The Dream of Futility - The Rabble’s Substack

Flowering

My cousin and lifelong friend Ron Christiansen (Counterintuitive), the core of the blogger community that we started years ago when blogging was still a thing, along with my nephew, the son of HH, another member of our blogger community, have, as they say, gone home. It’s been a summer of grief, to say the least. Along with my nephew, Ron was one one of the few people with whom I could share uncensored my interests in revolutionary theory, art, philosophy, spirituality and so on—the types of subject matters I used to write about on this blog. I offered tribute and shared some of the conversations I liked to have with my nephew on Facebook, and I would like now, on this platform, with the community he was the heart and soul of, to respond in my way to the eulogies that were given at Ron’s memorial and (by way of responding to his son Seth’s challenge) share not only what my cousin’s friendship has meant to me but moreso how his ongoing presence continues to shape my thoughts and actions.

Like many others, I enjoyed talking with Ron because Ron always took a sincere interest in what others have to say. So long as there was a measure of sincerity in your expression, Ron listened, really listened, and then responded with his own heartfelt sincerity. And the conversation deepened. In the past couple years, as his illness worsened, so too did the frequency and quality of our discussions, but even so my appreciation for his friendship continued to deepen, and it deepens now even further with the news of his passing. It wasn’t until I received news of his death, while wrestling with his absence, that I began to understand just how much his friendship, the most long-lasting of my life, means to me, what a treasure it is, a treasure so rich that I think it might survive his death and maybe mine as well, rich enough to lead into ever deeper and more sincere forms of conversation or communion in the future. Ron loved to go hiking, another of the many passions we shared, and so I thought it fitting to honor his memory by taking a hike and then writing about it, continuing our journey in friendship beyond the grave, in other words, and hopefully doing some necessary healing along the way. 

Something I have observed on previous hikes, which came back to me with increased gravity as I hiked in Ron’s honor, is how entangled life and death appear in the forest, as compared, say, to the city, where the dead are sheltered away, hidden underground in cemeteries or disappeared in waste treatment centers or disguised by marketing ploys and packaging or concealed by an exterminator’s traps. In the forest, the dead trees mingle with the living ones, stand side by side, feed on each other—relate and communicate. Where the dead bodies end and the living ones begin isn’t easy to tell. Is the dead soil not part of the living plant? The living mushrooms seem to not only owe their existence to the dead treestumps they grow out of but the bodies of both actively join with one another, become assemblages of living and dead matter. In the forest, It’s clear, as thinker Bayo Akomolafe says, that life and death are not enemies or opposites at all; rather, death is what life does. Death is the doing of life.

 If you spend any time in the forest, or if you’ve spent time with your own aging body, you understand that this process of life doing death involves a very pronounced and unstoppable softening. Modernity may encourage us to perform solidity, but the flux and flow beneath it always slips through the cracks, as inevitably as reality. So while I hiked yesterday, I tried to pay attention to the softening of things, to the way things become more not less expressive as they near death, as they loosen their performed solidity in what a shallow mind might interpret as failure or weakness—in their softening, I mean. In their fragility—when even the smallest breath will scatter a plant's seeds into motion and its essence is most easily received and experienced, when the soft crumbled wood of the pine tree and the moistened ground soil are impossible to distinguish, when the dead are metabolized within the bodies of the living—it is in losing themselves that their essences are best expressed and understood. In death and dying, things become more perfect speakers and listeners. In a star’s failure, it shines brighter than it ever has and communicates itself across the galaxies to become the seeds of every human and every other life form ever borne—its failure is its message. Perhaps death is merely, and maybe most fundamentally, not an end but a translation.

Had someone asked me at the beginning of the summer about my longest lasting friendships, I would not have considered my friendship with Ron. I thought of him as my beloved cousin, less than as a friend. But in my grief, Ron spoke to me of our friendship, and, through my continuing grief, he continues to speak to me. As he did with this blog, he has sent to me yet another invitation for conversation. I have, it seems, been asked to take a journey. Life, Ron is telling me, is not what I thought it was. I am not who I thought I was. Grief, he is telling me, is not something to be solved or psychiatrized away—it’s to be lived through and more and more deeply experienced, even surrendered to. Grief invites us to undo ourselves.

When I started this blog, I don’t remember what I had in mind with the title (Myself Undone), but now I see it as a reflection of the journey of life, of the dying that life does. But if dying is what life does, then it stands to reason that life too is what death does. Death doesn’t resist or attack life; it gives birth to it. Death is a prerequisite for the new, a Spring of new tidings, a flowering. 

I’ve been reading a lot from the early Christian and Sufi mystics lately, but I haven’t forgotten my old Zen Buddhist practice, either. After both my nephew’s and my cousin’s deaths, I went back to meditation. And in both instances, I had what I would describe as a spiritual breakthrough. It started out with a day of extreme heaviness, and no matter what I tried, I couldn’t push it off me. It was too thick, too solid. And so, as the heaviness deepened, what else could I do? I quit trying to get away from it. I softened, that is. I melted down my resistance and let it all in, let the grief take hold of me, and I followed it into the darkness, let it take me right down to the bottom where there was nothing but black temperatureless, odorless nothing. And that’s when both of them came back to me, as real as if our bodies were side by side. Not as image or ghostly visitation, but as presence. And I knew what I had to do. I had to bless them. If old age has taught me anything, it’s taught me that everything that exists has two qualities: everything is broken, and everything is holy. And so I offered both my nephew and my cousin my blessings and my thanks for the blessings they have given me. And I broke down in joyful tears.

There is a continuity in the discontinued, light in the dark, life that is inextricably part of death. This isn’t supernatural thinking; it’s factual. Watch a flower dying, the softening that takes over, and tell me if you don’t see just another form of blossom. Isn’t that what Autumn is? Another kind of blossoming? In the Buddhist tradition, one often speaks of the spiritual life as a process of ‘dying before you die,’ which I believe is what grief is calling us to do. Perhaps something similar is referenced in the Sufi Path of Light, which culminates in witnessing the flash of the Black Light, or the Midnight Sun, a luminous blackness wherein all lights and colors are swallowed into the bewilderment of the divine essence. Beyond the light of existence is the Black light of non-existence, the essence and ground of the former. “At the furthest edge of mystical experience,” the teachings tell us, “light and darkness merge into something that transcends both.” In Tibetan Buddhism, it’s known as the “clear light of the void,” or, in the Christian tradition, Dionysius the Areopagite calls it the “dazzling darkness.” Others have described it as the blindness that comes from proximity to the divine sun. 

To me, the implications are clear. Ron isn’t asking me to look away. The spiritual life is asking us to move not away but toward death, in whatever direction that takes us. Death is what life does. Our grief is an invitation. It’s telling us that it’s time to leave home. Take a journey. Get lost. Join with the others who are lost. Delve into the unsettled ground, fall into the black hole where being and essence give way, where nothing has been settled, where everything is undone, and all that exists is pure possibility. In Whitehead’s process cosmology, God is depicted as pure unpolluted potentiality who, in his desire to know Himself, creates all the possibilities that have been and are yet to come. So be like God, grief tells us, and let go of yourself. Become undone. Out of the complete obliteration of everything comes Grief’s promise, that out of the black hole of the death of everything, something new will emerge, a possibility that could not have emerged in the world of existence and history as we know it, but a new possibility altogether, waking up between that realm of the impossible now and the new possible of the future.

Initially, when I began writing this blog entry, I titled it Final Blog, thinking that one last blog might be a good way to honor the relationship I had with my friend and cousin. I thought I’d say goodbye, in other words. After all, I haven’t written an entry in years anyway, so why not bring some closure to things by saying adios to the person most responsible for what I’ve written here? But now I think I’ll go an entirely different direction. Rather than end the blog here, I think I’ll start it up again. I might just be writing into the void (or, better-put perhaps, the Black Light or the Dazzling Darkness), or maybe I’ll find new readers and a new community, but whatever the case, it’s due to Ron’s continuing presence in my life that I’ve decided to keep this blog going, either here on Blogger or elsewhere.

After Ron’s memorial, I had a dream. He spoke to me again, I believe, but in the language of dream and metaphor that we perhaps still share. In my dream he told me that in his later life he felt as if he had become a slave, and that, as a slave, he had been made to trod the same path every day and each day the path became more trodden, more fixed and familiar, and all he wished to do was get off that path and put an end to his enslavement, his mental illness. This isn’t far from the way he described his depression to me in the last weeks of his life, how the anhedonia had made it impossible to take pleasure from any action or intention or to feel as if anything new or better were on the horizon, how it had taken over his life. In the dream, he expressed to me a need to end his enslavement by whatever means possible, and, after several failed efforts, he did exactly that. As a result, my blogger friends and I, in an effort to better understand what had happened to him, decided to revisit the path that he had taken, to learn something about his suffering so that we might make better sense of how he felt in those final years and to better understand why he ended his life the way he did. Once we arrived at the beginning of the path, at the trailhead, we were met by his family and others who had similar intentions. The path, however, was no longer walkable. Now that it was no longer in use, seeds had sprung from the now soft untrodden soil and the entire pathway was overgrown with flowers.

