Carri on Sex Pistols (Comments on the Case of Joe Corré and His Bonfire of Punk)

Artwork by Jamie Reid 

(Virgin 1979)

I've been asked to comment on Joe Corré's decision to burn his valuable collection of Sex Pistols memorabilia on the River Thames last month in order to mark the 40th anniversary of the release of Anarchy in the UK, whilst, at the same time protest punk's commercial co-option. Obviously, there was a good deal of vanity and a certain selfishness in the stunt which, from what I've seen of it, all looked a bit naff. And - who knows? - perhaps Henry Rollins is right to suggest that it should ultimately be interpreted as an act of revenge by an angry son left out of his father's will.

But, having said all this, the amount of scorn and vitriol directed towards Corré by aged, self-righteous punks - including, of course, that man-mountain of hypocrisy, Johnny Rotten (rightly identified as The Collaborator all those years ago) - is surely undeserved. For if a man wants to burn his own bondage trousers (and his own inheritance) that's really his own business and ultimately hurts no one. I'm not sure Malcolm would have found the whole thing hilarious, as Corré suggests, but I doubt it'll have him spinning in his grave either.

I suspect rather, that, were he still alive, what Mclaren would have done is remind us of his own ingenious and far more provocative attempt to expose and destroy the legend and the legacy of the Sex Pistols in the aftermath of the band's spectacular implosion, after Rotten flounced off in search of artistic integrity and a more mainstream career in the music business.

Ultimately, Never Mind the Bollocks was just another rock 'n' roll album; conventional in every regard. Obviously, there are some unbelievably powerful tracks. But I'm tempted to say now that the greatest thing about it is the title and Jamie Reid's artwork.

Similarly, the really interesting aspect of the Sex Pistols' story is the point at which they become more than just another corny 4/4 beat combo. And it starts when Malcolm conceives of The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle and begins the process of not only destroying everything - including the loyalty and expectation of their own followers - but anticipating precisely what would happen next; the assimilation and marketing of punk.

Julian Temple's film opens with Malcolm and Helen burning all traces of the band's existence in the hope that they might somehow prevent their posthumous exploitation in the form of either collectable artefacts to be showcased in museums and expensive art galleries, or cheap merchandise churned out for easy consumption by gullible fans. The same film later reveals the forlorn nature of this hope; if you like their pop music, you'll love their pop corn - it's pure punk!  

What I'm arguing, in short, is that Joseph Corré's rather feeble gesture was unnecessary; his father had alerted us in 1979 to fact that the Sex Pistols were by then no more than a brand name and that Bambi was already being butchered.         


Note: those interested in watching film of Corré's stunt should click here.

City All Over (Notes on Urban Wildlife)

Some creatures have always been happy living synanthropically alongside man and have long been residents of the city. Rats, pigeons, and cockroaches are three very obvious examples, drawn from three very different classes of animal. We may think of them as pests to be exterminated, but they think of us much more generously and not only survive but thrive in the urban environments we've constructed and gradually extended over the entire globe.     

Indeed, as our cities grow ever greater in size and areas of natural wilderness continue to shrink and disappear, more and more species are faced with the stark choice of either adapting to life within the concrete jungle, or face extinction. Some, obviously, aren't going to make it. But a surprising number of animals - large and small - are at least giving it a go and competing for food, space, and shelter alongside the more familiar magpies, foxes, squirrels, and stray cats.  

Unbelievably - but wonderfully - we can today find wild boar in the suburbs of Berlin, boa constrictors in Miami, baboons in Cape Town, big cats in Mumbai, and birds of prey in NYC. Even the Hollywood Hills are home to their very own mountain lion.      

What's amazing is the speed with which some creatures are getting the hang of things; learning to navigate the traffic or exploit the subway system; learning to communicate in new ways, thereby overcoming the problem of constant noise; learning to hunt by electric light; learning to exploit human waste as well as human kindness. It seems that, in some cases, we're not just witnessing radical adaptability and the acquirement of new transferable skills, but accelerated evolution; the creation of bolder, brighter, brand new urban species. 

All of which makes me happy and just a tiny bit hopeful for the future. I think everything that can be done to encourage and further this should be done; that we should welcome as many of our animal brethren in out of the cold as possible and allow them to enjoy the benefits of big city living.

Evening All: Reflections on the Case of PC Semple

Every now and then a story comes on the news that leaves me spluttering in the breakfast bowl; not so much in moral outrage, as amused disbelief. 

One such story is that of PC Gordon Semple, 59, who, tragically, was murdered by an Italian Lothario, Stefano Brizzi, with whom he'd arranged a sexual liaison via Grindr, the world's most popular gay dating app.

Details of the crime are sordid and shocking enough: the hapless bobby, who was simply looking for some sado-masochistic fun with a like-minded fellow, was strangled and dismembered. Over the course of the next few days, Brizzi attempted to dissolve the remains in an acid-filled bathtub - but not before cannibalising some of the tastier body parts (toothmarks were found by a forensic dentist on one of the policeman's ribs and puddles of human fat were discovered inside the poorly cleaned oven).      

As appalling and abhorrent as these details are, they aren't what made me choke on my cornflakes; this, rather, was caused by a victim impact statement read to the court by PC Semple's older brother, Ronald,  during Brizzi's trial at the Old Bailey.* In the statement, he said Gordon was a caring and gentle person, much loved by his family and friends, who were left devastated by news of his murder, blah, blah, blah.

So far, so platitudinous: but then he adds - preposterously - that his sibling deserved to be remembered by the community he served for over thirty years as a real-life Dixon of Dock Green ...!   

I have to say - with no disrespect to the deceased, his colleagues, his grieving family and friends, or members of the queer community - that's a bit rich ...

For not only does it reflect rather unfairly on the character played by Jack Warner who, as far as I recall, never once attended a drug-fuelled orgy, used his truncheon as a dildo, or indulged in his taste for hot, dirty, sleazy sex whilst still on duty, but it also falsely sanitizes and sanctifies the life of PC Semple, who, clearly, was a monster of depravity devoted to a life of kink and to finding love on the beat.       
     

Note: Brizzi was convicted of murder and sentenced to life imprisonment (instructed he'll serve a minimum of 24 years). 

The (Displaced) Task of the Translator 3: On the Limits of Zeitgeistiness - A Post by Simon Solomon

Simon Solomon (aka Dr Simon Thomas)

As the late English poet and essayist Geoffrey Hill insisted, in railing against the problem of our post-Romantic (and/or post-modern) suggestibility, every voice worthy of the name will be organised, at least in part, by a sensibility that combines cultural receptivity and counter-cultural resistance, not to mention a creative misreading of similarly strong precursors. Though the exemplary genius of Hegel's world-historical individuals resided in the propensity of such figures to both suffer and amplify the spirit of their time, the transmissions of the artist - and Kenneth Goldsmith's own thesis depicts translation as indisputably artistic - are not merely barometers, pulse-fingering fashion statements, or 'expressive' of a socio-cultural milieu to which they might even be psychoanalytically reduced. If such zeitgeistiness has its claim, it surely also has its limits. Ultimately, while steeped in their age’s particular species of sadness, the most original artists are Janus-faced, both prophetic and nostalgic, and hence ultimately timeless. While it may be true that the machinic flows of technocapital will one day turn us all into its dehumanised vehicles, there is a (perhaps perverse) love in raging against the machine.

