Friday, August 11, 2017

Some Thoughts on Colonialism and Science Fiction



Within the context of the recent Hugo Awards, science fiction writer, Cixin Liu made the following comment, “If the aliens would like to attack us, they would never consider whether you’re from China or the U.S.”   The comment is obviously meant to reference a common humanity, one that spans the divide between two countries who have a long history of conflict.  It also implicitly references a common interest of Chinese and U.S. fans in science fictional narratives.  So, we’re all human, and we all like science fiction.  At the same time, it also mirrors a curious remark made by Ronald Reagan to an apparently perplex Mikhail Gorbachev during diplomatic talks.  Reagan evidently noted that the two countries would by necessity unite in response to a common Martian threat.  It should be noted that this narrative structure has been used in a lot of popular science fictional narratives to imagine a United Earth, from blockbuster movies to far more esoteric narratives.  But, does this basic premise hold up?  I don’t think so.

It operates on the premise of an alien attack that lacks any tactics, strategy, or any subtlety.  When we turn to the history of colonization, which these narratives from the time of H.G. Wells[1] have been referencing, we see a far different approach to attack.  Within those context, whether the destruction of the indigenous populations of the Americas or the colonizing projects in Asia and Africa, we see a process in which the colonizers make temporary alliances with local elites, create divisions within populations and exacerbate already existing tensions.  This process is intimately linked with the process of knowledge production and categorization. The enlightenment’s love of the construction of taxonomies and the process of the primitive accumulation of capital are profoundly intertwined.  Perhaps to put it more simply, the desire to understand through category is not easily separable from a desire to control.  Within this process, knowledge production is not simply a reflection of existing conditions, but an active reshaping of those conditions, at times deliberately, at times accidentally.[2]

 So, if we look at India, for instance, we see an entire religious category, the “Hindu”, constructed out of a multiplicity of religious traditions that often overlap, but also often contradict one another.  These categories then are taken up by the populations themselves and often take a life of their own, for instance, in the form of “Hindu Nationalism.”[3]  We can see a similar process in the creation of the concept of blood quantum designed by the United States government to decide who qualifies for tribal membership or the construction of townships in South Africa.  In effect, colonial governance continues along the same lines as imperialist aggression, constructing an elaborate and hierarchical taxonomy of the governed population, creating divisions and rivalries built upon the always inadequate resources distributed by the colonial regime.  In that process, the categories constructed become lived experience for those who are classified under them.  After all, it defines what access they have to resources, education, and employment.  It also often constructs local elites whose power is enhanced by the colonial process, who are invested in the imperial government.[4]

This all adds up to a very elaborate way of saying that there is a very good chance that our future alien overlords may care very deeply about the differences between the United States and China, and further divisions that may in fact be deeply incomprehensible or meaningless to us.  I see no particular reason why an aggressive alien species that has clearly developed the advanced forms of military technology needed for such an invasion wouldn’t also be able to develop the same set of knowledge skills that allowed Europe to transform itself from a backwater into the center of the world system.


[1] War of the Worlds, First Men on the Moon
[2] Too many sources to be mentioned
[3] The basics of this get covered by Karen Armstrong in her book, Fields of Blood, but there’s a lot more scholarship on the topic, particularly on the part of post-colonial scholars.
[4] See Mahmood Mamdani, Citizen and Subject: Contemporary Africa and the Legacy of Late Colonialism, which this analysis borrows heavily from

Tuesday, August 1, 2017

M'Boom Live

I came across this recording on YouTube in my attempts to find music suitable for playing while my students worked with each other on their papers, and thought I would share it with you here.  It's a early seventies recording of Max Roach's percussion group M'Boom, which he founded in 1970. 


Friday, July 28, 2017

Pre-election thoughts on the protests at that time

I wrote this material about three months before the election in response to the massive protests that were occurring at the time.  In many ways, the spirit of these protests continued on through to the first few months of the Trump administration, particularly in the form of the protests at the airports that occurred when the Muslim ban was first announced, but also in the form of street fights with the so-called alt right and the far more legal and formal protests of the women's march.  It also took a far smaller and local form through protests of representatives and phone calls as well.  However, it seems like that high tide of protest has at least ebbed.  My hope is that we will see such forms of ungovernability soon and in larger numbers.  I put up the essay as a marker of the time period.  I'm not sure if I would write it the same way at this point, but I still think its worth putting up.

            In the proliferation of such a massive amount of political action within the past year, particularly around the Black Lives Matter movement, I found myself thinking of a passage within Rosa Luxemburg's treatise on the Russian revolution of 1905, titled "The Mass Strike".  Luxemburg exams the phenomenon of the mass strike within the revolution as both a critique of the top down notions of struggle as developed by mainstream of the main intellectual of the SPD, Karl Kautsky, along with the ahistorical concept of the mass strike as developed by anarchists.  In opposition to both, Luxemburg emphasizes the mass strike as a phenomenon that arises out of the self-development of the proletariat through the process of the class struggle.  Through that engagement, Luxemburg emphasizes both the multiplicity of the struggle, along with intensity of the struggles.  She notes:

