The jouissance that constitutes the violence of anti-blackness secures the order of life itself; sadism in service to the prolongation of life.
— Frank Wilderson, Afropessimism

I didn’t have much to say about Jason Arday when he was alive. I have even less to say about him personally now he’s passed. I did not know him yet I feel pangs of shame. I had felt this anti-black chorus rising—uncomfortable conversations in writer’s group chats and discourse bubbling in my periphery—and chose silence over any sort of defence, thinking my voice doesn’t need to be leant to this. My private position does not always translate well into a public opinion. It often makes me conflicted about how my writing truly fits into what has become an everyday, grand spectacle of modern life.

Perhaps I should’ve written something sooner; when I saved a screenshot of the Sunday Times Ad on Twitter that was promoting an opinion piece about a former student who accused Arday of “being late to class and spouting nonsense”. But when you see flesh getting much heavier than a pound, it can feel like adding your own opinion to the chorus—even in defiance of it—might only make the spectacle more tantalising.

There is both kindness and cowardice in silence, it seems.

Arday’s death evidences a level of vitriol that’s become harrowingly normal in public life. It echoes something gross, old and familiar—the spectatores cheering at gladiators’ slaughter in the coliseum, the mob throwing tomatoes at blasphemers in Victorian stocks, the Southern families heading to a black man’s lynching after Sunday Church. How this manifests in the digital age is a sensationalism frightens me as much as the ambivalence that drives why otherwise “good” people to look away from the pressing issues of our time. Because we are always looking, force to look, constantly watching others, positioning ourselves, devising our opinions, pining for viral moments, leveraging posts in hope it’ll fetch us a check or change our lives.

That is the nature of this spectacle. How will you use your gaze?

Before I write about anyone publicly, I am governed by one question only: if they were in the room with me—would I be okay saying out loud what I’m writing? Would I say it to their face and would I be okay with the worst consequences arising, whatever they are? AKA: Would I stand on fucking business? I tend not to scribble a single word until I’m certain the answer is yes.

But the etiquette of this parasocial infotainment media sphere doesn’t adhere to such principles, let alone value them, instead it discourages considering the subjects of our words as real people, not considering the implications about how the topics we salivate over as fruitful “debate” might affect real lives. There is an ingrained detachment—from fingertip to screen to subject to the thing itself—that makes it easier to treat what we write online as purely self-serving fuel and fodder for a non-contact sport; where the rules are held strictly against some and laxly against advantaged others, goalposts always shifting.

I am not altogether concerned about the specifics of what the Jason Arday did or didn’t do. I’m more concerned that the British media took it upon itself to band together to criminalise a sociology professor more than it has hounded any of the men substantially named in Epstein’s sex trafficking ring. How many articles does it take to bludgeon someone to death? 249 in 22 days. An entire institutional machine ramped up its shaming rituals to full tilt over a black man who might’ve been flawed1 but was mostly harmless. Any lies2 he might’ve told were entirely disproportionate to the fate he received.

How do we weigh the density of a lie? If only the same machine would congregate with such scathing urgency against a president who’s responsible for millions of lives that lies so much there’s a dedicated Wikipedia page or a trillionaire whose acquisition of a social media website trafficked bigoted misinformation leading to full-scale riots in Britain, or the architects and enablers of genocide or even the lying, far-right, bigoted party leader soliciting funds from foreign crypto-billionaires who is trying to usher in a new age of fascism after fucking us all over with Brexit in the name of “sovereignty”.

None of the so-called journalists, holier-than-thou academics, right-wing grifters or left-wing sycophants who picked up the story from a disgraced philospher racist and ran with the yankee-doodle culture war talking points about DEI will look at this outcome with an ounce of self-reflection, humility, remorse or apology for how their words have gone too far. They wanted Arday gone. He resigned and they wanted him gone more still. Now he is as gone as gone can be and suddenly being gone is a tragedy. None of them are brave enough, honest enough, or introspective enough to admit that this is wish-fulfilment. They got what they wanted. Now the taste of blood is wretched.

Driving a man to his death then feigning sadness is more pathetic than simply celebrating. I’d almost respect them more if they owned it as a win. But many of them have not reckoned with the libidinal appetite they carry within them. Their cognitive dissonance precludes them from seeing that their insatiable lust for black death is like an ancestral source code, dormant until activates but ever present, existing even in the moments when they are not thinking about it, especially then, and it fuels their entire civilisation. They want to pretend it isn’t there, or that they do not even know it is there, or that it doesn’t govern its most sadistic impulses because they have progressed beyond its malice so rather than embracing their maliciousness or genuinely self-reflecting on what possessed them to become so giddy with bloodthirst—instead, we’ll all have to endure slimy rationalisations and weaselling as the bipartisan mob who couldn’t resist getting a sneaky punt at Arday while he was down offer empty and begrudging condolences about the loss and sanctity of human life, intellectualising their complicity, quietly removing or editing all their institutionally-backed online tongue-lashings so they can pretend the gratuitous bile they spewed made no contribution to his death. And we’re still expected to be civil to them, who launder their own lack of civility through intellectualism, neoeugenicism and fake moralising?

That, to me, is a perfect representation of how insidious racism is, how taxing, how cowardly this so-called “supremacist” ideology is, as a collective blight on us all. An insatiable lust for blood is spread thin on so many hands that no one person is ever convicted of holding the blade. But the outcome always, conveniently, materialises black loss regardless.

More people are going to die this way, I fear—just as many more have already died in far more violent ways before our very eyes and away from them.

Discoursed to fucking death, discoursed in fucking death.3

“Words work as release—well-oiled doors opening and closing between intention, gesture. A pulse in a neck, the shiftiness of the hands, an unconscious blink, the conversations you have with your eyes translate everything and nothing. What will be needed, what goes unfelt, unsaid—what has been duplicated, redacted here, redacted there, altered to hide or disguise—words encoding the bodies they cover. And despite everything the body remains.”
— Claudia Rankine, Citizen

“The lynching pictures tell us about human wickedness. About inhumanity. They force us to think about the extent of the evil unleashed specifically by racism. Intrinsic to the perpetration of this evil is the shamelessness of photographing it. The pictures were taken as souvenirs and made, some of them, into postcards; more than a few show grinning spectators, good churchgoing citizens as most of them had to be, posing for a camera with the backdrop of a naked, charred, mutilated body hanging from a tree. The display of these pictures makes us spectators, too.”
— Susan Sontag, Regarding the Pain of Others

“Not us,” said the angry crowd
Whose screams filled the arena loud
“It’s too bad he had to die that night
But we just like to see a good ol’ fashioned fight
We didn’t mean for him to meet his death
We just wanted to see some sweat
There is nothing wrong in that
It wasn’t us that made him fall
You can’t blame us at all”
— Bob Dylan, Who Killed Davey Moore

When Genie in Disney’s Aladdin (1992) begins to list the three provisos of his PHENOMENAL COSMIC POWER, we understand that his imprisonment in the _{itty-bitty living space} of the oil-lamp means that wish-magic—like the Genie himself—is bound by restraints.

1. I can’t kill anybody.

2. I can’t make anyone fall in love.

“Can’t” assumes fulfilment of these wishes is outside of Genie’s expertise, power or magical ability—but this assumption of impossibility is complicated by a throwaway comment Genie makes about the third rule. After morphing the brilliant blue hue of his skin into sickly green, rot dangling like necrotic tinsel, Genie shakes Aladdin by the shoulders and says:

3. I can’t bring people back from the dead.

   
   It’s not a pretty picture… I don’t like doing it!

His final exclamation implies that it is possible for him to resurrect dead people but his personal distaste supersedes the wish-granter’s entitlement. We can assume this logic applies to all of the provisos—that despite his cosmic enslavement, Genie has some level of autonomy to veto a small batch of wishes that he finds distasteful. How does this veto power work? What or who allowed him to have it? What would happen if Aladdin wished for Princess Jasmine to fall in love with him? Would he just deny to grant it? Would he try to grant it but it would fail and fizzle out? Would some higher power step down from their celestial perch to sanction Genie if he tried to grant it?

Wish-magic is presented cinematically as a primordial force, operating with its own principles of fundamental interaction but beholden to complications of sentience—of interpretation, misinterpretation and misappropriation. There is a space between the desire of the wish-maker, the motivations of the wish-granter and the quantum laws of the wish itself where magic becomes an unpredictable playground.

Here lies the unspoken stipulations. For example: Disney’s Genie can retract back into the lamp at any time but he can’t touch it. If he could, he’d’ve simply handed the lamp back to Aladdin when it came into Jafar’s possession. But the first thing Genie does when Aladdin sets him free is pick up the lamp—its glow of mystic energy made dull. He is stunned that something so ordinary had incarcerated him for so long.

The Genie’s inability to touch the lamp was not a rule that affected the wish-maker so it never needed to be listed in Genie’s provisos, but it is a rule crucial to the flow of the story. It is a rule manufactured purely for dramatic tension.

This playground is also where morally bankrupt wish-granters thrive. In exchange for their wishes, a being like the extra-terrestrial felinoid Kyubey from Puella Magi Madoka Magica can recruit pubescent girls into being magical girls, dooming them for witchery so Kyubey can use their potent, emotional energy to stave off the heat death of the universe. Or the Monkey’s Paw, popularised by W. W. Jacobs, can bend language and meaning to grant its wish-maker’s desires in the most unfortunate way possible.

But whether a wish is insidiously made, insidiously granted, innocuously made or innocuously granted—whether its the whimsical body-swapping of 13 going on 30 or the insidious Djinn who contorts every request into the most horrific outcome imaginable in Wishmaster—every parable of wish-magic has, in common, a cautionary tale about man’s own hubris—encouraging us to appreciate the opportunity we have to solve our worldly problems through the everyday determination of living.

Obsession

(I’m assuming that everyone reading this has seen Obsession)

There is a distinct passivity to Bear that immobilises him between knowing the right thing to do and his conviction to do it. This provides, I think, the most lucid commentary Obsession can offer about the state of masculinity in modern love. Bear is a poignant protagonist of our time because his passivity commits him to convenience over discomfort at any cost.

As the fictional object of our gaze, trapped in the contextual afterlife of a grim and decadent fairytale, we half-expect Bear to act valiantly, half-brace ourselves for him to crack into open malice. He proves many times over that he’s unable to do either. He is neither Aladdin or Jafar.

Faced with this classic be-careful-what-you-wish-for wish, a conventional hero would take the supernatural premise in stride—with grit teeth, parabolic wiles, and a chivalrous sense of duty to save the woman he claims to love. But Bear reacts like any normie with greige prompt answers on Hinge—umming and ahhing until the consequences become too dire to ignore. That is the horror. He’s mid and it’s terrifying; because these circumstances so clearly demand more of him. His throwaway moments of timidness echo louder than the flippancy of his intent and he cannot rise to confront their ripples nor does he revel in their splashes of blood.

When real Nikki momentarily breaks free of the psychic clutches of Wish Nikki and pleads him to end her suffering and kill her, Bear can only bring himself to ask, “what’s so bad about being with me?” His question assumes a chilling, emotionally manipulative form that jolts his plausible deniability into a shirking of responsibility. His power over her solidifies, becomes transparent and it is here that he becomes Edward Burke’s triumph of evil, a “nice guy” doing nothing. But the something he needs to do, the resolution being immediately presented to him, is to become a murderer. He is being urged to kill for reasons nobody outside of the room would believe or understand. His question drips with hopelessness. From the comfort of our cinema seats or the bed with our laptops balanced on our chest we can yell out, just kill her! Or yourself! But Bear is just an average guy. He doesn’t have the compassion or the bloodlust to answer real Nikki’s pleas, or the moral constitution to end himself, or the competence to finesse a third option. And so, each sad action after flaccid inaction slowly perverts his life in a way we cannot look away from. Obsession edges us with possibilities of Bear’s redemption. But he is chronically unable to break free from the gravitational pull of misfortune brought about by his own corrosive avoidance of friction. Every decision is governed by an unbroken bass-line of desperation. Even when he finally chooses to sacrifice himself, which some might see as an overdue act of bravery or empathy, it is motivated by his frantic need to escape the untenable escalation of collateral homicides and manslaughters that would be too inexplicable to his friends, family, law enforcement and a grand jury. Offing himself is the most favourable outcome for him. It just happens to be best for Nikki as well; as the perpetual afterthought of his desire.

If One Battle After Another’s Ghetto Pat and Eddington’s Joe Cross are characters marking the ass-end of an era to represent “the dry-husked myth of the heroic ideal crumbling to reveal an incompetent loser beneath”, Bear is their zoomer son; a loser in the imagination of the traditional white-heroic patriarch, a loser in relation to the succeeding renaissance of antiheroes—the earthy charm of the mobster Tony Soprano, the cunning determination of the meth dealer Walter White, the suave machismo of the philandering Don Draper—and a loser to the amorphous, feminist ideal that yearns for a healthier model of masculinity altogether.