As it transpires, Goldsmith seems not to be wholly in earnest about the disappearance of the subject, when one considers the lingering humanism of his discussion of the musician’s practice of sampling and mixing, emphasising as it does the value of 'mindful recontextualization' in a way that makes him seem to want to have his displaced cake and eat it. I find Goldsmith’s depiction of such techniques of conscious transformation especially congenial in relation to my own emerging translation practice around poetic 'convocations', in which I assimilate fragments from other poetries, films and songs into 'baroque' versions of beloved originals. We can and do beg, borrow or steal from other sources in our work as hipsters, creators or long-suffering makers - and, in an accelerating climate of global exchange, licences and permissions cannot in any case always easily be sought - but should never forget Pound’s modernist credo to 'make it new'. The justification for literary theft is the hunger for innovation ...

Finally, some readers might worry more about the apparent submission of Goldsmith's vision of displaced authorship to a political quietism - the way in which, as he himself concedes, 'the displaced text's entwinement with the latest technology […] aligns it with nefarious capitalist tendencies'. Though his whole point is that what he charmingly calls the 'meatspace audience' is missing the point (since life is less and less 'live' - compulsively played out instead behind or by means of a contemporary surplus of devices, apps and screens), one might wonder if he is not so much throwing the translator’s baby out with the bathwater as electrocuting it in a tsunami of technobubbles.

The ominous promise of a new battened-down all-American protectionism across the pond notwithstanding, if globalised capital is essentially a machine that engenders economic, social and cultural flows, the most interesting individuals, and their art, tend to occur where history slows and condenses. Though Goldsmith's poetics of displacement - a vision that highlights the planet-circling journey undertaken by contemporary translation, and the media by which it is carried - is indebted to our culture of hyper-mobility, there is also (thankfully) a dark art of entrenchment. And it’s not going anywhere …

See: Kenneth Goldsmith, Against Translation: Displacement is the New Translation, (Jean Boîte Editions, 2016).

Note: Simon Solomon (aka Dr Simon Thomas) is a poet, translator, critic and tutor. He is a professional member of the Irish Writers Centre, Dublin and currently serves as managing editor with the academic journal Psychoanalysis, Culture and Society. He blogs at simonsolomon.ink and a full (non-abridged) version of his essay will shortly be made available here.  

Simon appears here as part of the Torpedo the Ark Gastautoren Programm. I am very grateful for his submission of a lengthy text that he kindly allowed me to edit into three separate posts for the sake of convenience. Part 1: Magical Realism without the Magic can be read by clicking here. Part 2: Microdramas of Displacement, can be read by clicking here.

The (Displaced) Task of the Translator 2: Microdramas of Displacement - A Post by Simon Solomon

Dede Koswara, aka the Human Tree Man

Image Source: thechive.com

While we may be culturally instructed by Kenneth Goldsmith's undoubted flair for mediating the technological imaginary (albeit in a way that is perhaps already somewhat well-rehearsed, and which is, for me, more originally evoked by the writings of Jean Baudrillard), I feel more moved as a poet by his microdramas of displacement from real life. In his collection of anecdotal horrors and subcutaneous wonders - including, for example, the poignant story of a buried bullet beneath a boy’s face, its impact site permanently cauterised by the heat of the missile, that 'remains comfortably embedded' for the rest of his natural existence - there is a strange rapture of estrangement or post-modern beauty.

What Goldsmith ultimately discloses by telling us the story of a tree that grew around a metal grate erected to protect it until it became, in his luminously lyrical language, 'the guardian of the grate, swallowing it whole, nestling it deep within its core', is a beguiling phenomenology of incorporation: notes towards how we learn to take in and 'live with' foreign matter that have obvious affinities with literary (re)composition. I wondered what Goldsmith might make of less successful manifestations of human embodiment - such as the Indonesian carpenter, Dede Koswara, whose monstrous condition, a fantastically rare skin disorder called Lewandowsky-Lutz dysplasia (aka ‘Tree Man Syndrome’), caused bark-like cutaneous horns to sprout from his hands and feet and led to him being shunned by his community as an accursed object.

While doubtless more than a sliver of Schadenfreude attaches to such cases, in picking up his own bâton and running with it, Goldsmith extends his project into an inter-disciplinary revisionist thesis, in which acid rain is rebranded as 'displaced weather', petroleum as 'displaced prehistory', the melting ice caps as 'displaced Ice Age' and the Great Pacific garbage patch (aka the Pacific trash vortex) as 'displaced geography'. If this is a schtick of sorts, it is a thrilling one - though thrilling, perhaps, in the manner of a totalitarian music. By contrast, the niceties and decencies of the translator’s traditional craft - its meticulous attunements to the minutiae of syntax, the localities of diction and the pathos of distance - are derisively likened by Goldsmith to the cult of ‘slow food’. To pursue such an obsolescent quest now, on Goldsmith's thesis, is to be a wilful reactionary (though possibly a reactionary who enjoys better digestion), indulging a 'bourgeois luxury', 'faux-nostalgia' and 'a boutique pursuit from a lost world'. The good faith of the translator, that suspiciously friendly idealist forever trying to meet people halfway, is ultimately rotten to the core.

Among a raft of concerns here, one might wonder what place authentic nostalgia - or just real history - could play in such Goldsmith's vision of our creative dispossession, since translation is inescapably also a tradition, not merely a metamorphic instrumentality. Perhaps, indeed, the translator, at their finest, is a kind of time-travelling cultural attaché, drawn back like the former English Laureate Ted Hughes to the shape-shifting mythology of the ancient world, retracing and reimagining their embedded civilisations to keep the culture’s collective unconscious awake.

In a way that stirs my desire to unsettle the strategic dualities of his thought, Goldsmith views displacement as a binary trader, harnessing what can be displaced and jettisoning what cannot, while eschewing what he calls the 'messy questions of morality, ethics and nuance' in favour of 'the craft of the kludge'. Leaving aside the manifold ways in which both literature and life are endlessly (if not necessarily) entangled in such varieties of disorder, I would be interested to learn more about those poetogenic entities the author thinks by implication might defy displacement - about what, in other words, might not get lost in translation ...


See: Kenneth Goldsmith, Against Translation: Displacement is the New Translation, (Jean Boîte Editions, 2016).

Note: Simon Solomon (aka Dr Simon Thomas) is a poet, translator, critic and tutor. He is a professional member of the Irish Writers Centre, Dublin and currently serves as managing editor with the academic journal Psychoanalysis, Culture and Society. He blogs at simonsolomon.ink and a full (non-abridged) version of his essay will shortly be made available here.  

Simon appears here as part of the Torpedo the Ark Gastautoren Programm. I am very grateful for his submission of a lengthy text that he kindly allowed me to edit into three separate posts for the sake of convenience. Part 1: Magical Realism without the Magic can be read by clicking here. Part 3: On the Limits of Zeitgeistiness (Or How to Have Your Displaced Cake and Eat It), can be read by clicking here.

