S a/o B Rides Again


After a hiatus and declaration of having done with itself, S a/o B has restarted as an online project, picking up the threads it dropped for a few months.  Its new home is, and will be, here at TNI.

IL SALVATAGGIO SELVAGGIO (A Letter to Micky Arison, CEO of Carnival Cruiselines, and Gianni Onorato, president of Costa Cruises)


 [S a/o B comes briefly out of hiding to share the following letter I am sending to the following men]



Dear Micky Arison, CEO of Carnival Cruiselines, and Gianni Onorato, president of Costa Cruises,

I was sorry to hear about the Costa Concordia.  What a big fuck-up, a große Verhau, as Kluge would put it.  A sad one to boot.



I saw that you tweeted that “our thoughts and prayers are with the passengers and crew” so I can tell that you’ve been thinking about it a lot.

The concern in the media has been, above all, with those passengers and crew living, dead, and unconfirmed, as it well should be.  It seems a fair coverage, although I wish the Brits would stop gendering the wrecked boat: as a BBC correspondent put it, “because although she sits behind me looking fairly solid there, she’s not quite as stable as she looks.  She’s sitting on a ledge and if she was to move not too far, there’s a danger that she could slide into very much deeper water.  The authorities just couldn’t take the risk of having divers and other rescue workers on board if she was just that unstable.”  The sad fact of a scuttled behemoth capsized just off-shore, guts bursting with marine-life killing fuel, may have certain elements that are funny. But it is not hysterical, at least in the sense of a late Victorian misogynist pathology.

I wish also that the horror of the situation could be described without the now-ubiquitous reference to it being “just like in Titanic” or to “a disaster movie.”  I wish this only because the first is a disastrous, vile little flick whose name should not be spoken and because the second hints at something worse.  I’m not speaking of the aptness of a Roland Emmerich film in giving us a visible manifestation of what it feels like to witness everything go to lurching, creaking hell.  For The Day After Tomorrow certainly does that,  albeit for unintended reasons.  And however precarious our lives, we tend to envision an even keel that only rocks or runs rocky in the cinematheque and only for a prescribed duration.



Rather, what disturbs me, as I’m sure it disturbs you, is what this says about the brevity of our memory: after all, the Andrea Doria - that most Italo of Titanics - floundered and lolled onto its busted ribs a mere 55 years ago, and frankly, not as much has changed as we might like.  It has since become the “mount Everest of scuba divers,” and it has been well and truly stripped by those reverse mountaineers, but 50 meters of water weighs less than the distracted fog that curses our memory.

I’m sure, though, that your memory has been leading you to think of Italian communist Amadeo Bordiga a lot recently, as mine has, because of what he wrote about the Andrea Doria.   For one of Bordiga’s points is that a ship, much like a plagued city, is a space which is materially organized, structured, and reinforced around divisions of rich and poor, white and brown, men and women, consumer and producer, of value and worthless.  And yet, in a moment of catastrophe, when the sea turns the hallways vertical and there are no elevators, those encrusted divisions are rendered null and void, except as quite literal barriers to escape or life: a luxury suite becomes barricaded by water, a modern glass table becomes an aquatic guillotine, insisted-upon private quarters become little jail cells inside a broken bathysphere.  And so, as Bordiga puts it:  “It was the same story with the rehabilitation of the great cities, from which, as Marx and Engels stated from the time of the gutter of Paris, Haussmann, the poor had and will have everything to lose and nothing to gain. The upper bourgeoisie was told by clever technicians and speculators that epidemics do not know class divisions, even in a rich man’s house one can die of cholera. So get on with it, Demolition Joe! So now when the ship goes down, so too do the first class passengers, half clad like the poor devils, hardly togged up in their dinner jackets.”

That is, when the ship sinks, one has a single choice: flee like rats or die like rats.



Of course, the questions follow, spelled out in headlines:

“How Could This Happen to a Modern Ship?”

“Have Cruise Ships Gotten Too Big?”

The proposed answer to the former seems to be that of “human error,” as the captain is accused of having fled, like a rat, and, worse, of having “buzzed the island” à la Top Gun.   (It has been a bad week in the war of meat and machine, given that, having ruled out sabotage, the 2010 crash of an Ethiopian plane in Lebanon was just declared as the pilot’s fault.)   As the official Costa line goes, the route was programmed and he made an unauthorized error.  That is, he deviated from the correct line: he tried to be human at a time when such was ill-advised.  The charts were right, and it was just bad behavior that ruined the good times for everyone.


 The answer to the latter - have cruise ships gotten too big? - seems doomed to be: nah, not really.  Because the fact remains that these were the exact same questions posed 56 years ago, the same debates, the same excuses.  But firing a knife thrower doesn’t change the fact that knives are made, en masse, and that when thrown away, when made obsolete, they still stick around.  They wait, sharpening themselves in the attic.  They come back because they may be broken or dulled individually but not the figure, the blueprint, the ideal, which keeps its edge and impels cancerous-replication in its own image and with all the form-giving fire of industry.  They get themselves made and remade.  A cunning of reason applies to the construction of manslaughterous vessels: however gutted they may get, however wide a hole gapes their side or ruins their image, they will not pay the penalty of the universal.  That will be paid by humans alone: those who drown and those who are said to have drowned them.