The One Wish Willow isn’t imbued with the lethal irony of a Monkey Paw; his friend Ian’s own wish for a billion dollars is granted as a consequence-free deluge of bank notes raining from the sky. Inconvenient yes, but fulfilled without curse. Bear’s wish, however, for Nikki to love him “more than anyone else in the fucking world” manifests like a computational error—conjuring a “crazy” supernatural entity that pilots real Nikki’s body, holding her metaphysically hostage.

Bear’s wish is, of course, a clear violation of the second proviso in Aladdin and the events of Obsession hinge on our cultural remembrance of it, if not, the commonsensical understanding that making someone love you is ontologically fucked up. In lieu of a big blue cosmic entity to cancel or govern it—the insentient cosmic force of Obsession’s wish-magic warps Bear’s wish for love like the gravity dilation of a black hole warps time.

In bell hooks’ seminal work on contemporary love, All About Love, hooks tries to locate a meaningful definition of love. She first reaches for the words of Diane Ackerman:

“Love is the great intangible… Everyone admits that love is wonderful and necessary, yet no one can agree on what it is… We use the word love in such a sloppy way that it can mean almost nothing or absolutely everything.”1

Throughout All About Love, hooks pulls quotes and manufactures her own to try and discern what love is and isn’t, how to practice it and how to fulfil it. Her north star comes from M. Scott Peck, who describes love as “the will to extend one’s self for the purpose of nurturing one’s own or another’s spiritual growth.”2. hooks describes the experience of genuine love herself as a “combination of care, commitment, trust, knowledge, responsibility, and respect.”3 In relation to violence in relationships, she states “when we understand love as the will to nurture our own and another’s spiritual growth it becomes clear that we cannot claim to love if we are hurtful and abusive. Love and abuse cannot coexist.” In relation to how children experience love as “only about getting your needs met” and she considers “the notion that love is about getting what one wants, whether it’s a hug or a new sweater or a trip to Disneyland, is a way of thinking about love that makes it difficult for children to acquire a deeper emotional understanding.”

But the most crucial definition comes, again, from Peck:

“Love is as love does. Love is an act of will—namely, both an intention and an action. Will also implies choice. We do not have to love. We choose to love.”

Wish Nikki’s existence is the result of a philosophical paradox between Bear’s romantic imposition and love’s imperative to be freely chosen. Her actions manifest (and are intended to echo) as a “crazy, jealous girlfriend” because she is borne out of an inherently unresolvable contradiction. When we meet her, the real Nikki isn’t some out-of-reach object of Bear’s desire, she hasn’t “friend-zoned” him into some sin-bin of perceived emasculation nor is she callously leading him towards a humiliating bucket-of-pigs-blood. They’re good friends. They laugh together. They care about each other. Nikki says when she has a crush, nobody will know about it. There is a path to genuine love between Bear and Nikki—one the film intentionally presents as ambiguous and overrun with mundane, daily foliage.

But Bear’s wish for her to “love him more than anyone else in the fucking world” is, all at once, a robbery of the love that might’ve evolved naturally if he’d just taken the brave leap of confessing his feelings and the inception of a nightmarish ongoing violation of her consent. Whether you believe this makes him more tragic than heinous, vice versa, or what juncture in the timeline of events marks his spillage into irredeemability will likely provide as much fertile, ongoing discourse as Killmonger’s antagonism in Black Panther. (Although to classify the film as an “incel horror” seems too simple, too heuristic, too concerned with rendering male shut-ins who lack the social skills to endear women into casual sex or long-term romantic interest as the epitome of misogyny by looking away from the reality that Bear, like many of the average men under patriarchy, has an active social life and no great lack of romantic options as evidenced by the brewing chemistry with his unfortunate co-worker, Sarah.)

Obsession’s entire narrative is sustained by the popular mischaracterisation of possessiveness as “love”, trafficking the obsolete yet persistent notion that an unhealthy fixation indicates an overwhelming volume of love itself. We have not yet matured past the myth that “loving too much” is an explanation for intimate partner violence, as hooks points out how normal it is to refer to men who kill their partners as ‘crimes of passion’:

“He killed her because he loved her so much. If we were constantly remembering that love is as love does, we would not use the word in a manner that devalues and degrades its meaning.”

Wish Nikki never intentionally harms Bear but her actions in the name of love drive her to humiliating self-neglect, claiming the lives of his friends, and leading Bear to such distress that he kills himself. These are devaluations and degradations that prove how Wish Nikki treats Bear is not the noun of love but a malformed version of it, one we know deep down is a bastardisation and one we are all too comfortable conflating with “genuine love” in the way that Ackerman aptly describes as “sloppy”.

Where Bear’s wish and misogynistic ongoing violation of consent is the film’s narrative ignitor and fuel; Wish Nikki’s perpetuation of the “loving too much it results in violence” myth is the engine, echoing colonial ideas of love as property ownership. Together, of course, they make the horror of Obsession compelling. But beyond the creation of Wish Nikki being unnatural or assigning any moral value or blame to her actions borne from the imposition of Bear’s impulsive and insecure desire—her very existence exhibits the wish-magic’s failure. Wish Nikki does not truly love Bear because, as hooks states, “to practice the art of loving we have first to choose love.” Nothing about Wish Nikki is out of choice. Nothing she does is out of choice. She is functionally a slave; existing simply to keep him “loving” her, or to get him to “love” her more, or to eliminate the romantic interests that he might grow to “love” more than her. Her actions can be interpreted as how, under the guise of love and marriage, patriarchal desire can coerce women into becoming a thing not themselves. Wish Nikki is forced to experience what hooks describes as, “a process of investment wherein someone becomes important to us called “cathexis”, she is magically suspended in a state of perpetually confusing “cathecting with loving”. If we to take these meanings seriously, it means admitting that nothing Wish Nikki ever did constituted as love. Thus, Bear’s wish was never truly granted.

Three Thousand Years of Longing

(I’m assuming that everyone reading this hasn’t seen Three Thousand Years of Longing)

In a hotel in modern-day Istanbul, a professor of Narratology Alithea Binnie—played by Tilda Swindon—rubs on her newly purchased antique Çeşmibülbül and unleashes Idris Elba’s Djinn within. As is custom, The Djinn offers Alithea three wishes—with the caveat they must be what her heart truly desires.

The provisos of these wishes are:

No wishing for more wishes.
No wishing for immortality.
No wishing for an end to sin or suffering.

Alithea believes herself to be content, whole and wanting for nothing. So Djinn appeals to the curiosity that drives her vocation, regaling her with tales about his life.

First, of being in love with the Nubian Queen of Sheba—the most beautiful woman in the world—and being betrayed by the jealous King Solomon who magically imprisoned him in a brass bottle, throwing it to the bottom of the Red Sea.

Second, of being found by a concubine of Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent and, after being entangled in a web of family betrayals, with bad fortune leading to his re-imprisonment in a bottle at the bottom of Bosporus Strait.

Third, of being discovered by Zefir, a young woman trapped in a loveless marriage with a lecherous husband in late 18th century Turkey, who wished him for knowledge. Djinn taught her languages, astronomy, philosophy and granted her an enviable library of books that she read voraciously, making her smarter and more inspired than Galileo and DaVinci. Djinn and Zefir fell in love. Zefir was plagued by a mathematica that she believed would “explain the forces that bring space and time and matter into being” but it existed at the far reaches of her ability to conceive as a human, on the tip of her intellectual tongue. Djinn suggested she use her second wish to “see” like him, to “dream awake as Djinn do”. This allowed Zefir to discover electromagnetism, the “subtle fire” that Djinn are made from. Zefir fell pregnant with Djinn’s child and she begins to find the curse of his ensnarement feel like her own. She began to feel as trapped with Djinn as she did with her husband. In the throes of anger one day, Zefir used her final wish to forget Djinn ever existed just was he’s retracting back into the bottle, again, trapping him for centuries.

Upon hearing these stories, Dr. Alithea realises that she, too, is in love with Djinn. She makes her first wish: I’m here to love you. And I wish for you to love me in return. Her voice quivers as he pulls her closer, “is it too much? is it all too much to ask?”. Djinn doesn’t answer, he just lifts her up, pulls her close as her robe falls to the floor.

They kiss and vapour erupt from Alithea’s mouth.

The colourful wisps swirl like the surface of Jupiter and form a dream sequence where the hotel room becomes suspended in a cosmic void and the windows that previously viewed the Turkish day are filled with the familiar darkness of space with its pinhole stars and nebula clouds. Alithea delivers a narration:

“How can I persuade you that I once found love with a Djinn? In any case, few would believe me. Love is not something we come to by reason. It is more like a vapour. A dream, perhaps, to lure us into the enchantment of our own stories…”

Djinn, big and dark and hulking, embraces from behind Alithea, tiny and frail and drowning in his arms.

“ …If that’s so, how are we to even know if its ever real? Is it a truth or simply a madness?”

When they return to England, Djinn stands in the garden looking out towards the sky with a phone tower in the distance. “The air is thick here,” he says. “All your ingenious devices, murmuring at one another.”

Curious to how Djinn is experiencing the world, Alithea presses her head against his and all the sounds, sirens and conversations of the city flood her ears with cacophony. “You hear all that?” she asks. “I also see it.” Djinn responds. Once again she asks, “Isn’t it all too much?”

“I am a Djinn, I can adapt.”

The pensioners next door, Clementine and Fanny, call out and Djinn vanishes. The two, old women immediately heckle Dr. Binnie’s exotic vocation before bloviating about how Britain is being “overwhelmed with ethnics” from their 3 story-balcony like Reform voter versions of The Muppet’s Statler and Waldorf. Days later, Alithea knocks on their door and offers them a bowl of chickpeas, cloves and pistachios before introducing them to Djinn. Their gaze lingers on him with… Surprise? Suspicion? Glee? Lasciviousness?

Alithea and Djinn live together peacefully for a time. Alithea goes to work and returns home to embrace Djinn, who remains in wait. Sometimes, he travels the world—observing brain surgery operating rooms, hadron colliders, and massive satellite dishes, always returning to converse with her at nightfall. “Hate prevails. It metastasises and outlives love. I just want to talk about love.” She says, one evening.

“Such a mess of contradictions, all of you”, he grumbles.

Returning home one day to the air speckled with gilded dust, Alithea finds Djinn in the basement with his mouth crusted over, unresponsive. She uses her second wish to get him to speak to her. His jaw cracks apart like it is fated to fall from his face and he springs up, glitching and planning picnic dates and flitting into indecipherable languages. The modern world’s abundance of electromagnetic fields, it seems, is slowly decaying at him on a cellular level. Alithea realises she must let him go.

“Love is a gift, a gift of self given freely. It isn’t something someone can ever ask for.” She tells him. “I tricked us both. The moment I spoke that wish I took away your power to grant it. I, more than anybody, should’ve known that.”

She makes her final wish: for him to “go where he belongs, wherever that may be.” The Çeşmibülbül rattles, breaks, and melts into clear, thick fluid.

Three years later, she finishes her novel—Three Thousand Years of Longing. Djinn has moved to the Djinn dimension with his kin but every so often he returns to the world of humans to visit Alithea.

“And they would grasp each vivid moment. Despite the pain of the raucous skies, he always stayed longer than he should, long after she begged him to leave. He promised to return within her lifetime. And for her, that was always enough.”

It is impossible not to compare the inciting wishes of Obsession and Three Thousand Years of Longing. Where Bear is careless and dubious of the One Wish Willow’s chances of success, Alithea’s love-wish is made lucidly, the djinn materialising from the Çeşmibülbül’s glass is certain proof her wishes will be fulfilled.

Despite the ways Obsession relies on mischaracterising possessiveness as love, the film still manages to understand that, fundamentally, making someone love you is ontologically fucked up. The narrative arithmetic reflects this; through its choice of genre as horror and by concluding it’s not enough for real Nikki to be set free from her body-snatched nightmare—Bear also needed to die for making his wish and, perhaps more importantly, for not finding a way to break it. Bear’s demise is part of the moral catharsis.

But there is little moral catharsis for the ontological fuckedupness of Three Thousand Years of Longing. Alithea’s wish begins an ongoing violation of Djinn’s consent and she immediately launders her coercion through guilt-ridden concern, asking “is it too much? Is it all too much to ask?”

When narrating her reflections on love’s true nature, she refers to it as a “vapour”, defining it as a nebulous thing that’s “impossible to come by with reason” in a way Ackerman would rightfully diagnose as “sloppy”, to rationalise what is clearly cathexis—driven by novelty and awe at Djinn’s magical otherness, and perhaps even governed by a racialised envy towards Djinn’s beautiful and brilliant past nonwhite lovers.

When she makes her final wish for him “to return to where he belongs” she laments, “Love is a gift, a gift of self given freely. It isn’t something someone can ever ask for.” She believes she asked Djinn for him to love her in return but her position as the Genie’s master dictates any grantable request is indistinguishable from directing an order.