The (Displaced) Task of the Translator 1: Magical Realism without the Magic - A Post by Simon Solomon

Kenneth Goldsmith 

Image Source: queensmob.com

Against Translation: Displacement is the New Translation.

So claims the title of an ambitious new essay by the New York poet, curator and cultural provocateur, Kenneth Goldsmith. Though its bipolar declaration reads at first glance as curiously equivocal, the author's ostensible desire to oppose a practice he also wishes to renew points rather to a wor(l)d that is no longer what it was. The traditional concept of translation, in a nutshell, is to be badly - which is to say unfaithfully - retranslated. In this usurper's charter, Goldsmith’s withering opening salvo is clearly designed both to antagonise the old guard and clear new interpretive ground:

'Translation is the ultimate humanist gesture. Polite and reasonable, it is an overly cautious bridge builder. Always asking for permission, it begs understanding and friendship. It is optimistic yet provisional, pinning all hopes on a harmonious outcome. In the end, it always fails, for the discourse it sets forth is inevitably off-register; translation is an approximation of discourse – and, in approximating, it produces a new discourse.'

Quaintly conscientious, yet quietly hobbled by its lack of ambition, the classical practice of translation invariably founders on its own tendency to generate novelty. Since such productions go with the territory, however, what the translator should accept - and indeed celebrate - is their activity's irrepressible affinity with the politics of displacement: its complicity, in effect, with wilful miscarriages of (poetic) justice.

Now translators are being everywhere reborn as the renegade children of technology, the utopian spirit of the digital networks is to be channelled and dispersed. In this virtual dispensation, we are all refugees. The new task of the translator, Goldsmith implies, is to embrace their occupation as emblematic of man’s indifference (if not inhumanity) to man, as their dislodged products, borderless and lawless, unapologetically expropriate themselves beyond bodies, identities and the moribund personality cult of the author.

Indeed, as a form of 'magical realism without the magic', displacement 'answers to no one' mainly because 'there's no one on the other end to take the call'. In a pivotal passage that points up Goldsmith’s indebtedness to the flâneur philosopher Walter Benjamin, he contends:

'Displacement is modernism for the twenty-first century, a child of montage, psychogeography, and the objet trouvé. Unlike much modernism, displacement doesn’t move toward disjunction; it trucks in wholes. Schooled in Photoshop and reared in cut-and-paste, the world is now our desktop. Drop-and-drag architecture: pick up something and plunk it somewhere; it soon becomes natural. Displacement is Duchamp for architecture. Frank Gehry is a master of architectural displacement; Bilbao - a fantasy displaced off a CAD screen - soon becomes a beloved Basque landmark.'

The dialogical conscience of translation has been superseded by a 'boundless annexing machine' that 'sucks indiscriminately' as a shameless infant on the flickering nipples of cosmopolitan culture - culture, it is clear, that has long since failed to serve as a mother. In a decontextualised economy of viral reproduction, it may take a (global) village to raise a child, though not necessarily a human one.

But this economy, for Goldsmith, is also an ecology, illimitably extending the transcendental dispossession of language while the relentlessly replicative online ecosystem recycles its resources 'in bizarre Frankensteinian artifacts', ranging from multi-sourced PDF pseudo-book assemblages to Hollywood blockbusters with Telugu subtitles. If this is all monstrously poetic, its analogues are indissociably political. What might darkly be called the datafication of the human is the contemporary modus of transnational technocapitalism, driven by the indifferent engines of its displacement apparatus that 'spits its subjects across the globe, redundantly segmenting and replicating them […] thereby minimizing chances for loss while increasing chances for totality'.

If the effect of this global dispersal is to orphan translation by ripping up its roots, re-routing its genealogies, puncturing its pedantries and saturating its markets - driving, in effect, its whole humane history over the cliff of technology - the happy outcome for Goldsmith is a 'playful anarchy' in which homophonic transformations (think van Rooten's delicious nonsense rendering of 'Humpty Dumpty / sat on a wall' as 'Un petit d'un petit / S'étonne aux Halles') become the irreverent gambits of a ludic poetics distinguished by its abandonment of all writerly ownership or privilege.

For those of us who might defiantly trumpet the tendency of the talented toward a strategic singularity, the ambition here would seem to go further than merely purging late-Romantic souls of their residual preciousness. Rather, the rules of the language game of translation are being dazzlingly rewritten - liberated (or deconsecrated) in a blizzard of technics.

See: Kenneth Goldsmith, Against Translation: Displacement is the New Translation, (Jean Boîte Editions, 2016).

Note: Simon Solomon (aka Dr Simon Thomas) is a poet, translator, critic and tutor. He is a professional member of the Irish Writers Centre, Dublin and currently serves as managing editor with the academic journal Psychoanalysis, Culture and Society. He blogs at simonsolomon.ink and a full (non-abridged) version of his essay will shortly be made available here.

Simon appears here as part of the Torpedo the Ark Gastautoren Programm. I am very grateful for his submission of a lengthy text that he kindly allowed me to edit into three separate posts for the sake of convenience. Part 2: Microdramas of Displacement can be read by clicking here. Part 3: On the Limits of Zeitgeistiness (Or How to Have Your Displaced Cake and Eat It), can be read by clicking here.

Reflections from a Sickbed

Having been obliged to take to my bed with the flu, thoughts turn quite naturally once more to questions of sickness and death - and, in particular, a growing concern with what will happen posthumously to my wretched corpse, that most accursed of all objects. 

Obviously, it will need to be disposed of. But this isn't a simple or straightforward matter; for there are numerous methods of getting rid of the inconvenient (rapidly decomposing) body and here's where the headaches begin for someone like me who, when faced with the blackmail of choice, instinctively chooses not to choose.

However, let us briefly consider some of the main options ...  

(1) Cremation

Cremation certainly has points in its favour and I like the idea of being reduced by flame back to basic chemical compounds. There's also something attractively anti-Christian about cremation; the thought of rising like a pagan phoenix from the ashes rather than resurrecting like an end time zombie ready to face Judgement Day appeals more to me as a Lawrentian. 

Having said that, there's enough Jewishness in my nature to feel profoundly uncomfortable with the thought of furnaces and tall, free-standing chimneys, etc. And then there's the problem of the left over ashes; either to be scattered to the four winds (sounds quite nice), or - horror! - housed inside some ghastly urn and stuck on top of the bookcase before eventually being knocked over by the cat. 

On balance then, I don't think I want to go up in smoke and be ground down to dust, thank you very much.

(2) Inhumation

Having rejected cremation, burial is left as the only major alternative and, all in all, I'm more than happy with the thought of being placed (or even thrown) into a hole in the ground and thence to push up daisies. But I don't want anything done that will retard the inevitable decomposition; no embalming, for example - and preferably no closed coffin or casket. I want naked exposure to the soil and to allow the worms and whatnot do their holy work as quickly as possible. And if wearing a mushroom death suit helps this along, then sign me up for one.

As for where I'm buried, I really don't care; though not at sea, obviously. I don't want any kind of service or religious ritual observed and would prefer an unmarked grave. However, if there is a stone, it should simply read curb your enthusiasm, which pretty much summarizes my philosophy. 