            The mass strike, as the Russian Revolution shows it to us, is such a changeable phenomenon that it reflects all the phases of the political and economic struggle, all stages and factors of the revolution. Its adaptability, its efficiency, the factors of its origin are constantly changing. It suddenly opens new and wide perspectives of the revolution when it appears to have already arrived in a narrow pass and where it is impossible for anyone to reckon upon it with any degree of certainty. It flows now like a broad billow over the whole kingdom, and now divides into a gigantic network of narrow streams; now it bubbles forth from under the ground like a fresh spring and now is completely lost under the earth. Political and economic strikes, mass strikes and partial strikes, demonstrative strikes and fighting strikes, general strikes of individual branches of industry and general strikes in individual towns, peaceful wage struggles and street massacres, barricade fighting – all these run through one another, run side by side, cross one another, flow in and over one another – it is a ceaselessly moving, changing sea of phenomena. And the law of motion of these phenomena is clear: it does not lie in the mass strike itself nor in its technical details, but in the political and social proportions of the forces of the revolution. (Luxemburg, The Mass Strike)

            At the most immediate level, we can see that Luxemburg recognizes what Louis Althusser might later refer to as a moment of revolutionary fusion as occurring within the years of her analysis.  An almost infinite array of discrete and concrete struggles or contradictions came together, aligned themselves in a manner to challenge the very nature of the empire.  But her insight moves beyond that initial insight.  If we see a moment of revolutionary fusion, it does not take the form of a synthesis.  Instead the struggles maintain their multiplicity, their inability to form a whole.  At the same time, the struggles are marked by a form of indistinction, of mutation, 'peaceful wage struggles' become 'street massacres, barricade fighting'.  Through this description, we can see an embrace of what Hobbes phobically linked to the figure of the multitude, a disjointed and militant mob that refuses to become a people and refuses to be governed.  Luxemburg draws on the naturalistic metaphor of the sea to describe the pervasiveness of the social movements of the time and their ability to adapt and mutate themselves in the face of a multiplicity of efforts to repress that refusal.  The movements ‘bubble forth’ ‘ceaselessly’ move, and constitute a ‘changing sea of phenomena.’  She ties that movement to the strength of the revolutionary forces in the country, to the logic running counter to capital.  One one hand, these movements reflect the multiplicity that is at the heart of the concept of use value, the multiplicity of needs that continually exists exogenously to the logic of exchange, even as exchange is absolutely dependent on that multiplicity.  On the other hand, the movements constitute a kind of counter flow to the flows of labor and commodities that define capitalist accumulation.  It’s a flow that refuses the coagulation into the logic of exploited dead labor, the infinite exchangeability of labor time.  Inasmuch, these movements point to an alterity always present within capital, the potential for another way of life.

            In the past year, we have been seeing a similar moment in our own country, albeit with a smaller magnitude than the one that Luxemburg discusses, largely, but not exclusively around the phenomenon labelled Black Lives Matter[1].[2]  To rehearse material that is undoubtedly familiar to the audience, we have seen an explosion of demonstrations in response to police violence.[3]  That violence has become a focal point to challenge the ever-changing structures of white supremacy that at are so significant in structuring the logic of capitalist accumulation, both at the present moment and through the entire history of the country.  It’s taken the form of insurrectionary violence[4] in Ferguson and other cities, objects hurled at police officers, freeway occupations around the country, peaceful marches of school children, lock-downs of police stations, demands made to Democratic presidential candidates, and a variety of other conventional protest.  The truth is that any effort to document the rich variety of protest will necessarily fail in capturing the rich diversity of activities that has occurred in the past year, and any effort to demarcate these protests as being a part of a particular moment is necessarily going to erase the histories that feed into these protests and inform their logic.  At the same time, we can see a particular language of action, slogans, and social formations that are particular to this moment. And we can see the impact of those movements on the presidential campaign through the disruption of the Sanders and Clinton campaigns, through explosive protests against the racist authoritarian nature of the Trump Campaign.[5] Through those actions, it has introduced a genuinely democratic and agonistic dimension to the stage managed theatrics of the presidential campaign.  The movement has also challenged the connections between the traditional trade union movement and police unions, and has succeeded in creating a meaningful wedge between these formations.  It has also formed alliances with elements of those traditional structures.  But perhaps most significantly, it has transformed the freeway, that representation of the flow of labor, of commodities, into a representation of a profound refusal, through its blockage.  We’ve seen this tactic not only employed in cities traditionally associated with protest, but across the country.[6]

