFgn1ZOzm9zm3vcWt_XkQBXkikqP2ZSeYlR2_xoJRf-ITROK5MrZVMT3_eAHd4dpkOffwXO_ivbTNSk1h86J90LZ4CdE1R3my1iw" style="-webkit-transform: rotate(0.00rad); border: none; transform: rotate(0.00rad);" width="624" /></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; font-size: x-small;">With help from Forensic Architects, a victim of a drone strike builds a 3D model of her home, which no longer exists. Her intent is to communicate the experience of life under drones.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; text-align: left;">Ex. 2: Congress passed the National Defense Authorization Act in 1997. One of its sections is entitled, “Prohibition on collection and release of detailed satellite imagery relating to Israel.” Aerial and satellite imagery of occupied territories (most notably the Gaza Strip) are also regulated under this amendment, and thereby evade Google’s all-seeing satellites’ eyes.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">Ex. 3: “In </span><i>Masks of the Universe</i><span style="background-color: white;">, Edward Harrison suggests that all of the cosmologies of history are so many masks covering a face that will never be seen. The world is always somewhere beyond its mask; no map can use more than a tiny sampling of the information the world continuously offers.”</span><small style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/alex-cruse-body-negative.html#6" name="6b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">6</a></sup></small><br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="background-color: white;">Ex. 3a: And what metrical mask do we offer the world? In Japan, the Keihin Electric Express Railway Company </span><a href="https://www.theguardian.com/money/blog/2009/jul/07/japanese-smile-scanning">introduced software</a><span style="background-color: white;"> that would literally scan their employees’ smiles and, using this digital image, rank their features on a scale from 0 (suicidal) to 100 (delirious). The entrenched logic of their employers’ technological intervention suggests that there exists a </span><i>prima facie</i><span style="background-color: white;"> expectation that users/patrons </span><i>desire</i><span style="background-color: white;"> the shallow affect of technicity’s smile; that there is somehow, embedded in our brains’ architectural folds, a mirror neuron that could respond appropriately in this exchange. As we further embed in this future, will we become biochemically inured to high-definition displays of an emotion or reality that isn’t there? Where is the ‘beyond’ of this world’s mask?</span></blockquote>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><img height="276" src="https://lh4.googleusercontent.com/fU06V8p0tRmzGhtwLyXTXP9F0eJUbEK_kl703Zd9Zi0mbv0wuqdgcU5YT1EOlshh-sxS1_9hjGzukFfiJAsuPM2Mfqn2FG6gf5CN0D4bESIRPpVLssKnDl4DiPAN-baQrFJWT5ywxXMdpxNIvA" style="background-color: transparent; border: none; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; transform: rotate(0rad); white-space: pre-wrap;" width="460" /> </span></div>
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Ex. 4: During the summer of 2016, scientists devised a <a href="http://www.nature.com/nmeth/journal/vaop/ncurrent/full/nmeth.3964.html">method</a> to observe a full-body scan of a human’s interior, whereby both flesh and bone were made transparent. The process ossifies that which it demystifies. By deleting the mysteries of our insides—incorporating an optics of dematerialization into the medical field—we paradoxically generate more information about “less” of us. Fewer boundaries and blockages towards a total annihilation of invisibility. For example, we also know that Eigengrau (html code #1616d) is the “almost black” one’s brain “sees” in complete darkness.</div>
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Ex. 5: “… the creation of the Ellis Act map posed a simple but nevertheless troubling problem of visually/digitally materializing loss.”<a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/alex-cruse-body-negative.html#7" name="7b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11.1111px;"><sup>7</sup></a><br />
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Visualizing accumulation by dispossession makes legible a series of crushing absences of no knowable weight, whether ()oles, holes, gaps in a visual record, or a surfeit of vacancies spurred by unethical property (mis)management.<br />
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We already know how compelling are the visualizations of non-presence. For cyberfeminists, and poets whose work aligns with this philosophy (namely, warping and corrupting and exploiting the internet and new media in order to dismantle their patriarchal foundations) a related and pressing task is how to devise memes of language(s), a poetics, and praxes <i>which the network cannot respond to</i>. And adapt to, and assimilate. The aesthetics of futurity are regressing (minimal-izing) in ways that evoke a false nostalgia for a time many young(ish) poets have never experienced: the time of a neutered internet; before Gamergate, before PRISM, before the instantaneous circulation of cell phone footage of State-sanctioned murder. How could we ever substantiate the collective crises of our times when more intensive mediation and abstraction appear to be the rule of the day?<br />
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What is the alternative? More ‘not writing’? Can a refusal of participation on the network advance feminisms?<br />