Alithea’s declaration that “love is a gift of self given freely” materialises out of nowhere, it isn’t a organic realisation but a response to seeing the object of her desire crumbling from the unrelated effects of the modern world’s electromagnetic torture. Her unearned moment of personal growth solves the narrative problem of moving the film into its final act but does little to resolve the moral obfuscation that the entire “love story” is based on in the first place. The “cloak of mystery” that bell hooks recognises makes it difficult to define what we mean by love, is being weaponised to obscure a romantic dynamic built on coercion. How can Three Thousand Years of Longing not recognise the ontological fuckedupness of its own romantic premise?

Afropessimism would surmise that Alithea and Djinn exist in a master/slave dynamic even without the magical obligation of geniedom. Alithea’s whiteness precludes her from seeing the blackness of Djinn as anything other than property long before she rubbed the Çeşmibülbül. The hierarchical structure of geniedom only exacerbates this. Despite her assurances to Djinn that she is content, Alithea is profoundly starved of love and we can call on bell hooks once more, “in a world without love the passion to connect can be replaced by the passion to possess.” Djinn’s materialisation into Alithea’s care as Genie beholden to her revives a historically colonial dynamic, one technically and legally abolished but libidinally dormant in the collective white psyche. He, in every way that matters, is her property.

Exploring what Professor Tamari Kitossa has dubbed the “Black Phallic Fantastic”, a sociological concept that “summarizes a contradiction that both reaffirms and intensifies the domination and positional inferiority of black men,” Kitossa infers that bestial representations of black men harken all the way back to ancient Greek mythology where “the chief function of the satyr was to signify the barbarous status of African men and to represent a morality tale for disciplining recalcitrant women.”4

Every chance it gets, Three Thousand Years of Longing presents Elba’s Djinn as large, shadowy and imposing. His ears are pointy, his legs are layered with thick glades of dark and shimmering fur. The satyric animalism and embellished massiveness of his body traffic the optics of “the black brute” as a visual distraction from the reality that Djinn is completely at the mercy of his small and dainty white female master. Her desire for Djinn to “love her in return” is, as we’ve already established, not a wish that is meaningfully achievable by the wish-magic’s cosmic laws nor is it born out of any expression of genuine love. Any desire she has can only be practised as an affectionate “ethic of domination” that confuses cathecting for love, it is closer to a libidinal expansion of the power she already has over him; manifesting her heart’s desire to possess him in a more insatiable way.

How does Djinn feel about his coercion? The better question is: how would we even tell? Djinn is impenetrable, barely expressive, he maintains a constant cordiality through his nondescript Middle Eastern accent that makes it impossible to differentiate his own passion from his cosmic obligation. He expresses no grief towards missing the birth and life of his half-djinn child with the innovator Zefir; no interest or curiosity about the fact the djinnish blood in his child’s veins might mean that they’re still alive.

After Alithea’s wish, Djinn initiates the only act of erotic intimacy in the hotel room of Istanbul that reminded me of a passage from Katerina Deliovsky’s essay about white women and sex tourism:

“Darker-skinned men are more highly valued and generally preferred by sex/romance tourists because they are perceived to represent the tropistic, hypersexual black stud… Significantly, the scholarly works examined here note that neither party considers their sexual interaction to be prostitution or to fit the label “sex tourism,” even though others may label it so.”5

From Alithea’s perspective, Djinn’s initiation of intimacy could appear like consensual agreement to the wish. But we could easily interpret it as Djinn being forced to begin the performance of his obligation (vagueness vs. ambiguity). Djinn is made to appear faithfully complicit in his own coercion, their entire relationship embodying a kind of tourism that neither of them would think to label as such.

Alithea’s wish induces no observable change Djinn’s demeanour, no resistance and no joy, no internal conflict or fracture of personality. This is a djinn who loved the most beautiful woman in the ancient world, who fell for someone who became one of the most brilliant minds to walk the earth and he simply succumbs to a white woman PhD lecturer of Narratology from 21st Century England without protest, question, or enthusiasm. Perhaps, the heartbreak his prior romances meant he was open to something different, plainer, more ordinary. But we will never know because the “love” was imposed on him and he is characterised to simply endure it. We don’t know what he wants. We cannot tell where Djinn begins and Alithea’s wish ends. We don’t even know if Alithea’s final wish for him to “return to where he belongs” cancelled out her love-wish. With his Çeşmibülbül broken—we don’t know if he continues to visit her of his own free will or if he’s still obliged to return her love (wish 1) and speak to her (wish 2). We do not know—because Three Thousand Years of Longing is not concerned with imagining or interrogating how the ontological fuckedupness of Alithea’s coercive wish affects Djinn any more than it is concerned with giving him a name beyond the designation of his mythological species. Djinn exists only as an accessory to Alithea, indistinguishable from a pet or the glass Çeşmibülbül that housed him. And the fact we do not know if Alithea’s ongoing violation of Djinn’s consent is even over inadvertently makes Three Thousand Years of Longing a more potent psychological horror than Obsession.

The wish-magic of stories represents our endless, imaginative capacity for desire. We see flecks of it in our small, everyday hopes, imbued in scratch-cards, lottery tickets and Omaze raffles. To dream of a fulfilled wish requires a sophisticated inventory of our own lack and satisfaction. How many of us fall into some crude binary of lacking or being satisfied by love?

Yet, if you were to wish for someone to hate you, or for someone who already hated you to like you, would we afford as much of a profound interrogation as we would love? There is something sacred and complicated about love that wish-magic is doomed to never solve.

Where we established Genie’s rule against bringing people back from the dead is driven by his personal squeamishness, the inability to make someone fall in love seems like an impotence of the magic itself. A wish—so often—is a magical process of acquiring, of materialising a thing that you desire to possess and making that possession real. It is not that wish-magic warps love like a black hole warps time—it is that love is wish-magic’s elemental kryptonite, they are antithetical to each other, the inconceivable explosion of an immovable object and an unstoppable force colliding. Love is a cosmic law that wish-magic cannot break so it must conjure something else entirely. For Bear, it is a supernatural entity shaped like a “crazy, jealous girlfriend”. For Alithea, it is the unquestioning compliance of a magical negro. They both end in failure because love is humankind’s greatest expression of freedom and an expressed wish is humankind’s greatest desire for control. And no matter the story, it will always be impossible for love’s freedom and a wish’s control to meaningfully coexist.

“If I love you, I have to make you conscious of the things you don’t see.”
― James Baldwin

When it dropped that the world had voided its bowels of the first trillionaire; the sycophants cheered like their flattery would be rewarded with permission to sleep at the foot of his bed and everyone else went to work. In Britain, the furnace of winter-insulated terrace houses trapped the ungodly heat, then it rained, then it was inescapably muggy once more and the strawberries tasted paler than they looked. America was at war. It was a typical day. There were no harmonious feelings that humanity had surpassed some remarkable milestone as a species. Civilisation shrugged. Everyone at the parade stayed hunched over their phones.

The enigma of Elon Musk is that, beyond any guilt or gratification one might feel by stubbing their toe on an insult from simply thinking about him, even the most dispassionate observation of his life reflects the slow-but-increasingly-noticeable societal decay. His supporters, of course, are quick to call any contempt one might derive from the recognition of this rot as simple jealousy, but you can pluck any one of his “achievements” out of a Stahlhelm and you’ll discover, with the briefest of Googles, a string of once-promising endeavours worsened by his involvement that are extremely hard to envy. Tesla Cybertrucks going up in flames. SpaceX rockets won’t stop exploding. A Department of Government Efficiency so inefficient it has lead to the death of hundreds of thousands.

Together But Apart

The People They Killed

A year ago today, then-head of DOGE Elon Musk tweeted, “We spent the weekend feeding USAID into the wood chipper. Could gone to some great parties. Did that instead…

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7 months ago · 142 likes · 16 comments · Tim Hirschel-Burns

It has been half a century since Thatcher and Reagan convinced the citizens of the Anglosphere to stop expecting competent governments and start worshipping at the altar of privatisation and, if you listen closely on an inclement day, you might hear their cackles echoing along the contours of the wind while the economics they championed remains untrickled-down. Instead, hordes of wealth have pooled in the cupped hands of a bizarro Phrygian King from South Africa—so socially off-putting that even billionaire paedophiles struggle to be around him—with a touch not of gold but of shit and you cannot help but consider all of this and look at him to wonder: if this guy is the victor—what does that say about the game?

It has been pointed out many times before that capitalism—the greatest economic system to ever careen humanity towards its own extinction—is sustained by a dedication to infinite growth that is indistinguishable from a malignant tumour. And yet, its demise is supposedly unfathomable, its inevitability undeniable, its efficacy unchallengeable. Billions of man-hours spent on overthrowing and/or sanctioning communist nations, billions of dollars spent on perception management to convince the world that what it is experiencing is not cancer.

Meanwhile, the threat of going broke hangs over your head like a sword tied to a horsehair. Your limbs sore from Herculean grunt work. Your joints seized-up from Sisyphean e-mail jobs. Your everlasting tiredness. Your winter-bound ennui. The influenza of loneliness. Your capital-W Worry. These things couldn’t possibly be symptoms of a sick society. They are your personal failings alone. Skill issue.

Upstream of this viral load, you find Musk, and Epstein’s Illuminati, and techno-fascists, and warmongering elites who—in years prior—would’ve riled up young men to crave war with rousing speeches from the snipers-view of a grand balcony, or from inside lavish parliaments, or from the comfort of a war room. Now they instruct soldiers who instruct lesser soldiers to press a button that’ll ensure an algorithm eviscerates an enemy and his sleeping family from an unmanned drone in the sky. We all notice they have masculinity in common, and whiteness in common, and wealth in common. And age in common.

Of all the matters regarding Musk’s ascension to capitalism’s weird new champion—it is his charge as a parent that feels the most tragically Greco-Roman. His years of experience not humbling into empathic wisdom but calcifying into a bitterness so trivial it echoes fables written millennia ago as he weaponises the gender transition of his daughter, Vivian Jenna Wilson, into a billion dollar spectacle.

In an interview with NBC, Wilson—one of twelve of Musk’s children—describes her father as “barely present”, that he “would harass her for exhibiting feminine traits and pressure her to appear more masculine” and “constantly yell viciously” because he thought her voice too high. He was “cold”, “quick to anger” and “narcissistic”.

In his own interview with Jordan Peterson, Musk claims Wilson was, “born gay and slightly autistic”. Wilson says Musk “doesn’t know” what she was like as a child because he “simply wasn’t there.” When Wilson began her process of transitioning, Musk claimed to Peterson that he was “tricked” into signing documents regarding Wilson transitioning, which Wilson denies, saying he “knew the full side effects” of the medicine she sought.

Lamenting the “loss of his son”, Musk has vowed to “destroy the Woke Mind Virus” through acquiring Twitter—a platform beloved among young people and instrumental in social uprisings like the Arab Spring and Ferguson protests. Under his tenure, regressive marketing decisions have changed its site’s name to the objectively worse and far more forgettable “X.com”, petulant guideline alterations have banned the term “cisgender” while granting safe usage of racial and ableist slurs and the site is overrun with bots to skew engagement numbers towards unhinged far-right content.

Twitter has been enshittified to avenge the abstract death of a child Musk has always neglected and, in some cruel way, it is the greatest affirmation he could give Wilson as a daughter: a paternalistic act of pettiness, masquerading as heroism, ultimately constructed to teach her a lesson for her own good. Is that not the cornerstone of misogynistic fatherhood?

Christopher Nolan has received much flack in the anticipation of his cinematic retelling of Homer’s Odyssey. His casting of Lupita Nyong'o as Helen of Troy/Clytemnestra riled up “anti-woke” controversy about preserving the ethnic purity of the original Greek tale. By not casting a fictional character who was sired by a rapey god in Swan form as a European woman, Christopher Nolan shamefully showed the world that he has “lost his integrity.” More white-hot outrage fomented when it was speculated trans actor Elliot Page was cast as the invulnerable Achilles—a claim circulated with no evidence and seemed biologically engineered to bring the rabid, right-wing contempt to a fever pitch.

The PIVOT Club

Actually, Nolan IS kind of making a point about trans people

Massive 3000-year-old spoilers ahead (and some newer ones too…

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a month ago · 2728 likes · 110 comments · Flint Del Sol

Two men. Musk and Nolan. One unable to escape from inside the harrowing fables of a Greek tragedy. One seeking to expand the conceptual core of the mythology outwards to reimagine it for contemporary times. They have come to represent a fascinating binary.

It is clear in all this that Musk sees himself as a crowned defender of western culture—a Snyderian Spartan leading the latest battle against the Woke Mind Virus to preserve the integrity of a history that is inherently besmirched by his white-supremacist projections. To anyone else, he looks smug and misshapen in his thinking cap, gesturing his thumb at a movie trailer and claiming it “fucking sucks” while the hot-dog-on-a-skateboard that is Nolan’s cinematic spectacle is anticipated to be the literal coolest thing ever.

Where Musk seeks to impose a traditionalism upon a tale that he, as a Dutch-descended South African has no claim to outside of his whiteness—Nolan follows his own curiosity along the narrative parallels between a past, multicultural society and the present one. “The feeling of most academics is that oral formulaic poetry is the basis in which these things were handed down.” Nolan opines when asked about casting Travis Scott. “So it felt very apt to have a rapper play a bard in that way.”