            Within this web of activity, we can see the possibility of a new form of live, although perhaps only in a negative form, through the refusal of so many to be governed by the same oppressive institutions that have committed such violence.  We can perhaps see the capacities of such a movement in its spectral form, in the phobic descriptions of the movement by the recent comments by Milwaukee Sheriff David Clarke at the Republican National Convention.  Clarke marks the organization, along with the Occupy movements, as breaking an unspoken and unwritten code of conduct for the country, and therefore standing outside the respectable conventions of protest, and representing anarchy.  It’s initially difficult to negotiate this description with the often quite modest political reforms called for by the official representatives of the movements, but it makes sense when we look at the protests themselves, which have pushed far beyond these official demands in their radicality.  It also makes sense when we see the refusal of even the reform branch of the movement to be formally incorporated into the political system.[7]  If anything, we have seen an intensification of this refusal in the continuation of street protest, despite the calls for official calls for calm after sniper attack in Dallas.  Through such actions, we see a movement that is increasingly unconcerned with the preservation of the forces of the status quo.  At the same time, it would be a mistake to ignore the precarity of the contingent web of alliances that created this potential historic bloc.  At the most obvious level, there is the threat of the opportunistic incorporation of this formation into the Democratic Party, a threat that is most notably media personality and former mayoral candidate, DeRay Mckesson.  However, the conflicts that defined the freeway occupation in Minneapolis between activists seem like a greater threat.  Without getting into the details, the arguments represent long historical divisions that intersect questions of identity and tactics.  They represent the profoundly divided nature of the proletariat itself, and aren’t easily resolved through simple slogans.  The question the movement and those who wish to see it succeed have in front of them is how to make this multiplicity productive and grow.  We can see the violence of the backlash beginning to grow.


[1] Although it may actually involve more people than were involved in the insurrectionary activities in the Russian Empire at the time.
[2] Given some of the confusions around the slogan, I should note that I am referring to the larger movement that has congealed around the term, rather than the specific network that has named itself Black Lives Matter.  The distinction is important since the movement is far larger than the network and contains both elements far more insurrectionary than the network, along with highly opportunist individuals and groupings tied to the Democratic Party and Teach For America.
[3] There is a need more a more intense engagement with the logic of policing, one that could be informed by the work of Ruth Wilson Gilmore, who draws from the earlier work of Marx and Foucault amongst others.  There is also a larger conversation within the Black Radical Tradition, as well.
[4] It’s important to note that this has been largely limited to property damage, but not exclusively.
[5] Which was produced by a large intersection of actors, but this could be said about the broad phenomenon, as well.
[6] The tactic itself deserves more discussion than provided here, and it would be a mistake to think of the action as a unified.  Instead, we have seen very different approaches to taking over freeways.  Some have been mass actions, while others have been controlled protests by small groups.  Some are deliberately designed as acts of civil disobedience, while others are taken up by parties who are not interested in being arrested. 
[7] Once again, we definitely see some opportunist exceptions, but the network has largely refused this incorporation.

Thursday, July 27, 2017

Cognition and Fantasy: China Mieville's Subversion of Fantastic Literature (a rough draft of a talk)

It's been a while since I have posted and I have woefully failed to live up to my previous plans as discussed on the blog. I posted nothing on the Hugo Awards and don't plan to at this point, and most of my other plans have been forgotten. A lot of this had to do with travel, but it also had to do with lack of inspiration. However, during this time, I managed to get an article accepted for publication and gave a short talk at the Marxist Literary Group talk at UC Davis. I thought I would post that talk to get the blog started up again. This is lightly revised, but I plan on putting together a far more polished and expanded version of the paper in the future for another venue.

A narrative thread in the second book of the Bas Lag trilogy, The Scar, offers a potentially productive entrance into an analysis of the work of China Mieville’s relationship to the fantastic. The novel itself shifts focus from the city of New Crobuzon in the first novel to the sea, following the voyage of Bellis Coldwine as she seeks to escape the city into exile. The ship she is on is eventually captured by a group of pirates and is taken to their floating city, Armada. However, the significant part of the narrative for us begins just before the capture of the ship, with the diplomatic visit to Salkrikaltor City, the city of the cray, that introduces Bellis’ companion through most of the voyage, Silas Fennec. Fennec is immediately introduced as a significant figure within the government of New Crobuzon, and commandeers the ship for an unnamed purpose. However, his plans are thwarted by the pirate takeover of the ship. After that occurs, Fennec eventually turns to the protagonist, Bellis, for support. In the process of getting her support, Fennec tells a variety of different stories why he left the isolated grindylow community that he had been living with for years. The initial story involved breaking a mysterious taboo of the society, and his story shifts to involve a conflict with a shaman, an inexplicable invasion of the city of New Crobuzon, and finally, the theft of a sacred magical object.

In each of these stories, the grindylow are marked as the mysterious and threatening other that simultaneously threatens and stabilizes the meaning of the imperial center of New Crobuzon. The grindylow are inexplicable, and mark the limit point of reason. Through the invocation of such a threat, Fennec is able to convince Bellis to send a secret message to the city of New Crobuzon, which, unknown to her and her friends, also includes information about the city of Armada. When this betrayal is discovered, Bellis and her friends are taken prisoner and Fennec must go on the run, increasingly dependent on the magical device stolen from the grindylow, which begins to transform him and is interpreted by Bellis as the ultimate reason why the grindylow hunt the ship.

However, when the grindylow eventually catch up to the ship and overtake it, they contemptuously slap the magical totem out of Bellis’ hands when she offers it to them to abandon the attack and gather up Fennec and his notebook full of the shipping routes that he planned to give to the government of New Crobuzon. The collection of stories that Fennec had been telling throughout the narrative turn out to be a series of lies, designed to appeal to the prejudices of Bellis, and to cover up the genuine goal of undermining the trade monopoly of the equally rational grindylow by the city of New Crobuzon. This reversal is emblematic of the narrative structures of China Mieville’s novels, upending and subverting the conventions of fantastic literature and their relation to cognition. If fantastic literature is the literature of limits, whether in the form of the limits of cognition within the framework of Todorov or transgression in the work of Rosemary Jackson, Mieville continually shows up those limits as ideological constructs through a parody of an expectations of the fantastic. Through this parody, he produces a kind of cognitive fantasy that folds the liminal imagery of the fantastic into the flow of capital and its resistances.