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<span style="background-color: white;">VII. “This looks like the future / this is future”</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">— Cécile B. Evans, “What the Heart Wants”<a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/alex-cruse-body-negative.html#8" name="8b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><small><sup>8</sup></small></a></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">Let’s consider this: a self-deterministic evolution in network aesthetics.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">Projects, selfies, and tweets that positively recode what was once invisible. Currently, many women are producing works around their chronic illnesses, which are gaining traction in a larger conversation about representation, networked feminisms, and embodiment. ‘Autopathographic selfies’ (aggregated chronologies and visual documents of one’s life with illness) constitute what Tamar Tenbeck refers to as the “politicized dramaturgy of the lived body,”<small style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/alex-cruse-body-negative.html#9" name="9b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">9</a></sup></small> which centers one’s medical experiences and lifts it from the unilateral authority of the medical realm. These visualizations of intrasubjective experience can be stapled onto the conversation of absence and cyberfeminism insofar as they respond to a desire to show up in the network as a sick person: as a problematic, messy, deviant body.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">In an essay i wrote last year, “Weaponizing Sickness: Gender, Theory, and Capital,” i addressed Johanna Hedva’s “Sick Woman Theory”<small style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/alex-cruse-body-negative.html#10" name="10b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">10</a></sup></small> alongside analyses of US healthcare policy and the work of feminist+anti-capitalist poet and cancer survivor Anne Boyer. In this excerpt we may draw a causal connection between the intensive ubiquity of communications technologies (communication AS technology), the precariously laboring body, and the work of self-documenting one’s subject position.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">In “Data’s Work is Never Done,” Boyer parses the ‘labor’ of data in a medical context, and how these technologized processes become conflated with the always-already female-gendered labor of care. Describing the repetitious, rote, and abstract process of filling out paperwork in a hospital waiting room, she states, “I am sick and a woman and so I write my own name.” The declaration of one’s identity in relation to her gender/illness is seen as an ingress into a coherent informational network, wherein one takes on a new ontological status as a perversely autonomic agent of semio-capital. Poetry is work, but it may also constitute a reinscription/inversion of identity and the limitations of one’s physical form; it can be a processual unmaking of the real. Here, however, the embodied subject is reconfigured as an <i>engine</i> of data; it undergirds and fulfils a mechanized desire, the locus of which is always immaterial and elsewhere. This machinic apparatus is a mere fulcrum upon which gendered labor pivots, ceaselessly.</span></blockquote>
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<span style="background-color: white;">Boyer also writes that, during a period of time in which she held six jobs simultaneously, she would often keep her iPhone in her bra so that she could “always be working, never miss an email.”<small style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/alex-cruse-body-negative.html#11" name="11b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">11</a></sup></small> She then notes that her tumor developed in that exact place. Her abstracted body, as a producer of data for cultural and academic milieus was ‘delivered’ to her actual body via both networks of raw material, the ephemeral traffic of signals, and affective channels. The technicity of the cell phone operates as a veil between the subject’s concrete labor-function and the ambiguities of uncompensated, emotional labor (intellectual energy, email fatigue), and the nexus of these—their proximity to her body—may very well have produced a literal cancerous mass.</span></blockquote>
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<span style="background-color: white;">The situation briefly and inadequately described here illustrates that we cannot continue to work like this (while also potentially answering Amy Ireland’s question: ‘Is there a Poem the human cannot afford to make?’)</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">When we consign the acts of reading and writing to human cognitive platforms, ignoring all the encoding and transference that happens <i>inside</i> the network and <i>outside</i> of our experience of it,<small style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/alex-cruse-body-negative.html#12" name="12b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">12</a></sup></small> we unwittingly valorize anthropomorphic systems which are inherently and paradoxically anti-human. Systems that produce sickness, which totalize life under and within them, and whose logics underwrite all the activity that we perform as [cyber]feminists and artists. Considering this, Xenofeminism (a nascent offshoot of cyberfeminism, originated by the international transfeminist collective Laboria Cuboniks in 2014, which promotes gender fluidity and rejects biological determinism) might be an improved tactical and aesthetic program for poets writing from inside networked crisis. This philosophy, working in tandem with Xenopoetics, may offer a new turn for the hyper-present, overlabored, precarious, sick body, as it “puts the status of the human rigorously into question. It disperses the ego, opens occulted lines of communication, and scans for alien signal. It is the black market of contemporary poetics.”<a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/alex-cruse-body-negative.html#13" name="13b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><small><sup>13</sup></small></a></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">Perhaps we can own our Zero, our “zone of multiplicity,” a weaponized blur of encryption on the continuum of presence, shimmering as holographs of our negative capability.</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;">__________</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/alex-cruse-body-negative.html#1b" name="1"><small><sup>1</sup></small></a> </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">A phrase from Dennis Adams, whose urban interventions included menacing and poetic texts on bus shelters and false advertisements.