Modern-Day Belief and Desire in Mission Impossible Rogue Nation

No, the entertainment industry does not explicitly advocate the causes of today’s ruling class. If truth be told, both the TV and film industry, as capitalist as any other, have a long history of doing the exact opposite, of seeming to bite the hand that feeds them. Capitalist figures (think Montgomery Burns, Jabba the Hutt, Ebenezer Scrooge, Gordon Gekko, and so on) are far more likely to be portrayed as villains than as heroic saviors. And any film that explicitly aims to promote the virtues of capitalism will have little if any chance of raising the necessary capital to go into production, a seeming irony. But to see the lack of a pro-capitalist message as evidence of an anti-capitalist “liberal” bias in the entertainment industry, or, more alarming to some, as a sign of weakness within capitalist hegemony, is to misunderstand how power and ideology function in our time.

Consider the newspaper industry as an example. Sure, almost every major newspaper in the U.S. is owned by one or more major corporations who have explicit if unwritten rules about what can and can’t be covered as news, but, to be profitable, a newspaper can’t simply publish information that accords with the interests of specific corporations. Though newspapers may be owned by capitalists, it’s the masses, the working-class primarily, who have to buy those newspapers in order for the capitalist owners to make a profit. You won’t sell many papers by reporting exclusively on the fluctuations in the stock market, the year’s top wines, golf and yachting tips, or international tax havens. A profitable newspaper has to represent the dominant ideology in such a way that it appeals to the interests of ordinary people. To do that, it has to dwell on non-threatening (and seemingly apolitical) consumer interests, such as sports or celebrity gossip, and it can’t entirely ignore the sincere doubt and indignation that ordinary people have towards the ruling class, for our political leaders, in particular. To turn a profit, a newspaper can’t only focus on safe and ostensibly apolitical stories; it has to honestly address regular people’s real-life problems and the subsequent complaints that arise to confront those problems.

The film industry is no different. You can’t sell a movie to a mass audience by ignoring the problems of the masses. You can’t, for example, claim that capitalism has given ordinary working people a happy carefree prosperous life, for one simple reason: ordinary working people don’t live happy carefree prosperous lives. To sell your movie to a large audience, you have to either whisk people off to fantasy land (a seemingly apolitical maneuver that, like a sports article in the newspaper, serves the explicit political function of providing an escapist compensation for the suffering of real life) or speak directly to reality, to the very real concerns of the masses, to the material facts of most people’s lives that can’t be hidden, but in such a way that it avoids any revolutionary implications. Since certain concrete truths are too obvious to ignore, modern propaganda works not to hide reality but to obfuscate and disguise it.

If the US public has developed a growing mistrust of bureaucratic institutions responsible for intelligence gathering, then your film, if it wants to connect with the average viewer, should honestly represent that mistrust. To establish your street cred, so to speak, your film will have to accurately demonstrate the potential problems associated with massive surveillance. If certain sections of government can operate in secret and without democratic oversight, then what’s to prevent those agencies from forming their own independent agendas and then working against the very institutions that empowered their autonomy in the first place?  What’s to prevent intelligence agencies from becoming terrorist agencies? Thanks to the recent revelations of Edward Snowden and Wikileaks, such questions can no longer be laughed off as the conspiracy paranoia of fanatics. The threat that intelligence agencies pose to democracy is real, and in the recent film Mission Impossible Rogue Nation, that very legitimate threat is actualized, at least in fictional form. Former Secret Service agent Solomon Lane has hijacked a covert operation of the British government and formed the Syndicate, a rogue international terrorist organization dedicated to stirring up civil unrest. The Syndicate is described in the film as doing the exact same thing as the IMF, not the International Monetary Fund but the Impossible Missions Force, otherwise known as the good guys. “They’re trained to do what we do,” says Ethan Hunt (Tom Cruise), the film’s protagonist, an IMF member who goes rogue himself after the IMF is defunded by congressional committee. And what the IMF does is perform “impossible missions”, which is a simpler way of saying that they use technology, information, and trickery to manipulate environmental variables to produce desired outcomes.  Put another way, they manage history. CIA director Hunley’s (Alec Baldwin) description of Ethan Hunt would work as a raison d’etre for the IMF as a whole: “the living manifestation of destiny.”

Michelle Foucoult’s idea of bio-power has been described as power directed at man in general rather than at specific bodies. Traditional ideas of power stressed a sovereign’s ability to censor individual bodies, to repress one’s desire, or, more explicitly, they stressed the sovereign right and ability to kill; but while coercive power perhaps lurks behind modern forces of control, it is not, according to theorists such as Foucoult and Deleuze-Guattari, the primary means by which modern societies are organized and governed. Today, the freedom of bodies isn’t limited so much as it is forced to produce. Desire, in today’s culture, doesn’t have to be repressed, it has to be harnessed, which is accomplished less and less through laws that threaten punishment when disobeyed, through the threat of violence, and increasingly through administrative methods, through the creation of environments and technology that direct and even monopolize attention and therefore behavior in specific and designed ways, thus mediating social interaction and expression. No one thinks of a cell phone, pornographic film, or a highway as a type of social authority, but each of those technologies changes the way we interact with one another and move through space, thereby not censoring but shaping our lives and our desires. Power in today’s societies, bio-power, is increasingly not enforced or imposed but administered. By creating environments that suggest certain actions while concealing other possibilities, behavior can be managed with little or no need of explicit force. Today’s leaders, namely those in administrative positions, rule not with a mighty fist but with scientific planning principles. Put another way, they manage history. They are the living manifestation of destiny. As expressed by theorist Giorgio Agamben, life can no longer be distinguished outside the political technologies of control.

In Antonio Gramsci’s description of the hegemonic process, we learn that it isn’t necessary for the dominant class to sell a particular belief-system to the masses. What’s necessary is that the masses don’t acquire a comprehensive awareness of the hegemonic order that exploits them—that they don’t too strongly disbelieve in the system or understand too clearly what “the system” really means. One way to accomplish that is to represent an outdated mode of power and then condemn it. Films that vilify capitalists often take this course. Capitalist figures aren’t treated with much respect by the entertainment industry for several reasons, one of which is the indisputable fact that the nature of capitalism has changed and that today’s corporate dominated capitalism, developed with the credit system, has an increasing tendency to separate administrative functions from the ownership of capital, a trend Marx foresaw when he declared that it, this trend, "is the abolition of capital as private property within the framework of capitalist production itself."Truth is, socialized private property, not private property owned by a few robber barons, has been the dominate form of American capitalism since as early as the 1930s. Portraying capitalists as evil is as threatening to modern neo-liberal capitalist hegemony as critiquing the divine right of kings.1

But films such as MIRN take another approach to navigating the dictates of capital. MIRN doesn’t try to shift the focus of revolutionary energies to outdated and irrelevant modes of power, doesn’t channel protest toward the attacking of windmills, nor does it tell viewers to believe in Capitalism, or to venerate rich people, or even to trust our governmental leaders. But it does make any kind of coherent counter-belief (or belief period) more difficult. The film begins by representing legitimate fears about our present government’s unchecked and unprecedented surveillance and intelligence-gathering powers. And the film makes no effort to convince viewers that those fears are unwarranted. Instead, it conflates our fears of an autonomous US intelligence agency with fears of terrorism, international conspiracies, and crime in general. The subtitle of the film, Rogue Nation, voices a complaint made frequently and convincingly by leftist critics, a complaint that the United States is the most rogue nation on the planet, that it operates especially on the international scene and increasingly on the domestic scene as an unchecked power that flagrantly disregards basic human rights in order to protect its own interests. But the Rogue Nation of the film’s title doesn’t refer to the US government, except obliquely; it refers to the nebulous menace identified as the Syndicate. Sort of.  Ethan Hunt and the group he belongs to, the IMF, also go rogue in the film after the organization’s funding is denied. And then the two rogue institutions do battle. Going rogue, the film implies, isn’t the problem. In fact, as our obsession with comic-book superheroes such as Batman, The Hulk, and the Wolverine attests, one could argue that going rogue is almost a pre-requisite for becoming an American Hero. The effect of using the same term to describe so many different types of individuals and institutions serves to obfuscate our sense of the term as threatening, which then serves to mitigate our concerns about the rogue powers of government bureaucracy. Expressing concerns that the NSA could go rogue almost sounds sexy.