 We might consider making things that can’t sink.  One good way to do this is to not build boats.  But there are landslides, and many houses are placed along the sea: once you open the door to non-sinkability, it’s hard to know where you reasonably stop.  Or perhaps a boat made of water, but that seems far off.  And certainly not ice, because much like fire, you can fight ice with ice, and certainly with rocks.


So maybe it’s better to recognize that accidents happen.  Besides, it’s not as though the history of nautical movement has been predicated on the steady erasure of accidents.  In his big study of the Mediterranean world of the 16th century, “microhistorian” Fernand Braudel looks at the way in which the stormy winter seas had long provided an obstacle to year-round shipping and, therefore, year-round profit.  There were, of course, developments in shipping technology: more stable craft, faster craft, but the most significant technology had nothing to do with the shape of a hull or the loading of its ballast.  It had to do with the rise of accident insurance, such that it became worth the while of merchants to send their products, and sailors, off to sea even when there was a distinct chance they would go down.  And go down they did.  Wreckage did not become less frequent, just better remunerated.  For those who do not go down to the sea in ships, that is, for those who stay on land and take risks of a more pecuniary variety.

The Costa Concordia was hardly braving the dangerous waters (indeed, even now it leans toward the just out of reach coastline, as if pulled by a gravity that exists between things so large they desire to be mountains, not creaking vacation monoliths), but the point here - Bordiga’s point, in a way - goes further.  It isn’t just that accidents happen and that the men of order who profit off disorder will learn to turn a profit all the same.  It’s that they have to happen.  Ruination and obsolescence isn’t a byproduct of capital: insofar as its project consists of the transformation of material practice and objects (that is, of human labor across time and of things worked on by that labor) into vessels of exchangeability, it therefore must renew this process.  There is no other way.  It has to build more, not because we need more buildings, but because those buildings are necessary as crystallized ciphers of exchange.  And it must wreck them.  Sure, a catastrophe, a plague, a swarm threatens to wreck also the divisions that structure cities, but that is not an exception.  It is part and parcel of the transit of forced obsolescence and indifferent waste-laying.


It’s always hard to reconcile this as no one, not even the most nefarious mustache-twirlers, “wants” something like this to happen.  Even with our little lapses, we generally intend the best.  We reason, calculate, tabulate.  We conspire.  We watch our backs, and we sometimes have the backs of others.  And yet we stagger forward across seas on which oil from a busted well below is burned.  We build reactors, and they are upset when we barricade the railroads that carry away their waste.  We make dolls that chew the scalps of little girls.  We bury waste in a too-shallow grave and now you can’t eat the cheese.  We throw away pairs of shoes and books, and we make more of them, and we don’t burn the ones that should be burned.  We starve or are starved.  We are surprised that rocks exist.

This brings us back to your specific unstable object, pivoting on its wound in the shallows.  The ship surely can’t be used again.  I doubt very much it will be patched up, retrofitted and recarpeted for its triumphant return.   After all, cruise ships are already obsolescent.  That is the pleasure of them: one gets to feel like one is in the first part of Titanic, and one never thinks that one may end up in the latter half.  Or you feels like you are on The Love Boat, but only with the promise that you can, indeed, get off the Pacific Princess at some point, rather than the eternal recurrence of 12,948 minutes of naughty misadventures, unsurprising guest appearances, and unlimited buffet acess.  And so, in their warmed-over obsolescence, one must tread lightly, I’m sure, and the last thing the industry needs is to be haunted by the specter of human error on its lumbering steed called MOMENTUM AND TONNAGE.  So it can’t be salvaged, at least in the public eye.


Perhaps it will be sent to be scrapped in Bangladesh?  That would be a real shame, though.  To be sure, it might recoup some of the losses, ones that I am sure weigh heavy on you given that the high season of cruise booking is from January to March, such that this one unfortunate incident will cast dusk’s pallor over the whole year's fantasy of cruising in general.  But we cannot patch up history, soldering new slabs of metal over a hole and slapping a fresh coat of paint, not to mention a new name, on what has showed itself a tool of manslaughter.  And we cannot wipe it away, even if that wiping involves industrial-strength solvents applied by boys in south Asia. 

As such, I write you less with a request than with an opportunity.    I propose that you hand the wreck over to us to become the first-ever Museum of Salvage and Catastrophe (MOSAC).  In so doing, we will christen the ship with a new name: IL SALVATAGGIO SELVAGGIO.

 I’m sure the word museum gives you a bit of trepidation.  After all, museums will be among the first to go in the insurrection: less because of the much-bemoaned separation of art and life than because they frequently include large indoor spaces with nice leather benches and surprisingly high quality bathrooms.  Some may get excited about blowing off a little class war steam, and I imagine some pieces by Jeff Koons or Mark Rothko may end up worse for the wear.  Yet a hostility toward museums is as relevant as a belief in their great importance: that is, rather silly.