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/alex-cruse-body-negative.html#2b" name="2"><small><sup>2</sup></small></a> </span>https://modelviewculture.com/pieces/the-invisible-female-workforce-behind-the-social-ceo.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/alex-cruse-body-negative.html#3b" name="3"><small><sup>3</sup></small></a> </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">In her 2015 book <i>Garments Against Women</i>, Anne Boyer (to whom i’ll refer again later) articulates the concept of invisible labor and its clash with poetics in “Not Writing”: “I am not writing a pathetic memoir. I am not writing a memoir about poetry or love. I am not writing a memoir about poverty, debt collection, or bankruptcy. I am not writing about family court. I am not writing a memoir because memoirs are for property owners and not writing a memoir about prohibitions of memoirs.”</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/alex-cruse-body-negative.html#4b" name="4"><small><sup>4</sup></small></a> </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Amy Ireland, in conversation with a.j. carruthers, “Poetry is Cosmic War,” <i>Rabbit</i>, 95.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><small><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/alex-cruse-body-negative.html#5b" name="5">5</a> </sup></small><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">http://www.forensic-architecture.org/theme/threshold-detectability.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/alex-cruse-body-negative.html#6b" name="6" style="font-size: 11.1111px; white-space: normal;"><sup>6</sup></a> </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><i>Poetics and Praxis, Understanding and Imagination: The Collected Essays of O. B. Hardison Jr.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/alex-cruse-body-negative.html#7b" name="7" style="font-size: 11.1111px; white-space: normal;"><sup>7</sup></a> </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Erin McElroy, co-founder of Anti-Eviction Mapping Project (AEMP).</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/alex-cruse-body-negative.html#8b" name="8" style="font-size: 11.1111px;"><sup>8</sup></a> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bSgz3SxIrf4.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/alex-cruse-body-negative.html#9b" name="9" style="font-size: 11.1111px; white-space: normal;"><sup>9</sup></a></span> Tamar Tenbeck, “Selfies of Ill Health: Online Autopathographic Photography and the Dramaturgy of the Everyday,” <i>Social Media + Society</i> vol. 2 no. 1, Jan-Mar 2016.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/alex-cruse-body-negative.html#10b" name="10" style="font-size: 11.1111px;"><sup>10</sup></a> See also: http://www.maskmagazine.com/not-again/struggle/sick-woman-theory.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/alex-cruse-body-negative.html#11b" name="11" style="font-size: 11.1111px; white-space: normal;"><sup>11</sup></a></span> Anne Boyer, “Woman Sitting at the Machine,” <i>Poetry is Dead</i>, Issue 8.</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/alex-cruse-body-negative.html#12b" name="12" style="font-size: 11.1111px;"><sup>12</sup></a> Remarks Sadie Plant: “‘Zero’ neither counts nor represents, but with digitisation it proliferates, replicates and undermines the privilege of one. Zero is not an absence, but a zone of multiplicity which cannot be perceived by the one who sees.”</span><br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/alex-cruse-body-negative.html#13b" name="13" style="font-size: 11.1111px; white-space: normal;"><sup>13</sup></a></span> Amy Ireland, ibid.</span></div>
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Brian Anghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03733133032013585813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4074719566651397000.post-81926915810308510402017-04-03T08:54:00.000-07:002017-04-26T23:14:54.766-07:00Dereck Clemons, In American Sci Fi Magazines<i>Liberal Sci Fi, Now More Liberal</i><br />
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American Science Fiction skews left. Yes, right-wing, military- and market-happy stories exist. But paranoia over government and market motives has been abundant since the Vietnam era, and since the 2008 financial crisis, even anti-capitalist stories bloom in the mainstream.<br />
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Increasingly: pick up (or download) a copy of a Sci Fi magazine (the few there are) and you’ll see characters expressing annoyance with this “capitalist bullshit.”<a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/dereck-clemons-in-american-sci-fi.html#1" name="1b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><small><sup>1</sup></small></a></div>
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When people explore the stars, it’s due to military industrial complexes and the violence of capitalism having ruined Earth for everybody, like in Carter Scholz’s “Gypsy.”<a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/dereck-clemons-in-american-sci-fi.html#2" name="2b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><small><sup>2</sup></small></a></div>
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Anti-sexual-violence and women’s recuperation of their bodies figure heavily in 2014 Nebula-award winner Ursula Vernon’s “Jackalope Wives” and finalist Alyssa Wong’s “The Fisher Queen.”<a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/dereck-clemons-in-american-sci-fi.html#3" name="3b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><small><sup>3</sup></small></a> Feminist expression runs throughout “Fade-to-White,” by Catherine Valente, in which a mother warns her daughter that the history of the world consists of “men taking your body and soul apart to label the parts that belong to them.”<a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/dereck-clemons-in-american-sci-fi.html#4" name="4b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><small><sup>4</sup></small></a></div>
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Don’t forget revolutionary zeal, as in Aliette De Bodard’s “Immersion,” reminding us that “every revolution had to start somewhere—hadn’t Longevity’s War of Independence started over a single poem, and the unfair imprisonment of the poet who’d written it?”<a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/dereck-clemons-in-american-sci-fi.html#5" name="5b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><small><sup>5</sup></small></a></div>