Not only is it sexy, but the idea of going rogue demonstrates a common device that modern civilizations use to deflect criticism away from administrative issues, a device Roland Barthes calls inoculation, the strategy of admitting a little bit of corruption into an institution so as to ward off awareness of its fundamental problems. 2 We see inoculation at work, for instance, in the argument that the problem of police violence isn’t with the official policies and practices of the police department; it’s just that there are a few bad eggs the department needs to get rid of. This gives the impression that the institution is capable of reform and that its problems aren’t systemic. The rogue cop, like the rogue judge, the rogue CIA agent, the rogue teacher, the rogue bank investor, and the rogue superhero, plays an important role in maintaining cultural hegemony. The rogue can serve both as scapegoat and as savior.

If the American public, for good reason, distrusts the CIA and NSA, distrusts its own legislative bodies as well as those of our closest allies, such as Britain, then any film that portrays those institutions, if it wishes to make a profit, has to represent that distrust.

 And MIRN does. It pokes fun of authority of all kinds, from the CIA and the Secret Service to the legislative bodies ostensibly empowered to keep them in check. MIRN is yet another anti-authority film, a staple of Hollywood, in which the rogue agent for Impossible Mission Forces, the other IMF, isn’t just fighting the evil Syndicate, a rogue outsider nation run by an ex-insider British MI6 agent, he’s fighting the whole system. And the system, in this case, is somewhat accurately represented as a system that operates beyond a recognizable or representable authority, through the bio-power of administrators. The problem, though, is that the really bad guys, not just the sorta bad guys (CIA), also employ bio-power to attain their ends. As a result, the problem of bio-power, or this specific instance of it, which is the use of intelligence and technology to administer society in ways amenable to the ruling class, isn’t confined solely to states or corporations, to the ruling class, but to people, nay, to life, in general—which is exactly what bio-power is, the power to manage bare life. It isn’t the improper use of bio-power, the film tells us, but bio-power itself that becomes the problem, which is to say that it isn’t governments or corporations but life itself and its implicit evil that we have to be concerned with. In other words, rather than confronting bio-power, we should accept our democratic sovereignty to administer bio-power ourselves, to become our own living manifestation of destiny. We should all become administrative managers of our lives, participate full-on in what Foucoult refers to as the self-care industry. We should use our inner rogue to combat our inner rogue, for the enemy and the savior are within ourselves, which is to say that we are all become homerus sacri and villain at once, both the villain as well as the villain’s conqueror. Political institutions cannot be blamed for our troubles, nor can we look to the institutions to save us. We have to save ourselves from ourselves.

The film’s counter-subversive power comes as much through confusing the potential problems associated with government intelligence gathering as through the de-politicization of the issue altogether. If going rogue is hip, then being overtly political is its anti-thesis, and the film tries hard not to align itself with any specific political agenda. The problem of going rogue isn’t presented as a problem unique to US intelligence gathering or to government intelligence gathering period, or even as a problem. It’s problematic, perhaps, but problematic in the way that human nature is problematic. It isn’t a problem of the system, a creation of a human organization; it’s a problem of human nature, of evil people like Solomon Lane, who will always be with us whether we live under the rule of mercenaries or kings. That’s the hidden message behind films such as MIRN: it isn’t that your fear is misguided, it just isn’t thorough enough. You SHOULD be fearful of what your government leaders might do and about programs that authorize unprecedented levels of government surveillance—and your fears are well-founded, but you should also be fearful of those telling you to be fearful, fearful of potential enemies and the enemies of your enemies and the enemies of those enemies and of friends, too. Everyone should be under suspicion, because the world is a wicked place, full of treachery and deceit, which is precisely why we need intelligence gathering. The message from the film is the same as the message of the TV series X-files: Trust No One. And since no one or no thing can be trusted, material reality is no longer an issue. What matters isn’t what’s real or not real, for who’s to say what’s real in the modern age of the Simulacra? Neither does it matter whether you believe or disbelieve—it’s that you want to believe, and what you want to believe, that’s important.

We all know that the missions of the IMF really are impossible, except in the alternative universe of Hollywood cinema, but that’s not the point. What binds us together as members of societies governed by bio-power isn’t a shared idea of truth, a common belief system that takes belief seriously; it’s desire that unites us—not really believing but wanting to believe the same thing. This is where the stunts of the film become more than just an afterthought or gimmick. In fact, they might be the most important elements of the Mission Impossible series. Of course we know that in real life you can’t race through Istanbul on a motorbike at speeds of over a hundred miles an hour. We know you can’t crash at that speed and escape major injury. But truth doesn’t matter. Nor does belief. As Slavov Zizec has pointed out, belief and ideology can be maintained as easily through others as through ourselves—and that’s true even if the others, the true believers, are completely contrived. As long as we want there to be someone who believes, that’s all that matters. That’s enough to maintain the system of belief and all the rituals related to it. In this case, we want to believe that life is manageable, that we can fully subjugate all its messy abject qualities into the safe haven of an administered society—into the polis, which, in today’s world, is almost wholly fictional—a fictional world that now serves to replace material reality, that mediates our very access to the material, so that, as in a Concentration Camp or a monastery, rule and material fact are no longer distinguishable. Our common desire is for the material to be exorcised from existence so we can thereby gain the immortality that the proliferation of images has always offered: the cartooning of the body into a machine that can take ever more severe punishments and keep on ticking, as something torn out of its original context that now floats free on the ebb and flow of market forces. Not only is the commodified body that we create on Facebook and Twitter and Match.com free to circulate in space, but also it has lost its moorings in the past. 2  The stunts performed in MIRN, like Wily Coyote cartoons, satisfy the modern mind’s desire to be free of history and nature, to be liberated in the eternal present of the commodity. This is the goal of bio power today: to commodify bare life, body and spirit, and it’s our desire to transcend human limitation, to exile bare life, that binds us to today’s mechanized power wielders. We wish to exile our natural bodies, the Homo Sacer of today, and become pure image, a sovereign free and everlasting, that, like Ethan Hunt, can’t be destroyed because he has fully transformed into the impossible. 

Pamla Paper

Title: Literary Counter Insurgency: Managing Dissent by Absorbing the Counter Culture. (?)

Paper

Few would argue that many of the cultural ideas and practices that were once perceived as subversive, the once-alternative values produced by the counter cultures of the sixties and seventies, have today become commonplace. Anti-capitalist figures such as Montgomery Burns, Mr. Potter, Jabba the Hut, and modern versions of Ebenezer Scrooge dominate social media, while positive capitalist portrayals are not only scarce but presented usually with subtle apologies or overt defenses. The newest Batman film, for example, doesn't try so much to sell us on capitalism as to scare us away from other possibilities. By some accounts it seems that the counter culture has taken over. Once threatening figures of resistance such as Martin Luther King and Malcom X are today celebrated as cultural role models. The free-spirited adventurism and willingness to try new things--to explore a communal subconscious that puts ego and social identity at risk--behaviors and attitudes that once excluded people from succeeding or even participating in fundamental social institutions, have today become the flexible skill-set that employers are actively looking for. Formerly radical praxes such as Paolo Freire's Pedagogy of the Oppressed are now almost cliche teaching methods of the state/market sponsored educational system; while Augusto Boal's radical theater games, his rehearsals for revolution, are commonly taught by corporations in order to boost company morale and efficiency.

Nevertheless, in spite of the preponderance of anti-capitalist media production, there seems to be little evidence that capitalism is actually in trouble. To the contrary, capitalism seems stronger than ever, but that isn’t to say, obviously, that capitalism has won over our hearts and minds—just, perhaps, a part of our minds, a part not overly concerned with ideology or conscious decision-making. The counter-culture, as Antonio Negri argues, may have in fact won the battle but lost the war. What we see in modern culture today, Negri argues, are the concessions made by capitalism in order to divert more serious rebellions. Roberto Virno takes Negri's idea a step further and suggests that the changes brought about by the counter culture are today the new forces of Post-Fordist capitalist production. It isn't just that anti-capitalist thoughts have become absorbed and made non-threatening but that a specific type of anti-capitalist mind-set is what saved and now drives the modern capitalist agenda, that the counter-culture is today being harnessed as a new kind of labor.