(3) Immurement / Preservation

Any form of posthumous immurement or attempt at artificial preservation is, for me at least, completely out of the question; the thought of being permanently enclosed in a tomb or mausoleum, mummified in bandages like an Egyptian pharaoh, deep frozen like James Bedford in a cryogenic chamber, stuffed like the English utilitarian Jeremy Bentham and put on display in a glass case, or letting that freaky German anatomist, Gunther von Hagens, pump my corpse full of curable polymers so that I might enjoy plastic immortality, fills me with a strange mixture of disgust and despair. 

I would, quite literally, rather be fed to the vultures (as in a Tibetan sky burial) ...                      

Corpus Delicti (With Reference to the Case of D. H. Lawrence)

Death is always an inconvenience. Not so much for the deceased; for trust me, corpses don't care. But for those who are left with the problem of disposal; be these grieving relatives, or fastidious killers hoping to cover up all traces of their victim and their crime.  

Fortunately, there are several long-accepted methods of disposal; including the top two, burial and burning. But even these ancient methods present problems. In the case of cremation, for example, there's the question of what to do with the ashes; stick 'em in a ghastly urn and put granny on the mantelpiece, or scatter them to the four winds and risk the unpleasant humiliation of having them blow back in one's face. 

The English novelist D. H. Lawrence was famously first buried in Vence, where he died in 1930, and then, five years later, exhumed and cremated on Frieda's orders by her Italian lover and third husband to be, Angelo Ravagli. 

As to what happened to Lawrence's ashes, this has become subject to confusion and controversy. Ravagli was supposed to transport them to the ranch in New Mexico, where a suitable shrine had been built. Frieda had even provided a lovely little vase. But it seems likely that Ravagli simply threw them away (possibly into the harbour at Marseilles) and then filled the urn with a handful of dust upon his return to America. 

Frieda never knew. As far as she was concerned, she'd brought Lawrence back to the place they'd been happiest and sealed his fate by mixing his ashes into a concrete block in order to prevent anyone from stealing them and, symbolically, to prevent him from wandering in death without her. 

Lawrence's biographer, John Worthen, suggests that Ravagli did Lawrence a favour by rescuing him from his wife's posthumous plans: 

"Lawrence may finally have managed to evade her ... and to finish his career solitary, free, unhoused, with no lid sealing him down or block containing him: scattered, perhaps into the estranging sea he had so often contemplated."

John Worthen, D. H. Lawrence: The Life of an Outsider, (Allen Lane / Penguin Books, 2005), p. 418. 

Of Clowns and Catwomen

                                                                                                                

As everybody knows, there's an unwritten rule in the world of clowns that one must never copy the face make-up of another, thereby enabling each performer to retain their own unique identity.

In order to help ensure that this unwritten rule is followed and not accidentally infringed, some clowns voluntarily have their likeness painted onto a ceramic egg and registered with Clowns International. New clowns are able to consult the registry and avoid the potential embarrassment of looking like somebody else; one is tempted to say that face on egg thus prevents egg on face.

It's worth noting, however, that the registry is unofficial and Clowns International cannot enforce compliance; indeed, as far as I'm aware, you can't legally copyright a hairstyle, facial feature, or a way of applying make-up, no matter how individual or distinctive it may be. And neither - I believe - can you copyright a stage name, nickname, or any other type of alias.

I thought of this when reading recently about the punk icon, Soo Catwoman, who is desperately fighting a rearguard action to reclaim, protect and market her own extraordinary image - albeit forty years too late and after the young actress Judy Croll showed us all to brilliant effect in The Great Rock 'n' Roll Swindle just how easy it is to steal and to simulate a look, no matter how original the original may be. 
  
For Soo, like many punks naively committed to notions of authenticity and the Real, it's terribly important that we not mistake Croll for her and she carefully points out the differences in facial bone, hairline and breast size, as if we should care about such anatomical details - we who care only for masks and cosmetics and the free-floating aspect of a persona as something to be performed (not essentialised or trademarked).

Interestingly, Soo also expresses her moral and maternal outrage over the fact that Croll was only fourteen and raises the spectre of child abuse by the filmmakers, thereby demonstrating her poor understanding of the Swindle as a provocative work of cinema, a crucial aspect of which is its brutal exposure of the inherently exploitative nature of the music industry which blithely trades in young flesh and talent.

Despite what she seems to believe, there's nothing degraded or inappropriate about the nudity or sexuality of a minor, nor indeed its representation in art; obscenity begins when this is commodified and prostituted by men in positions of power for their own perverse pleasure or financial gain: Mummy! Mummy! They've killed Bambi!

And so, I'm sorry if Julien Temple's film and Croll's appearance in it have caused Soo and her family great distress over the years, as she claims, but she needs to understand that most viewers either don't know who the fuck she is, or, if they do, don't care that a small role she turned down was eventually given to an actress happy to play the part.  


Note: those interested in knowing more about Soo Catwoman might like to visit her official website: click here.

Another Bloody Sunset (On Eternal Recurrence and the Snobbery of Photographers)

Die Ewige Wiederkehr des Gleichen 
SA/2016

I hate people who take photography seriously; people who fuss over every aspect of their composition and have to employ all the latest technology; people who look down on those of us who enjoy simply taking snaps - including snaps of the sunset which, apparently, is not the done thing in the world of professional image making. Indeed, there's even a sneering acronym used in online chat forums: NABS - not another bloody sunset.

For me, there's something not only touching but philosophically interesting about the fact that, apart from a few superior types who like their cyclopic perception of the world to remain immaculate and claim to be unmoved by natural beauty or the wonder of events, people continue to look to the skies and attempt to capture, however naively or inadequately, the splendour of the rising or setting sun.

For I suspect that one of the things that enchants is the fact that just as no one steps twice into the same river, no sunset is ever witnessed more than once; it's an absolutely unique occurrence that only gives the illusion of an identical event happening over and over each day.

Nietzsche famously terms this the eternal recurrence of the same and, as Deleuze demonstrates in his radical interpretation of this concept, what returns is actually difference itself (paradoxical as this initially seems and contrary to what those commentators believe who write of return in terms of crushing certainty and fixed essence, rather than the very momentariness of the moment).  

The reason people will never tire of the sun and its effects and will never tire either of pictures, is because even the most clichéd of these images tell us something crucial; namely, that despite the experience of duration and continuity, there is no universal stability. 

Fatal Attraction: Notes on Hybristophilia

Jeremy Meeks: the model prisoner who stole a million hearts

Following a recent post on criminals and capital punishment [click here], I received two emails from concerned readers. The first expressed outrage and disappointment that I could write such reactionary rubbish:

"You Sir, are a disgrace and your views - even if endorsed by D. H. Lawrence - border on being no more than a crude form of neo-fascism."

The second sought to convince me that even the most dangerous of serial killers has a soul to be saved and that this can be accomplished not through harsh punishment, but through Love - and not just the redeeming love of Jesus, but the carnal affection of a good woman:

"As a trained sex therapist who has worked with many violent men, I know a lot of their anger stems from feelings of inadequacy and that these issues can best be dealt with in the bedroom, rather than the prison cell."     