Where Musk’s Grok is among the wave of Generative AI that he and other tech-sycophants keep trying to convince everyone is inevitable by screaming, this is the future! in eerie chorus—Nolan, a director known for his elaborate dedication to practical filmmaking and limited reliance on digital effects, is acutely aware of how The Youth see through it:

“I’ve never seen a more rapid wholesale dismissal of a supposedly foundational jump in technology in my lifetime. So much energy has been expended on bringing in AI, but if you look at that generation’s reaction, they’re utterly rejecting it.” He cites his own four children – in their late teens and early 20s – as a further example. “Their judgment of AI slop has been immediate and harsh. They see it for what it is very quickly – and it’s much easier for them to identify it, because it grew out of an online world they know really well. And while that doesn’t mean that every aspect of the technology is useless or meaningless, in film-making it’s hitting at exactly the wrong time. After years of driving towards heavily virtual environments, we’re seeing a renewed interest in more tactile, more real forms of storytelling.”1

After prolonged belly-aching about kids-these-days and their phones, it is difficult not to notice how the older generation has turned up late to social media addiction, descending upon Facebook like Florida. They are tantalised by Generative AI, immune to its uncanniness, emotionally activated by ghoulish clips of ululating Muslims in a Sikh turbans swinging scimitars while mopedding through the cobbled streets of central London, the screen perched inches away from their face while GB News blares in the background. Musk and the other slop-factory owners have convinced them that this is good and normal because the progress of technology is always good and normal. But the only reason the technofascistic elite see Generative AI as an inevitable future is because it is deception machine that will allow them to weave new realities and control the electorally-relevant herd.

Respected, veteran artists—having seen more leaps forward in technology than they can count—capitulate to the mythology of AI out of fear that resisting its narrative of inevitability will make them seem cantankerous and unwilling to adapt or worse, mean they get left behind. Meanwhile the younger generation despises it, which Musk might know or care about if his own child didn’t emancipate herself from him. It is the presence of Nolan’s children in his life help him form a more open, deeper understanding of the world around him. The disparity between the two men lays bare how the anti-woke power-fantasy is nothing more than an insular exhibition of how a gerontocracy weaponises its moral obligation towards the young. A child is more convenient to defend in the abstract than to take care of in reality. It is far easier to perform outrage, scoff with indignation, and salivate over imaginary violence at the concept of paedophilia than it is to deal with the consequences of paedophiles in real-life—to hold accountable the cabal at the top of society, to dedicate meaningful care for the life-long recovery of victims, to foster safe environments that protects children in the first place. They are not treated as participants in their own lives but appendages of the lives of those older.

There is a common misconception in Britain, chauffeured by the wealth-protecting corporate media, that the United Kingdom’s welfare state is bloated by benefit scroungers, disability cheats and, of course, immigrant handouts. The truth is: state pensions are the biggest social cost by far, surpassing child benefits tenfold. The society so boringly scapegoating refugees that pays endless lip service to the welfare of children while the resources chug upwards to coddle the eldest is a doomsday cult, too hell-bent on heisting from the future, perpetually delaying solutions with plasters and bandages because it has hedged its bets that tomorrow is probably dead anyway.

Every millennial has had the displeasure of experiencing a sanctimonious lecture about participation trophies and safe-spaces by a generation of ladder-yankers suffering from apocalyptic resignation, so painfully aware of their own mortality, so desperate to not get left behind, so blissfully unaware of how it has manifested in a world they tacitly believe should die along with them. Their children will inherit their squirrelled-away wealth and the ruins of a political landscape engineered to bleed it dry. And at the summit, Musk will be there—with a long tube dangling out the corner of his mouth—alone, triumphant and suckling.

While Roxana Hadidi’s review of Bait observes how the dramedy series “resuscitates the much-debated question of whether a POC actor should play James Bond”, her use of the abbreviation resuscitates a debate of its own.

It is no secret that speculation of a nonwhite Bond has been embedded in the cultural memory by way of Idris Elba and although granted; 2024’s Monkey Man drifted the British Gujarati heart-throb Dev Patel into the gravitational pull—it is inexact, perhaps even disingenuous, to conflate this “much-debated question” as a broadly POC experience when it has been noticeably asked of, and distinctly sustained, by black British actors. (CC: Damson Idris, Aaron Pierre, Regé-Jean Page).

There is a mean-spirited version of this essay that exploits this distinction by nunchucking banal representation politics to argue that Bait’s core premise is problematic because it appropriates a black anecdotal experience and reupholster it as South Asian via its protagonist, Shahjehan Latif. It’d probably be able to incite the type of culture war discourse that is a mainstay in the Malebolge formerly known as Twitter.

Such a piece would require investing in the perspective that the show would be better, more accurate, or more compelling if it were explored by a creator with a black face rather than a brown one, and the concluding paragraph of one of my essays from 2021 articulates why that perspective isn’t particularly appealing:

No Time to Die is a fitting end for Daniel Craig. He brought an emotional dimension to the role that hasn’t been explored before him, yet his tenure ends at a time where western society is noticeably shifting, confronted with the social harms of yesteryear and debating drastic steps such as abolishing the police. James Bond mobilises against his rogues gallery of maimed villains who want to thwart the existing superpowers but when it comes the banality of everyday evil—of climate change threatening the future of our species, of income inequality that leads to mistaking overpopulation with over-consumption, of a white supremacist structure that has split the planet into 1st, 2nd and 3rd worlds, of ableism that discards those not in peak physical condition or attractiveness as unproductive and/or immoral, and so many other ways that the world is battered and broken—Bond is never dispatched. Because he exists to preserve the status quo. There are many questions about what should be next for Bond. Can a woman writer redeem him? Should he be a black man? Can Bond be a woman? As Lashana Lynch ends No Time to Die with the 007 title in her grasp, there seems to be far more pressing questions to ask: In the slow march towards a more equal world—is there even a necessity for a British imperial super-spy or a culture that venerates him? Does the status quo Bond has upheld for so long need upholding? Does James Bond even need to exist at all?

The most laughable part of Anglocentrism is how desperately it claws for immortality; founding its supremacy through slaughter and theft, cobbling laws together to protect its spoils and working multilaterally to keep reselling the illusion that a dominance wrought by barbaric violence can remain perched safely at the top of the world forever.

Borrowing from ’s above anthropological diagram of kissing circles, we can glean that Bond drifts between the white space of entertainment and tradition, flirting with ritual in the sense that he’s the cinematic equivalent of a statue; a quasi-religious symbol of reverence erected to invoke fond memories of a mythologised past that a great many will pilgrimage to the movie theatre to see, built with hardy materials intent on prolonging anglophilic power-fantasies across any arduous ravines of time.

Speculation of his race produces a metronomic binary in the public consciousness where a Bond with black skin represents novel progressivism and a Bond with white skin represents classic traditionalism. But the binary doesn’t exist. The much-debated question of a nonwhite Bond is just a thin slice of a much rounder effort to decide how much the 007 statue needs to shape-shift to increase the odds of itself, and the anglocentric dominance it represents, of lasting forever. The option to let Daniel Craig’s Bond stay dead is so unconscionable that the British production company that has licensed the franchise since the 1960’s relinquished creative control to Amazon MGM just to weather the changing tides.

Bait aids the survival.

There is a scene in the Goldeneye where Judi Dench’s M calls Pierce Brosnan’s Bond, “a sexist, misogynistic dinosaur, a relic of the Cold War”. The self-aware criticism made inside the film helped distance Brosnan from the chauvinistic statue(s) of Bonds that came before him and in a 1995 Washington Post review, Desson Howe points out:

There’s another politically correct moment when Miss Moneypenny (an old character played by new actress Samantha Bond) playfully informs 007 that his flirtatious comments are grounds for sexual harassment.

“What’s the penalty?” he asks.

“Someday you’ll have to make good on your innuendos,” she says.

In other words, Carry on Bond, old boy. Do it for the Empire.1

Goldeneye was a massive success, revitalising the franchise for the 1990’s. Variety Critic Todd McCarthy praised the film for “breathing fresh creative and commercial life into the 33-year-old series”. Roger Ebert commended Brosnan’s Bond as being “somehow more sensitive, more vulnerable, more psychologically complete.” The sexism got a patch update and the statue took on whatever grooves and contours it needed to survive the new whims of the 1990’s.

Bait is the racialised version of Judi Dench’s feminist insert. It wants to make a point but is bound by contractual obligation to deliver that point in a way that only benefits the franchise. reflects on how this contrasts with a show like Donald Glover’s Atlanta:

“What I loved about Atlanta, was that structurally, the show presented a bait and switch. It hooked audiences with a pilot that tricked us into thinking the show would go one way, but then pushed against that. Donald Glover has talked about Trojan Horsing the show past the executives, because they knew that executives wouldn’t let a show like theirs exist on air. Unfortunately, Bait seems like the exact kind of show white executives want on air, because it holds up a status quo while giving a dated and underbaked racial argument.”2

Bait wants to seem transgressive, it wants you to recognise Shah’s tête-à-têtes with a talking pig’s head surrealistically portray the psychological unravelling of a British Pakistani actor plagued by familial tensions, intracommunal collisions and the grander impositions of white ideals but, in the process, displays a constant willingness to entertain James Bond as a white mythology worth unravelling over. The entire show is suspended, like Dench’s M is, in a prison of its own complicity—where it is able to “call out” Bond’s gross behaviour but it must treat him with begrudging respect because, ultimately, he gets results. Carry on Bond, old boy. Do it for the Empire.

Of the things the show wants to say, Bait is suspiciously committed to satirising sell-outs; whether it’s Sid, the protestor-influencer who cares more about social media clout than his activist cause or Yasmin, the cultural critic ex-girlfriend who pens a Guardian essay entitled No, Shah Latif, We Don’t Need a Brown Bond and claims Shah would “be white” if he took the job before its revealed that she’s moving to Argentina with her new white boyfriend named Oliver Winthrop.

Any character shown with political principles is revealed to be a hypocrite and it’s depressingly nihilistic—not because “selling out” is morally incorrigible but because it is nauseatingly common, to be a nonwhite immigrant in the heart of empire means to make concessions every single day; the tongues we must bite, the trespasses we must let slide. It would’ve been nice if a show like Bait, that positioned itself as a tongue-in-cheek uppercut to a white relic, could’ve provided some thoughtful reprieve, or some courageous alternative of imagination from, or challenge to, these daily forfeitures. Perhaps, the intention was to imbue these characters “selling out” as complicated by making them contradictory but it lands hamfistedly, communicating an almost conservative cynicism that treats anyone with even a whiff of anti-colonial politics as frauds concealing their own selfish wants.

The show’s desire to be disruptive stents at the level of superficial provocation. I’m sure the cinematic shots of a Muslim Bond will undoubtedly piss off Reform voters and Unite the Kingdom Marchers but its sense of self beyond this bear-poking feels innocuous; ambiguous in a way that seeks to conceal more than it wants to dig up and uncover; and the end result is a well-produced, highly-stylised rust removal service for the monument of Bond dressed up as an introspective meta-commentary.

That is why there’d be little point in me pursuing the argument that Bait should be a black show just because its core premise has been borrowed from black actors’ experiences. It wouldn’t be compelling to watch a black brit polish off a Bond statue either. While Bait tries to reckon with how it appears in the unnaturally reflective surface of whiteness, it conversely, doesn’t seem concerned with reckoning with blackness very much at all.

It’d be melodramatic to say the show is antagonistic of blackness. Rather, it transgresses ever-so-slightly—with subtle extractive conflations and convenient erasures that add to the arithmetic of black life enduring a continuum of transactions that arc towards loss. This is no more apparent than in the name of the series itself.

“Bait” originates from black british english; its elasticity as a word is reflective of how black languages across the diaspora—from pidgin to patois to ebonics3—remix english to give it more prismatic dimensions. (CC: “ on the habitual be”).

“Bait” can mean: annoying in a particularly transparent way (don’t be bait), derogatorily obvious (that’s bait), to expose (don’t bait me out) and generally, denotes being outed in a manner that is embarrassing. It is a term inexorably linked to the early renaissance of UK grime.

Like black americans, black brits have historically suffered from what we can call “a mimetic desire of coolness” which manifests linguistically as the youth cultures of other racial communities—Pakistani, Turkish, Polish and even bog-standard English—drawing in black vernaculars into their own, everyday speech. There is something to be said about how this ‘drawing in’ is predominantly practiced by nonblack men—which relies on a libidinal comprehension of blackness as hyper-masculine, and it is not too far-fetched to suggest that the process of nonblack men’s ‘drawing in’ of black mannerisms and language could be seen as an performance of racial machismo4.