 Still, like the cinema used to be, they are on rare occasions a space to meet, talk, remember how wildly perverse Catholic ideology was and is, and learn to critique, if only through mockery.  And for the most part, we get that what matters is the relation we have to things in the process of willfully ruining the relations of value and separation.  And so, it may just turn out, that the proper relation, one that saves by scrapping the value still glomming on to the thing itself, will be that most derided of categories:  the pretty, because the insistence on the pretty implies the devastation of the beautiful and its transindividual (in the bad way, in the sense of the commensurability of viewers) claims of being valuable.  That is, the claim to have worth.  Such that the most revolutionary attitude to most art, and to the spaces that crowd around them like so many post-austerity curvy Fortresses of Solitude, might be to say: it is damn pretty, but do we really need all the guards?

Our museum may be a little pretty too, if we play our cards right.  What will we do in it, what will it look like?  That depends in part on you, on whether you want to abandon it to us where it lies or whether you insist on removing it from the spot of its fresher scar.  However, we can clarify one aspect of it: we can assure you it will maintain the theme of the oceanic and the disastrous.  More than that, we plan to honor the ship by clarifying the specificity of its disaster and how that disaster clarified the obscure specificity of the ship.  For the disaster, after all, was not that some died.  Some may call that a tragedy or a shame, but it is not the specificity of this encounter.

 The disaster was that it turned on its side.  That it remained in the ocean but that it was no longer a boat.  It became something else.  A tomb, a trap.  A series of pools, of caves.


 When you watch the footage of the rescue, even if those filming don’t know how to really capture the aquatic uncanny and the shock to vision they are recording, you cannot but see the spaces transformed.  Above all, by the fact that they have a new “floor”, a new angle”, their ceilings now their right walls.  The line where the wallpaper met the paneling now tracks an arrow up to the ceiling.  The swimming pool, with its retractable glass covering, now opens onto the sea, its ceiling first made a wall, then shattered by the urge of chlorine to become brackish, and it spills out.  Doors become tunnels down, like flooded mines, or rectangular oculi through which to swim up.

In other words, the disaster is that it ceased to be a boat without having first been evacuated, discarded, cleared, cleaned, emptied of fuel, and scrapped of value.  And now, finally, one can swim through a ship.

In accordance with the principles of salvagepunk, we believe that the core operation of salvage, however obscure, has to do not with scraping the last bits of value from the busted but with recognizing how that busting alone brings to light the specificity of a thing, the partial logic embedded in its whole, the buried holes, contours, properties, contradictions.  Believing this, we see in the sinking of the Costa the visibility of what it deserved to be all along.


As such, we propose a few options for your consideration.

We drag it to shore and make of it free housing, criss-crossed inside by ladders, burrowing out new passages.  It will, after all, have an oceanfront view.  Its fuel will parcelled out over centuries, used only to feed the funeral pyres of the residents when they die and are sent out to sea on iron planks of Concordia.

We hack it apart to make sturdier rafts for those who risk their lives crossing the Mediterranean from Africa to try and find the means to live in Europe.  The fuel is used to feed the motors that allow them to pass quickly through a sea without insurance or passports.

We drag the scuttled mass north, far north where it is colder.  We cut further passages through its rooms.  The water freezes.  We skate through it, ice-dancing in a banal ballroom flopped on its side.  We warm our hands around the enormous fuel-stoked fire that burns on the adjacent ice: the Flame of the Unknown Mutineer, which never goes out, in honor of all the unremembered who challenged commerce and empire on the seas.

Or perhaps, we go ahead and plug up that hole, carefully patch it with tons of metal, smooth it out, make it water-tight.  We go ahead and scrap the inside of it, clean it up real right.  And plant the whole thing upright, stern shoved deep, bow aiming toward the sun, in the ever-spreading Sahara and make of it a giant water tower.  That fuel will be used to do all that fuel can do when it is taken from the leisure machines of the rich and given to those who need it: to power, to cook, to light, to weld, to fight, to heat the desert at night.

I wrote once that another world is impossible.  And I also wrote that it is necessary, but only built from the gutted hull of this one.


What a fitting destiny for the Costa Concordia, having impaled itself on the sea, to open out its hull, halls, engines, kitchens, toilets, glass, pools, brass, and halogen to a different traffic.  If a boat gets a funeral, let it be a funeral amongst eaters of the dead, a burial in the desert to become a brief, restricted, ridiculous, sad, and - thankfully - inadequate oasis in these years of simultaneous flood and drought.

Sincerely,
S a/o B

Changing a shapeshifter midstream (On the end of Socialism and/or Barbarism)

Dear Reader,


Those who have read or do read or do look at what has been been written, or photographed or arranged, for this project/not-so-alter-ego/archive may have noticed that it has of long late been added to with increasing infrequency.  And that when it has, it appears more and more like a handful of pages ripped indiscriminately from a scattered pile of books, with no explanatory reconstruction.