Thought of in another way, the hegemony that has been constructed today is one in which the superstructure has made peace with the counter-culture and redefined itself, redefined capitalism, in the process. The ideal citizen/worker under Neo Liberal Capitalism is not the Marlboro Man, it isn't Ward Cleaver or Jimmy Stewart; it's the hipster--the suave, non-commital, ironic, always disoriented but never out-of-place, never to be ridiculed because never taking himself seriously Everyman who populates both the swankest downtown cafes and the diviest ghetto and red-neck bars at once.

Today's American culture is every bit as or more homogenous as the culture of the conformist era of the 1950s, only the style of homogenization has changed. What we have today is not a 1950's style homogeneity focused on the conscious mind, but a deliberate and coherent harnessing of what Virmo refers to as pre-consciousness. What we have today is a hegemony that operates not by traditional brainwashing, but through what is sometimes referred to as Noopolitics--by reducing human behavior to a pursuit of emotional rather than sensual pleasures and thus minimizing opportunities for the type of deep reflection that makes ideology and conscious behavior significant. More concisely, hegemony today operates not on the active thinking mind but on the mind at rest. And if it can be shown, as Colin Campbell argues in The Romantic Ethic and the Spirit of Modern Consumerism, that modern daily leisure activities serve as a form of productive labor that involves a reduction of emotional intensity through daydreaming or dream making--that is, if the passive mind has indeed been harnessed--and if art inevitably reduces both emotional and sensory intensity in its pursuit of pleasure, then literary and other arts become intrinsically involved in upholding the consumer economy, in acting as a facade that, even if revolutionary in content, can't help but support the neo liberal Capitalist agenda. Literary artistic expression becomes a type of subaltern voice that, unless appropriated, can't be heard or properly spoken.

One recalls Adorno's famously misquoted phrase about there being no poetry after Aschwitz. What he actually said, within context, is that: "To write poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric. And this corrodes even the knowledge of why it has become impossible to write poetry today. Absolute reification, which presupposed intellectual progress as one of its elements, is now preparing to absorb the mind entirely. Critical intelligence cannot be equal to this challenge as long as it confines itself to self-satisfied contemplation." Adorno was writing in 1949, at the dawn of American conformism, but his concern about the complete absorption of the mind by a capitalist or fascist hegemony is just as relevant today; only, if we take Noopolitics into consideration, one might argue that today the primary mind being absorbed is that of the reader rather than the writer, the audience instead of the creator, that in effect citizens are being trained to manage their attention in such a way as to resist conscious deliberation in deference to pre-conscious activity designed to bring consumerist pleasure, to the realm where bio and noo politics reign. The disciplining of the body described by Foucoult (bio-politics) and the disciplining of the pre-conscious resting mind described by Lazzarrato (noopolitics) step in to shape attention and behavior without a need for any explicit ideological support. In terms of literature, this assumes that no revolutionary or subaltern reading is possible regardless of how revolutionary a book's content. Further, one would presume that if an entire culture's readership is turned into a certain type of reader, that once the reading mind, which is to say, the passive mind in search of pleasurable stimulation, is absorbed in this way, then no subaltern voice can be either read or spoken; the conscious mind is no longer master of artistic inspiration. In a world focused on regulating subjectivity rather than the actions of a subject, ideology has little power to threaten the status-quo or to inform aesthetic judgment. Aesthetics subsequently falls under the dominion of a new consumerist form of pleasure-seeking, one dependent on the dreaming self's ability to defer a genuine expectation of pleasure fulfillment. As Colin Campbell explains: "The process of day-dreaming intervenes between the formulation of a desire and its consummation; hence the desiring and dreaming modes become interfused, with a dream element entering into desire itself."The pleasure seeker of today still employs actual memories, Campbell argues, but, through day-dreaming--by re-imagining real experience to better coincide with one's fantasies, a never-ending, never-perfected process--the modern hedonist can heighten gratification by speculating on enjoyments that are yet to come. He or she can enjoy the anticipation, in other words, and the act of desiring itself becomes a pleasurable activity. (p86) Thus, today's principal mode of pleasure-seeking is defined not as a pursuit of material satisfaction but as a pursuit to remain in and enjoy the pleasures of being in a state of desiring. Our most sought for pleasure, that is, is the pleasure of contemplating pleasure, the activity of daydreaming, of taking pleasure from "possibilities", of making contact with a fantasy without fulfilling the fantasy, which would satiate and lead likely to boredom, would reduce or terminate the sought-for pleasure. Ideally then, in contrast to both the pure escapist who sets out to enjoy a fantasy that isn't attainable and, as such, is therefore in search of a less intense pleasure, or the material pleasure seeker who seeks attainment in the direct appeasement of the physical senses, the modern neo-liberal subject wants to maintain the pleasant state of mind of the daydreamer, someone who is within reach of a tangible satisfaction but who never attains it, is never fulfilled and thereby never bored or disillusioned.

As a consequence, the desiring subject, which is to say a flexible constantly shape-shifting subject that remains pliable to the demands of both modern labor and modern consumption, replaces the unified and conformist subject contested under Fordist Capitalism. Social relations today require the flexibility and non-commital tolerance of the day-dreamer. As a result, mere survival now requires being implicit in, to become the barbarian required of a barbaric system. Or, to reference Adorno again, "it may have been wrong to say that after Auschwitz you could no longer write poems. But it is not wrong to raise the less cultural question whether after Auschwitz you can go on living--especially whether one who escaped by accident, one who by rights should have been killed, may go on living. His mere survival calls for the coldness, the basic principle of bourgeois subjectivity, without which there could have been no Auschwitz."

Here Adorno raises the concern that only the totally dominated mind is allowed to exist let alone speak. One doesn't, however, have to dominate the entire mind to accomplish the same level of domination that Adorno worries about. One merely need create a world requiring specific parts of the mind to govern behavior more than others, to make those functions of the mind survival skills, and then to dominate those particular mental faculties.

So as culture turns away from developed thoughts or complex narratives, literature gets marginalized, pushed outside of public discourse while simultaneously made relevant as a force for counter hegemony--a contrast to the image-based culture that harnesses counter-cultural ideals and non-reflective attention. As a result, the texts that tend to get published are texts that actively defy this new literary potential for subversiveness, literature that pays homage to the image and to the dominant discourse by defying consciousness, literature, that is, which not only avoids but ridicules ideology and thoughtfulness, literature that actively pushes the reader away from a literary aesthetic and towards the pseudo-utopian potential of the image--literature, in other words, that a neo-liberal public will actually want to read. At the same time, and more importantly, literature that embodies even a radical critique of the consumer subject, is rendered harmless. More to the point, popular literature, even if supportive of a revolutionary and/or subaltern message, becomes counter insurgent by misrepresenting the system as "authoritative", as being an ideological power and not a bio or noo power, while art that challenges the real--and really complex--capitalist apparatus is doomed to oblivion, to always be steered away from consciousness by its well-conditioned audience towards the new territory being exploited, the passive mind. Autonomist literature that tries not to reinforce traditional subjectivity, which tries, as Samuel Becket's plays do, to deconstruct the coherent Western subject and resist commodification, must appeal to consciousness to do so--to a conscious deactivation of subjectifying forces--but consciousness doesn't constitute the modern private subject whose individuality is now a collective and multi-faceted entity produced by and within consumer culture. Autonomous art must, that is, be reduced to pure aesthetics, be stripped of ideology, in order to retain its autonomy, but, once reduced to pure aesthetics, to the non-conceptual, its reception will be governed by pre-colonized and pre-conscious forces.

In one instance of literary revolt, in popular literature such as The Hunger Games, we find capitalism being treated negatively but inaccurately, as being a type of external authority as opposed to a plastic network that is largely self-realized. But within a society organized by bio and noo power, no external authority is required. The result is that this type of anti-capitalist popular art ultimately strengthens capitalist hegemony by redirecting revolutionary impulses toward a false facade that, protected by abstraction, can never be destroyed. The actions of the counter culture are channeled into a class struggle that only exists within literary and artistic universes, and revolutionary activity is downgraded to attacking windmills.

