A Quiet Resolve

A couple of years ago I revealed myself to be a supporter of international human rights.[^ To quote former Human Rights Commissioner, Chris Sidoti “International law is just about the only thing that stands between us and the abyss. Without international law, states can do whatever they like to each other and to their own citizens. As weak as it is, as ineffective as it is, it’s at least an attempt to provide protection for people—an attempt that’s far from successful, but still far better than nothing. And without it, there’s nothing. The alternative is just chaos.” If we can’t coordinate to stop a literal genocide with an abundance of direct, real-time evidence and footage—then how how in heck will we coordinate our way through the metacrisis (spoiler: we won’t—but it’s still worth striving for).] I was also quite vocal on social media, sharing a firm stance that we ought not be slaughtering children and doing war crimes, and that we should also defend against genocide. Never again, means never again—for anyone.

I lost over 1,000 subscribers (that’s okay), a chunk of work (fine), and opened myself to some trolling (so be it). This is nothing compared to what more courageous and vocal folks have endured. Particularly women and intersectional friends. But I’m not quite as strong as them, and eventually it wore me down.

There’s only so much live-streamed violence and horror one can imbibe, and only so much gaslighting one could tolerate.

The poetry of Tom Hirons resonates with this feeling. Particularly My Dismantling Walls.

I stopped looking at the pictures
of dead Palestinian children
because there was no safe room
large or safe enough in my heart
in which they might be held
without breaking the walls of my self.
If I were to allow each death truly into me,
I feared I could become a catastrophe,
a saint or a god. Perhaps even a human,
remade.

I don’t know how to live in the horror
of watching a slaughter from afar
and so find solace in small actions
that are not ever enough and
my soul churns with fury and grief.

... (continued)

And so, I learnt to wean myself off the social media apps once more. Somehow this still felt like betrayal. But somehow I also came to see just how our compassion can be co-opted by The Machine. “The Machine is a judo artist who uses an opponent’s own energy against him,” Adam Smith writes. “It thrives on attention, and negative is as good as positive, maybe even better.”

Eschew The Spectacle

I can’t even remember how I became so ensnared. As a wizard—particularly as a foxwizard—I should have had my wits about me. Still, it’s good to slip every now and then.

This passage from The Basilisk continues to resonate.

You know what this portal is, don’t you, Niece? You were always a smart one. You have joined the dots. I know it.

There is a reason they call it “the web,” Bridget; a reason they call it “the net.” It is a trap. We have built the means of our own enslavement, at their suggestion. Now we are all carrying a portal to the underworld in our back pockets and handbags, and we are entirely unguarded against whoever chooses to step through it.

I love how it hints at the otherworldly occult, whilst also offering sensibilities quite prudent for the times. It’s very as-if.[^ “I don’t believe in all this dark entity shit!” they might say, whilst at other times wondering if the black stone tablet they carry with them is listening to their words.]

Anyhoo: I turned away from the portal, immersing myself in books, poetry, podcasts, and conversation with the wider world. And it’s been wonderful.

I’m aware that some might consider this a form of spiritual bypassing. Yet I maintain that we each need to find our capacities and our ways. And this doesn’t always have to be mitigated via centralised social media platforms.

Find Your Way

As I shared in my equinox extravagance, I feel as though I could hear my own voice again (after I don’t know how many years). And, more importantly, my Muse made herself known to me. She doesn’t like The Machine.

But here’s the thing: I work with liminal agents. Folks who likewise operate betwixt worlds. Folks at ease in the both-and of it all.[^ Or rather: the both-both-and-and-either-or-(and-neither-nor) of it all.] There is a requisite oscillation to such work. Liminal agents neither completely remove themselves from the game (to go live in the wilds), nor do they completely surrender themselves to The Machine. We oscillate, and maintain a presence in both.

This is particularly important with regards to collapse-awareness. Knowing just how bad things are going to be leads most of us (eventually) to the conclusion that, whatever happens, we’ll need to play our roles wherever we happen to be. Which means that, for many of us, we must do our work in-situ. Going off to live on a farm doesn’t work—you need skills, resources, money, land, and most importantly: community. You don’t want hungry neighbours.

Some liminal agents work within the heart of The Machine; warmening and cultivating deeper relationality, orientating towards true value. And some of us work as external agents, offering value and perspective that cannot readily be generated from within. Either way, we each work in our own way, amidst the liminality, to co-create a world more curious and kind (and, we hope, a future less grim).

Thus the work I do requires that I at least occasionally show up where the conversation is happening.

This is a long and round about way of saying that... I feel I need to oscillate back into the arena, for a spell.