However, this term, cognitive fantasy is in direct contradiction to the generic analysis of Darko Suvin, who implicitly inspires this term. Suvin is an early critic of science fiction, and was one of the founders of Science Fiction Studies. His book Metamorphoses of Science Fiction is an early attempt to classify science fiction as a genre through a series of oppositions that shores up the definition of the genre through those distinctions. Suvin argues that science fiction can be distinguished from other genres via a concept of a multi-dimensional cognitive estrangement, that both separates it from realism due to its estrangement and away from myth, fantasy, and folklore due to its multi-dimensional and cognitive nature. Suvin separates the novum or innovation of science fiction from an emphasis on the formalities of technology and scientific data that comes out of the tradition of Jules Verne. Instead this novum is linked to the anticipation for another future and the oscillation between the social laws that define that future and the laws that define contemporary society. The estrangement provided by science fiction operates between the oscillation between the reader’s critical engagement with the alternate environment as it exists in the novel and the world as it is ideologically constructed.

For our purposes, Suvin’s oppositions need to be explored more fully. Most significantly for our conversation, science fiction must be defined in opposition to the genre of fantasy through the category of cognition. Suvin frames this opposition in the following manner.

“Even less congenial to SF is the fantasy (ghost, horror, Gothic, weird) tale, a genre committed to the interposition of anti-cognitive laws into the empirical environment. Where the folktale is indifferent, the fantasy is inimical to the empirical world and its laws. The thesis could be defended that the fantasy is significant insofar as it is impure and fails to establish a superordinated maleficent world of its own, causing a grotesque tension between arbitrary supernatural phenomena and the empirical norms they infiltrate” (Suvin).

The fantastic is defined by its antagonism to the ‘empirical world and its laws.’ Rather than exploring the possibilities for transformation within the contradictions and tensions of the world as it exists, the fantastic creates a form of estrangement that exists in a sort of malevolent tension with the world. The fantastic is a literature of irrationality and limits to the possibility of critical cognition. In a sense, we are not that far away from the definitions of the genre offered by Todorov and Jackson, even if we are looking at those rules from a drastically different and phobic perspective. The fantastic shatter the possibility of certainty, setting up a set of static laws even as the genre transgresses them. The monstrous images of the fantastic freeze the ability to develop a complex and nuanced understand of the world. For Suvin, the estrangement of the fantastic represents a reactionary trend within literature. It’s a deeply reactionary artform, defined by irrationality and escapism, and is one that Suvin sees as a constant threat to the cognitive dimension of science fiction.

However, Mieville’s narrative structure throws the generic schema of Suvin into crisis through his hybridization of science fictional and fantasy generic forms. At initial reading, this process of hybridization might not be of great concern in Suvin’s interpretation of the narrative forms. After all, Suvin recognizes the influences that science fiction draws from a variety of sources, including fantastic literature. However, he largely interprets those negatively, examining how a variety of pulp influences draw science fictional narratives away from a commitment to cognitive estrangement into a variety of forms of mystification. This is where Mieville’s narrative becomes so problematic for Suvin’s narrative framework. His work is committed to a rigorous exploration of the social, political, and cultural structures of its world, while at the same time, engaging with the history of fantastic literature in its formal structure. Mieville imagines a materialist engagement with the fantastic, producing a set of naturalistic rules for the functioning of magic and fantastic creatures, and more significantly, by placing those creatures into a history of domination and resistance, of exploitation and racialization that critically comments on the history of colonialist exploitation of the past 500 years, rather than simply replicating its effects.

Mieville hasn’t limited his critique of Suvin to the implicit material contained in his fiction either, giving critical lectures on the subject and taking it on in his essays. All of this material works to reject the distinction between the non-cognitive and reactionary fantastic and the cognitive and progressive science fiction. In his talk at Kansas University, Mieville engages with the limitations of the theoretical framework as developed by Suvin and Carl Freedman, showing how the “cognitive effect” emphasized by both authors is a product of a kind of rhetorical maneuver, a trick on the part of the author to get the reader to get them to accept the cognitive effect of the work in question. Mieville notes that this largely operates as a consensual game, but that the logic implicit in the work of Suvin and Freedman evades the way that the modes of scientific cognition that both celebrate are formed out of and are embedded in the logic and violence of capitalist accumulation. He rejects the ‘epistemological firewall’ implicit in the concept of cognition and argues that science fiction and fantasy should be seen as slightly different modes of estrangement, both deeply embedded in the ideological matrix of capitalist accumulation.