After years of being pejoratively named “roadman slang”, black british english has recently undergone a sanitisation process resulting in the emergence of linguistic category in british academia: Multicultural London English (MLE):

The misidentification of Black British English as MLE minimises the cultural value and influence of Black heritage in modern-day Britain. BBE was formed exclusively and independently through the Black British experience. By stating words like “wagwarn” have multicultural roots, this discredits its Jamaican origins. The mere usage of words from other languages like “Kettle” – a Cockney word for watches, that has been further used and popularised by BBE Speakers does not justify the naming of BBE as multicultural London English or slang. Instead, this shows that BBE mirrors the established linguistic norms of borrowing terminology from other languages known as cognates, which can be seen within White Mainstream English in words such as ‘café, which is originally a French word. — Statement from Black Learning Achievement and Mental Health

There is, and will continue to be, endless arguments about how nonblack people adopt black linguistics. Defenders will pronounce that it is a matter of proximity, an environmental osmosis. Objectors will recognise how it is subject to code switching, and theorising that non-black speakers of “don’t talk like that around their family.” These discussions inevitably descend into a referendum of who can speak how—which is generally uninteresting and unproductive because it is utterly unpoliceable. Nobody can control how brown people—or black people for that matter—speak.

But if we are to assume the best faith we can, Bait borrows from black british sociality as a nod of solidarity—a recognition of a shared struggle—what is interesting in a work like Bait is the absence of active solidarity with blackness and what can be gleaned from it.

Bait’s title borrows from black british english.

Bait’s premise borrows from the public backlash against Idris Elba.

These experiences of black sociality are used as narrative kindling in a way that is reminiscent of political blackness—an umbrella identity like “people of colour” that socially organised African, Caribbean and Asian diasporic communities in 1970/80s britain into a unified, anti-racist bloc.

elaborates:

Political blackness was meant to be a strategic essentialism that united those who experienced racial discrimination. However, the concept was flawed from the outset, misunderstanding the complex nature of racism and rooted in a perspective of non-whiteism that normalized whiteness… This is not an argument for abandoning collaboration in the struggles of different ethnic minority groups; rather it is a case against the unnecessary and counterproductive mobilization of a catch-all term that is incapable of building the widespread, grassroots unity it desires. Perhaps the most serious flaw in the British context is that the wish to avoid disunity between ethnic minority groups has meant that political blackness has delegitimized Blackness rooted in a connection to the African Diaspora.5

In episode 3, Shah’s mother, Tahira discovers Shah’s agent is black woman named Felicia and proceeds to say in Urdu, you never told me your agent is a black lady. The words “black lady” are clearly audible in English. Shah shoos his mother away before apologising and says, “but you are a black lady, though”. Felicia responds, “I know.”

The scene feels like it is trying to reach for admission of how anti-blackness lingers in the older, diasporic Pakistani generation but it falls flat and lands awkwardly because it is too ambiguous about its intentions for us to make any sense of the commentary it is trying to make and not funny enough to justify its own short runtime.

If the scene is reaching to acknowledge the anti-blackness of the older, diasporic Pakistani generation, it throws the elders under the bus while deflecting responsibility away from any introspection about how Shah’s generation interacts with blackness, no interrogation of why South Asian manhood requires an absorption of blackness to affirm itself. Instead, there is a cringe sequence where anti-blackness is this vague prick that Shah is absolved from doing anything about. Felicia doesn’t speak Urdu, nor does she have the audience’s privilege reading the subtitles to see what Tahira said. If you put yourself in Felicia’s POV, she has no idea what was said about her, and all that’s left is a strange aftertaste of knowing the only black person on the show endured a racialised comment about her in a language she did not understand. The most disappointing thing: the exchange doesn’t add anything—its just a Wile E. Coyote road leading to a horizon painted on a cliffside.

There is a tendency in the United Kingdom for black and brown immigrants to affirm their Britishness vigorously, to plant their feet like a flagpoles and declare that they belong. I always wonder how much the need for emphasis comes more from pride or fear. Pride in belonging, pride in being British or pride in surviving in Britain. Fear of being othered, fear of being treated less-than-British, fear of being ousted from Britain. I wonder what ratio of pride to fear drove Idris Elba to accept an OBE. I wonder what ratios drove Benjamin Zephaniah to decline his.

Bait, too, appears unsure of its own ratio. Like Goldeneye, it dispatches a criticism of itself within itself when Yasmin calls Bond, “a totem of white neocolonialism”. On some level, it is an effective use of self-deprecating honesty, like Eminem dissing himself in the final rap battle of 8 Mile, but there is a point where pointing out your own flaws drifts from admirable self-awareness into being an act of avoidance; strategically deployed to insulate yourself from having to truly reckon with, or change, the flaws you are being honest about.

There is a version of this series that begins with an insufferably, self-absorbed pursuit of the James Bond mantle that progresses into Shah making slow-turns towards his beautifully complicated community, towards fixing familial fractures, towards reconciling with lost loves, towards rediscovering a self that isn’t a husk and exploring a relationship with black people that feels more in-line with finding solidarity and less like avoidance or extraction. Truthfully, that is the version of Bait that I was hoping to see. One that buries Bond; not in ambiguous layers of muddled satire but in a banal rejection in the mythology of him to search of something more.

Manosphere misogynists and hypergamous misandrists have set the algorithmic pace of dating discourse with their diarrhetic rants about the habits of each other. Bastardised pop-culture sociology, bioessentialist pseudoscience and a medieval application of gender roles all meld together. The over-representation of contempt trickles down, wriggling beneath even the most casual conversations about love.

To Make Sense Of All This; we begin by imagining heterosexual contempt as equidistant. The misogynists and misandrists are just as bad as each other. An intuitive balance. Except it grossly understates how one gender’s contempt has been systemised into supremacism while the other’s has mutated from a place of self-defence.

So let’s back away from extremes and adjust for the context of patriarchy’s clutches, reaching back to Eve’s Original Sin and further.

When we persist in Making Sense Of All This now, well fellas; we come out looking like a collective piece of shit. In our tenure as the so-called stronger sex—what we’ve done, what we continue to do, what we have been conditioned to do, what we have the capacity to do, and what we have the ability to benefit from—all of these things precipitate the amorphous cloud of being a man; connecting wirelessly overhead like a halo of crimes, achievements and potentialities that one can’t help but hold us all responsible for.

Who could love a gender of such monsters?

The women of today ask, a few decibels louder than mothers who whispered the same question and grandmothers who could only mouth it.

At this point of Making Sense Of All This, we have lost all track of the fact that we were supposed to be talking about love. It is spooky how smoothly we can zoom out to the more fractured concept of gender, then zoom out again to the more contentious topic of inequality. The process happens in the mouth so quickly that the spirit of the thing we’re trying to Make Sense Of gets left behind.

But we’re here now so let’s loiter—at the crossroad of Blackness and maleness; where rage is fatal, physicality is animalised, lust is coveted, and tenderness suffers atrophy—with a patriarchal ideal that can be described colloquially as The Doomed Hive of Niggas.

There’s a long-running joke about all the things (straight) Black men can’t do. You notice immediately that these directives, rooted in homophobia (the wayward son of misogyny), form an amorphous ideal of Black hetero-hypermasculinity that is imposed omni-directionally. This is The Doomed Hive of Niggas.

There are infinite ways to fail The Doomed Hive. To succeed in it is perhaps worse. In the words of my dear friend, ,“ If you think [American] masculinity is in crisis, you should understand this culture relies on coercing men into these options: 1. Submissive wage laborer 2. Cruel imperial soldier 3. Prisoner 4. Death”. It is a very particular apocalypse that hovers over the Black Man’s head, for the libidinal appetite of The West would rather incarcerate him and covet his labour as a legal slave or trap him as fodder for their endless wars than see him become a submissive wage labourer.

Instead of abandoning the patriarchal aspirations of white capitalists, success in The Doomed Hive of Niggas leans heavier into it. It only rejects the coercion by striving for the entrepreneur, the CEO, the high-ranking general, the executive, the slave-master, which are not real rejections of the ideal but graduations, where Black men can define their manhood by their ability to exploit, rather than be exploited.

I wish I could articulate what it means like to reject this ideal altogether in a way that doesn’t sound like biracial slam poetry. I’d say something like; to be a traitor is lonely. You are welcomed by few, suspected by all, and will always feel a mistake away from being absorbed into The Doomed Hive of Niggas that are growing more unloveable with every generation. You see the doom forming in the clouds and you extend love to them, talk kinder to them than they’re used to, have more patience. But at any given moment, they can remind that you aren’t them and they aren’t you. And at any given moment, someone else might will reminded that you are them and they are you. To be a Black man is to be told what you are.

Is that too melodramatic? I told you it sounded like biracial slam poetry. Truthfully, I’m not used to writing about all this stuff candidly—I don’t think anybody is. We’re so used to masking the honesty with neat, contentified social theory. And I keep forgetting we’re meant to be talking about love. For a second, shall we turn our heads slightly to love’s prelude and look at how Anita Damina’s essay, A Man And A Feminist Go Out To Dinner, wanders the familiar fault lines of modern dating?

• The Man* brings up a hypothetical double-standard of gender roles (If you expect me to check bumps in the night as a man, why is it wrong for me to expect you to cook for me as a woman?)

• The Woman* parries with statistical risk of violence (men are more likely to handle their expectations of women by resorting to abuse or murder).

*It is important to recognise that the Western’s cultural dominance might implore you to imagine the entities of “Man” and “Woman” as white. They are not. This Man is Black. This Woman is also Black.

Note: The Man’s framing of the discussion is more egregious than the discussion itself—for he reads like a salesman trying to flog the snake-oil of domesticity. The presumption is its own problematic. But we’ll press on because his “gotcha” attempt raises a compelling point that side-steps the typical, chronically online, anti-feminist talking-points of things like child support (yikes) or who should pay for dinner (ungenerous) that make for pretty mood-killing, first-date chatter. Inside the Russian nesting doll of The Man’s initial question there is something interesting:

If you were to love me, am I expected to die when danger arrives?

The inherent complication of the traditional heterosexual relationship is that when it’s “healthy”, The Man takes on any hypothetical risk of danger that could lead to death (or killing) on behalf of his partner. Conversely, in an “unhealthy” union, The Woman takes on the hypothetical risk of being killed by (or having to kill in self-defence) her partner. On this date, The Man is assessing whether he’d be willing to die for The Woman while she assesses whether he has the temperament of someone that might kill her. Statistically, patriarchy dictates The Woman is incurring the more probable risk. This is how The Woman wins the argument.

If we leave the probabilities of death alone for now and assume The Man is neither abuser nor femicidal, we can turn our attention to economics. The Man considers his risk of dying (or killing) on behalf of his partner as the labour of an emergency responder; infrequent but high-stakes. “Checking for bumps in the night” is one duty among a hypothetical many, (i.e protecting The Woman should a threat present itself on the street, batting away leery men at social gatherings) little of which can be anticipated but are silent possibilities The Man believes he must remain alert to.

The open secret of patriarchy is that The Man fears other Men. The Doomed Hive of Niggas wants to kill him, white men want to own or kill him, and women have begun to express more and more indifference about whether he lives or dies. Death, death, death. The Man’s duty to protect his Woman from bumps in the night is a projection of a hyper-masculine ideal, yes, but it is one that uses the pervasive assumption of his inherently violent nature to leverage and justify worth. The volatility of this value makes it impossible to appraise. How does The Man himself know how he’ll react when the bump in the night comes? How can The Woman know to trust him in such a crisis? Is he accustomed to physical conflict? Does he know how to control the violence he is capable of? Has he ever had to? Does he know the disciplines of self-defence? Can he handle a weapon? Some of these answers might provide as much concern as comfort.

In exchange for the promise to fend off unknowable dangers (in pursuit of his ideal), The Man suggests The Woman live up to her ideal—to ease his unrelenting anxiety of being crowned protector—urges her to conform to the labour structure of “being cooked for and cared for”. It is impossible to compare the regularity of The Woman’s daily tasks against The Man’s infrequent staring down of potential emergency. The Woman is asked to invest in the protective aptitude of The Man on an insurance basis. Domesticity is her payment. But what if no Men aggressively hit on her at parties? What if no emergency ever occurs and The Woman finds herself bound by a predatory contract of “cooking and care” that is fundamentally unfair because The Man never has to blast a burglar out of the french doors of their living room with a twelve-gauge shotgun? But maybe, more importantly, why should she conform to an ideal just because he believes he has to?

This is the point where Damina steps away from the dinner discussion. The essay resolves by zooming out from The Man to diagnose Men in the abstract, turning to address the audience and reflect on how The Doomed Hive of Niggas need to get better at regulating their expectations. She is right. But aren’t you curious about The Man himself? His autonomy melts away, and he is herded into a philosophical bullpen to be conflated with abusers and killers. How did the discussion actually go? Did The Woman reject him? Was he disappointed? How did he react to the dashing of his expectation?

We abandon the intimacy of the conversation at the highest point of its realness to speak in a way far more detached. Disengaging from The Man to refer to Men Generally is understandable—especially when The Man has framed this entire intellectual exercise in a manner reminiscent of The Doomed Hive of Niggas. Invoking the statistics of Men’s patriarchal violence is the cleanest way to wrap up the tale.

