“We no longer live in civilized times.”
Page 104, The Electric State, by Simon Stålenhag.
“We no longer live in civilized times.”
Page 104, The Electric State, by Simon Stålenhag.
Two wolves were in the house and they kept trying to pick me up. Running around and I was getting away from them. They were brown in color with round shaped heads. I did not feel safe. How did they get in? How did they get out? I think they were two wolf spirits.
Writing on England in the mess of Brexit, Alexander Cockburn writes on counterpunch that:
globalisation has produced political crises all over the world which differ in some respects but have certain common themes such as de-industrialisation, increased inequality, immigration, and the alienation of large parts of the population
These four define the political, economic and social tumult filing many countries and most nations. I studied Geography from Form 3 through 5 and the push and pull factors that we used to categorize migration provide scaffolding for the waves of people moving across land, continents, and bodies of water. These four elements compose a self-perpetuating cycle where inequality begets alienation that causes immigration resulting in more de-industrialization, which completes the loop by resulting in more inequality.
Georg Diez in the American Prospect:
You cannot, it turns out, bend, ignore, or destroy basic values of humanity at your borders without consequences for the very fabric of the society within.
He’s writing about the migrant crisis in Europe, though it could be about the US, too.
It was just before dinnertime and we were driving home from an afternoon at the pool: feeling festive, relaxed, joyous. And, in hindsight, feeling alive. And, three houses from home, I drove across the arroyo and saw the big, brown dog lying on the dirt of the road. I instantly recognized what I was eyeing and said “oh no” aloud. Even though I recognized it/him (that is death and Vinnie), my mind tried to concoct some alternate experience that I was not seeing a dead dog lying 40 feet in front of the windshield.
– What is he doing?
– Lying down.
That is all the response and words that I could muster to the three year old mind in the car seat over my shoulder inquiring about the oddity before us. I paused and tried to figure out what was most appropriate of the multiple things to do, to be done, of how to attend to what was happening: go to the neighbors’; move the carcass; go tell Brin before she saw him; hide it from a toddler’s line of sight; go check his pulse and see if he is sleeping; that is not a natural nor comfortable position to sleep in. So, I proceeded slowly and moved the car delicately around the dog, passing on the driver’s side so I could look out the window as we drove past and saw the flies flying above the small pool of blood underneath his mouth drying in the sand.
– Did you hit him?
– No, I drove around.
And I sped to the front door. I left the car running and knocked the knocker once. No response and looked like nobody was home. So I dashed back to the car, and got back to Vinnie’s body still lying in the road. I drove past so the car faced away, and the toddler could not witness what I was doing, and jumped out and walked over to Vinnie.
He was heavy. 90 pounds of hulking dog deadweighting. This is the fittingness of that single word: deadweight. Vinnie was less than one year old. We first met him December of last year, a puppy so small that he fit into two hands. A cute, cuddly pit bull mix with an brown and white coat. We have watched him grow for the last 10 months, and have only gotten to pet and know him in greater proximity in the last month as we tossed bits of jerky out the window on the way home. A few weeks ago, we had some pieces of cheese in the car, leftovers from another hot summer afternoon at the pool, and tossed those to Vinnie and his brothers, Rusty and Ozzie. That was the day that Vinnie walked all the way to the front door, lay on the mat and wait for 15 minutes to see if there might be more cheese that would come from within. Vinnie drooled such a long slobber that the toddler asked “what is that?” as she watched it fall from his lips to the ground.
That was the day that everything with Vinnie changed. He was still cautious with us, and would sit 20 feet from the car when we came and parked. But, he wanted to know if we might have a bit of jerky, tortilla chips or that godsend of more cheddar to toss his way from the window or have him come over and eat from our hand. It was only the last 4 weeks, but in 10 months, 4 weeks is a sizable chunk of life. It is 10% of Vinnie’s life this time around. And more importantly, it was the proximiny and the time spent and the trust built and burgeoning internatction that all three of us had. More than we’d ever had with Ozzie, and it was supposed to be the bond that would grow with Vinnie as he became the primary dog next door once Rusty, the 15 year old, bear-fighting-and-surviving-to-have-my-papa-tell-you-about-it, dies. We had been anticipating Rusty’s death to come sometime soon (his papa said he didn’t think that he’d make it through the winter, but he’s also said that for the last two winters). It wasn’t supposed to be Vinnie.