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Or check out <i>Fireside Fiction</i> with their stated aim of “resisting the global rise of fascism and far-right populism, starting with the current occupant of the White House.” Titles of short stories and essays on their current homepage: “The Revolution Was Televised,” “This Machine Kills Fascists,” “The Revolution, Brought to You by Nike,” and “Black Like Them.”</div>
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Speaking of <i>Fireside</i>, a report of theirs making waves is “Antiblack Racism in Speculative Fiction,” by Cecily Kane.<a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/dereck-clemons-in-american-sci-fi.html#6" name="6b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><small><sup>6</sup></small></a> The report casts in stark, scientific terms the scarcity of black writers in Sci Fi magazines. For instance, over half of all Sci Fi magazines published an average of zero black writers within 2015-16. Just two or three magazines, and mostly one (<i>Terraform</i>), accounted for most black writers who did appear in magazines.</div>
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Follow-up essays on the matter include Sci Fi authors Justina Ireland with “Two Percent” and Mikki Kindall with “Opportunity Lost,” both of which extrapolate implications, causes, and remedies from <i>Fireside</i><span style="font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;">’</span>s report and their own experiences.</div>
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Anthologies (like <i>Dark Matter</i> or <i>Mothership</i>) could be said to provide a way to introduce black writers to Sci Fi audiences. Justina Ireland argues that these anthologies, though well-intentioned, sidestep the issue. Says Ireland: “I’m tired of the only opportunities for black writers happening the two or three times a year that POC get to Destroy something.”<a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/dereck-clemons-in-american-sci-fi.html#7" name="7b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><small><sup>7</sup></small></a></div>
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“Destroy something” refers to Lightspeed Magazine’s special issues <i>People of Color Destroy Science Fiction</i>, <i>Queers Destroy Science Fiction</i>, and <i>Women Destroy Science Fiction</i>. Ireland observes that separate spaces are not the answer: “As much as I love the POC Destroy [Something] books, they are emblematic of the problem. The established SFF short fiction markets are so unwelcoming to PoC in general and black authors in particular that we have to build our own, separate spaces. But separate isn’t equal, and the separation of opportunities for authors of color both ghettoizes these authors into a niche interest and gives more mainstream markets a pass for not being inclusive....”</div>
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Not that dedicated spaces can't be productive or shouldn't be created, however, as Ireland herself edits such a project: the newly minted <i>Fiyah: Magazine of Black Speculative Fiction</i>. Another new arrival is <i>Black Girl Lit Mag</i>, and it should be noted that Rosarium Publishing has been going strong in this regard since 2013.<br />
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<i>Socialist Sci Fi is Socialist</i><br />
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If historians or critics fifty years from now were to read most of our contemporary literary fiction, they might well infer that our main societal problems were issues with our parents, bad relationships, and death. If they were looking for any indication that we were even dimly aware of the burgeoning global conflict between democracy and capitalism... they might need to turn to books that have that embarrassing little Saturn-and-spaceship sticker on the spine. That is, to science fiction.<br />
<span style="background-color: white; font-family: "arial" , "tahoma" , "helvetica" , "freesans" , sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">—</span> Tim Kreider, “Our Greatest Political Novelist?” <i>The New Yorker</i>, 2013.</blockquote>
One reads much Sci Fi with two minds, such as when Justina Ireland mentions enjoying the <i>Destroy</i> anthologies but also recognizing them as part of the problem.<br />
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On the one hand, Sci Fi has led the way among literary genres in questioning authority and shedding a light on capitalist fallout. On the other, it excludes black writers, plus its backlog can be tiresome or degrading due to the history of misogyny, racism, &c. found there.<br />
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Sci Fi can best do its job of foregrounding present concerns among future possibilities if it has diverse peoples telling the stories. As the editors of <i>Terraform</i> magazine put it, “you can’t get a complete picture of how humans are thinking about the future unless you’re inclusive of as many voices as possible.”<small style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/dereck-clemons-in-american-sci-fi.html#8" name="8b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">8</a></sup></small> Sci Fi writers and readers need these perspectives to offer, among other things, greater portrayals of life beyond capitalism, a broad trend in itself.<a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/dereck-clemons-in-american-sci-fi.html#9" name="9b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><small><sup>9</sup></small></a><br />
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After the 2008 financial meltdown and the ongoing wars in the Middle East, with the police violence videos catching people’s attention, and now with a complete train wreck of a White House, you could say this country’s trust in its institutions is imploding yet again. Once Sci Fi reckons itself with some of the oppressive mechanisms it shares with the rest of our society, it will be a greater asset than ever for anti-capitalist and anti-fascist thinking.<br />