These latter remarks got me thinking about hybristophilia; a paraphilia in which the amorous subject is attracted to individuals who have committed an illegal act or atrocity and sexually aroused by the thought of their misdeeds. Many high-profile felons receive explicit fan-mail, love letters, and indecent proposals from women who, for one reason or another, can't resist the dubious appeal of a bad boy - even at the risk to their own safety or future happiness.   

There's doubtless a number of reasons that might explain this phenomenon; some women want to share in the notoriety; some women want to nurture the inner child or find the hidden beauty within even the most bestial of souls; some women want to engage in a fantasy relationship that can never be consummated; others simply want to piss off their friends and family.

According to Sylvia Plath - who, admittedly, was a poet and not an evolutionary psychologist - every woman adores a fascist; the swaggering alpha male with a brute, brute heart. And, who knows, perhaps there's something in this; something which also helps to explain the eroticised male attraction to strong leaders and gangsters; a fatal attraction displayed, interestingly, even by sensitive artists and philosophers, whom one might have hoped would know better.

Thus Nietzsche, for example, getting all flustered over the thought of blonde beasts and his insistence that the criminal is actually a type of healthy human being made sick due to unfavourable circumstances ...  

 

On Criminals and Capital Punishment

Flick through the numerous TV channels on Freeview on any night of the week, any week of the year, and you are guaranteed to find endlessly repeated episodes of Top Gear. But you will also just as surely come across programmes that bring you up close and personal with some of the most hardened criminals and gang members serving time in some of the world's most notorious prisons. And these shows - even when fronted by someone as likeable as Louis Theroux - have a phenomenally depressing effect.

It could be, I suppose, that some producers are interested in humane reform and want to shock us out of our complacency by forcing us to think more carefully and more compassionately about the issues and the people caught up within the criminal justice system. But most shows simply seem sensational and exploitative; turning human misery into cheap and voyeuristic entertainment.    

Either way, I suspect that many viewers will - like me - come away completely dispirited and despairing about the entire penal system and the deplorable wretches confined within it. And some will find themselves asking what's the point of keeping extremely violent and irredeemable offenders banged up for life behind bars; why not just have them all exterminated without fuss or any further ado?

These viewers are not moral and intellectual monsters and the question is not, I think, completely illegitimate.

Rather, like Lawrence, they have been driven partly by despair and partly by a form of utopianism into thinking such thoughts and into examining their souls for a way forward; they know a new vision of society is needed and that the true criminal should be afforded no place within it; they know that, at a certain point - and due to the very nature of the crimes committed - these shaven-headed, tattooed imbeciles with what Carlyle memorably describes as ape-faces, imp-faces, angry dog-faces [and] heavy sullen ox-faces, have compromised their humanity and, thus, all claim to rights based on such. 

I don't even think we should regard their elimination as capital punishment. It's simply pest control; the necessary destruction of vermin who have no interest in rehabilitation, but just want to steal, rape, torture, and murder for personal gain and personal pleasure; individuals who, as Rod Liddle rightly says, couldn't care less about society or its laws.    

As Liddle also says, if being nice to criminals worked, we'd all be happy to shower them with kindness. But it doesn't. Nor does being cruel and vindictive and it's here that Liddle and I part company; for what doesn't kill these individuals only serves to make them stronger. And so we might as well be honest with ourselves and deprive them not merely of their freedom, but of their foul lives (though this means of course granting to the State - that coldest of all cold monsters - powers that we might later regret handing over).  

See: 

D. H. Lawrence, '[Return to Bestwood]', in Late Essays and Articles, ed. James T. Boulton, (Cambridge University Press, 2004), pp. 13-24. Lawrence places his call for the execution of those he designates as true criminals within a wider programme of state eugenics, justified by his philosophical vitalism. 

Rod Liddle, 'The Spectator has gone soft - prisons should be much nastier places', in The Spectator, 26 Nov 2016: click here to read online. I'm grateful to Liddle for the reference to Thomas Carlyle that I made use of above.

Nothing Important Happened Today (On Revolutionary Events)

King George III (1738-1820)

One of my favourite stories concerns George III who, on July 4, 1776, wrote in his diary with regal indifference to unfolding events in the Colonies: Nothing important happened today. 

Royal biographers and historians - overly concerned with the facts as these people often are - insist that this is entirely false; one of those apocryphal stories that enters and continues to circulate within the popular imagination simply because people wish to believe it to be true. King George didn't even keep a diary, they protest, but, sadly for them, to no avail; even former Deputy Director of the FBI, Alvin Kersh, referenced this fictitious journal entry.         

I suppose, philosophically, why it interests is because it makes one question what constitutes an event of any description; that is to say, what has to happen for something to be recognised as a happening? 

Without necessarily wanting to posit an absolute ontological distinction, it's tempting to think of events as things that occur dynamically in time, contra objects that exist concretely in space. The cat that sits on the mat is an example of the latter; his grin, or the flick of his tail as he leaves the room, might better be thought of in terms of the former. But it could well be that events are simply unstable objects and objects monotonous events and that there is thus no essential metaphysical difference.

For Deleuze and Guattari, whom we might characterize as philosophers of the event, the task of philosophy is to invent concepts which express events, or, more precisely, extract them from the material facts of the world; i.e., concepts that allow one to engage with social and political reality in such a manner that one challenges received ideas and royal prerogative. 

No wonder, then, that George was thought keen to turn a blind eye to (revolutionary) events ...

Ecosexuality Contra Necrofloraphilia (How Best to Love the Earth)

Black and Pink Floral Skull design 

sugarskullbedding.com

I greatly admire Beth Stephens and Annie Sprinkle for endeavouring to think ecosexuality and questions concerning broader human culture within a nonhuman and inhuman framework. And I fully approve of their attempt to encourage people to form connections with not only other life forms, but also inanimate objects, be they real or virtual, natural or artificial. 

But this isn't as easy as perhaps they imagine. For it's not just a question of sharing space and sharing affection with the things that you love, it's also a question of establishing a zone of proximity and entering into some kind of strange becoming. And it means abandoning all anthropocentric conceit and all traces of vitalism which posit life as something more than a very rare and unusual way of being dead.      

What I'm suggesting is that ecosexuality must shed itself of its moral idealism and become a more daringly speculative and perverse form of materialism. For the fact is, the earth, however you wish to metaphorically think it - as mother, as lover, or both - simply doesn’t care about the life that it sustains. Rather, it is massively and monstrously indifferent; just like the rest of the universe.  

In attempting to make an eroticised return to the actual, ecosexuality is ultimately fated to discover that it’s not an affirmation of life, but a form of romancing the dead; i.e., necrophilia. Thus it's really not a question of how to make the environmental movement sexier and full of fun, as Stephens and Sprinkle suggest, but queer-macabre in a deliciously morbid manner. And if you genuinely want to indicate the ecological entanglements of human sexuality then you must sooner or later discuss death as that towards which all beings move and find blissful unity in an orgiastic exchange of molecules and energy. It's death - not sex - that is radically (and promiscuously) inclusive.   