Mieville’s critique certainly represents an engagement with a dominant strain of reading Suvin’s work, one that emphasizes the cognition of the scientific method over Suvin’s interest in in temporality and historical transformation. Insofar as that engagement with Suvin reproduces the epistemological firewall discussed earlier, it represents an important intervention, but it potentially misses out on the other dimension of Suvin, the cognitive process that challenges the inevitability of capitalist accumulation. That other dimension of cognition, a definition that is connected to the idea of cognitive mapping as borrowed from Kevin Lynch in The Image of the City by Fredric Jameson, can potentially connect the two through another notion of cognition. Within this context, Mieville’s engagement of the genre can be perhaps understood through a structurally possible, but unexplored dimension of Suvin’s work, which recognizes the ability of fantasy to reduce the cognitive dimension of science fiction, but leaves out the ability to imagine a cognitive or materialist fantasy. As Mieville notes in his discussion of Carl Freedman’s extension of Suvin’s work, “…if the predicates for a fantasy are clearly never-possible but are treated systemically within the fantastic work, then its cognition effect is precisely that normally associated with SF (Mieville 339). Although the comment is not followed up on in the essay, the interest in this sort of cognitive or even materialist fantasy can be found elsewhere.

The building blocks of Mieville’s construction of a materialist or cognitive fantasy can be found in his introductory essay on H.P. Lovecraft’s The Mountains of Madness.

“Lovecraft is pulled to do this in part by the “scientism,” the materialist articulation, of his vision, which embeds horror in material reality. Through a key driver behind this new form of weird was the specific political/cultural apocalypse of the war, in its own aesthetics a materialist “scientific” weird implies a universe that has always been monstrous and implacable. Lovecraft’s uncanny, in other words, expresses this radically new crisis precisely by depicting an eternal and unsympathetic uncanny.

This is the paradox in this utterly new kind of fantasy. In expressing the ‘supernatural’ in materialist terms, Lovecraft will not use the standard figures of supernature, with all their mythic baggage. But his materialism means it is not just in his creatures that horror lies, but in the material reality that they are a part—and that awe-ful reality is eternal. Lovecrafts’s radical innovations must seem to have resonated for eons” (Mieville xvi).

Although it is an odd place to begin framing a materialist fantasy, Mieville sees in Lovcraft a shifting of the topography of fantasy. The horror of the first world war causes a dramatic shift Lovecraft’s fantastic world, shifting it from the supernatural to natural and the material. The horror of the world is a product of the indifference of the natural laws of the universe, and is no longer the product of a supernatural good and evil, terms that simply are mistakenly placed on the indifferent phenomenon by a primitive and mistaken humanity. At the same time, there is certainly still a dimension of mystification within this framework, as it expresses ‘this radically new crisis precisely by depicting an eternal and unsympathetic uncanny.’ The cause for the innovation, a distinctively historical shift, is still occluded from the discussion. At the same time, the fantastic is not a product of a supernatural dimension intruding into the empirical world. If the fantastic cannot be understood by humanity, that lack of understanding is produced through the cognitive limitations of humanity itself, and the monstrous creatures operate within their own unnamed naturalistic expectations.

The distinct shift that Mieville introduces into the genre is the dimension of historicity. The fantastic is not only made material, but made historical, notably in a manner that intersects with the forms of mystification and obfuscation that are embedded in the commodity form itself. For Mieville, this critical engagement can allow for a critical engagement with capitalism’s modes of domination that are made invisible in the ‘zero world’ of ‘naturalism.’ Mieville notes, “Under capitalism, the social relations of the everyday—that “fantastic form”—are the dreams, the grotesque”, of the commodities that rule” (Mieville, Marxism and Fantasy 336). The estrangement of science fiction may help in revealing those structures of domination, the ‘social relations of the everyday” that are the “grotesque of the rule of the commodity, and point to the possibility of another structure of social relations. The fantastic no longer simply is a symptom of the contradictions of capital, a sign of the deluge of the counterrevolution to use the terms of a later essay by Darko Suvin, but a way into understanding the grotesque relations created through the commodity form. But Mieville’s transformation of the fantastic genre goes beyond the terms that he sets out for it, engaging with the history of the monstrous images of the fantastic, making them material, and using them to explore the conflicts embedded in the history of what might be provisionally and inadequately called racial capitalism. Mieville drags the liminal and supernatural constructions of the fantastic and introduce them into the rationality of capitalism and more significantly puts them into the struggles that point to the limit of that rationality.

In this sense, Mieville’s conceptualization of the fantastic aligns itself far more with the concept of grotesque realism that Mikhail Bakhtin uses to describe the novels of Rabelais than the concepts of the fantastic developed by either Rosemary Jackson or Todorov. The concept of degradation as developed in Bakhtin’s analysis of Rabelais is helpful. Within this frame work, Bakhtin notes,

“To degrade is to bury, to sow, and to kill simultaneously, in order to bring forth something more and better. To degrade an object does not imply merely hurling it into the void of nonexistence, into absolute destruction, but to hurl it down to the reproductive lower stratum, the zone in which conception and a new birth takes place. Grotesque realism knows no other lower level; it is the fruitful earth and the womb, it is always conceiving.” (Bakhtin 21)