…But doesn’t something feel off? Isn’t this all disheartening? The Man’s flagrant attempts to coerce The Woman into labour? The Woman cycling through the statistical violence of Men? Dating as a dance of necropolitics and negotiated wage labour. How do Black people even begin to talk about love with this weighted presence of death, work, the environment, captivity, apocalypse, ancestry, trauma, whiteness, debt, struggle, violence… Fear.

Ah. This entire time, we thought we were talking about love. We’ve actually been talking about the ogre on the back, cupping its hands over love’s eyes. Now that we know: how do we talk about love without fear?

By understanding there is no talking about love without fear and that, perhaps, Making Sense of All This means giving grace to each other’s fears in ways that we’d be embarrassed for others to see.

I want to affirm the fear of The Man, who believes himself trapped in the Black (hyper)masculine expectation to die, who has probably never even thought about his own fear this way, but I cannot be an apologist for his attempt to find love by coercing a potential lover into subservience, just as society coerces him into being a submissive wage labourer, cruel imperial soldier, prisoner or death. I want to affirm the fears of The Woman, who can see the framing of The Man’s thought experiment as a red-flag indication that could lead to her harm, abuse or death. I don’t think I’ll ever be comfortable with how quickly violence is assumed, how the language of pop-sociology is dispatched so cavalierly to remove The Man from his own body and push him into The Doomed Hive of Niggas, even though I understand the hyper-vigilant fear that drives it.

Remember, the grace I’m offering is because we are trying to talk about love. If we were only speaking only about fear, perhaps we’d be examining how it’d be best for women to abandon searching for love due to the statistical risk of harm, abuse or death. We’d also consider the same abandonment for men, for when love reaches its inevitable end, “whether by the slow pull of a disease, or the shock of loose footing on a hiking trail, whether it be the corrosion of two personalities that reshape each other until they’re incompatible”, it is men who’re more likely to die of a broken heart.

We must look at the fear of each another not as something that is insurmountable but something overcomeable. The most nonsensical part of Making Sense of All This is The Woman’s fear is valid and ignored and The Man’s fear is unarticulated and misused and, despite all the crossed wires of this armed explosive, we pursue love regardless of the roulettes of death because love is not about safety, statistics or even influencing the existential trajectory of the general Man or Woman.

Love is an everyday act of stupid bravery that is, at times, an unexceptional madness; the entire endeavour is a search for The Outlier, The Exception to The Rule, The One Who Fits You as Best as You Fit Them. You date to find a person whose ordinariness is extraordinary to you, to see wonder in their mundanity, you yearn for someone like the sunrise—an appearance you can see over and over again and still be amazed. You risk embarrassment, heartache, heartbreak, time, stress, money, anxiety, abuse, harm and death trying to find them. And once you do, the hard work of weaving your lives together is endless.

We believe in love even when we’re bad at it. Even when we think we don’t deserve it. Even when it ends in an unceremonious unfollow and a whimper. Perhaps, so much of the difficulty with the fear we get from it is concentrated into looking for a person, when really what we seek is coalition. Fred Moten has a wonderful quote about multi-racial solidarity in The Undercommons: Fugitive Planning and Black Study:

The problematic of coalition is that coalition isn’t something that emerges so that you can come help me, a maneuver that always gets traced back to your own interests. The coalition emerges out of your recognition that it’s fucked up for you, in the same way that it’s fucked up for us.

There is no greater place where this is true than in the throes of a relationship, where Men’s expectation to be death fodder is as fucked up as the expectation Women’s expectation to be unappreciated labourers. The social coercions expected of them both are fucked up thefts of their lives. He must be aware his proximity smells like death to Her until he can prove himself safe but he cannot save her from what is fucked up about his own gender-mates any more than he can save himself, any more than she can save him. They can only seek to understand each other, to articulate the depth of their fears to one another, be patient with them, and choose to resist them together.

How often have you seen relationship tips as negotiated battle strategy? Is it not more common to speak about love from a place of cunning? Instead of collaboration; power struggle. Instead of co-operation; self preservation. It is easy to treat dating as a ritual of death forecasting, of socio-emotional cost/benefit analyses, of game strategy, of banquets with the enemy. Perhaps it goes without saying that it is probably unwise for women in a patriarchal society to abandon this way of seeing and operating completely. The hard part, it seems, comes in striking the balance of vulnerability, good faith, vigilance and curiosity that one needs to remain open to love. The Man must figure out how to be safe—to himself and to others—in a way that resists the assumption that he can achieve this safety by relying on exhibitions of brute force.

This is the work and he must be endlessly curious of it.

As long as love is approached with adversarial intentions, it will garner adversarial results. As long as fear compels us to invest in the rigidity of gender ideals, we remain alienated from the true fertility of love—a site of transformation, an intimate ecosystem to be seasonal with one another, a myth-dispeller, patient, an environment of trust potent enough to dissolve lifetimes of cultural conditioning, a place where vulnerability can make conflict safe, weed out harmful beliefs and sprout better ones in their place.

That’s all well and good, my date says. But someone’s still got to check for the bump in the night. I lean forward over the candlelit table and smile.

If the time ever comes—and I hope it never does—I imagine we’d both wake up, rub the sleep from our eyes, I’d reach for my golf club and you reach for your limited edition, bright pink Hello Kitty baseball bat and we’d both whisper to each other: Hey baby, I heard a noise… Do you wanna go commit a crime together?

When asked to clarify comments made in passing about ending the Russo-Ukrainian war, President Donald Trump flicked through a scant rolodex of expressions, his face pretzeled into a wry smile before he admitted he didn’t think anything he could do would get him into heaven.

Whether the confessional booth of Air Force One was loosening Trump’s tongue; or his health was humbling him, or the contracting walls—papier-mâchéd with Epstein files—were weighing on him, or the chummy correspondence with a Fox News journalist was placating him; the conditions aligned in syzygy to reveal a candid moment from the grifter-in-chief who once boasted that his supporters were so gullible loyal that they’d vote for him even if he committed murder in broad daylight.

“I’m not heaven-bound…”

Strained chuckles pierce the star-spangled veil and glimpses of a damned soul peek through the waving slits. Behold the laughter of a man wrestling with the mounting entropy of his own sins. If you squint, his admission almost appears like a camel’s hide bunching against slim metal as it tries to squeeze through a needle’s eye.

“I may be in heaven right now as we fly on Air Force One…”

And just like that; the sad clown snaps back into the safety of his gilded caricature. His flirtation with contrition fizzes with static before switching to his regularly scheduled programming of yankee-doodle mammonism.

It has been said before but it bears saying again: Donald Trump is the perfect avatar for America.

To get why, we must first understand World War II as a modern creation myth; a neatly packaged hero’s journey where the righteous allies took down the tyrannical axis powers. After this uncomplicated clash of good vs. evil, America spent its post-war victory LARPING as the valiant tippers-of-the-scales against the Nazis while demonising their temporary allies, The Soviet Union, who were actually responsible for the military defeat of Hitler. The United States has imagined itself as the world’s moral paragon and laundered that fantasy to every corner of the planet.1

To paraphrase John Cena’s character in The Suicide Squad: America believes in peace—no matter how many men, women, and children it needs to kill to get it.

In a way, one could say that Europe entered a blood-pact with America, to absorb the traditional brutality of colonialism and modernise it in exchange for the West’s complicity. A legacy of invasions and coup d’états have been draped in a sheer gown of boot-strapping patriotism, first-strike self-defence, heroic exceptionalism and, of course, the blissful spread of democracy. It has been a négligé to soften the blows of nuclear bombs, cluster bombs, drone-bombs, etc. But with the Trump Administration, the pretense has been deemed too pointless to uphold, the clothing too tedious to wear.

We are witnessing a doing-away with the mask and the revelation of the face. Those of us who live in the “margins” — the poor, the racialised, the feminine, the queer, the disabled and the foreign — have always been privy of the true face, always aware of its vulgarity and barbaric potential, always careful to pirouette around its blemishes. It’s a sentiment that gets emptier the more you point it out.

Trump is not the inventor of America’s sins but his tenure as President reflects them. His success is not owed to any traditional or easily observable metric of skill but to an internal radar maladjusted to exploit all things for personal gain. The many republican men and women who once opposed him have since performed harakiris on their own integrity, humiliating themselves to stay tucked in his good graces. He doesn’t rule them with fear—at least, not the primal sense that comes from brushing paths with an apex predator in the wild. He is not scary in that way. His sycophants dread the uncertainty of not being useful to a man whose petulance has so much sway.

Trump is a man governed by the knowledge that winning isn’t a single event, or even multiple events. It is about flooring it towards the unruly crowd that stands between you and what you want, and having the grit to keep driving when your windscreen suffuses with blood and bodies crunch underneath your tires.

Donald Trump is the pseudo-secular delusion of American exceptionalism incarnate. Bending reality to his will but never slowing to question whether his will is worth bending reality to, or stopping to look at the grotesque shapes he’s warped.

To see him show concern for the destination of his immortal soul, however slight or fleeting, is enough to make you question the nature of remorse itself. Because all throughout history, we have tried—as I have done for the last few ranting paragraphs—to comprehend the psyches of men who’ve dedicated themselves to trafficking hate. What motivates them? How aware are they; of the terrorism they incite? Are they completely barren of empathy? How do they stomach the evil shit they say and do without wanting to blow their own brains out?

Are they even sorry?

“It took a deadly illness to put me eye to eye with that truth, but it is a truth that the country, caught up in its ruthless ambitions and moral decay, can learn on my dime… I was wrong to follow the meanness of Conservatism. I should have been trying to help people instead of taking advantage of them. I don’t hate anyone anymore. For the first time in my life I don’t hate somebody.” — Lee Atwater, advisor to Ronald Reagan, infamous for the 1981 “Southern Strategy” audio leak, re-evaluates his life for Life Magazine after being diagnosed with a brain tumour in 1991.

After being one of the chief midwives that helped unleash President Ronald Reagan onto the world, Lee Atwater converted to Catholicism at his 11th hour and, with his dying breath, disavowed the right-wing ideologies that had brought him a long and storied career.

His renunciation was as heartfelt as it was hollow. With the personal hate in his heart washed clean by his family priest’s sacrament of penance, he passed the onus of cultural repair onto the next generation of politicians.

“I don’t know who will lead us through the ‘90s, but they must be made to speak to this spiritual vacuum at the heart of American society, this tumor of the soul.”

In 2002, when Margaret Thatcher was asked what her greatest achievement was, she said Tony Blair and New Labour. We forced our opponents to change their minds. Ever the transatlantic mirror, it isn’t hard to see that Reagan’s most notable legacy is the modern Democratic party—their rightward shift towards “The Third Way” under Clinton has meant the same “meanness” Atwater rebuked in death has been dominating America’s politics for nearly 50 years, passing right-wing “toughness” across the aisle, to and fro, in a nightmare blunt rotation.

Atwater hoped his hail mary request for a benevolent leader could remedy the poison he so strategically helped pump into the country. He died before he could see how his contributions to America’s moral decay outlasted him. Wrongdoing was admitted but his admission also laid bare what so many generations before and since have practiced in their exploitation—racial, political, environmental or otherwise—for financial gain.

I will personally benefit from the chaos I write and let my descendants pick up the pieces.

But you can’t encourage decay to fester, spritz a papistic disinfectant on it then backflip off this mortal coil and expect others to pick up the pieces. You have to be responsible for whatever you bring into the world.

After the death of his brother Ludvig, it is said that several newspapers published obituaries of Alfred Nobel in error. As the father of dynamite, it goes that a French newspaper was polemical about Nobel’s hand in inventing military explosives. Le marchand de la mort est mort — or the merchant of death is dead, the obituary supposedly wrote. Dr. Alfred Nobel, who became rich by finding ways to kill more people faster than ever before, died yesterday.

Horrified that this may be how he’d be remembered, Nobel decided he needed to leave a better legacy after his death. It is thought that this is what drove him to posthumously donate his wealth to founding the Nobel Prize.

“In 1875 he created blasting gelatin, a colloidal suspension of nitrocellulose in glycerin, and in 1887 ballistite, a nearly smokeless powder especially suitable for propelling military projectiles. Nobel, the man who had tried to make handling explosives safe for workmen, was deeply troubled by the destructiveness of his inventions and became concerned with establishing worldwide peace.”

The more earthly-educated among us might point to how his initial efforts should’ve concerned him as much as the military applications. After all, the modern disregard for the environment can be traced back directly to Nobel’s first dynamite stick, gummed against the side of an English quarry to demonstrate how minerals can be extracted quicker.

By creating the incendiary progenitor of the bomb, Nobel inspired the bloodlust of warmongers for less than a century before reaching the pinnacle of apocalyptic destruction in the form of the nuclear warhead. But even his pursuit of a more efficient alternative to the deflagration of black powder, Nobel’s chemical explosives became a cultural accelerant of capitalist expansionism, acclimatising the insatiable appetite of the free market to more violent and instant methods of resource extraction in a cancerous pursuit of financial gain.