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<i>Next Up</i><br />
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For those of us with left to radical streaks in our reading preferences, let’s look forward to these developments in the next few years:<br />
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More black writers in the magazines. Or let’s hope so anyway. We’ll see.<br />
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More certainly: unambiguously critical looks at police brutality. This one has a history with much Sci Fi expressing a distrust of militarized police or government surveillance; as well, it’s commonplace for a character to outmaneuver snitchy military drones and brutal occupying forces. Often, however, the settings are far-away and police referred to by euphemism (guardians, monitors, agents, troopers, scouts), so let’s look for more transparent examples.<br />
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Also an awareness of recession cycles. Because the end, so people tell me, won’t come with a bang but a series of escalating ruptures followed each time by increasingly less effective recoveries and violent measures taken by a militarized state desperate to protect its assets. Look for high-tech, landed gentry surrounded by medieval conditions.<br />
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More Sci Fi postcolonialism, like the critical stance toward pre-emptive strikes in John Scalzi’s <i>Old Man’s War</i> and Scott Westerfeld’s <i>Risen Empire</i>.<a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/dereck-clemons-in-american-sci-fi.html#10" name="10b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><small><sup>10</sup></small></a><br />
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More Cory Doctorow being critical of state surveillance.<a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/dereck-clemons-in-american-sci-fi.html#11" name="11b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><small><sup>11</sup></small></a><br />
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The apocalypse remains a big sub-genre, having been around for decades (see: dread of atomic weapons), but the popularity of a wasteland with killer zombies or psychopathic neighbors—this falls away coming up. Look for more creative observations of how a capitalist state in decline could hobble along. More people coping, not cannibalizing.<br />
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The U.S. as less of a superpower but not a hellscape.<br />
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Of course lots more on Mars, biotechnology, artificial intelligence, and the Sixth Mass Extinction, all longtime staples of Sci Fi.<br />
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What I’m not saying: that Sci Fi will end capitalism. If anything, it looks like we’re in store for a continuance or even escalation of state repression and violence, so expect to find this long, hard slog represented with increasing nuance in Sci Fi.<br />
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Expect more radicalism, left and right, and for Sci Fi to grow ever more valuable for its trove of dangerous visions.<br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/dereck-clemons-in-american-sci-fi.html#1b" name="1"><small><sup>1</sup></small></a> </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Rich Larson, </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">“The Nostalgia Calculator,” </span><i style="white-space: pre-wrap;">The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction</i><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"> [or </span><i style="white-space: pre-wrap;">FSF</i><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">], May/June 2016.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/dereck-clemons-in-american-sci-fi.html#2b" name="2"><small><sup>2</sup></small></a> Carter Scholz, </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">“Gypsy,” <i>FSF</i>, Nov/Dec 2015.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/dereck-clemons-in-american-sci-fi.html#3b" name="3"><small><sup>3</sup></small></a> </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Ursula Vernon. “Jackalope Wives,” <i>Apex Magazine</i>, January 2014. </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Alyssa Wong. “The Fisher Queen,” </span><i style="white-space: pre-wrap;">FSF</i><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">, May/June 2014.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/dereck-clemons-in-american-sci-fi.html#4b" name="4"><small><sup>4</sup></small></a> </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Catherine Valente. “Fade-to-White,” <i>Clarkesworld</i>, August 2012.</span><br />
<small><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/dereck-clemons-in-american-sci-fi.html#5b" name="5">5</a> </sup></small><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Aliette De Bodard, “Immersion,” <i>Clarkesworld</i>, June 2012.</span><br />
<span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/dereck-clemons-in-american-sci-fi.html#6b" name="6" style="font-size: 11.1111px; white-space: normal;"><sup>6</sup></a> Cecily Kane, “Antiblack Racism in Speculative Fiction,” <i>Fireside Fiction</i>, 2016.</span><br />
<span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/dereck-clemons-in-american-sci-fi.html#7b" name="7" style="font-size: 11.1111px; white-space: normal;"><sup>7</sup></a> </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Justina Ireland, </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">“Two Percent,” <i>Fireside Fiction</i>, 2016.</span><br />
<a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/dereck-clemons-in-american-sci-fi.html#8b" name="8" style="font-size: 11.1111px;"><sup>8</sup></a> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Cecily Kane, </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">“Antiblack Racism in Speculative Fiction,” <i>Fireside Fiction</i>, 2016.</span></div>