To be sure, there are elements of Bakhtin’s description that we need to jettison, its emphasis of the rural, the organic, the local, but the emphasis of the creative powers that the material world and the body provides a powerful tool to read the politics of Mieville’s novel. It also can be found in the supernatural elements of the story; the realms of hell, magic, etc. are all dragged into the realm of the material, rendering them up for the gristmill of capital and labor, power and counter power. To return to the image of the grave provided by Bakhtin, it is the continual production of corpses and the fear of death that continually draws the fantastic elements of the book into the productive womb of materiality. Along with this, the fantastic is continually incorporated into the instrumental world of the bourgeoisie, revealing its own fantastic nature. But that materiality goes beyond the modes of parody that are invoked above, which is represented by the concept of remaking in the Bas Lag novels. Remaking is a form of punishment in the world, a product of bio-thaumaturgy, a sort of rationalized magic that is used to manipulate the body, and more specifically used to punish criminals by transforming them in a manner that replicated the nature of their crimes. The scene that exemplifies this process in the first novel, Perdido Street Station, involved a man whose flesh was manipulated to look like a bird-like garuda. The punishment was in response to the man’s attempt to steal a painting with the portrait of a garuda. The former thief describes the punishment as such, “Magister said since I was so impressed with garuda, I could—“ his breath caught for a moment “—I could become one.” The punishment operates as a cruel sort of parody.

The figure before Isaac and Derkhan shivered and scratched its stomach. Its skin was pale and pockmarked with disease and cold. Isaac’s eyes wove all over its body in dismay. Bizarre nodes of tissue burst from its bunched toes: claws drawn by children. Its head was swathed in feathers, but feathers of all sizes and shapes, jammed at random from its crown to its neck in a thick, uneven, insulating layer. The eyes that peered myopically at Isaac and Derkhan were human eyes, fighting to open lids encrusted in rheum and pus. The beak was large and stained, like old pewter.

Behind the wretched creature stretched a pair of dirty, foul-smelling wings. They were no more than six feet from tip to tip. As Isaac watched, they half-opened, jerked and twitched spastically. Tiny pieces of organic muck spilt form them as they shuddered.

The creature’s beak opened and, underneath it, Isaac caught a glimpse of lips forming the words, nostrils above. The beak was nothing but a roughly made fixture shoved and sealed into place like a gas-mask over the nose and mouth he realized. (Mieville 100)

The process of remaking is a deeply material process and transforms the forms of alterity implicit in fantastic literature into a deeply material, historical, and social process. The abject body of the thief turned remade is described in detail, marking the abject physical transformation of the body. It is a process that looks careless at the surface level, with its ‘claws drawn by children’ and head covered in ‘feathers of all sizes and shapes’, but beneath that surface carelessness is deliberation, designed to punish and distinguish the prisoner’s body. The disciplinary process of the state and its ability to categorize and discipline state populations is mapped onto the abject body of the criminal. By physically marking and transforming the body of the convicted, the act of Remaking becomes a way of producing a disciplinary marker on the surplus army of the unemployed, placing them outside the space of respectable society, marking them as a universally hated class. It both represents the naked power of the state, its capacity to inflict extraordinary level of pain and suffering on those who transgress its order, and a mode of abject alterity that is hated and feared. This same power is explored within the next novel, not as a way to return the punished body to its originary state, but to heal and make that body productive, to explore the possibilities implicit in that body, but both acts are twin sides of this intense materiality, a process of remaking the body, and exploring its monstrosity. The fantastic is then engaged with as a mode to engage with that history and to think through it, but that engagement is dependent on a reframing of the genre that no longer accepts it on its own terms, one that potentially could be understood under the sign of cognition.




Friday, May 12, 2017

Some Thoughts About The Response to a Controversial Everyday Feminism Article

A think-piece by the website, Everyday Feminism, has produced quite a bit of criticism on a variety of platforms, from Facebook to a variety of blogs. The criticism shouldn’t have been terribly surprising. After all, the blog managed to write an entire post about the proper way for employers to respond to food insecurity without suggesting the possibility of paying the person a living wage. In response to the criticism, the site has pulled the essay, and issued what can fairly be called a substantial apology. Within that context, I suspect that the whole issue is going to disappear relatively quickly, and will be overtaken by some other controversy.

However, I thought it might make sense to return to the controversy from an analytical, rather than polemical framework, and attempt to read the posting as a symptom of the present moment. While there are some real reasons to criticize the website, and its approach to understanding social phenomenon, I want to avoid focusing on its particular foibles and think about the way that the response stands in for a wide swath of behaviors. In order to do that, I propose to look at the initial attempt an apology, instead of the original article or the more substantial apology that followed.

The initial apology attempted to frame the problems of the essay as a failure of rhetorical context, simultaneously apologizing for the rhetorical failure, and attempting to defend the larger message of the think-piece.

We've received a lot of pushback on this piece and we appreciate all of the critical perspectives you brought to the table.

We agree with you that raising wages and pursuing economic justice is, first and foremost, what's needed to alleviate food insecurity.

For the author (who commented numerous times here), sometimes our survival can't wait for raised wages, and in some places (like non-profits), wages can't be raised at all. Sometimes meeting people where they are, while also pursuing other avenues for justice, is what sustains us in the immediate moment.

However, that nuance was lost, which is on us. Our editorial team is discussing the best way to move forward and we will keep you posted.

Thank you for always pushing us to do better – we are the platform we are because of the amazing community that surrounds us.