On the other hand, literary artists that understand and accurately represent modern, complex, and pliant capitalist forces, are pushed so far outside popular culture as to have a similar overall effect--that of channeling thoughts of revolt to a private and personal universe beyond the reach of market appropriation but also beyond the reach of collective action. Realism becomes accessible only as pure artifice, within an autonomous zone that isn't meant to be representational. Consequently, literature is made less relevant to actual circumstances and revolt can be seen as a seemingly "detached" activity, one limited to fantasy production, an already territorialized process. We can revolt all we want, the modern capitalist system tells us, but only in our imaginations! Revolutionary resistance is then governed by pre-conscious activities that can only be satisfied within a private and pre-territorialized part of the mind. The modern mind's training in de-emphasizing ideology, in distancing reality and real criticism in order to maintain pleasurable expectations, and the now strengthened impetus to defer satisfaction, because the deferment itself (of Utopian ideals, etc.) is now gratifying, ensures that no matter how accurate and convincing the artistic critique, it will be easily converted into a harmless pleasure-fulfillment--a deferred satisfaction, a possible but never satisfied reality that maintains a "desiring state of mind" in preference to a concrete plan for achievement. In short, no matter how authentic a book's revolutionary criticism, it can be turned into a commodity by its readers. Liberatory impulses must be re-channeled to a private and subsequently impotent world. They, like all other impulses and desires, get pushed inside, forced into becoming part of a private but multitudinous "inner life", the only life where liberation is achievable. The day-dreamer which neo-liberal Capitalist social relations insist upon and reinforce, the person we have to become to participate within modern society, the person we must become in order perhaps to survive, is now in charge of our aesthetic responses and makes sure that no counter ideology can touch it. The daydreamer, that is, which is today both a producer and a product of consumer capitalism, becomes skilled at internalizing utopian aspirations so that they become consumerist pleasures rather than revolutionary quests. The modern subject is trained to ensure that possibilities remain possibilities and nothing else, that the revolutionary impulse is forever deferred and endlessly enjoyed but never fully gratified or acted on, much like staring at a poster of the New York City skyline and deriving enjoyment from it by imagining what it would be like to someday live in the city but repressing and deferring the urge to actually move there because the reality would either disillusion or make one imaginatively poorer, with one less satisfying possibility in one's repertoire from which to derive emotional enjoyment. Put simply, one must defer material pleasures, the pleasures of the traditional hedonist, whether it be the enticing thrills offered by New York City or the social justice of a post-revolutionary society, in favor of the emotional pleasures begot by the daydreamer. The revolutionary struggle itself becomes today's Utopia in place of a post-revolutionary world in which revolutionary goals have been achieved.

But none of this is to say that all literature is doomed to degenerate into propaganda or even that popular genre literature can't contribute to the construction of an effective counter hegemony, but the task of the revolutionary artist today, the task, really, of every artist who seeks not to actively support the status quo, has changed dramatically. The challenge is no longer to change or influence people's thoughts and opinions, but to alter the tangible mechanisms of perception. Literature today, as Deleuze argues, must stake out territory in degenerate networks, thus reconfiguring meaning and understanding anew. It must hone in on that which is left over in the hegemonic process, on the pathologies and disorders of the modern mind which haven't yet been harnessed for production. But even that isn't enough. Once perception is reappropriated, new channels for utopian energies have to be created. The revolutionary impulse mustn't be merely liberated, it must open onto a counter ideological message, one that isn't imposed but which emerges from revolutionary praxis rather than from university offices or mountain-top retreats. Art may not drive effective social change, but it can facilitate change by focusing on the war of position advocated by Antonio Gramsci. The literary artist of today cannot afford to take refuge in solitude, to withdraw into her creativity; rather, her creativity must develop out of concrete revolutionary activities and membership within tangible revolutionary communities. (wherein new identities might be born and endure). In brief, the artist must become first a revolutionary subject before her art can speak revolutionary thoughts. She must seek less to create new worlds, or autonomous but fictional worlds, and instead locate the anti-alienating forces already with us, those forces already created by anti-capitalist movements, and to then embody and articulate those forces in new literary forms. She must become Gramsci's organic intellectual, a subject whose voice arises directly from within the revolutionary struggle and who then appropriates literary conventions (not the other way around) for her own subversive purposes and her own subversive audience.

Doubt

Sometimes the doubt gets way too close. I don’t mean doubt about whether God exists or whether I’ll become successful in my career or anything specific. I don’t really know what it is that I doubt, actually. I just know that sometimes it gets too close. If I knew what it was, if I could name what it was that I doubted, it would then be even closer, and unendurable. I can never get close enough to recognize it.

I didn’t really stay up on US news while I was away. I thought the Te’o story had something to do with parodying Tim Tebow. I’d heard Armstrong was going to have an interview with Oprah, but I didn’t know any of the details until I got back. It seems like the story of our lives, the thin coating we use to name and conceal the scattered rubbish underneath, has become the essence we are most desperate to preserve. And maybe that’s part of what it is that I’m doubting, the story. I want to believe in other people's stories, the story of the cancer survivor who overcame his disease to become a seven time Tour de France champion, for example. And I fully understand why a college student wants to believe in the pretty picture and nice words that come across his computer screen and iphone. I understand why someone would want to believe that life’s tragedies can be remade as heart-warming made-for-cinema victories, would want to confirm those stories, would value the story more than the actual lived experience, would hide the latter with the former. I can understand why someone would lie to preserve his own story, even a false story, see it as a gift to or from others, would do everything he can to make his story true no matter how false, would yield to what’s much bigger than he is.

I’m not sure what the narrative of my life would be. I kinda know what I would like it to be, and I know it isn’t what I'd like it it to be, but as long as it’s not over, my life I mean, as long it keeps going, I can hold onto the story and maybe the story, or the idea that there is a story, keeps me going. Part of the doubt that sometimes gets too close, that I can never name or see too clearly, is the concern that without the story there would not be anything left to motivate me, that, though the story be not only a small part of me but a part of me that in truth isn’t really a part of me, is all or mostly lie, I could not exist without it. And perhaps the only part of me that is real, that is me, is the doubt, the part of me I can’t bear to get too close to because, if I did, it would be the end of me.

Follow Me

Follow me, love, for this
that my heart lead us always away
as a kiss that just awaits
where by the sun of your eyes we will travel
where we will find us all of our mornings
mouths that open like cathedrals
mosques that call a worldly grace
and songs repeating always the same prayers
and more yet more than we ever might be.

In following, my dear, let that alone be our love and our poetry.

Poem

Introspection

Finally I surrender, love.
The secrets of my desires I will no more withhold.
Spread your dark wings and blow your tempests,
yield up your fires and curses,
and I will be silent
except to pray alone in the night
to your fury.
You may have it all now;
all I can bring out of me is yours.
I will part with everything
if only I might rest in amazement
as you blast me open with your viciousness,
render all that denies me your deep space and stark insanity.

Empty Rhetoric

"These arguments we have are a mark of our liberty. We can never forget that as we speak people in distant nations are risking their lives right now just for a chance to argue about the issues that matter, the chance to cast their ballots like we did today." - Barak Obama

Oh, fantastic. We have free speech in this country. We can argue about which of the two representatives of Goldman Sachs and Haliburton is the most handsome and enunciates his words better. And like virtually every other nation in the world, we can go through a sham election in which the same policies are put in different wrapping paper and re-sold to us. But we can never forget, Mr. Obama, that as we speak people right here at home, not just in "distant nations", are fighting for the chance to argue about the issues that matter--and they're being stymied by your administration. I'm talking about the same whistle-blowers whose bravery you praised in 2008 but have piteously hunted down and imprisoned and tortured in the four years since then. I'm talking about the fact that your administration has used the notorious Espionage Act more times than all previous presidents COMBINED, more than Bush/Cheney and the paranoid Nixon administration or Red-Scared Reagan. I'm talking about the fact that your administration attempted to use the National Defense Authorization Act to detain American citizens indefinitely, without trial, just for being SUSPECTED of having ties to Al Qaeda. And when your abusive practices were ruled unconstitutional, you promptly put my tax dollars to work in trying to overturn the ruling. I'm talking about the fact that when thousands of Occupiers tried to voice their dissent, tried to "argue about the issues that matter" in locations paid for by their tax dollars and where they could actually be heard for a change, you called in the dogs and had them forcefully relocated to far off fields or hidden back rooms or living room sofas where no one could hear them and their voices would be effectively silenced. I'm talking about the fact that you charged John Kiriakou with treason for leaking information about officials involved in illegal waterboarding in Guantanamo and at the same time haven't bothered to prosecute a single person who engaged in or authorized the illegal practice in the first place. I'm talking about the consistent message your administration has sent out that "respect for the law" applies only to those people who are victimized by it.

I could go on and on here, but my point is simple: Obama has been re-elected President, and the country remains the same enemy of freedom and equality it has always been.

 

A Religious Poem

I might want to believe in you, Lord
But in my struggle to know you, I become your prevention:

I want love and the impossibility of love.

Paris, Barcelona, Bilbao, Granada, Lisbon, etc.

The Egyptian Obelisk. It sits at the end of the Jardin de Tullieres (behind the Louvre and leading to the Champs d'Elysees). It was one of the first things we saw on this trip, during a walking tour of the city, and it stands out for me as an emblem of my experience of Paris.