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/dereck-clemons-in-american-sci-fi.html#9b" name="9" style="font-size: 11.1111px; white-space: normal;"><sup>9</sup></a></span> Fredric Jameson, writing on Sci Fi, famously says “it is easier to imagine the end of the world than it is to imagine the end of capitalism.” He goes on in that essay and others to extol Science Fiction for imagining those possibilities. He calls the visions Utopian, where Utopia is a kind of optimism about what people are capable of at various stages of capitalism’s decline (or without it altogether).<br />
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<a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/dereck-clemons-in-american-sci-fi.html#10b" name="10" style="font-size: 11.1111px;"><sup>10</sup></a> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Ursula Le Guin’s <i>The Word for World is Forest</i> is a good Vietnam-era indictment and as good a place as any to start. It’s also this fan’s favorite gateway into her Hainish cycle. Rewinding a bit, though, and you have Philip K. Dick’s “Tony and the Beetles” (1953). It boils down to how, though he may fraternize with kids of the oppressed group, a white kid still plays an agent of abuse against them. The structure, or the history and power dynamic, that leads to this revelation is a firmly established one of attitudes, however conflicted and well-intended.</span></div>
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<span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/dereck-clemons-in-american-sci-fi.html#11b" name="11" style="font-size: 11.1111px; white-space: normal;"><sup>11</sup></a></span> See: this Doctorow story in which a group of activists stays connected via phones and cooperation, called “Lawful Interception.” It’s about a future Occupy Oakland, except he calls it Occupy Seneca, after the Bay Area mental health agency, and it takes place after an earthquake because Occupy is a way for people to help each other deal with crisis, so an earthquake is a succinct and externalized crisis.</div>
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Brian Anghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03733133032013585813noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4074719566651397000.post-31354412984568866032017-04-02T11:12:00.000-07:002017-04-02T16:30:27.417-07:00Olive Blackburn, The Summer of 1934: Art and Struggle in San Francisco<blockquote class="tr_bq">
The city became a camp, a battlefield, the screams of ambulances sent the day reeling, class lines fell sharply—everywhere, on streetcars, on corners, in stores, people talked, cursing, stirred with something strange in their breasts, incomprehensible, shaken with fury at the police, the papers, the shipowners... going down to the waterfront, not curious spectators, but to stand there, watching, silent, trying to read the lesson the moving bodies underneath were writing, trying to grope to the meaning of it all, police “protecting lives” smashing clubs and gas bombs into masses of men like themselves, papers screaming lies. — Tillie Lerner Olsen<a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/olive-blackburn-summer-of-1934-art-and.html#1" name="1b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><small><sup>1</sup></small></a></blockquote>
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When I think of the term ‘post-crisis poetics’ or aesthetics more broadly, my mind turns not to our current conjuncture but to the United States during the 1930s. This period has profound lessons for both revolutionaries and artists committed to a radical political framework. I am particularly interested in one episode in San Francisco during 1934: the Coit Tower mural project and its simultaneity with the San Francisco General Strike. In reflecting on these events and their relationship to leftist cultural milieux, we can note a divide between the artistic work generated during the Great Depression and the forms of struggle that cut through this period. Taking the Coit Tower murals alongside the General Strike can illuminate both the affiliation and distance between communist art and working class struggle, relevant to both the 1930s and the present.</div>
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The Coit Tower mural project was an artistic project that adorned the inside of the Lillian Coit Memorial Tower (located on Telegraph Hill and completed in 1933) with communist and populist imagery. Leading this mural project was Bernard Zakheim (1896-1985), an artist, muralist, and a key figure within the leftist artistic milieux in San Francisco in the 1930s. A Jewish émigré from Warsaw, Zakheim arrived in California in 1920 and fell into a community of Jewish labor activists and artists.<small style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/olive-blackburn-summer-of-1934-art-and.html#2" name="2b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">2</a></sup></small> He was a student of Diego Rivera, traveling to Mexico to study with him in 1930. Zakheim, along with poet Kenneth Rexroth and anarchist Frank Triest, founded a San Francisco chapter of the John Reed Club to organize artists who were committed to communist and socialist politics. In 1933, many of those involved in the John Reed Club formed a group called the San Francisco Artists’ and Writers’ Union to advocate for the economic needs of artists. Responding to their efforts, the Public Works of Art Project (PWAP), a New Deal program that employed artists from December 1933 until June 1934, sponsored a project to paint murals inside of the newly constructed Coit Tower, for which Zakheim and fellow artist Ralph Stackpole assembled a group of artists to complete. For his contribution to the Coit Tower murals, Zakheim painted <i>Library</i>, whose radical politics were apparent. The mural depicts a group of workers reading leftist newspapers as well as artist John Langley Howard reaching for a copy of Marx’s <i>Das Kapital</i>. The overt communist symbols triggered the wrath of Walter Heil (director of the de Young Museum) and Herbert Fleishhacker (board member of the San Francisco Art Association, president of the London and Paris National Bank), who oversaw the PWAP in San Francisco and moved to postpone the opening of the Tower in order to censor the murals.<small style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/olive-blackburn-summer-of-1934-art-and.html#3" name="3b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">3</a></sup></small> Zakheim later recalls Fleishhacker’s word to him: “You know we are on the threshold of war and we cannot tolerate what you have painted in the Coit Tower.”<small style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/olive-blackburn-summer-of-1934-art-and.html#4" name="4b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">4</a></sup></small> The closure of the tower took place in July 1934, coinciding with the San Francisco General Strike that erupted the same month.</div>