The message begins by acknowledging the need for economic justice, but then argues that the demand for higher wages is in some sense out of reach, either in the short term or completely out of reach, when referring to non-profit employment. It then tries to retrospectively reframe the article as one that operated under this assumption, one that took for granted both the need for higher wages, and the inaccessibility of those wages in the short term. They effectively accomplish this shift through the phrase, “that nuance was lost’ which then shifts the substantive argument to a rhetorical one. While I think there is a reason to be skeptical of this reformatting, I’m going to accept it for the sake of the more significant assumptions that are embedded in that argument.

That more significant issue is the way a wage increase is framed as a political demand, one that is either a distant goal or completely inaccessible. Small, informal and interpersonal forms of activism are the only forms of change that are possible. We see a profound shift in the terrain of possibility. Practical political work is no longer incremental reform, but the act of scraping by to survive, or the facilitation of that contingent survival. The idea of a wage increase, previously a modest and incremental political goal, has become remote and almost utopian in nature. Lest we think that this shift is an exceptional one, we can look at the common-sense response on the part of many rank and file liberals to the Sanders campaign. The fairly modest suggestions of an expansion of Medicare and the subsidy of public education were derided as utopian delusions.

There are a number of legitimate reasons to be skeptical of our ability to accomplish these modest, incremental goals at both the micro and macro levels. After all, we have seen the power of unions gutted, and the wholesale destruction and neutralization of any number of social movements. At the macro level, we can see a series of concentrated efforts to increase the political power of capital, and to neutralize the strength of poor people’s movements. But efforts such as the one under discussion never frame these limitations within the framework of political defeat. Such a framework is pessimistic, but it nonetheless understands the present moment as one that is constructed, for the lack of a better phrase, within the terrain of a wide swath of social struggles. It would provide an analysis that would mark the present moment as one that was constructed through a lens of contingent political struggle, and point to ways in which that present could transformed.

Instead of this mode of analysis, we are offered an analysis that operates within the generic logic of ‘realism.’ This generic logic is signaled within the piece with the following language, “Sometimes meeting people where they are, while also pursuing other avenues for justice, is what sustains us in the immediate moment.” The ‘immediate moment’ is the moment of reality, while ‘the other avenues of justice’ are never given thought beyond the gesture. Through that process, the ‘immediate moment is reified and the social relations of the present are effectively naturalized. We might think of this as the moment where social movements embrace the logic embedded in Margaret Thatcher’s famous phrase, “There is no alternative.”

The political theorist Jacques Ranciere provides a useful framework for understanding the framework operating within the aesthetics of this realism. He notes, “Realism claims to be that sane attitude of the mind that sticks to observable realities. It is in fact something quite different: it is the police logic of order, which asserts, in all circumstances, that it is only doing the only thing possible to do." (Ranciere 132) Realism is, in effect, the aesthetic logic of Thatcher’s phrase. It justifies the existing order by positing its existence as natural and inevitable. It effaces the possibility of transformation, and marks it off as impossible, as utopian. Through such an engagement, it becomes a form of enforcing that order, of operating within the logic of the police, as Ranciere and Foucault understand that term, as defenders of the hierarchical structures of a particular society.

It’s perhaps unsurprising that we find the expression of this sort of logic even among those who are ostensibly trying to transform the world. After all, we operate within a world that is constructed through those modes of policing, in opposition to a long history of social movements. Those modes are articulated through a dense grid of institutions, social practices, and media representations that are enmeshed in our daily lives. It’s easy to understand why we might begin to naturalize these projects; after all, they all but constitute our grid of intelligibility. In many ways, it’s very difficult to imagine meaningfully transforming it. But that has been true of every dominant order. We have seen profound challenges to those previous orders that imagine profoundly different social structures, and have managed to change or destroy those previous systems, even if they frequently fail themselves. That engagement depends on a continual process of estrangement, a process of denaturalizing the categories of daily life, recognizing their historicity, their contradictions, and their possibility of change.

What comes after that moment of tarrying with the negative? I’m not sure.  

Friday, April 21, 2017

planting a tree as metaphor for long term organizing

    I recently read a most likely apocryphal story about Hegel during the period of the French Revolution.  The story isn't terribly complicated; Hegel, Holderlin, and Schelling took the time from their studies to plant a tree of liberty.  Despite the very different directions the three thinkers took, the fictional act gestured towards a commitment to the radical possibilities embodied by the revolution.  The act of planting a tree doesn't strike me as the worst metaphor for a radical political project.  It gestures towards three substantial aspects of any political project committed to radical and systemic transformation, the fact that any such project will take time, the care that needs to be put into such  a project, and finally, the immense contingency implicit in such a project.