There are a number of reasons I might give for that.

One of the more reasonable ones is a focus on other writing projects, loosely book-shaped, which, broken into the form of this thing, would make even less sense than its normal contents and would, I suspect, descend even further into an arcane personal mnemotechnic.

A second reason is the strange torsion that comes from having been away from California, and the US more broadly, for what has been the most striking political - and self-eclipsing of "politics" in the name and practice of the material, the courageous, and the difficult - sequence in a lot more decades than I have lived.  We're largely accustomed to investment at a distance, where even word to gather and defend a space arrives on phones and screens.  Still, the genuine fact of a continental and oceanic distance produces a thrownness, as well as a nagging set of questions about what would be "of use" to write or say, in the broadest sense.

A third reason is that I now live in a city where - barring my brief forays into teaching Neapolitans how to say, "I am old.  You are drunk.  We are old.  We are drunk." - I do not speak any English, and my home tongue has come to feel as misshapen and unwieldy in my mouth as a shitty kiss.  A dead language of sorts to be read and written but not spoken.  And while S a/o B is not spoken but written, nevertheless, English and I are going through a "weird phase in our relationship."  We are not, so to speak, on speaking terms.

All of these reasons are true, in their way.  They are also false as explanatory devices for my relative distancing from this site, from what it was and what has been the alternately red, black, grey, blue, pink, gold, and neon orange thread of my thinking and practice of writing.

The far more adequate reasons have to do with what begins, certainly, as a particular relation to my particular uses of time and what, it seems, ultimately exceeds that relation, is caused by or captures some sliver of a sense of current modes of reading, writing, fighting, thinking, of trying to parse out this gorgeous and grotesque mess in which we live.

In short, it has to do with two forms of flattening and one of ephemerality which are necessarily linked to and bolstered by a form that tends to looks something like a blog.



The first flattening is a simple one, a visual one, even if its effects remain largely opaque.  Namely, that unless one wants to get into the sheer insanity of dancing GIFs, colored fonts, and winking emoticons familiar from old school chat rooms and "jokes to brighten your day!" emails forwarded and promptly deleted, a blog flattens its material into a unified shape, slots it into a single scrolling stream.  (Note: as a defender of communism as structurally a project of "bad taste," insofar as it is the flowering of the misuse of things, of going too far, of dwelling at the edges of the underutilized capacity of spaces, techniques, and material, I stand firmly in support of that insane frenzy of available styles.  It's no accident that so fucking gauche and far left mean basically the same thing.  The last thing we need is to shackle ourselves transhistorically to a cool minimalism.  Ahem, Tumblr.  Ahem, most of the design and layout that tends to get used for things "theoretical," "communist," "some hodgepodge of the two.")  One may make slight modifications.  But the same set of links, same background, same font, same time stamp, same address mark things that may be utterly heterogeneous.  Things therefore get themselves blogged, a verb that acts on them, not just as the location in which they appear but in how they appear, in how they can be read.

The second, more pernicious, flattening is that produced by the internet as such, visual in the way that sand in our eyes is visible: the basic fact of what it means to read something in the same browser window that contains, on different tabs, someone's Facebook account, a recipe for pan-seared salmon, news about streetfighting in Syria, a shitty editorial from the Guardian, work email, plane ticket searches, mediocre - or excellent - porn, a wikipedia entry on Carlo Emilio Gadda, Anarchist News, Youtube videos of a panda sneezing.  All things jostle for space and attention, and we are buffeted by a seriously tepid wind of distraction, with all the pleasures and low-level anomie it brings along.  Even as I write this, I find myself quietly jolted by emails - an old friend, some spam, the excellent newsfeed from Anthropologie du Présent - which don't even have to announce themselves.  We feel these things that ask us to consider them as we feel the hairs bristle barely on the back of our necks.



The ephemerality in question is Janus-faced, even if both faces are busy linking to the same webpage.

On one side, that of a reader.  (And one is never "just a reader" on the internet: one is invited, made able, encouraged to comment, share, alter, cross-post, and, last but far from least, "like" something publicly, as if shouting in an agora, filled with many thousands of people, at the top of your lungs HEY THAT IS GREAT THAT YOU KNOW OF A DURAN DURAN SONG THAT I ALSO ENJOY OR PERHAPS I DO NOT BUT I LIKE THAT YOU ENJOY IT ALTHOUGH EITHER WAY WHAT ACTUALLY MATTERS IS MERELY THAT MY APPROVAL WILL BE REGISTERED BY YOU AND BY OTHERS WHO PERHAPS DO NOT KNOW ME AND THAT AFTER ALL IS WHAT IS FRIENDSHIP IS IT NOT.)  Things stick around,  get remembered, have resonance, but because they are looked at - "read" is often too particular a word to describe what gets done - literally alongside, or briefly superimposed over, all those other instances of desired attention, they are ephemeral.  They get shuffled away, they get buried, they jut a bit from the surface, get tripped over, brought back into circulation, return back to the lostness of sheer, dizzying quantity.