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What escalated into a citywide shutdown began as a struggle of San Francisco’s longshoremen against the conditions of their exploitation and disenfranchisement. International Longshoremen’s Association (ILA) had come into existence towards the end of the 19th century but was largely dormant and incapacitated by the strangling of union organizing by employers. It was not until June of 1933 and the passage of the National Industrial Recovery Act (NIRA), which provided federal recognition and protection for independent unions as employee representatives, that unionization efforts by San Francisco longshoremen could gain any momentum.<small style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/olive-blackburn-summer-of-1934-art-and.html#5" name="5b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">5</a></sup></small> Longshoremen deserted the blue book union to join the ILA, which at the time was under the leadership of national president Joseph Ryan and west coast president William Lewis. Ryan and Lewis ran the ILA as a top-down organization, often going into backroom negotiations with employers or taking payoffs that ultimately would sell out the interests and demands of the rank and file.</div>
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Harry Bridges, an Australian seaman and young Wobbly who had arrived in the United States in 1922, emerged as an internal dissident within the ILA, gaining the respect and loyalty of a large portion of rank and file longshoremen. During the summer of 1933, Bridges, along with Communist Party district organizer Sam Darcy, formed an organizing contingent known as the Albion Hall group (named after the hall located in the Mission district where they met), which brought together longshoremen and several members of the CP. Bridges and his militant faction coordinated a ten day convention in February of 1934 in San Francisco for longshoremen in all west coast port cities. Together, they arrived at a list of demands including a union-run hiring hall and safer working conditions. When the shipping bosses dismissed their demands, the longshoremen already had in place a network of solidarity and launched the west coast Maritime strike on May 9, 1934. By May 11, over 12,000 workers had blocked ports up and down the west coast, paralyzing the shipping industry. Ship owners went on the offensive using their connections to politicians and newspapers, including William Randolph Hearst’s anti-labor <i>San Francisco Examiner</i>, to paint the strike as violent mob action. The shippers recruited scabs as strikebreakers, which pitting unionized and non-unionized workers against each other. Union men formed flying squads to protect striking workers from incursions by scabs and policemen, who treated ILA organizers with intimidation and brutality.</div>
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The standoff came to a head on July 3, 1934 when San Francisco’s Industrial Association, representing waterfront employers, attempted to forcibly move cargo through the port using strikebreakers, the San Francisco Police Department, and vigilante goon squads. This move erupted into violent confrontations all over the waterfront between the police and thousands of striking workers. July 5th became known as “Bloody Thursday” when police attacked the ILA union headquarters with tear gas and bullets. Two men were killed, and approximately thirty other striking workers were wounded in the day-long skirmishes and combat. In the evening, Governor of California Frank Merriam called in two thousand National Guardsmen who occupied the Embarcadero and set up machine gun nests along the waterfront. The Guardsmen and the San Francisco police along with gangs hired by business leaders raided union and communist party offices, harassing and arresting strike leaders.</div>
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Bloody Thursday became a pivotal moment within the longshoremen’s struggle, as it heightened the public’s attention and provoked the solidarity and wider participation of San Francisco’s working class. The Teamsters union initiated a sympathy strike, and every other union in the city soon followed suit. By July 16, 127,000 workers stayed at home in a general strike that shut down the city for four days. San Francisco Mayor Angelo Rossi, who supported the shipping bosses, declared the city under martial law and deployed an addition three thousand National Guard troops.</div>
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This swelling of labor insurgency at San Francisco’s waterfront throws into relief what the mural projects up on Telegraph Hill amounted and did not amount to. In his account of Coit Tower murals, art historian Anthony Lee observed a disjunction between San Francisco’s leftist artists and the city’s union organizers and militants. While leftist painters had adorned Coit Tower with murals sympathetic to communist and labor politics at exactly the same time as the Maritime Strike, Lee notes that he could not find a single article about the murals in leftist press or any evidence of labor groups responding to the work.<small style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/olive-blackburn-summer-of-1934-art-and.html#6" name="6b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">6</a></sup></small> In Lee’s analysis, the mural project ran parallel to rather than directly intersected or supported the labor movement.<small style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/olive-blackburn-summer-of-1934-art-and.html#7" name="7b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">7</a></sup></small> This may be instructive regarding the connection or non-connection between artists and the labor movement, the extent to which San Francisco’s workers cared about or engaged with artistic representations of their struggles. Lee argues that if radicalism was to be found, it was in the streets, the murals being subsidiary to the movement and physicality of the strikes themselves.<small style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/olive-blackburn-summer-of-1934-art-and.html#8" name="8b" style="font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">8</a></sup></small> Following Lee, the representations of revolt may prove lackluster in relation to the dynamism of the strike itself. An artistic investment in working class organizing may not be consonant with direct participation in a cycle of struggles.</div>