      Time:  The act of planting of tree implicitly has a fairly long period of time in mind.  It's going to take most trees at least twenty of thirty years to develop any significant growth, and even fast growing trees take a few years to take hold.   Most radical or progressive reformist groups work within a considerably shorter period of time, often only thinking about the next rally or, if the group is particularly ambitious, the next year long campaign.  Even NGOs tend to think within a shorter timeline, developing, at most, five year plans.  In this sense, we can think of the activities of most radical or reformist organizations as being profoundly opportunist in their organizational practices, if not their rhetoric, in the framework that is implicit in both the work of Paulo Virno and V.I. Lenin .  Within both thinkers' frameworks, opportunism operates on the premise of accepting the rules set of the existing system without challenging the rules and structures of that system.  By refusing to or perhaps more significantly being unable to create long term goals and projects, radical and reformist projects find themselves playing by the rules of the systems that they ostensibly oppose.  I think this opportunist framework is an effect, rather than a cause of the profound destruction of the counter-systemic movements of the second half of the twentieth century.  However, it's difficult to imagine escaping this situation without having the resources and foresight to begin the process of developing meaningfully long future projects.

      It's notable that the thirty year time period that it takes for a tree to grow is remarkably close the the medium time-frame that Immanuel Wallerstein posits as the length of the medium term project that is largely ignored by the counter-systemic movements of the present within the United States. Wallerstein opposes this medium time frame to a set of long term goals, which take the form of large, global projects that take the form of abstract concepts such as communism, the end of exploitation, etc.  Short term goals take the form of an organizing campaign such as organizing a workplace, a campaign to end a particular practice at an institution such as using sweat shop labor, or often in the case of subcultural activism, simply organizing a demonstration or an action.  This work involves immediate goals.  How do we get people to the rally?  Can we get media attention?  Can we disrupt the actions of decision makers in a way that causes them to change their behavior?  These are all important questions, but they don't lead to giving any meaningful thought to the larger goals that the movements ostensibly have.  Instead, their framework is largely negative.  How can we disrupt?  How can we translate that disruption into policy makers changing their actions?  I'm not saying that these are irrelevant questions, but they abandon the element of planning to the structures we ostensibly oppose.  They also abandon the question of how we form new forms of social structure and create new modes of governance within those forms of social structure, and what kinds of representation will define new forms of democratic practice.

Care:  To return to the metaphor of the tree, it takes quite a bit of care to get a tree to take root and adjust to the environment in which you have place it.  This is notably true for Southern California because of the lack of rain and its poor soil.  However, it's a metaphor that works elsewhere.  At the most obvious level, the creation of any social structure is dependent on formal and informal structures of social reproduction.  You need to not only bring new people into an organization or movement, but you need to create social spaces that cause those people to stay in those structures, to allow them a sense of meaning and participation in those organizations and movements, and to create structures of care.  These are questions that are taken quite seriously at the most immediate level by anarchists, particularly the focus on self care.  However, those same organizations have difficulty imagining how you might participate in these movements when you're thirty or forty, rather than twenty, or how to be a part of a movement when you have children or you have a disability.  I don't think these are problems that can be solved through a movement that continues to operate as a subculture, that is as a community largely produced through voluntary and informal labor.  It should be additionally noted that those informal structures tend to unduly burden women with the 'traditional' tasks of reproductive labor, leaving them unpaid and undervalued.  We need structures and institutions that we can plug into, and that is going to involve getting people money to do those jobs.  There's a real question of how we do this and continue to hold onto forms of democratic governance and representation, but refusing to pose those questions by refusing to create any kind of formal structure has clearly not translated into either sustainability or equality.

Contingency:  There is quite a bit of contingency implicit in the act of planting the tree.  The most obvious contingency is the fact that trees can die, even with all the care of the world that is put into the project.  Analogously, projects fail, even with the best intentions and plans.  However, at a more modest level, even when a tree lives and grows, it doesn't grow in precisely the way you plan it to grow.  That is to say, there is a need to recognize that as a plan develops and perhaps even progresses, the means and even the ends of that plan are going to change.  That doesn't mean that you don't plan, but that you recognize that your plans are going to change.  We're good at dealing with that kind of contingency at the level of the event, and even the campaign, but we don't spend a lot of time thinking beyond that. At the level of a lot of subcultural activism, we rarely even spend much time discussing what succeeded or failed within an individual event afterwards, often leaving events as isolated and unrelated events.  When criticism does occur, it often spirals out of control becoming a circle of mutual incrimination.  We lack the mechanisms for a form of collective and individual assessment that operates constructively, rather than disastrously destructively, a mechanism that would teach organizers better practices and encourage them to engage in those practices. At some level, we need forms of self-criticism primarily for organizations, but also for individuals, but in a manner that somehow escapes from the logic of the confessional within which that mode was initially created.  Just as significantly, we need forms of institutional knowledge that will preserve that knowledge to direct future campaigns and future actions, and we need to be able to think about what the successes and failures of those actions say about our longer term plans.

To draw off the example of an old friend, we might look at the anarchist project in Spain.  We think about the high point of anarchism in the mid to late 1930's, but in doing so, we miss out on the fact that it took decades of organizing, starting withing the middle part of the nineteenth century for this wave of militancy to occur.  It involved engaging in and creating institutional and educational structures, and involved creating forms of engagement that were not simply accessible to the young. When we simply look back nostalgically at the height of a moment of struggle without recognizing the conditions that produced that struggle, we're going to lack any ability of how to advance our own goals of creating similar or more successful movements.  We have to see those movements with the context of the long duree of time, and the day to day work that occurred in that time frame.  The question is how to return to that form of longer term thinking.