For one thing, it's pleasant to look at. It's gold leafed at the top, it's tall and well-constructed. And it's old--three thousand three hundred years old, to be more exact--the oldest edifice in the city. At the same time, it would be both more and less impressive in its original environment, in Egypt marking the entrance to the Luxor temple. But there it would not stand out as it does in La Place de La Concorde. It's one of thousands of pleasant and interesting things to look at here in Paris--and its splendor hides more than it shows.

It doesn't say anything about it being stolen by Napolean. It doesn't say that Egypt asked to have it back every year for over ninety years and was ignored. Nor does it say anything about what used to be in its place--the guillotine--or the streets that bled for ten years after the revolution. Like so much of Paris, its beautiful surface conceals more than a few layers of ugliness.

Parisians always seem friendly. They smile and act like they're listening with concern. I haven't witnessed any impatience with my inability to speak French, as I expected. No one has tried to rob or pick-pocket us (to my knowledge). There's a certain humility both in the sound of the language and the non-verbal gesturing. And of course it's liberal here--full of well-read, cultured, enemies of intolerance. As already noted, Paris is a beautiful city to look at, the people as well as the buildings and landmarks. On the surface.

But behind all that is something else--confusion, muck, and corruption. The shit and urine under some of the bridges, the gypsy camp grounds, the racism, the hypocrisy, the sometimes excessive French rudeness, the elitism.... At the quarterfinals of the European Cup, watching on an outdoor big screen next to the Eiffel Tower, a group of teenage boys decided they wanted to stand, even though there were rows of people sitting behind them. Another group decided to throw some fireworks, and the nearly always friendly police, rather than trying to protect the crowd from the potential hazards of the fireworks, decided to tear-gas the whole area. My eyes are still burning. It seems like the whole world cheats the Metro system, justifiably so considering the costs, and it seemed like the city did little to stop it until we saw a man dressed like a wanna-be James Dean, a plain-clothed patrol officer, handing out sixty dollar citations to tourists who had made honest mistakes and to immigrants trying to save whatever money they could. Behind the fashionable clothes, Parisians are ugly.  Some of the ugliness, though, is in plain sight. Nobody talks about the commercialization of Paris, its cartoonish quality. But it's there. It's like a Disneyland for adults, only you're meant to know that Disneyland is a fantasy.The Champs d'Elysees is easily one of the least interesting streets I've ever seen. No character whatsoever. A big outdoor shopping mall for the rich. Big fucking deal. And the prices in the rest of Paris aren't that much better. The whole city is one big tourist trap, designed to make you feel like you're participating in something important when you're playing tourist, which the locals do as much as the out-of-towners. The Eiffel tower is a horror to look at. Sure, if you put enough colorful lights on something it looks nice--it's flashy and catches your attention, but it's still ugly. And if you want proof of how easily human tastes can be manufactured, look at the lines of people waiting to pay to go to the top of the tower. And the whole city is full of people with the same kinds of tacky tastes, tourist tastes, a taste for the ugly.

No doubt about it, Paris is an ugly city, its history as well as its present artificial reincarnation. But you've got to take a good look at the ugliness to really appreciate it. I could go on and on about the ugly side of Paris and tell you why I hate it so much, except for the fact that it would misrepresent my feelings if I did. Fact is, while I hate almost everything about Paris, I don't hate Paris. Yes, it's ugly. Yes, it's a big phony facade with no real charm whatsoever. But I still like it. I want to come back. It's like a beautiful woman that gets away with being the world's biggest bitch because she's so freaking hot. But there's another side to her, too. Once you look passed the hot body and the clever make-up application and so on--once you see her for the bitch that she really is, she starts to grow on you and reveals yet another side.

Our last night in Paris, we returned to the Jardin de Tullieres and saw again the obelisk we had seen on our first day there. I thought about how children years after the revolution used to push on the square cobblestones and squeeze up the blood from the still moist soil. I thought of all the violence and mis-guided over-zealous passions of the French Revolution. But I also thought about the glories of the French Commune, of Paul Eluard and Baudrillard and Christine de Pizan and Proust and Benjamin and Van Gogh and Picasso. The ugliness of Paris is hidden but it too hides something, yet another kind of ugliness at times and sometimes a failed expression pointing at something genuinely beautiful off on the horizon and sometimes something beautiful in its own right. But even then you're not seeing the real Paris, for beauty, like Rilke tells us, is the last veil that uncovers the horrible. And Paris is a city of veils.

Barcelona

We spent the first week at the apartment of a friend of Jesusa's, with a couple from Barranquilla Colombia, in a small quiet little town called St. Jean Despi. Unlike in Paris, though, being outside the city wasn't a problem. We had to walk one block to the train station and, twenty minutes later, were in the city center without having to change lines and for a price of about seventy five cents. The public transportation isn't just cheaper in Barcelona than in Paris or Istanbul, it's better. After a week, we moved to our own apartment, a spacious place on the outer margins of the city but equally accessible to the city center with the metro.

The first day, we took a tour of the old city, el barrio Gottico, and learned about the interesting Catalan history, which explains why many Barcelonans think of themselves, even today, as Catalans rather than Spaniards. The Iglesia de Maria del Mar, with its charred ceilings and echoes of classical music, was a special treat. Two days later, we took the Gaudi walking tour and visited La Pedrera, Casa Vicens, Casa Battlo, and the Sagrada Familia, the interior of which we saw the following day. It's pretty amazing, meant to strike you as if you were entering a grove of immense pine trees as you enter. The exterior, though, at least the side depicting Christ's birth, is even more impressive, especially the exquisite amount of detail. It made me think of the paintings of Casper David Friedrich.

In subsequent days, we visitied Parque Guell, the beach (four different ones), La Sagrada Corazon, a roman church (the name of which I've forgotten), the Picasso Museum, the Archeological Museum, etc. On the day we visited the cathedral, we got to see a Sardana dance presentation put on by the locals, part of which is erecting human towers as high as six or seven stories.

My favorite thing about Barcelona, about travel in general for that matter, is meeting the locals: Jesusa's friends, the parents of the woman whose apartment we rented, the friends of Jesusa's friends, and various waiters and other strangers. Nothing like a night of conversation with good company and a few pints of wine or Sangria.

Silent Cinema

Saw a Buster Keaton silent film with live musical accompaniment. It was shown on a big screen outside the walls of the Mondruit Castle.

Begur

A beach town about three hours from Barcelona. We stayed in a hotel on the Sa Riera beach, but we spent a lot of time on the next beach to the North, Raco (I think). We had to pass through the nude beach to get there. Beautiful place, especially at night (Begur, I mean. The nude beach is better by day).

Montserrat

It's a monastery at the top of a mountain, where, as legend has it, music was heard from the nearby Sacred Cave and, when the locals went to investigate, they discovered the statue of the Black Virgin. We waited in line with the other pilgrims to see the statue, which wasn't at all worth the long wait. The Basilica, though, is nice. New Roman outside and Baroque inside. What really made the trip worthwhile, though, was the natural scenery, the giant rocks that overlook the monastery and the terrific views. We took a short hike and saw a mountain goat along the way. Afterwards, we went back to the Basilica and listened to the men's choir for awhile. Then we met up with a friend of Jesusa's at a nearby pueblo for dinner and drinks. Nice day.

Bilbao

We saw the famous Frank Gehry designed Guggenheim and visited three other museums. The history and culture here is a bit mysterious. Though Franco tried hard to wipe out the indigenous language, it lives on, at least as a second language, for many of the Basque people. It's the oldest living European language and has roots that date back possibly to the pre-neolithic. The culture here is somewhat unique, as well. Due to the mountainous geography (easy to defend and isolated), none of the major European or Arabian empires ever gained firm control here and the native Voscan culture has been somewhat preserved. The people are as friendly here as in other parts of Spain, but less Westernized, a bit rougher. The women don't dress as fashionably or as femininely, and the working class seems both more respected and less idealized than in other places. The food is every bit as good as advertised, but not as expensive as we thought it would be. Definitely worth a return trip!


Thoughts on indigenous Spanish culture, etc.

We hate what we fear, but what we fear most, we disdain. Knowing we can't bear the terror, we expel it completely from our minds and bodies and even beyond, where we can't come into contact with it. Afraid to believe ourselves capable or murder, we put the murderer out of sight, prohibit cameras from filming his execution, and hide the corpse from public view. Trying not to remember those two or three homoerotic dreams, we turn our heads in disgust at the sight of two men kissing.