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When I interviewed Ruth Zakheim (the daughter of Bernard Zakheim who is depicted in her father’s mural and is now 93 years old) about her life during the 1930s, she lit up when talking about her memories of the General Strike. Her father, who she described as enormously intuitive about what was important, took her on a long walk from their home in the hills above the Haight Ashbury at 1541 Shrader Street all the way to 3rd and Market Streets in downtown San Francisco. He told her, “you have to see what the city looks like under a general strike.” Ruth remembers that the grocery stores and street cars were shut down; the streets, deserted and ghostly. When they arrived at the waterfront, she recollects seeing the open truck beds filled with national guardsmen. She recounts how active and varied the left was at the time and how powerful the Longshoremen’s Union was, referring to them as the lifeblood of the city. Ruth’s account is suggestive of the effects of living through a general strike. Most things, including art and poetry, would pale in comparison to watching capitalism grind to a halt, the working class take over a city, the dance that unfolded in the streets.</div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/olive-blackburn-summer-of-1934-art-and.html#1b" name="1"><small><sup>1</sup></small></a> </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Tille </span><span style="font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lerner, </span><span style="font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“</span><span style="font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Strike,</span><span style="font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">” </span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Partisan Review</span><span style="font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> 1, no. 4 (September-October 1934): 3</span><span style="font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">–</span><span style="font-family: inherit; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">9.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/olive-blackburn-summer-of-1934-art-and.html#2b" name="2"><small><sup>2</sup></small></a> </span><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Anthony W. </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Lee, </span><span style="font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Painting on the Left: Diego Rivera, Radical Politics, and San Francisco</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">’</span><span style="font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">s Public Murals</span><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> (</span><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999), 96.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/olive-blackburn-summer-of-1934-art-and.html#3b" name="3"><small><sup>3</sup></small></a> </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Ibid., 134.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/olive-blackburn-summer-of-1934-art-and.html#4b" name="4"><small><sup>4</sup></small></a> </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Ibid., 154.</span><br />
<small><sup><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/olive-blackburn-summer-of-1934-art-and.html#5b" name="5">5</a> </sup></small><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Chris </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Carlsson,</span><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">“</span><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The Progress Club: 1934 and Class Memory,</span><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">” in</span><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Reclaiming San Francisco: History, Politics, Culture</span><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, eds. James Brook, Nancy J. Peters, and Chris Carlsson (San Francisco: City Lights Books, 1998), 69.</span></span><br />
<span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/olive-blackburn-summer-of-1934-art-and.html#6b" name="6" style="font-size: 11.1111px; white-space: normal;"><sup>6</sup></a> </span><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Lee, </span><span style="font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Painting on the Left: Diego Rivera, Radical Politics, and San Francisco</span><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue"; font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">’</span><span style="font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">s Public Murals</span><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">, 160.</span><br />
<span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/olive-blackburn-summer-of-1934-art-and.html#7b" name="7" style="font-size: 11.1111px; white-space: normal;"><sup>7</sup></a> </span><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Ibid., 161.</span><br />
<a href="http://postcrisispoetics.blogspot.com/2017/04/olive-blackburn-summer-of-1934-art-and.html#8b" name="8" style="font-size: 11.1111px;"><sup>8</sup></a> <span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Ibid.</span></div>Brian Anghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03733133032013585813noreply@blogger.com0