On the other side, that of a writer who writes publicly and immediately.  The upshot of quick response brings with it a different kind of distractability: new information that keeps cutting into a line of thought, the distraction of something else that has just happened after the other thing that just happened, the sense that one has some "duty," if only to one's self and the phantom horde of possible respondents around which a self takes hold, to comment on things that fall in the rough arena of one's normal scope.  The urge to write briefly and frequently enough to stay on course, the sense that what  was relevant previously will now be of little interest to writer, reader, and everything between given that a new thing clamoring for our thought has stepped into the light.

These are all qualities which have been, and still are in certain ways or moments, both important and generative for me and many others.  I have, as some know, a passion for the flat, the superficial, and the ornamental: I think that even aside from its fraught spatial metaphor, the very notion of depth - and with it, profundity, authenticity, essence separable from manifestations, transcendence - is one on which war should be continually made, as its friendly fire has consistently wrought terrible consequences for theory, practice, art, social relations, and daily life alike.

More specifically, the first kind of flattening involves both a saving of time (find a template that works and let's stop dreaming that every single thing that exists needs to be sexily designed to be worth reading!) and, far more importantly, a wrecking of the hierarchy of subject matter.  Something may be longer or shorter, but it is still an entry in its own right, and therefore stakes a claim as being potentially equal to something extensive and well-thought through.  For what I've done, this is crucial, less because some of the shortest things I've written (or small sets of images) are of equal if not greater import than things that go on and on and more because it simply makes it harder to tell.  It goes a small way in busting the illusion of "substantive writing," which is, of course, something that matters enormously when it deserves to be substantive, but which should not hide behind its own bulk as a substitute for what is worth saying.

[accidents of continguous spaces]

The second kind of flattening further undoes, however slightly, the assumed importance of kind and scale and pushes further in another direction.  Because we are intruded upon (or better, because we actively put ourselves in a situation in which our attention will be interrupted), it allows for a primarily banal but occasionally striking blurring of the lines drawn between genres and media of reading.  Such that we may be reading Hegel, as some do, and suddenly we find ourselves watching footage from Yemen or a clip from a 1924 Swedish film, and - ever so rarely - these things cross-pollinate.  And they get marked, embedded, and invested differently: the fact that I read an email from my mom while reading Max Nettlau or read Max Nettlau while reading an email from my mom means, improbably, that the issues at stake in one or the other may spark differently, the needed questions may find a content never expected, the structures discerned or concerns raised may find proof or counter-argument outside the expected ambit.  I may not be able to tell Nettlau something of relevance - or, in the joy of friendship, something irrelevant, an imposition, an unwanted gift that reminds those we care about that we are constantly more than whatever we are at the moment of focused communication - that my mom wrote, given the unfortunate non-living status of Nettlau.  But I can write to my mom of something Nettlau wrote, something that struck me, something I think that may move her.

As for that ephemerality, it is perhaps what was, and perhaps continues to be, the most important aspect of the form of online writing.  Ephemerality is itself a slippery term and may designate far less than it appears to.  After all, the material publication of a book, the construction of a building or a monument, the committing to film is no guarantee whatsoever that something will last.  There have been plenty of those that did not last.  That is ultimately the crux of Adolf Loos' attack on ornament, as off as I think it to be in certain ways: something too marked to its present will cry out for its dismissal or forgetting, if not outright destruction.  And such is the properly ornamental stance of a blog, irrecuperably marked to and marked by the specific moments in which its posts emerge, and it points beyond itself to an understanding that what is ephemeral is not a consequence of its irrelevance but of its painful embeddedness.  As such, it is a mode of occasional writing capable of registering how we do not understand occasions as "just occasions."  We feel and think them as entire swathes of time, whole optics, tints that color our glance toward days passed or on the way.  Even if we can only grasp partially at scrambled fragments, even if that is all we ever do, nevertheless, these brief occasions we read and pass through are the history of the present as much as an extensively researched study can be.  The difficulty is only that we stay largely unaware that we are in the midst of reading this mosaic history: we treat it like the news, a keeping up with things, part of the morning, a check-up, a reminder.

 I think all this is true, and I have spent just over the past three years trying to make sense and the most of it.


Giovanni Tiso, long one of the sharpest people to read and banter with me on the basis of what I write here, wrote something a few months back about my work.  Fittingly, I meant to write a proper response to it and was instead distracted, in the middle of other things, busy changing physical spaces, excited about something else.  What he wrote was frankly surprising to me, not because of any misprision (other than my wariness about the term "activist," but we'll let that slide) but because, in the mode of the best critical engagements, he hit on something that I had been long feeling, something that underpinned all my work, but that I had not been able to articulate.