Peruse the list of Nobel Peace Prize winners and you cannot help but notice the disparities between the recipients of the Global South (overwhelmingly individuals) and the recipients of the West (largely institutions).

Implicit in this divide is the idea that the issues of nonwestern countries are intrinsically problematic, while western countries need only be concerned with beauty-pageant issues like world hunger. These faceless institutions deal with abstract, global problems that western nations are typically responsible for.

This year, the Nobel Peace Prize was awarded to María Corina Machado: “for her tireless work promoting democratic rights for the people of Venezuela and for her struggle to achieve a just and peaceful transition from dictatorship to democracy.” (There’s that “blissful spread of democracy” I mentioned earlier.)

In her recent visit to The White House, she presented her award to Donald Trump—days after he’d illegally abducted President Nicolás Maduro, openly expressed wanting to send American corporations into Venezuela to extract its oil and drone-bombed boats off the country’s coast under suspicion of drug-trafficking.

When you consider the alleged story of Alfred Nobel’s almost-obituary, The Nobel Peace Prize being a means to rehabilitate a shameful legacy explains why and how colonial paradigms run through the award itself. In an endeavour borne of shame, its founder looked to distract the world from the fire and brimstone he’d brought into it by offering a yearly ceremony of paternalistic back-patting. The intention was to manipulate the public’s perception of him; the consequence has been an institution with principles superficial enough for colonial-capitalists to launder their exploits through. It is how one Peace Prize winner can be responsible for bombing another. It is why racists can win them. It is why Henry Kissinger has one.

Where Atwater could only muster an admission of guilt in a magazine interview, Nobel, at least, pledged his wealth and instruction towards righting his wrongs. What does it mean that both men found clarity about their harm towards their death? Or found their demise the most fitting time to address said harm? One might say it speaks to how big their remorse was—big enough that their cowardice reflected it in size.

Like the moral decay at the heart of all this, the question festers: how do men like Trump, Atwater, Nobel—who live Big Lives with the will to rearrange The Way Things Are on scales so monumental that only seem to arc towards harm; their decisions echoing forward from history towards a yawning apocalypse—even begin to make up for the things they usher into the world?

Are they not driven by something urgent—sometimes well-meaning, sometimes self-serving—that, if they had a conscience, would’ve set them on a path of restoration and self-reflection long before they approached the ass-end of their lives? Instead, Nobel entrusts the establishment of peace congresses to the executors of his will. Atwater “takesies-backsies” on his death-bed. Trump chuckles at own his eternal damnation.

We live in the wake of many aftermaths. Decisions are imposed on us and sold as “tough choices”, harm topples into more harm, hate spreads rhizomatically. Those of us with littler lives—who do not become inadvertent merchants of death with our scientific discoveries, or haven’t helped usher in an endless night of morally-dissonant politics, or reinvigorated settler-colonial violence in the form of a modern lynch-mob—we are making mistakes that are far easier to try and fix.

Jimmy Carter deeply regretted how he handled Israel as president and spent his post-presidency advocating for Palestinian freedom. He is the only president to name Israel’s apartheid plainly. Most of us don’t have to herd global calamities back into Pandora box.

Whether it is the bravado of patriarchy, the cognitive dissonance of whiteness, or the legal ramifications of capitalism, the avoidance of the apology is the existential roadblock to genuine healing, it suspends the harmed in their trauma and the harmer in his mistake, forcing both to hope that time will decay the pain into something more manageable. It never does. It always festers and mutates somehow. And before it dies, it is passed down on an atomic level. It should be abundantly clear to everyone that the world we are watching become observably worse is directly correlated to a dominant culture that is chronically incapable of acknowledging when it has faulted.

It is okay to admit that you were wrong—today. That you were duped or lead astray. That you let yourself be led by the cruelest part of you and got stuck in a ditch of hate and shame. That you were mistaking stubbornness for for bravery. If you’ve been a public figure cheerleading cruelty for the short-term validation of being on the winning side, don’t be surprised if your backpedaling is met with disgust, distrust and rage. History should treat you as flippantly as you’ve treat your own responsibility to your fellow man. But if you are just a person who’s been swept up in the bonfire of other people’s bigotry, you can break away, today. Your apology doesn’t have to be as labyrinthine as the world has needlessly made it seem it has to be. You can seek forgiveness and try to rectify your mistakes, today. And if that is impossible, you can begin the process of growing past it, today. You don’t have to be like the men with Big Lives who refuse to see the error of their ways, you don’t have to wait until you’re within eyeshot of death’s door to reflect. You can still turn it around and make a change. But you have to look now.

As Willa’s hijacked Dodge Charger roars through the undulating country roads towards the end of One Battle After Another, my approval rating rose to a fever pitch in stark contrast to the very low pee-yews at the beginning of the film. The suspense of the chase glides across a sine wave—ending with a delicious comeuppance that made me yell out, “hell yeah!” in the dead of the wintry night. Taking inspiration from Peter Yates’ 1968 Bullitt, it’s the most edge-of-my-seat driving sequence I’ve seen since Mad Max: Fury Road.

The most enjoyable aspects of One Battle After Another are suspended in the film’s margins. The penultimate car chase. The weed-selling, gun-toting black nuns. The underground network of a Latin American Karate Sensei. This is a movie unafraid to put things that shouldn’t be in conversation in a locked room together (the puppet-mastering, high-society of white supremacists being branded after the Yuletide is another example of the film’s penchant for juxtaposing absurd contradictions). It’s a that gambit works until it doesn’t. The most obvious failure is in the form of Perfidia Beverly Hills.

Perfidia is a profoundly individualistic freedom fighter. She’s a black woman from “a long line of revolutionaries” who abandons her daughter. She’s an integral cog of a highly organised cell—efficient enough to infiltrate government compounds—but she follows no protocol when she’s compromised. She’s a radical who becomes a government informant. Her contradictions nudge her into failure unbecoming of a heroine but it is a mistake to perceive those errors as so egregious that they can only be meaningfully corrected by a more positive representation of her. The messiness of her contradictions are not the problem.

Considering the context of black women’s persistent efforts to electorally save America from its most white supremacist impulses, any one of Perfidia’s contradictions would be interesting when considered in isolation. It is interesting, for instance, to witness the inner machinations of a black woman erring in a revolutionary praxes that requires equal parts foolhardiness and discipline.

The problem with Perfidia is how the sheer volume of contradictions collide to flatten her into a singular dimension.

If we charitably assume the filmmaker intends for these contradictions to imbue Perfidia with a multi-facetedness—their end result achieves the opposite. We are instead presented with a character whose chaotic self-indulgence makes her seem less complex, and instead, narrows her to the point of being a conspicuous MacGuffin.

You can feel she’s being used—to set the dominoes towards the inevitable climax, to offer bad-ass optics of rattling off a Degtyaryov RPD machine gun atop her pregnant belly, to pass on an epistolatory “go get ‘em, tiger” so Willa can further the radical lineage of her family.

Naturally, those most attuned to this kind of narrative exploitation are the black (female) audience—particularly when interracial fetishisation is etched in the film’s skeleton. Perfidia’s slap-dash sense of autonomy presents a perfect example of how anti-racist over-correction can so easily horseshoe into racial insensitivity. She is jezebelesque; but her adrenaline kink offers plausible deniability. Abandoning her white lover(s) and daughter ensures she is certainly not a mammy1. Perfidia’s cocktail of contradictions insulate her from the accusation of being a traditional racist trope. But you can never shake the feeling that her character is occupying the same figurative locale of a stereotype, as if she’s only getting off on a technicality.

Great art is defined by the artist’s ability to conceal his flaws until they look like virtues. In the character of Perfidia Beverly Hills, the seams of the filmmaker’s intentions are frayed, exposed as a live wire, and too visible to ignore.

Whether these failures are scriptural (owed to Paul Thomas Anderson’s imaginative distance from the black radical feminine experience) or performative (Teyana Taylor, a musician by trade, is acting alongside a stacked cast of dramatic veterans with relatively low cuts to her teeth by comparison) or a nondescript concoction of both and other factors, they seem to be an inevitable consequence of a white male director trying to cinematically reckon with his own sociality in relation to the diverse experiences of others. In that respect, Paul Thomas Anderson’s One Battle After Another is in discussion with Ari Aster’s Eddington.

Others have dived into these movies in far greater detail but I believe both films are best exemplified by how their white male protagonists end up.

DiCaprio’s Ghetto Pat is sedentary; smoking on the couch, fumbling to take a selfie, having proved himself utterly useless in the task of protecting his own daughter when push came to shove. Phoenix’s Joe Cross is rendered sedentary by force; paralysed after committing numerous crimes and acting out his macho conservative shoot-out fantasy to its logically violent end.

They are men cursed with the knowledge that they mark the ass-end of an era. The dry-husked myth of the white heroic ideal crumbles—revealing the bitter fruit of an incompetent loser beneath.

The camera is not a condonement machine but who it chooses to focus on bestows its own kind of kindness. To follow Ghetto Pat, Sheriff Joe Cross, or even Colonel Lockjaw's gaze leering on Perfidia’s ass for an uncomfortable length of time, is not an outright promotion of their characters, however it does reinforce the idea that their internal machinations are worth following. The filmmaker is naturally seasoned at making characters who look like him cohesive, so the collective screen-time of these men compounds into an ode to the obsolete; re-establishing their obsoletion as something important to witness. Another contradiction. The best way to make peace with the more egregious contradictions of a squandered character like Perfidia Beverly Hills is, I think, to see this recent uptick of “white failure films” for what they don’t know they are:

Evolutions of a post-apocalyptic fantasy genre—attempting to make sense of an eroding superiority that never existed in the first place.

self-assurance is a chemical; catalysing human flesh to transcend the confines of social constructs. it is not that being self-assured rips down the fences of anti-blackness, rather that being black and self-assured fashions you into a key that can unlock untold universes.

charisma is the art of finding keyholes.

it is beautiful, in a way. to know artificial incarcerations can be bypassed. it was anaïs nin who said, “life shrinks or expands in proportion to one’s courage”. you might be a woman in a man’s world but who knows what can be achieved if you’re just a little more confident? you might be ugly in a world worshipping beauty but who knows what you can do if you’re just a little braver?

change is simple—all you need to do is rearrange your own insides.

be resolute. stand ten toes. become emotionally immovable. typhoons are known to blow round here. the unsure are doomed to be swept away by madness.

plant your feet in the soil of yourself.

one day, an external factor will expose an inner contradiction and, when floodlights glare on your hypocrisy, you’ll have to remind yourself that you needn’t be swayed.

you have decided the trajectory already. just double down.

our reality is built on doubling, tripling, quadrupling down. the figure has multiplied so many times that if it were folded paper, it would be a bridge to the moon. these unconfronted contradictions coalesce into a grotesque forest where no one admits they’re fucking wrong. the air is too slick with punitive cruelty. better to wait for the memory to die down than accept wrongdoing (legal expediency depending).

politically, doubling down is sapping nutrients from the earth. a toxic conviction compounded over generations. praise reagan on the inhale, lament about the cost of living on the exhale. pretend trickle-down economics didn’t set the pace for wealth to pool at the penthouse suite of society. why the fuck would you think there’s any connection between yesterday and today? just keep breathing.

hyperfixating on the mormons inspired and undid me. a functioning civilisation in the dust-basin of utah, its dogma coughed out to reach even the corners of africa, begun as the brainchild of some violent 19th century thug with spiritual psychosis who wanted to fuck other people’s wives. the thriving existence of the latter day saints is living proof that truth has no intrinsic value.

if changing the fabric of reality only requires the fossil fuel of delusion—the hypocrite is god’s most powerful engine. whether they metabolise shame or simply have none, they’re immune to gotcha moments because none of their mistakes aren’t terminal. being wrong is a negotiation. when the hypocrite is caught out, his psychic abilities needn’t be so sophisticated that he can bend a spoon. all he needs to do is make enough people doubt the spoon is straight.

peewee hermeneutics thinks there’s something more libidinal happening. there’s a freaky bunch he calls “hypocri-sexuals” and you might’ve come across them before. they’re the stereotypical racist who’s into cuck porn or that one florida congressman who captioned “the left must be stopped” on a video that was obviously fresh out of his own browsing history. the thrill of concealing one’s private desires behind public rebuke is what peewee hermeneutics names “the juice”, the tingly ichor that pumps through your veins when you’re doing something you know you shouldn’t. it’s the tang. the psychosexual euphoria. he describes it better than i.

whether they’re edging themselves through their contradictions, gaming reality to see how much they can get away with, being blackmailed, or simply basking in feral delusion for the vibes—it is clear that we are, and always have been, governed by maladjusted hypocrites. their incapacity to take responsibility is how they gain their responsibility in the first place. what is the point of remedies? just double down. or if the lie is too big, resign.