As for the 'twenty-five ways to make love to the earth' listed by Stephens and Sprinkle, which include dirty talk, nude dancing, skinny dipping, recycling, and working for global peace, if this is the best they can do at constructing a green lover’s discourse or an ars erotica then, to be honest, I’m deeply disappointed; all the multiple pronouns in the world don’t lift this above banality. 

One might - provocatively - suggest that there are other, more explicit, more obscene, ways of loving the earth; that our ecosexual relationship is actually a violent, mutually destructive type of amor fou in which the earth displays her passion with volcanic eruptions, tsunamis, and earthquakes and we, in turn, display our virility through displays of power; mining for coal and drilling for oil, deforestation, dredging the seas, the erection of hydro-electric damns and nuclear plants, accelerated species extinction, etc. 

Perhaps it’s these things that turn the earth on – mightn’t global warming be a sign of arousal?

See: Beth Stephens and Annie Sprinkle, ‘Ecosexuality’, essay in Gender: Nature, (MIHS), ed. Iris van Der Tuin, (Schirmer Books, 2016).

Note: This text is taken from a much longer commentary and critique of the above essay by Stephens and Sprinkle (emailed to the authors on 23 Nov 2016). 

Anankastikos (In Defence of OCPD)

When I hang my washing out on the line, I like to ensure three things: 

(i) all items of a similar type are kept together (socks with socks, pants with pants, etc.) 

(ii) all items are hung according to size (the largest things first) 

(iii) all items are hung inside out, facing the same way and the same way up.

In addition, I like to make sure all of the pegs are wooden and of the same type; or, if using the plastic pegs, that they are all the same colour (preferably blue). 

According to a full-figured friend of mine who likes to boast of having a degree in psychology, this meticulous attention to detail and concern with aesthetics isn't a noble attempt to impose order upon a chaotic world and give style to an otherwise drab and dreary domestic chore; rather, it's a sign that, like Sheldon Cooper, the fictional theoretical physicist played so brilliantly by Jim Parsons in the CBS television series The Big Bang Theory, I suffer from a mental health issue known as obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD). 

Technically, she means obsessive-compulsive personality disorder (OCPD), which is clinically distinct from the above, though I hardly dare correct her for fear that she regards this as further proof of the condition; a condition which, in my view, is neither undesirable nor unhealthy, but is rather egosyntonic and characteristic of all great artists, dandies, philosophers, and others concerned with achieving a level of perfection.      

My friend might find pleasure in doing her laundry in a carefree manner - recklessly mixing the colours with the whites, hanging things in a higgledy-piggledy fashion, folding items in an incorrect manner - but she'll never know how to give birth to a dancing star or understand why it is that nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.  

        

Sympathetic Reflections on the Case of Sir Clifford Chatterley

Clifford Chatterley

comicvine.gamespot.com

Rather like Jed Mercurio, whose recent adaptation of Lady Chatterley's Lover for the BBC caused some consternation in Lawrence circles, I'm increasingly sympathetic to the figure of Sir Clifford Chatterley. For whilst, metaphorically speaking, the war had brought the roof down over his wife's head, it was he, poor devil, not she, who had been shipped home from Flanders more or less in bits, paralysed from the waist down, and in need of constant medical care for two full years.

The narrator tells us Clifford had a marvellous hold on life and that, despite the nature of his injuries, he was not really downcast. Indeed, Clifford remained bright and cheerful - "almost, one might say, chirpy, with his ruddy, healthy-looking face, and his pale-blue, challenging bright eyes". What's more, Clifford also kept up a certain dandyish display of style: "He was expensively dressed, and wore handsome neckties from Bond Street."

One might very reasonably admire such stoicism, but the narrator seems keen to foreclose this possibility. Clifford, he says, isn't courageously indifferent in the face of pain and misfortune, rather, having been so badly hurt, "the capacity for suffering had to some extent left him ... something inside him had perished, some of his feelings had gone". All that was left, writes Lawrence, was blank insentience and the "slight vacancy of a cripple". In other words, Clifford is not only physically paralysed, he's numbed in soul.
 
We are also informed that, even before his injury, Clifford wasn't a particularly passionate man. Still virgin at twenty-eight when he married Connie, the sex between them didn't mean much to him; it was just "one of the curious obsolete, organic processes which persisted in its own clumsiness, but was not really necessary".

Having said that, he, like her, longed for a son and heir and hoped that he might one day regain some degree of potency, desperately trying to convince himself that he wasn't really mutilated and that the possibility of an erection wasn't entirely out of the question, even if the muscles of the hips and legs were paralysed: "'And then the seed may be transferred.'"*

Even, if need be, Clifford is open to the possibility of raising another man's child born of Connie as his own. Connie sees the logic of his thinking on this question; but she also finds it monstrous and slowly but surely she begins to turn against Clifford. Acknowledging that he wasn't to blame for the situation they found themselves in - and that his was the greater misfortune - she also concludes that he was responsible for the lack of tenderness between them: "He was never really warm, nor even kind, only thoughtful, considerate, in a well-bred, cold sort of way!"

In this way, Connie justifies her rejection and sexual betrayal of her husband: "Suddenly, with all the force of her female instinct, she was shoving him off. ... Connie was surprised at her own feeling of aversion from Clifford. What is more, she felt she had always really disliked him." Before long, this dislike has become pure hate:

"For the first time, she had consciously and definitely hated Clifford, with vivid hate: as if he ought to be obliterated from the face of the earth. And it was strange, how free and full of life it made her feel, to hate him and to admit it fully to herself."

Charming! No wonder then that he eventually turns to his nurse and housekeeper, Mrs Bolton, for comfort and affection: "At first he had resented the infinitely soft touch of her fingers ... But now he liked it, with a growing voluptuousness." After his breakdown, following Connie's decision to abandon him, Clifford and Mrs Bolton draw into a closer physical relationship:

"He would hold her hand, and rest his head on her breast, and when she once lightly kissed him, he said! 'Yes! Do kiss me! Do kiss me!' And when she sponged his great blond body, he would say the same! 'Do kiss me!' and she would lightly kiss his body ... And then he would put his hand into her bosom and feel her breasts, and kiss them in exultation ... Mrs Bolton was both thrilled and ashamed, she both loved and hated it. Yet she never rebuffed nor rebuked him."

Lawrence describes this as an intimacy of perversity, but his characterization of the relationship as such betrays something both limited and limiting - and at times deeply unpleasant - in his own thinking on sex and disability. The fact is, whilst Lawrence posits genital intercourse as the only truly legitimate and authentic sex act, others of us are happy to experience and experiment with a far wider range of pleasures and not worry whether these be counterfeit, unnatural, decadent or perverse in character. We're happy also to accept that people with disabilities may - through choice or necessity - differ in the manner they express their sexuality. 

One way or another, it's Mrs Bolton who makes a man of Clifford and rouses him to action in the world:

"And in this Mrs Bolton triumphed. 'How he's getting on!' she would say to herself in pride. 'And that's my doing! My word, he'd never have got on like this with Lady Chatterley. She was not the one to put a man forward. She wanted too much for herself.'"