Back Into The Arena

Mayhaps. We’ll see. Or rather: I’ve already decided I’m going back, and I’m writing this to convince myself it’s a principled decision rather than just missing the buzz of engagement.

I’ve been enjoying my RSS feeds to independent writers and bloggers, saving good articles to read and highlight via readwise. In the rare times I had to jump onto the centralised platforms, it was never via my phone. And I would always steel myself first, doing my best not to be baited by the entities that seek to outrage and entrance. Of course I sabotage this intent all the time—but it still mostly serves.

But recently—well, ever since leaving—I’ve noticed a kind of loneliness. The wizard tower from whence I write is in the forest. But so much of The Conversation seems to happen in the shopping mall that is Substack. From a previous musing:

“I think of it like a shopping mall. I don’t like shopping malls—too loud, too many people, too many downlights. But it’s convenient to have everything in the one place. And besides: a lot of people I deeply respect and admire hang out in the shopping mall that is Substack. If you’re a department store, or you’re just starting out, Substack can be great. It’s centralised and super convenient. And, frankly, it’s better than legacy social media platforms.”

Substack have pretty much abandoned all pretence that they are anything other than a social media platform now. And, whilst many writers (understandably) bemoan this—it is hardly surprising. What does surprise me is just how effective Substack has been at attracting (and retaining) wonderful writers.[^ Who should know better (?) Or maybe they’re just a little less quixotic and a lot more pragmatic than I am.]

Oh sure, the slop is already lapping at the knees. But if you know how to navigate it all, you can still wend your way to some gems.

All the perils of platform and audience capture remain—and Substack is particularly inundated with gamification elements that seek to turn writing into a kind of competition or sport—but I can’t deny: this is where the conversation seems to be happening. And it’s less shitty than all the other centralised platforms.

Would I prefer it that we all maintained independent websites and met at something like the equivalent of a farmer’s market? Most definitely.

But in the meantime this wizard will make the occasional foray to the shopping mall (with sunglasses, and hand sanitiser). The goal here being to simply make better connections with the bright minds and warm hearts who (seemingly) choose to make their home there.

Cool, okay

Yeah, ha. I have written another solipsistic post with no real point. This is me limbering up before I actually venture out. Palms sweaty, knees weak, arms are heavy, etc. Here’s me talking myself up before I put on my jester costume once more (in my case: a dapper suit) so that I can be like fellow jester Thomas J Bevan, who says:

“You ever stop and think how ridiculous posting online is? The whole thing

For example, people will genuinely travel to some far-flung location and from their deckchair carefully frame a photograph of the ocean and the beach and then they stick their legs out so that they just casually happen to be in the shot. And then they spend a good ten, fifteen minutes trying to think of the perfect caption—not too flippant, not too tryhard, not too humblebraggy—to accompany this shot. And then they send it out to a mass of strangers. And elsewhere in the world some stranger sees this—on the crapper, on a smoke break, on the train home—and they spend several minutes thinking of the perfect comment, the perfect retort, the perfect comeback to piggyback off this faux-candid leg-on-the-beach post.

And this is the most trivial example I can think of. What about the people who film themselves dancing for the lottery win shot of tiktok clout? Or the the people who watch such things hour after hour? What about the people who spend weeks crafting serious essays about poptimism pap or pen breezy, flippant, drowning-in-twelve-layers-of-irony posts about actual important things?

Or worse of all what about the should-know-better slightly older people who see through this whole charade (or think they do) but they waste their days crafting metaposts about this whole sorry state of affairs instead of simply walking away?

You ever think about this?”

Hehe, oh I do. Perhaps too much so.

A seemingly wise mentor told me, very early in my career, that it is better to be a better marketer of what you do, than a doer or what you do (via Winston Marsh). And this seems to be the case for many people. Which is why everything is increasingly shit, and we can’t have nice things.

I can already feel myself talking myself out of it. Surely there is a way to channel this ambivalence? Ha: there isn’t—the ambivalence is the point. To quote Adam Smith once more: “It might even be that ambivalence—or the trickster’s irony—is the proper form of resistance to a monster that thrives on opposition.”

But let’s be clear about what I’m ambivalent about: it’s not that nothing matters—much manifestly does, tragically so. I’m just ambivalent as to whether showing up in these spaces helps or just feeds The Spectacle and The Machine.

And so I’ll visit the shopping mall occasionally, if in the mood. And maybe I’ll say some things, and maybe I’ll make a few more friends. The work requires I show up where conversations are happening—even if it means I become part of the pantomime.

It’s ridiculous—yet here I am.