Following dictator protocol, Franco tried to convince the world and his subjects that there was only one Spain. No Catalan culture, no Moorish influence, no Basques. In Ecuador, where one of every three persons is indigenous, many try to forget their native language, they buy products to lighten their skin, trying to disappear the way the other two thirds of the country desires. In the US no group hates the Native Americans. But more than a few wish they would stop whining about the past, would just stay on their ever-shrinking reservations and be happy or lose their heritage and become part of the modern world. No group in the world is more ignored, more hidden and thereby more despised, than the indigenous, in whatever country. And perhaps there is no more frightening idea than that the indigenous know something the rest of the world doesn't, that, in the end, the world belongs to them.

Granada

Great place, but not in August, not with the heat. The Alhambra was amazing, and I loved the fact that here they do Tapas the way it was meant to be done: you order a drink, you get a tapa; you don't pay twice. And the tapas are both delicious and substantial here, often a plate-full. Saw a really nice Flamenco show here in a club resembling a cave.

Poetry

Traveling, especially when I'm near a beach or natural scenery, always inspires me to write poetry. I've written several poems. Here's one:

What if I still had
every vestige of the past
both clear and deep within me

that still there were room
for each leaf of last year's bloom
and all the sights and sounds my life's brought in
and now I have forgotten?
         
Oh, how easily my soul would rend and scatter in today's morning breeze.

Lisbon

Not a lot to see for toursim, necessarily, but a really nice city to visit (and perhaps for living). The people here are much more Latin than Spaniards, in the sense of being humbler and more traditional in their tastes, but they're also heavily European, almost Parisian with their downcast, serious faces and their love of high culture. They're especially fond of their writers here, which suits me well. Like in Paris, there is a ton of racial diversity, but inter-racial mixing seems to be more common and better accepted here.  They're also, like Parisians, fond of sitting for hours in their favorite cafe, only it isn't a cafe; here it's a pasteleria, similar to a Parisian cafe in almost every sense except that it's a lot cheaper and the people dress and behave more casually, with less posing, and interact more. They also love their sweets here, which is great but not so good for my health or will-power. The climate isn't bad, either. It's hot, but not Granada hot. And the beaches aren't too hard to get to and they're clean. To be honest, I haven't found anything I dislike about this city.

We saw an old monastery, the main cathedral, and an old tower by the sea. The have some different and delicious traditional drinks here: something called ginjinha, a liquor made from cherry-like ginja berries fermented in brandy; a green wine named because it's made from new grapes (not because it's green); and of course lots of port wine. I had a fair sampling of all of the above.

Heading back to Madrid to unwind for a few days before heading back to Denver to end the summer travels. Don't know if I'm ready for real life yet.

Taksim Istanbul and Iznik

This is the trendier, much more expensive and touristy part of Istanbul. It's a great area for nightlife and shopping, but not too interesting beyond that. We're paying a lot more here, for a not so nice apartment and  inferior food quality. It's still nothing compared to what we'll pay in Paris, though.

A few highlights:
Topkapi palace. A bit of a disappointment. The riches exhibited in the treasury were stunning--if you're into that sort of thing. And the relics--John the Babtist's severed arm, Mohammed's sword, a lock of Abraham's hair--might be interesting to gullible religious people--but I was there for the sense of history, of which there wasn't much. The library would have been a wonderfully pleasant place for an afternoon read, equally good for a siesta thereafter. And the bedroom, the bed in particular, would have been great for a good night's sleep or, due to its size, a wild orgy with your harem.

Fatih Mosque, the largest in Istanbul, where we lounged on the carpet for an hour or so and then wandered the area. We returned to Taksim and saw the Galata tower, where they wanted twelve Lira (six dollars) to take an elevator to the top. We decided that if we really wanted a good view, we'd take the elevator to the top of a nearby high-rise hotel or climb a neaby hill (one tourist thing I'll never get is the mania for paying large sums of money to climb or be taken to the top of something). We ended up doing neither and watched a Japanese drum concert at the base of the tower.

Pera Museum. They had an exhibition of Goya's prints. I think I like his prints better than his paintings, and I love the paintings, the latter one's anyway, the ones he wasn't paid for. He reminds me a little of a more modern Brughel, depicting everyday life as both trivial and fantastically mysterious at once. I was already aware of his talent for revealing the absurdity and tragedy of things, but the prints show a more concise satire than I've seen in the paintings. One print shows a donkey carrying a corpse and is titled "Curious Devotion". Below that is a man carrying a statue and is titled: "Even moreso".

The permanent exhibits were so so. Well worth the visit, though, for the Goya prints (and a few paintings, all portraits).

The Cisterns. Built in 1453 to hold the city's water. Mostly drained, it looks today like an underground cathedral (pics to come). Two pillars at the end are constructed with the remains of two roman statues of Medusa, the faces turned upside down to prevent gazers from turning to stone.

We attended a Spanish language couchsurfing event after that. There were around 60 people there. Big and active couchsurfing community here in Istanbul. This is our third couchsurfing event, all of them well-attended.

Chora Church. Arguably the best place in the world to see Byzantine art, especially of the so-called Byzantine Renaissance (the later period). Aside from straining our neck muscles gazing upward at the ceilings, it was pretty nice. The mosaics depicting the life of Mary, scenes from the Apocrypha, were particularly interesting, the only depictions of their kind. Like Hagia Sofia, it isn't much to look at from outside, but inside is quite stunning. The mosaics are fairly well-preserved, considering their age (10th to 12th century), and the frescos in the tomb room even moreso. The Byzantines didn't build their churches symmetrically, like the Catholics, giving their structures a more dynamic and natural appearance.

On the way there, I stopped to ask two hijab-clad women for directions. Both tilted their chins up high and ignored me. I'm guessing that for some Muslim women it isn't proper to talk to male strangers.

Archeology Museum. Excellent. Oldest stuff I've ever seen. They've got something from every early civilization you can think of, at least in Mesopotamia.

Boat tour. We took a self-guided ferry tour up the Bosphorus to the mouth of the Black Sea. At the end, there's a small fishing village, overlooked by the ruins of a castle. Beautiful. We saw a pack of dolphins, too. There's something exhilirating about seeing even a small speck of fin amid all that blue emptiness.

Iznik.

Formerly Nicaea, where the Nicene Creed originated. A wonderful, quiet little town about two hours from Istanbul. We had a hotel that overlooked the lake, where we spent a fair amount of time drinking sangria and watching the sunset. The people there were as friendly as they were in the first neighborhood we visited in Istanbul. Strangers stopped to invite us to tea, a vendor gave us a free watermelon just for asking about prices, and everyone seemed happy to give us directions.

One day we saw a young boy yelling at his three  sisters. When they returned to where he was screaming, he punched the oldest, a girl of maybe thirteen, in the side.

Last days. We couchsurfed with another super friendly local named Daliver. He left us alone in his apartment for the night, took us out to dinner twice, drove us around the city, and took us the next morning to the airport. After all this, he apologized for not having time to show us more.

Sad to leave. I definitely hope to return.

Travels

Madrid

We spent most of our holiday vacation here, so there isn't much touristy stuff left for us to do. Mostly we just settled into our apartment and dealt with the jet lag (strangely, Jesusa, who has been living here for over seven months, is struggling with it almost as much as I am), falling asleep between 2 and 4 am (though we get in bed at 12) and sleeping until 11 or 12 the next day, when we wake for breakfast. After breakfast, I go out to my favorite cafe to do a little writing and reading over a cup of Americano and a sugary pastry. Then it's back to the apartment for a bit of not-at-all-earned R and R. At about 4:30, we head out for lunch. A long walk to some part of the city thereafter and then out for some tapeando (tapas + ing). We went out with some of Jesusa's Colombian friends one night, a group of Couchsurfers another, and, on my birthday, went to Carmen, a Flamenco show, and to a nice restaurant after. Lots of good wine and good food. I'll have more to say about the beauties of Flamenco when we get back to Spain.

Istanbul

Woken up by the call to prayer. It moves me every time I hear it, makes me suddenly solemn, regardless of what I'm doing.

We didn't do much the first day. Took a walk and had lunch. The people are unbelievably friendly. We're staying near the airport, well outside of the tourist zones, and maybe for that reason the people here still find us exotic. And maybe they wouldn't be so friendly if I weren't with an attractive Colombian woman. When Jesusa left her sunglasses at the place we had lunch, two men from the kitchen chased us down about five blocks away in order to return them. After a coffee and tea, a man gave us a ride home because it was raining and we weren't dressed for it. The next day, at dinner, we ordered two durum from a small shop. The man brought us the durum and then a yogurt drink and two teas that we hadn't asked for. When we got up to pay and leave, he refused to take our money, which he did twice more on subsequent visits. We eventually learned to leave one or two things on our plates. If we didn't, he would bring us more food. He doesn't speak a word of English, but his unassuming smile and pleasant demeanor, even more generous than his actions, is something I hope stays with me.