This, I think, is true: acutely aware of her own feelings and desires throughout the novel, Connie never seems to consider that Clifford had also been gradually dying within the marriage and that she had neglected him and his needs. By the time she's fucking Mellors, she doesn't touch her husband any longer; not even hold his hand. Yet she blames their lack of physical intimacy entirely on Clifford and his impotent cruelty. 
    
I don't, like Clifford, believe that Connie's actions indicate she's abnormal or insane, or one of those perverted women who must run after depravity. But I do think her selfish and somewhat fickle. And I do rather sympathise with Clifford, in a way that I didn't twenty years ago when I thought of her as an embodiment of the New Eve and of him only in the wholly negative - often ablelist - terms suggested by the author-narrator.  


*Note: The exact nature and extent of Clifford's spinal cord injury isn't made clear in the novel and so there is no reason for us as readers to pour scorn on his hopes. Nor should we subscribe to the mistaken idea, prevalent amongst the non-disabled, that disabled persons are incapable of enjoying an active and fulfilling sex life, replete with orgasms. For decades, the medical community assumed - logically, but incorrectly - that paraplegics such as Clifford couldn't experience the latter. But now, thanks to recent research in this area, we know differently. There is only one thing that definitively precludes such and that is massive damage to the sacral nerve roots at the base of the spine which interferes with the automatic nervous system. For orgasm is an internal (automatic) reflex, not a somatic sensation transmitted from skin and muscle movement and it needn't be exclusively genital in character; some people with spinal cord injuries develop compensatory erogenous zones allowing them to experience orgasms triggered by stimulation applied, for example, to their necks, knees, or nipples. You're triggering the same sacral reflex, just doing so via different routes. Mary Roach describes these non-genital orgasms rather nicely as immaculate; see chapter eleven of her work on the scientific study of sex, Bonk, (Canongate, 2008). 

See: D. H. Lawrence, Lady Chatterley's Lover, ed. Michael Squires, (Cambridge University Press, 1983).

On the Triumph of Donald Trump: Don't Say I Didn't Warn You ...

Photo credit: AP/LM Otero

I hate to be one of those people who says I told you so, but, back in 2008, in a series of essays on myth, history and cultural despair, I did suggest that - thanks to globalization - we in the West find ourselves today in very similar position to the people of Austria during the 19th century and that the potential for a new type of pessimistic and reactionary politics, based on notions of race, religion, and national identity, was thus a very real danger.   

Such a desperate response, I noted, might not be very desirable, but was perfectly understandable when mass immigration had resulted in the internal exile of indigenous populations in their own societies and concern over their future survival as ethnically and culturally distinct groups was increasingly widespread.

In order to provide some theoretical support for this argument, I referred to an essay by Jean Baudrillard in which he offered a painfully revisionist explanation for why it is that only figures on the far-right seem to possess the last remnants of political interest. This passage in particular seemed at the time - and still seems - absolutely spot on:

"The right once embodied moral values and the left, in opposition, embodied a certain historical and political urgency. Today, however, stripped of its political energy, the left has become a pure moral injunction, the embodiment of universal values, the champion of the reign of virtue and the keeper of the antiquated values of the Good and the True ..."

In short, the left has become boring and this results not only in their abject surrender, but in a situation where it’s only neo-fascist and populist politicians who have anything interesting left to say: "All the other discourses are moral or pedagogical," writes Baudrillard, "made by school teachers and lesson-givers, managers and programmers".

In daring to embrace evil and reject political correctness, I concluded, the far-right looks set to scoop the political jackpot ...

Now - just to be clear - this didn't mean back in 2008 and it doesn't mean now that I support or necessarily share the views of Geert Wilders, Nigel Farage, or Donald Trump. But it does mean I can understand the attraction of these figures to voters who are sick to death of being spoken down to by those in power who think they know better than the people who have to live with the consequences of their decisions.

And it does mean I'm conscious of the more prosaic reasons why the above seem to speak to and for an angry white working-class who feel increasingly marginalized by high-tech industries and the enforced integration of ethnic minorities into their communities.

For, unfortunately, globalization doesn't only unleash flows of capital, information, and talent across national borders, it also brings with it crime, disease, and barbarism (by which I mean unfamiliar and often antithetical customs, norms, values and beliefs). And so, unsurprisingly, defensive ideologies arise that promise to counter threats to national and cultural identity and restore order.

And so Brexit and the triumph of Donald Trump ...

Notes

Stephen Alexander, 'Reflections beneath a Black Sun', The Treadwell's Papers, Vol. IV, (Blind Cupid Press, 2010).

Jean Baudrillard, ‘A Conjuration of Imbeciles’, in The Conspiracy of Art, trans. Ames Hodges, (Semiotext[e], 2005). 

On Gender-Based Violence (With Reference to the Case of Lawrence, Bibbles and Frieda)

viopet.org

According to Dr Núria Querol, International Coordinator of animal protection society VioPet, domestic animals are as likely to be subjected to gender violence as women and if you want to understand more about the physical and psychological abuse of the latter, then you would do well to examine the mistreatment of the former at the hands of sexually aggressive men.

Indeed, refusing to make any distinction between human and non-human animals, Dr Querol argues that women and pets are equally victims of precisely the same kind of brutality; both, if you like, are subordinated as bitches and expected to tremble at the sound of their master's voice or raised hand. More often than not, if a man beats his dog - or worse - then he'll also be prone to hitting his wife or girlfriend. 

This is illustrated by the disturbing case of the writer D. H. Lawrence and his little black snub-nosed dog, Bibbles. 

In 1922-23, Lawrence and his wife, Frieda, were living on a ranch in New Mexico and had recently acquired a puppy of whom he was extremely fond. However, as one commentator notes, fond or not, Lawrence insisted on being the dog's absolute master and this occasionally resulted in violence. One incident, witnessed by two young Danish artists staying as guests of the Lawrences, is particularly disturbing ...

After going off with a handsome Airedale for a short romantic liaison (she was on heat), Bibbles discovered just how furious with rage and jealousy her master could become. Regarding her indiscriminate loving as an act of personal disloyalty - if not, indeed, rather weirdly, infidelity - Lawrence chased Bibbles out of the house and savagely "kicked her through the snowdrift into which she had blundered".

Then, catching hold of her by the scruff of the neck, he picked the poor creature up and threw her as far as he could. Only an intervention by one of the Danes prevented him from continuing the assault. John Worthen is not alone amongst Lawrence scholars in wondering how someone "so sane, sensible, caring and loving ... and who hated bullying", could mistreat a dog so viciously.   

Whilst recognising the fact that Bibbles was female surely mattered, Worthen says nothing more on why this should be so significant. Instead - controversially I think - he suggests it was because Lawrence "loved the dog too much" that he temporarily "lost himself in need and rage".

Presumably, it was because Lawrence loved Frieda too much that he often hit her as well. Not that Worthen believes we should be overly concerned about this, because, as he points out, the domestic violence between them "was something they had managed to incorporate into their marriage" and Frieda "was never frightened of him for more than a few seconds at a time".

We are encouraged thus to turn a blind eye to Lawrence's violence (as we are to other unpleasant and problematic aspects of his character and writing); to convince ourselves that animal cruelty and wife beating is somehow acceptable if carried out by a man of genius and great sensitivity in the name of love or phallic tenderness.   