Vinnie with the long tail with the fat top that stretched out. Vinnie with the beautiful color and distinctive brand just above his hips. Vinnie with ginormous paws and the massive skull. Vinnie with the extra skin on his jowls that he’d just begun to trust us to hold and rub.
Akal, old baby Vinnie. Akal. Akal.
Today I read this:
trace the issues rending American politics to their root, and more often than not you’ll find soil poisoned by racism
From Gates to Adam Smith and the Rogan triumvirate of R.H. Tawney, Karl Polanyi, and E.P. Thompson. The two closing paragraphs of Tehila Sasson’s review of The Moral Economists by Tim Rogan are:
In this sense, it is worth recalling one of Polanyi S most important conclusions, written out of Rogan’s narrative: moral economies never emerge out of spontaneous human fellowship. Rather, moral economies are shaped by the state. It took immigration laws, regulations, and taxation to determine the relationships between ethics and the economy in the late 1970s, as they do today.
Despite its radical origins, in other words, the moral critique of the economy never transcended the realm of ethics. Every political economy has an ethics, but to truly reshape the ethics of the market we will need to reform it through state institutions. That requires us to leave the realm of the spiritual and go back to material question of redistribution.
It is an everyday occurrence. Though, this John Cassidy story in the New Yorker that looks back a decade to the financial crisis of 2008, illuminates the degree to which economics is politics and politics is economics:
Using taxpayers’ money to bail out greedy and incompetent bankers was intrinsically political. So was quantitative easing, a tactic that other central banks also adopted, following the Fed’s lead. It worked primarily by boosting the price of financial assets that were mostly owned by rich people.
Cassidy is writing a review of the 700-page book “Crashed: How a Decade of Financial Crises Changed the World” by Adam Tooze.
The failure of the political parties that dominated the industrialized West in the late 20th Century continue to collapse and be imperiled by their complicity in this unprecedented buyout. Though they supposedly represent different “sides of the isle” in politics, the lessons from 2008 and the decade that is 2008-2018 demonstrate how they serve the owning class of the neoliberal era.
The rifts that exist within the parties hint at the coming splits that will define US politics, and politics in the industrialized west, for the next two decades. Or the first half of the 21st Century.
I put on my jean jacket, stamped IRREGULAR on the inside of the pocket, a purchase from an outlet store in 1996 or so. I have a number of articles of clothes in my closet that I have carried for 10 years, others for 20 plus years. I am familiar with the colors, sensations, shape, look, and the coverage that some provide my skin and body. And I am an old soul who prefers th familiar and durable. I did not have strong distaste towards many things as a kid, but one thing I did despise was fads, especially when it came to fashion. I like to dabble in color subtly, or solid, clean colors; I could not fathom the appeal of Cross Colours jeans that we’re yellow on one thigh and green on the other. Now, when I choose color for my jeans, I can go for brick red or waxy evergreen if it is a solid, consistent color.
Some of the lat20th Centuy relics in my wardrobe are:The 22 year old, tan t-shirt that we printed for African Day in February of my last year of high school.Black ankle socks that I have had more than 10 years. The white/red/black Air Max high tops that I have worn to play basketball twice, but regulatory will wear to get groceries.
Time becomes immaterial in the fabrics of my closet. It is curious to still have some of these things, considering there was an 18 month period when I carried and lived through two trunks of stuff. It was my Jesus year, and I catapulted from one place to another, traversing five states in the four regions of the country. Of the items I los,in that geographic catharsis was the red, pullover, winter coast that endured 3 Minnesota mild winters, and a decade of rising and falling snowstorms and wintertime rainfall in Harlem and Brooklyn.
As I turned 40, I was gifted 20 some items to add to my closet, after I had removed more than 40. My partner called them ill-fitting or heavily worn. I still wore onto a number of things even though they were too small in the chest, the biceps, back, and stopped wearing but did not remove others that no longer fit and were perrennially overlooked. There’s some odd psychology and habits that succumbs to inertia and entropy if I do not sustain the muscle and practice of removing, deleting, and letting go.
In light of the Panama Papers release earlier this week, this probing blog by Joe Brewer poses three DEEP RULES of global capital:
Scathing. Cathartic. Chilling. All at once.