Today we went to the Blue Mosque, which was quite impressive. In the tourist zones, most people speak English, unlike where we're staying, and they're still friendly though not quite as genuine, motivated more by the "plata" perhaps, than the people in the non-touristy areas.

When we got back to our place, the call to prayer chant started up again. It happens six times a day: twice in the early morning, again around noon, mid-afternoon, sunset (which, in the Muslim calendar marks the beginning of the new day, our morning), and evening.

At the Blue Mosque, they gave us a free informational seminar about the mosque and Muslim culture. While there's plenty to despise about the Muslim religion--most especially the militant permutations that have occurred in response to Colonialism and Globalization--there's much still to find appealing about the culture, perhaps the lone remaining contrast to western consumer lifestyles.

Dreams

I'm about to enter a Buddhist monastery as a monk. I'm uncertain about it, but a friend convinces me that it's "natural" and I join. Within the monastery, we hear a beautiful sound coming from outside. We go out to investigate and find one of the priests showing a number of other student monks a blank wall and, in song, describing the sounds made by the images on the wall. My friend rushes passed the wall and into the forest. I follow. I'm made to understand that the priest was playing a trick on everyone, reminding them that the finger that points to the moon should not be confused with the moon. The sound comes from the forest, not from the images or non-images on the wall or from the priest's singing.

I'm sure this has something to do with my admiration for the call to prayer.

In another dream, I'm about to meet a beautiful woman who is interested in me. Only I'm unable to have an intimate conversation with her due to my preoccupation with other smaller, more trivial conversations. I think this has something to do with the way Facebook, Twitter, etc. distract us from real human connection.

Istanbul Cont.

Saw Hagia Sofia finally. Breathtaking. Everything I anticipated. Later we saw a dance show--the whirling dervishes. They did a sama ceremony. It seemed weird to applaud what is meant to be an august and meditative spiritual ritual. But we did, along with all of the other smiling, dining tourists. It seemed even weirder to follow a religious ritual with a sexy belly dancer. But tourism comes before everything and maybe reduces everything to simulation. Or maybe not. If spiritual ecstasy can't express itself in the dance, maybe the dance, even when commodified, can create the ecstasy.

After the belly dancer, musicians came out to solicit money for the show we had already paid twenty dollars for.

Last day in our apartment near the airport, the less touristy, less western, part of the city. Hearing again the call to prayer echo off the rooftops I can see out our window.

St. Paul Principles and Occupy Denver

Respect for a Diversity of Tactics

While I don't believe in non-violence as an absolute moral principle, I still have a tremendous admiration for the work of Ghandhi, Martin Luther King, Caesar Chavez, and Marshall Rosenberg, and I share the belief of many Occupy Denver members about the need to promote non-violent resistance within our particular movement. And it's because I share the values of non-violence that I think it's absolutely essential that we commit to the St. Paul Principles, which, in my interpretation, not only aren't in contradiction to non-violent strategies but offer the only means of sincerely putting those strategies into action. The St. Paul Principles, as I interpret them, do not say that everyone has to agree with the actions of other people in the group; they don't say that you have to approve of actions you might define as violent. They merely state that “our solidarity will be based on respect for a diversity of tactics and the plans of other groups”, which is to say that you have every right to disagree with and even resist other people's actions as long as you don't do it through the use of force. You can gently try to discourage someone within our group to not use violence but you can't use violence or the threat of violence to ensure compliance. If someone throws a water bottle at police, you might, in the name of non-violence, respectfully express your disagreement with the person's actions or even stand in front of the police and take the hit yourself. The St Paul Principles say that you can do that. But you can't forcibly try to take the water bottle away, you can't wrestle the culprit to the ground and remove him or her from the situation, you can't verbally threaten the person with violent retaliatory action, and you can't turn him or her over to the police so that they can administer the violence you sought to avoid. The St. Paul Principles, in other words, allow people with different ideologies to remain in disagreement while simultaneously remaining in solidarity against corporate exploitation. Put another way, the St. Paul Principles allow us to use the same non-violent strategies within our group that non-violent advocates would like us to use in response to the forces of the corporate state. If we can ask that our members respond to the violence of the police with acts of non-violent resistance—that we respond respectfully to their disrespect—then we ought to insist that we treat acts of violence by our own comrades the same way. If we're asking our members to not dehumanize the police (the only group we can unanimously agree has acted violently), to not, as recommended by the Eight Rules of Non-Violence, see them as enemies but as potential recruits, and to not respond to their violence with violence of our own, then we ought to be able to respond to our own comrades, even when they disagree with us, with the same measure of respect and decency.

Not only that, but repealing the St. Paul Principles without a plan for enforcement won't actually accomplish anything besides a further division within our movement. Even if we repeal the St. Paul Principles, people are still going to act in ways that some people define as violent. People will show up on Saturdays who have never been to a General Assembly and who know nothing about its decisions, or who have been to GA but don't care about its decisions, or who have been to GA and care about abiding by its decisions but, in the heat of the moment, out of fear or anger, do something in violation of GA policy—people within the movement will still act in contradiction to GA decisions whether you endorse the St. Paul Principles or not. On the other hand, if we're serious about enforcing non-violence—if we're serious about policing ourselves in respect to the principles of non-violence, then, one, we have to be a much more organized and more hierarchical and more centralized entity than we currently are, and, two, we'll have to use force, violence and/or the threat of violence, to guarantee that everyone acts in accordance with our principles. And we'll then no longer be a non-violent movement. If you mean to take Ghandi's and MLK's ideas seriously and literally, and if you mean to model a real democratic community and process, then you can't use violence in the name of non-violence and you can't advocate top-down enforcement of General Assembly decisions. The danger here is in re-shaping the concepts of non-violence and democracy into commodity fetishes that are completely void of significant moral and practical meaning.

In my view, the St. Paul Principles offer a way out of the ethical conundrum. The issue of enforcement doesn't have to be altogether avoided, because a top-down, coercive, and centralized program of enforcement isn't the only option. We can enforce the majority of our primary values democratically, through social interaction, which is mainly what we've been doing and precisely what the St. Paul Principles encourage, but no set of principles, be they democratic or non-violent, can be expected to account for every situation we might encounter and to rule over our every behavior. Neither the St. Paul Principles or the principles of non-violence or democracy should be looked upon as absolute and infallible moral commands. Obviously, if a fellow protestor attempts to rape or murder another fellow protestor, then the St. Paul Principles as well as the principles of non-violence and democracy need to be overlooked in order to end the abuse as abruptly and efficiently as possible. The St. Paul Principles, or any principles, shouldn't be seen as mandates for behavior, nor were they intended as such. The St. Paul Principles specifically mean to challenge top-down decision-making and organizing and to empower everyone involved to take direct action in the world around them. They DO NOT advocate violence. True, they allow affinity groups to choose their own courses of action, but not without some form of consensus or direct democracy to decide on goals and tactics. The St. Paul Principles aren't dictates; they are guidelines, however, for continuing the discussion, for existing in unity and camaraderie with each other in spite of our ideological differences, and for allowing those of us who prize non-violence to continue to practice and promote our values without moral contradiction and without demonizing comrades who think and act differently, which isn't just a more honest and committed non-violent practice but also a much more effective strategy for convincing others to share our values. We need the St. Paul Principles, that is, to prevent the precise kinds of divisions we've seen from recent efforts to have the principles repealed.


St Paul Principles

1. our solidarity will be based on respect for a diversity of tactics and the plans of other groups.
2. the actions and tactics used will be organized to maintain a separation of time or space.
3. any debates or criticisms will stay internal to the movement, avoiding any public or media denunciations of fellow activists and events.
4. we oppose any state repression of dissent, including surveillance, infiltration, disruption and violence. we agree not to assist law enforcement actions against activists and others.

8 Rules of Non-Violence

1) Nonviolent action AND speech, no matter what. Zero tolerance for violence.

2) Unity of message across orgs & people. Consistent demands, all should know them.

3) There must be a long-term and coherent strategy, not just tactics & actions.

4) Police should be seen as potential recruits to movement, not enemy.

5) Keep national/international audience in mind when framing. Goal is win ppl over.

6) Defensive strategies never win. Don't respond to attacks using their language.

7) Claim victory whenever possible. Important for morale.

8) Keep anger in check /w solidarity actions & humor."