Power

‘Revolution isn’t seizing power but seizing the power of life and over life. Seizing power isn’t the culminating moment of the revolution but rather counter revolution in its purest form, in its triumph and its mockery.’ (Pino Tripodi, in Gli autonomi vol I)

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‘Please don’t seize power.’  (A/traverso, September 1977)

Active Passivity I

‘How does one actively do the passivity thing?’ asks the narrator of Tiziano Scarpa’s Kamikaze d’Occidente. One attempt might be that of the fireman of Guccini’s locomotive. You set up the situation; the technology does the rest: ‘Remind your soul to listen and obey … you will face decisive situations … be patient … things get easier without your intervention … ‘ (Mohammed Atta, document written just before 11 September 2001; ‘things get easier…’ comes from another translation)

Or to turn that around entirely, ‘Freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose.’ The emptying out of the self; the ‘imaginary institutions’ of whatever greater (but absent) entity instantiated, made carniferous through not entirely elective prosopopœia. These walls may not have ears, but they certainly do have tongues.

Or as Hegel said (or at least Engels summarising Hegel, later quoted by Plekhanov), ‘Freedom is the recognition of necessity.’ And Necessity, the Law, is dark or occluded only insofar as it is insufficiently understood, the container that’s to be breached, the potential for destruction, from within. This is subjectivity conceived in Avicenna’s terms, as ontological Russian dolls. Not the ground beneath one’s feet (elephants all the way down) but successive ceilings, the impositions stemming from others’ objectification, against which subjectivity has to push. Until some terminus ad quem is eventually reached, be it God, Historical Necessity, the biggest dead whale in Lombardy (Cf Aldo Nove). Or whatever. And Pie in the Sky When We Die.

Joe Hill offers ‘pie in the sky when we die’, whence the phrase. But right now we have to ‘work and pray [and] live on hay’, which is a nicely acerbic sneer at the tension running through so many parts of Christianity (as a religion of achievement) between the modally present, optative and aspectual (‘God be with you’) and the temporal, deontic and modally future (‘Heaven shall await you’: God postponed).

Guccini’s God is Dead draws a somewhat similar contrast, this time between a world in which:

‘on the kerbsides God is dead

in the cars picked up on instalments God is dead

in the myths of summer God is dead’

and ‘a new world’ which is in the making, precisely because:

‘in terms of what we believe in God has risen

in terms of what we wish for God has risen

in the world we wish for

God has risen’

but also in which the Resurrection precedes, as it were, the Revolution rather as velleity precedes conation before the arm can be raised. Or in this case the whole of the body from the not yet emptied tomb.

And there may be still other ways into this notion of active passivity, always presuming it exists, one of which might be to think not about inaction versus action but instead about how presence relates to pretence, of presence without pretence, and about absence. From outside each ontological boundary (ie looking in) content is an image, a representation: its reality is subordinate, diminished. Whereas ‘there could be another way, of making of it only presence, only absence.’ (This is Antonio Moresco.) So ‘to hell with representation! This is the time for presence. Fewer metaphors, fewer mediations. Meaning things directly. Making literal sense.’ (Tiziano Scarpa)

And if meaning now becomes key, is meaning itself then simply a series of jugs or boxes in which to capture the world? This is ontological containment, meaning conceived of as though it were mastery over the world. Or is it a set of tails which one haplessly attempts to pin upon the donkey flux of sensation, which is what the world, as we experience it, comprises? This is nominalism, whose two ontological realms, somewhat estranged, comprise Reality on the one hand and the Naming of Reality on the other, rather as essentialism (which treats of what is true and thus unchanging against a flux of names) and nominalism (not quite vice versa, but nearly) are themselves estranged. Or is it rather a suit of clothes with which to cover up the nakedness of being? Maybe. Because Nature abhors undressed emperors above all things and therefore so should we? Or because Tinkerbell exists precisely through our belief?

But I don’t, in saying that, wish to make fun of what is simulation semantics at a personal level, social constructivism at the interpersonal. The creation of meaning, the production of some sort of glow of value, maybe if only a glimmer even, is a much more important and complex thing than its pricing through re-production, through the quotidian exchanges of all our busy social lives.

The Mushroom

Freedom is a mushroom you have to try for yourself. You cannot know beforehand whether or not it will harm you.

(Stefano Benni: Saltatempo)

Freedom and Revolt

The 1909 Manifesto began a process whereby human beings, the collective organism, quickly became machines. This was the era which saw ‘a financial system based upon the futurizing of the entire economy, upon debt and economic promise. That future is now over.’ (Bifo’s introduction to his Post Futurist Manifesto 2009)

The Futurist Manifesto sings of aggression and speed against a literature of ‘painful immobility’: ‘We want to exalt aggressive movement …the route march, the leap in the dark … The world has now been enriched by a new beauty: the beauty of speed. We want to praise the man who holds the steering wheel, the column of whose lance crosses Earth, launched at a run, over the course of its orbit.’

In 1982 Francesco de Gregori sang of the Titanic’s Captain Smith, fused with his vessel along with ‘a million horses’: ‘Look at the muscles of the captain, all plastic and methane.’ ‘This ship does 2,000 knots… / and it has an engine made up of a million horses / and in place of hooves they have wings. / … / In this swift and electric night … / the future is a burning cannonball and we are almost about to reach it.’ The end comes ‘peacefully’ enough, as it were, to the strains of a much earlier song about the Sirio, whose wreck preceded that of the Titanic, with its own hundreds of dead, on 6 August 1906:

‘and amongst them was a bishop

who gave everyone his blessing.’

This is probably the fate of bishops (and commentators) everywhere: to gloss the inevitable even as they go under.

Anyway here is Francesco Guccini singing in 1972 of how on 20 July 1893 Pietro Rigosi, a railway fireman, deliberately drove train 3541 into the first class carriage of another train just outside Bologna. This was when the ‘Holy War’ of the anarchist pezzenti ‘was beginning’ and ‘the train too seemed a myth of progress / launched over the continents / …  a strange monster.’ This train is the generic train of strength and speed whose ‘dynamite’ power is controlled by hand and brain, formed by the transfer of imaginative energy from the natural world into that of the machine. But it becomes an image of luxury, velveteen and golden, parked in a dead end. Meanwhile, even as it ‘grips the rails with muscles of steel’, the generic iron horse status of the fireman’s train is transformed back, as though undoing a magic spell, first into a true ‘living thing’, into ‘a young colt that has just thrown off the reins’. And it is this ‘immense destructive force’ within the system itself, which ‘runs and runs and runs ever faster / and runs and runs and runs and runs towards its death’ which ‘nothing can now hold back’.

It is presumably not always the case that new horizons do not (potentially) exist out there or that they have been conceived of inappropriately. But when freedom itself is destroyed the ‘freedom of philosophy’ (this is Adorno, of course) becomes no more than ‘the capacity to lend a voice’ to that unfreedom’. Or else there is simply silence:  ‘To breathe the same air / as a warder doesn’t suit me / Therefore … I’ll give up / my hour of freedom.’ (Fabrizio de André: Nella mia ora di libertà, 1973)