Namely, that what my work had been "about" - other, of course, than communism, horror, cinema, mechanized dolls that eat hair, cities, chipping frozen shit off the undercarriage of a train, salvagepunk, bones, value, camouflage, desire, looting, apocalypse, dirty thunderstorms, Wile Coyote, painting, decomposition, cosmic ice theory, decapitation, montage, living labor, melodrama, misanthropy, noir, love, radiation, Rome, acid baths, swagger, banality, Keith Sweat, wolves, stupidity, dialectics, and wallpaper - was generic form itself: the material forms of thought and the conceptual forms of matter.  As such, whether or not this has been "genre-defining," what I can venture from my end is an understanding, damn slow in coming, that not in spite of but because of the mix of materials assembled here, this project has been ultimately and always about the problem of genre.  The spark-throwing problem of not defining but passing through a genre and all that sits unstably in the forms and matters it inherits and shapes, all that comes to be precisely because of that recurrent incompatibility.  That is, genre doesn't describe what is: the very anxiety about what might be, and how it can be generated so as to be different enough to justify its existence yet similar enough to be processed and thought, is itself the generative action.

And in other words, that has been the axe on which I've ground, or found myself grounded, for a long while.  For this has been nothing so much as, or nothing more than, a shapeshifter, one that was meant to muck about in the blurriness of information and thought we always confront.  One which has aimed to enact that generative passage, less by taking that up as a topic than by doing it in the aggregate form taken by this long scattered mess of writing.  I imagine the consequences of this - the fact that the "thread" of this ranges through relatively direct film comments, very indirect film writing, horror fables, micro-slabs of theory, political announcements, photographs, translations, extended critical writings - have been of interest to some and to the utter distaste of more.  And perhaps some in between, who might have come "here" for thoughts on riots and have had to wade through fake postcards, theories of montage, unexplained film stills and likely stopped wading.  For those who came for the fake postcards or reflections on montage, sorry about all the riot stuff, but they are, you know, important.





 I have, at times, written explicitly of genre, particularly in the film vein, particularly through trying to make sense why the hell people don't recognize that much of what has fallen under the cultural industry mark of "genre films/literature" is much of the most compelling material we have to consider, tangle with, deploy, and enjoy.  And not just because of the enjoyment that comes from things with fangs, repetitive plots, cleavage, car chases, disguises, musical numbers, witty dialogue, and lighting that has no rational explanation whatsover.  Because beyond this, it's not in spite of its genre status but because of it that genre productions are - and I mean this deadly serious - the best cultural terrain to think through the lived structures of the world.  And again, not because we can see "the market" and its forces more clearly in them.  It is because the fraught terrain of trying to make something that will be understood as participation in a genre means that the fundamental problems of reproduction (of social relations, of labor, of gender, of politics, of race, of cultural tendencies, of religion, of the species) as such, all the blind going-on that is the cursed motor of society as such, are exactly the problems around which such a "genre production" will take largely absurd shape, over and over again.

An explanation of "what you do" is always less relevant than the actual texture of what it is that you do, especially when the need for such an explanation is a need felt only by yourself.  Nevertheless, I have some urge  to give some qualification of the 857 posts before this one.  I had, as do others, some basic motivations behind writing like this: the desire to not limit public access to writing to what has to be paid for, the desire to not have to wait for some other institution or publication to deem something worth sharing, the desire to produce things to circulate amongst a community, the desire to not limit things to that community.  None of that is particular to me.  It's what we do, the most minor part of taking seriously the attempt to make things like theory, literature, art, and historical analysis worth a damn.  The "public" is a cursed notion, existing only in opposition to the private and therefore with dirty hands in the perpetuation of such separation.  It is, however, a notion that we would be idiotic to ignore.




What is more particular to the lines of thought knotted up here over a couple years has to do with divisions of knowledge and the idea of expertise.  I am lucky to have very smart and very fierce friends.  A consequence of this is that for every single thing I "do" or "work on," I know very well someone who does or knows that thing far better than I do.  This makes me happy: it means I have friends worth having.

It also, however, speaks to a fundamental orientation to those things I do or think about.  Namely, I am what is pejoratively called a dilettante.  A nicer term is a jack of all trades.  Or polymath.  Or non-specialist.  But I prefer dilettante.  And if I am good at anything, it is only this: I am a skilled dilettante.  The word's roots lie in delectare, to delight.  To take pleasure in the things you think about.  Which is, after all, a good point of departure: to not draw such a clear distinction between is worth thinking and what gives pleasure, while still trying to toss out the mid-ground category of what you happen "to like."   The word also implies a scattered, shallow knowledge of many things.  There are instances, of course, in which such a stance should be meant as perjoratively as it has been: i.e. when one starts feigning expertise on things far more complex than a dilettante's knowledge could allow, when one trots out for the thirtieth time a single quote beaten into memory that mimes the place of a relevant complexity.  But when we put the stress not on the feigning (which is not particular to dilettantes, just to bullshitters in general, and yes, specialists can and do bullshit) but on the scattering, a different portrait starts to emerge.  It is a commonplace to say that the world has become more complex.  This isn't especially true.  What is true is the staggering expansion of mobility, at least in terms of what gets reported or what can be tracked down, and of access to an increasingly massive set of knowledge, conjunctures, fields of thought, objects.  Not to mention that every hour passed heaps on the pile of things to think about more information.