Or if, as in this case, the incident inspires a memorable poem; art serving to justify the violence and redeem the suffering caused. 

       
See: John Worthen, D. H. Lawrence: The Life of an Outsider, (Penguin / Allen Lane, 2005), pp. 282-85.

And see also 'Bibbles', in Birds, Beasts and Flowers (1923), which can be found in the Cambridge edition of the poems, ed. Christopher Pollnitz, (CUP, 2013) - or read by clicking here (in a censored form - the word bitch being repeatedly - and ridiculously - replaced with a row of asterisks).   

Ghost Town

Stephen Alexander (2016)

Ghost Town, by The Specials, was a great punk single and, thirty-five years later, it continues to powerfully resonate within the cultural imagination. Indeed, its haunting melody and stark lyrics came back to me earlier today as I walked past the now derelict, burnt out pub and former Harold Hill landmark, The Pompadours.

For I'm of a generation that does recall the good old days before the ghost town, when locals danced and sang and the music played in a de boomtown.

Well, that's perhaps pushing it a bit ... But, nevertheless, I do remember a time before the great closure of the pubs and clubs began; a time when there was a genuine sense of community and not that ersatz thing which politicians and people in the liberal arts and media like to extol the virtues of; a time when people knew their neighbours (without necessarily liking them) and would socialise with one another over the garden fence and across the bar of their local boozer.  

Of course, there are many reasons why the pubs are closing - not just here in Essex, but all over the UK at the astonishing rate of four a day. Just as there are many reasons why, for example, the homogeneity and solidarity of white working class life - which often revolved around the pub - is not only disparaged and despised, but slowly being demolished in the name of ethnic and cultural diversity.

When you return here - as I have returned - and experience the daily conditions under which people are expected to live, you begin to understand the visceral resentment and rage that characterises so much public and political discourse today; indeed, one does more than understand - one begins to sympathise ...    

Can't go on no more / The people getting angry ...


Ghost Town, The Specials (2 Tone, 1981), written by Jerry Dammers, © EMI Music Publishing / BMG Rights Management US, LLC    

Note: The Pompadours opened in 1959 and was one of nine pubs on Harold Hill. To be honest, it was always something of a shithole full of dubious characters and with a reputation as a difficult pub to manage; the sort of place neither of my parents would ever dream of setting foot in. It closed its doors for the last time earlier this year. A plan to demolish it and build yet more low-rise but high-density housing was rejected by Havering Council after opposition from local residents. The future of the site is now uncertain.     

On Ecosexuality

Elizabeth Stephens and Annie Sprinkle

Here Come the Ecosexuals

For those of you who don't know, Elizabeth Stephens is an interdisciplinary artist, activist and academic whose work explores themes of sexuality, gender, and politics.

Former prostitute and porn star Annie Sprinkle, meanwhile, played an important role in the sex positive feminist movement during the 1980s and has since built up over thirty-five years of experience in erotically charged entertainment, education, and performance art. 

Today, Sprinkle and her partner Stephens are committed to queering the environmental movement and to this end have declared themselves to be ecosexuals. They have also written an ecosex manifesto and established a new field of research and aesthetic practice called sex ecology.

Central to their philosophy is the notion of replacing the metaphor of Earth Mother with that of Earth Lover, in the hope that this might "entice people to develop a more mutual, pleasurable, sustainable, and less destructive relationship with the environment". This means not only treating the Earth with kindness and respect, but also engaging in libidinal relationships with the material world; hugging trees, caressing rocks, being pleasured by waterfalls, etc.

Now, you might be thinking at this point that, as someone who has written enthusiastically on floraphilia, I would happily and unconditionally offer my support to Stephens and Sprinkle - but you'd be mistaken. Unfortunately, I have a number of problems with their project, but these might, for the sake of convenience, be boiled down to just two: firstly, I don't share their idealism and, secondly, I don't like the way they attempt to impose a unified and recognisable sexual identity upon a diverse range of paraphilias and polymorphously perverse practices.

Let's examine each of these points in a bit more detail ...   

1. Like many others before them, including nature worshipping Romantics and blood and soil loving Nazis, Stephens and Sprinkle quickly fall into idealism and, related to this, anthropocentric conceit as they project their own egos (their own politics, their own prejudices, their own peccadilloes) into everything; not just the Earth, but the Sun, the Moon and the Stars to boot. Their ecosexuality is thoroughly - and disappointingly - allzumenschliche.

They would do well, in my view, to learn from Lawrence on this, who, with reference to the case of Thomas Hardy, warns that to try and subject the earth to your own idealism always ends badly - not least of all for you as an idealist. He writes:

"What happens when you idealize the soil, the mother-earth, and really go back to it? Then with overwhelming conviction it is borne in upon you ... that the whole scheme of things is against you. The whole massive rolling of natural fate is coming down on you like a slow glacier, to crush you to extinction. As an idealist.
      Thomas Hardy's pessimism is an absolutely true finding. It is the absolutely true statement of the idealist's last realization, as he wrestles with the bitter soil of beloved mother-earth. He loves her, loves her, loves her. And she just entangles and crushes him like a slow Laocoön snake. The idealist must perish, says mother-earth. ...
      You can't idealize mother-earth. You can try. You can even succeed. But succeeding, you succumb. She will have no pure idealist sons [or, in this case, daughters]. None.
      If you are a child of mother-earth, you must learn to discard your ideal self ... as you discard your clothes at night."

Put simply, the Earth doesn't want to nourish you like a child nor accept you as a lover or spouse; it is massively and monstrously indifferent to your existence and your longings.

2. One of the joys of floraphilia is that it's a paraphilia and not a legitimised form of love; the prefix para implying not only that it exists alongside the latter, but that it's abnormal. And that's how I like it and want it to remain. To be pollen-amorous is to allow one's desire to free float on the passing breeze; it is to become-flower, which is to say, beautiful and soulless. It's not about constructing some new form of sexual identity and of tethering the latter to an essential truth.

Foucault, of course, brilliantly analysed the dangers and disadvantages of this with reference to the birth of the modern homosexual, arguing that homosexuality only "appeared as one of the forms of sexuality when it was transposed from the practice of sodomy onto a kind of interior androgyny, a hermaphrodism of the soul. The sodomite had been a temporary aberration; the homosexual was now a species" subject to an entirely new discursive regime.

I'm sure Stephens and Sprinkle are aware of all this and so it surprises me to say the least that they insist on positing ecosexuality as a primary drive and identity, or some sort of ontological category into which all other sexual positionings - GLBTQI - can ultimately be collapsed (because we are all natural beings and all sex is ecosex).

I wish them well, but I also wish they'd exercise a little more philosophical caution and nuance ...       


Notes

D. H. Lawrence, 'Dana's "Two Years before the Mast"', Studies in Classic American Literature, ed. Ezra Greenspan, Lindeth Vasey and John Worthen, (Cambridge University Press, 2003).

Michel Foucault, The History of Sexuality 1: The Will to Knowledge, trans. Robert Hurley, (Penguin Books, 1998). 

Readers interested in knowing more about the work of Beth Stephens and Annie Sprinkle and reading their ecosex manifesto can visit: sexecology.org

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