A mode of deep attention to particular fields and topics is necessary.  It always spills its ramifications beyond itself.  But so too another mode, which moves laterally, which is distracted, which is dilettante.  It is something like a handful of broken glass thrown across a frozen river: mostly skittering, mostly catching nothing, occasionally latching on, occasionally learning something in this glide over what is frozen below.  I have tremendous respect for, and benefit from, that mode of deep attention.  I try for it on occasion.  But this other mode is mine.

Such a mode would remain inadequate if it was not connected to practices.  It would be the equivalent of a compulsive reading of Trivial Pursuit cards or marathon bouts of Jeopardy watching.  For this reason, it has to do involve a learning and using of skills, trying to not limit ourselves to a field, an activity.  Many years ago, Benjamin wrote of something similar in regards to the newspaper as a necessary medium and practice and the need to "master the competencies in the process of intellectual production":

But we will pose this demand with the greatest insistence if we—writers—take up photography. Here too technical progress is the basis of political progress for the author as producer. In other words:the only way to make this production politically useful is to master the competencies in the process of intellectual production which, according to the bourgeois notion, constitutes their hierarchy; and more exactly, the barriers which were erected to separate the skills of both productive forces must be simultaneously broken down. When he experiences his solidarity with the proletariat, the author as producer also experiences directly a solidarity with certain other producers in whom earlier he was not much interested.

This is, despite some caveats about the notion of "solidarity with the proletariat," still entirely relevant today, precisely because the pseudo-demotic nature of the internet as a site and tool of "intellectual production" has generated a sham version of it, a version in which the elision of boundaries between practices too often leads to nothing more than a glut of banality.  Extended beyond the internet, this total picture results alternately in a terrifying storm of loggorhea and in the material publication of things of no interest whatsoever, which will come to constitute a real material interest (insistence that they get bought) and material presence (in the places of buying) that, at the end of the day, will come to constitute something that approximates interest.

But as always, such a sham version is not the reason to flee: it is the insistence that one has to dwell in that toxic muck and do it better.  In some way, I understand what I and others have tried to do as a version of this refusal to not flee.  Dirty hands are unavoidable.  The question is dirty with what.



For the heart of all this, however, is a massive failure, a conservatism in which I have been a part, willing or otherwise.  Namely, that this still constitutes something that I do, bound to my particular arrangement.  I would like to believe that this is a consequence of not having chanced into the correct constellation of those with whom I would write/film/design/think well, despite knowing many without whom I can do none of these.  I do believe that this will change.  At that point, I will happily watch what remains of my more determinately individual practice wither away.

However, the fact remains that things get shared, taken up, used otherwise at cross purposes, made part of an us.  And if we do not break the model of the individual author as much as we must, we can nevertheless still hold to fully working out the collapse of the hierarchy of those who get sanctioned as authors.  We want to hold toward forms of distribution and production of modes that are free, stolen, passed around. The fact of its banality does not mean that it is not a material practice with a real future.  And we can, as we build up the capacity toward that practice, equally commit to breaking that other hierarchy of who gets to write what and what gets to get read.  Such is the task of working out one version of the collapse of separation by the full blurring, cohabitation, and dilettantism of modes, styles, genres.

Nevertheless,  I find myself increasingly incompatible with the version or banner under which I was doing something along these lines.  I have never undestood this as a blog, other than when it was just getting going and I was therefore indebted to, beneath the sign of, or traveling alongside other things that more resembled "blogs."

Now it is fully not, as I am ending it, ending this thing. 


I could give further qualifications and reasons, but those will only be relevant and of interest if what follows shows itself to be substantively different.  It may not.  What matters is an attempt to become uncomfortable with what may have been a specific form developed here but which has come to feel too comfortable, too inherited.

As such, this blog will no longer exist as it has before.  Two things emerge in its place, which address partially the increasing incompatibility between - at least - two modes in which I work.

First, starting in January, a new online writing project called The Noonday Shadow, at a new location, which will allow for much better incorporation of chunks of film.  There will appear things that are, at least in their structure, closer to "essays."


 Second, Socialism and/or Barbarism will no longer be a blog but a publication.  Something between a series of books/magazines/journals/zines/posters.  This allows for intended delimitation and proximity of certain materials and questions (i.e. small continuities across a single issue, more restrained echoes that may take shape) and for the chance to actually change the form in a way that works with, or usefully against, the issues at hand.  Each one will be a collaboration with a different designer, a bit of amor fati in which I take my hands off and see what gets done with whatever I had in mind.  (If you happen to be a designer who would be interested in working with me on this, get in touch with me.)  They will be PDFs, as part of the understanding how we read such a thing differently.  Some may take paper form.  They will still appear on this site, starting in January.


Also here will be writings, should they happen, that seem important to be more immediately accessible and shareable, particularly regarding things of a political nature.


To all who have read what has been Socialism and/or Barbarism, a sincere and genuinely sentimental thanks for making my last years a lot better.  I hope that this has, in some small way, occasionally done that for you.  And hope that you will continue to read it as it mutates mid-stream.  It will continue to exist for the rest of my life, in whatever form seems right, until the moment in which what it is we do together makes this all beautifully irrelevant.

Yours,
ECW

 





The only thing for a citizen to do to be of service to his country is to patiently wait for the day when he can cooperate in a material revolution

A very short film.   



For Carlo Pisacane, via Jean Vigo and a lost language of the steppes.  The barbaric restoration of order.  An insurrection rewinds like snow.

 ---

On a related note:




"There are some who say:  the revolution must be made by the country. This there is no denying. But the country is made up of individuals and if we were quietly to wait for the day of revolution to come instead of plotting to bring it about, revolution would never break out.  On the other hand, if everybody were to say: the revolution must be made by the country and I, being an infinitesimal part of the country, have my infinitesimal portion of duty to do and were to do it, the revolution would be carried out immediately and would be invincible because of its scale."

[Pisacane]

This is precisely the problem, even if the historical deck - and how it played out - is stacked against the pro-plotting line, at least of the relatively micro form of "plots."  Because it is the basic split in question, the one that can be restated as:

we cannot bring about a revolution of "our" own accord [for if it lacks the scale of that mass of the infinitesimal, then it is nothing],

and a revolution does not happen of its own accord [for the set of objective conditions for which one might wait are themselves dependent upon individuals doing all those things that inflect and make up the infinitesimal, and profoundly difficult, portion of the duty; a duty which is itself dependent upon, and only able to be thought through and measured against that process on the scale of a nation; through and against the process of ceasing to be nations, ceasing to be individuals]


Even so, we still aim to conspire.  Desperately, invincibly.



"one might reasonably view man's entire development and creation of civilization as a process of fortifying against wolves"


Further evidence in the ever-swelling file of reasons to both loathe the state and a good portion of those who themselves loathe the state, albeit from "the other side."

Moreover:

In early November, Sen. Max Baucus, a Montana Democrat, made his own political contribution. Thrilled at the testing of a drone aircraft manufactured in Montana, Baucus declared: "Our troops rely on this type of technology every day, and there is an enormous future potential in border security, agriculture and wildlife and predator management." A manufacturer's representative claimed his company's drone "can tell the difference between a wolf and a coyote." Pilotless drone aircraft used by the CIA and the Air Force to target and kill alleged terrorists now appear to be real options to track and kill "enemy" wolves.

A world more and more commonly knit by the cross-purposed use of murderous technics and all the absurd transpositions it brings about: wolves as terrorists, terrorists as wolves.  Property is a sheep.  Coyote citizens and lupine gangs.  In that vile thought - a drone can tell the difference between a coyote and a wolf - we hear the real thought, the one carefully not spoken, booming in the heads of those who see "an enormous future potential": so you're telling me it can tell the difference between civilians and rioters?  Better yet, it can tell the difference between white and not-white, can't it?

Recession proof








A dry hell comes home to roost


 The gap between catastrophism and realism - already as minute and over-loaded as a tectonic crack - presses closer still.  The further sense that aside from the flaws of any outmoded notion of universal civilizational progress, with the Occident leading the shining way, such a story has, if anything, reversed: it is in those areas of the world called backward that one actually reads the opaque signs of the future.  If there is an owl of Minerva, it is Tyto capensis, and it has long been flying south, circling low over an expanding world of drought.

'Even the northeastern United States - a region normally omitted from any serious talk about domestic drought - is at risk, said Dorothy Peteet, a senior research scientist with NASA's Goddard Institute for Space Studies.

A series of sediment cores drilled from New York marshes confirm that mega droughts can grip the region: One spanned from 850 to 1350 A.D., Peteet said. And shorter, more intense droughts have driven sea water far up the Hudson River, past towns such as Poughkeepsie that depend on the river for drinking supplies.

"We're just beginning to map the extent, but we know it was pervasive," she said. "There are hints of drought all the way up to Maine."'

That atomic bomb called mass culture

 (A Miss Vie Nuove contestant.  Vie Nuove was the weekly magazine of the Italian Communist Party.  In other words, this is a PCI beauty pageant, which searched for "a healthy and robust girl of the people of typical Italian appearance")

Certainly something tremendous happened.  We are all afraid of the atomic bomb, but that only could go off. This has already exploded.

Vittorio De Seta, on the post-war transformation of Italian working class culture. 

Pasolini's "anthropological mutation" finds its post-nuclear fallout origin story.  And the weirder of the politically-edged pop directors - Questi, Sollima, Germi, Bava, Corbucci - come to appear like so many Toxic Avengers, who went deep into the radiation zone of mass culture and brought back an unholy glow, one that neither the PCI nor its further left antagonists knew what the hell to do with.

A protest against that which will outlast the collapse of capital


“It’s like a friend telling you that he will stop smoking in 10 years,” said Jochen Stay, spokesman for the anti-nuclear body Ausgestrahlt (Radiated), which has mobilised protestors against the shipment.

“You are not going to congratulate them just yet.”

Germany, like the rest of Europe, has no permanent storage site for the waste, which will remain dangerous for thousands of years.