(the walls of perpetual diagnosis close in, compressing the air. just keep breathing.)

i have seen searchlights shine with sniper-scope precision on the glaring contradictions of the wily hypocrite. one of my biggest fears is that they’ve been left to run amok for so long that we’ve entered an era where no light is bright enough to compel a rectification of their errors. journalistic whistleblowing in the modern era has hit an inaudible pitch. once upon a time, snowden had to flee to russia for revealing how the government was surveilling its citizens. now we casually joke about how the fbi is spying on us as our devices eavesdrop on our everyday conversations for the sake of targeted marketing.

the panama papers revealed a global network of corrupt politicians and financiers. barely anyone got fired—let alone thrown in jail. those are just the examples off the top of my head. i fear no light is bright enough to send the network of hypocrites in power to the same fate as a late-stage game of jenga. or more candidly: it concerns me the epstein files might drop with undeniable proof that the upper echelon of global society is riddled with paeodophiles and the two-tier justice system won’t hold any of them accountable. we have conceded on data being constantly collected about our lives, conceded on rich people’s retention of immoral wealth, will we now concede on the safety of teens and children? the only moral anchor this society pretends to have left?

if truth has no intrinsic value then it isn’t enough to catalyse change through revelation. the prevailing option is to construct delusional reality shifts of our own or, at least, understand there might need to be sprinkles of ruthlessness to supplement what vasily grossman dubbed “the powerlessness of kindness”.

those who believe the ideological battleground is one of sense trumping nonsense are sorely missing the forest from the trees. pragmatism will only work if its applied in service of radical change. incrementalism will only work if it is building towards a world-changing dream. there is no going back to normal. normality was flimsy plasters on the holes of a bullet-riddled watering can. the maladjusted hypocrite sees no watering can. he builds his own container in whatever space is there. our very fate might just depend on who’s delusion is stronger, wider, more investable, more persuasive and, paradoxically… more true.

Love can get you shot.
— Ta-Nehisi Coates

When President Chaim Weizmann died in 1952, there was a vacuum of international relations that Israel was eager to fill. The Prime Minister David Ben-Gurion hurdled over reams of governmental red-tape to offered the position to “the greatest jew alive” — Albert Einstein.

Forgotten in the enthusiasm was the fact that Einstein, though sympathetic to Israel, had never been an ardent Zionist; he believed in a bi-nationalism that meant “friendly and fruitful coexistence with the Arabs.” He does not even know Hebrew, official language of the new state.1

The historical persecution of the Jewish people primed Einstein for an ideological receptivity to Cultural Zionism—a sect of Zionism that “emphasized the establishment of cultural and educational centers among Jews.2” Cultural Zionists advocated complete equality for Arabs and Jews and, in 1938, Dr. Einstein expressed concern for the existential implication of a Jewish state.

“Apart from practical considerations, my awareness of the essential nature of Judaism resists the idea of a Jewish State, with borders, an army and a measure of temporal power, no matter how modest. I am afraid of the inner damage Judaism will sustain — especially from the development of a narrow nationalism within our ranks, against which we have already had to fight strongly, even without a Jewish State.”3

Einstein’s fear crystallised in 1948 when a newly “recognised” Israel gave birth to the ultranationalist conservative party, Tnuat Haherut. Einstein and a handful of other Jewish intellectuals penned an open letter in The New York Times condemning Herut for the Deir Yassin Massacre, identifying the party as “closely akin in its organization, methods, political philosophy and social appeal to the Nazi and Fascist parties.”4

14 years after warning that a Jewish ethnostate would bring “inner damage” to the Jewish people—Einstein was faced with a prime opportunity to confront the narrow nationalism he’d predicted. He refused the offer—stating he had “neither the natural ability nor the experience to deal with human beings”. Presidency would’ve required him to “say to the Israeli people things they would not like to hear.”

Most of the Jewish dissidents advocating a binational state considered themselves Zionists or friends of Zionism. But theirs was a different Zionism. Just as Christianity comes in thirty-nine different flavors, each with its own strains and schisms, so, albeit on a smaller scale, there have been--and still are-many Zionisms: labor Zionism, Revisionist Zionism, political Zionism, socialist Zionism, cultural Zionism, territorial Zionism, and many more. — Fred Jerome, Einstein on Israel and Zionism

These fence-sitting varieties of Zionism are endeavours of cosmetic surgery, rearranging the facial features of a colonial project to make the theft appear more palatable. When the violent ultranationalism Dr. Einstein warned about wove itself into the very foundations of Israeli politics—he saw no moral urgency to fight it. He didn’t flounce his lack of experience in the manner right-wing men of action have been known to do to rise to the occasion to leverage his own social capital as “the greatest jew alive”. He did not adopt a position of considerable influence and say to the Jewish people the things they would not like to hear to course-correct from the far-right violence.5 He declined. And 73 years, a Nakba and countless massacres later—the colonial genocide against the Palestinians is only now being “recognised”.

The liberal. The moderate. The neoliberal. The centrist.

Many of the Black Enraged—from Martin Luther King Jr. to Assata Shakur—have expressed their disillusionment with the fence-sitting class.

After Ezra Klein praised Charlie Kirk for “practising politics the right way” in The New York Times, Ta-Nehisi Coates penned a response in Vanity Fair to push back on the post-humous revisionism of Kirk’s legacy. The two decided to talk it out on a podcast. One of Klein’s first questions was, “why are we losing right now?”.

Coates answers, “because there are always moments when we lose.”

My response is far more scathing. It relocates Klein and liberals like him away from any category of “we”. The New York Times piece he penned helped legitimise the right’s hagiographies of Kirk, diminishing the regressive impact of his debate-me-bro stochastic terrorism. I needn’t understand Klein’s justifications to know that his apologia is unbecoming of someone I’d consider on my team.

Through the interview, Klein wrestles with strategies for political victory. His suggestions carry the faint whiffs of dysregulated panic as he proposes running pro-life democrats to win Southern states.

Coates asks Klein to define his place in this current political moment. Klein responds, “I don’t know what my role is anymore”. He doesn’t know because the ideological core of the fence-sitting class is principally unmoored. He believes the democrats lost the presidential election due to strategy mismanagement and not because of the irreconcilable hypocrisy of demonising their opponent while full-throatily funding a genocide. Where Coates fights for the existential health of America, Klein’s concept of “winning” is exclusive to electoral success. For Klein, the Republican drift towards authoritarianism is a matter of envy; the moral regression at the heart of this moment is an aside, he’s more concerned with figuring out which tactics his own sports team needs to adopt to win the championship next season.

Klein is incapable of examining Kirk’s political success without infusing his analysis with admiration. The billionaire-backed sport of politics has convinced Ezra Klein that victory is attained by contorting ideals with socio-political acrobatics. It is unfathomable for him to think true “winning” is meaningless without moral resolution. The health of our civilisation depends on championing a robust opposition to wealth inequality, environmental exploitation, racism, misogyny, queerphobia, ableism and an unwavering advocacy for the dignity of the vulnerable. Any political strategy doesn’t look to synthesise these truths within the existing, social landscape are a profound waste of time. Running concession democrats has only veered our society right-ward. On a purely electoral level—it is crucial to run and support principled, progressive candidates who can speak to people’s core worries, put together compelling campaigns and actually deliver policies that’ll make people’s lives better. Those types of candidates are popping up all over the country. If Klein and the fence-sitting class want to know what their role is (and if they believe their utility is as strategists rather than truth-tellers): they should be running interference for progressive candidates that are faced with slander and smear campaigns and, as Coates rightfully pointed out, choosing the option of silence when grace might embolden the right.

The mainstream presentation of the fence-sitting class as a diametric opposition to conservatism is a fictional struggle fitting snugly inside the Overton window. The fence-sitting class embraces moral chameleonism up to the point where it impedes their personal comfort. They throw their weight behind safe political actions like boycotting streaming platforms to support a millionaire talk-show host so they can maintain the delusion that their freedom of speech and freedom of the press isn’t being eroded in real time. Such protests costs them nothing—in fact, less than nothing. They get to save money and feel the warmth of a pyrrhic victory.

For decades, conservatives have misrepresented the fence-sitting class as their primary opposition—lumping them in with “the left” and making no bones about their disdain for both. In response, the fence-sitting class has sung endless kumbayas, reached across the aisle, created “third-way” politics, and sought common ground with a political faction that doesn’t respect them.

The harsher truth is that the fence-sitting class benefits from the viscosity of their own moral position. Culturally zionist bi-nationalism would’ve been nice for Einstein and other Jewish dissidents but they also materially benefit from the realisation of a Jewish ethnostate. Whether they condemn the ethnostate or lament about the “inner damage” to the Jewish people, they and every modern fence-sitting supporter of zionism ultimately benefits from the end-goal of the occupation via the option of Aliyah.

The liberal pledges themselves to understand the conservative, recognise their humanity and treat them with respect. But the grace they give is fundamentally asymmetrical. The conservative makes no effort to conceal their disdain or their unwillingness to reason with their so-called opposition. They believe liberals are all closet conservatives pretending to be “woke” out of guilt and if they can’t get them to rip off their own masks and reveal their “true face”, they’ll settle for the fence-sitter’s submission. I’m hard pressed to disagree with them.

Emma Watson’s conversation with Jay Shetty is a fascinating marbling of disparities, she measures her words in a way that doesn’t feel like the triangulation of a deeply held truth but rather the excavation for a version of the truth that will appeal most broadly. It is a Princess Diana re-enactment for a world that believes, in its conspiratorial core, that Princess Diana was murdered. The soft outpourings of empathy feel chronologically displaced, especially atop the back-drop of political unrests and live-streamed genocides. We aren’t living with the same delusions of the nineties. We know too much now. Still, Watson’s solemnity heralds a comforting nostalgia.

Shetty asks about J.K Rowling’s declarations that she’d never forgive Watson for her views on trans people and how Watson and her co-stars ruin the Harry Potter movies for her. Watson’s response is a heartfelt olive branch—a stately extension of grace that holds her memories with Rowling and her disagreement with Rowling’s transantagonism as incompatible truths that may never reconcile.

Days later, J.K Rowling retwee a video mocking Watson, tweets some nonsense metaphor about crocodiles and finally addresses the olive branch directly by spitting on it, snapping it in two and jamming them into Watson’s eyes.

The basic moral of this fable is—when someone shows you who they are, believe them.

For the fence-sitting class—who over-intellectualise the pageantry of being civil at the expense of principled kindness—there might be more to learn.

In the face of political antagonism, you have a choice. It is a choice we will all have to make more and more, over and over again. It is not necessarily between right and wrong, that binary is far too simplistic. J.K Rowling believes she is right, which is why she’s devoted her every waking, mould-respiring breath to chastise a demographic that makes up 1% of the population.

The choice we all have is between protection and endangerment. Who you dedicate your words, time, money and efforts to—will protect or endanger them. Watson protected Rowling and herself by centring her personal compassion. Her protection would’ve been better spent advocating for the trans people who are experiencing unprecedented levels of violent prejudice.

Watson was reluctant to say anything that would “continue to weaponise a toxic debate” but the only way to avoid that toxicity would’ve been to ignore the question altogether. It is Rowling’s intolerance that chauffeurs much of the toxicity—the growing popularity of her position does not obscure the bitterness of its origins. She was always going to spin Watson’s words into ammunition to amplify anti-trans sentiments. Where Watson tried to bifurcate Rowling from her views, Rowling sees no distinction. Her parasitic connection to the transantagonistic symbiote is inexorably integrated with her sense of self. She embodies her exclusionary ideals completely and Watson is nothing more than an enemy to her now. Rowling took Watson’s diplomacy as a craven suck-up attempt and registered her empathy as an act of submission. How this all affects Watson isn’t as important as how Rowling has been able to weaponise this incident against trans people.

From Watson extending Rowling compassion to Klein’s admiration of Kirk—there is a point where grace becomes enabling. Recognising that the fence-sitting class aren’t on my team doesn’t necessarily make them as my opponents. They might be on my side but they’re too much of a liability to be trusted as teammates. The most damning thing to me about Klein is how his essay and podcast appearance with Coates demonstrate how uncritical of himself he is. For someone who thinks so mechanically about strategy, at no point does he ever meaningfully consider that his essay was a tactical misfire. Despite admitting he “doesn’t know what his role is”, there is no point of self-reflection, no reasonable entertainment of the possibility that he might’ve been wrong. What a dangerous, blissful kind of ignorance to live by. To be so unaware of how your actions are weaponised shows an embarrassing lack of survival instincts. The fence-sitting class perch in a position where the flak doesn’t reach them.

The toxicity of the “trans debate” originates from talking past, over, and about trans people in adversarial and infantilising ways. Every time I encounter the cruelty of transantagonism in the wild—I get a clearer understanding of how the Salem Witch Trials happened. A whole demographic of our society have been made into a spectacle. Rowling’s crusade against anyone who doesn’t fit the dainty, lily-white mould of western womanhood is making the world a more spiteful and incurious place. Kirk’s rhetoric was an unapologetic accelerant. Klein thought he could reasonable about it. Watson believed she could gracefully opt out. But the truth is: there is no reasoning. There is no opting out. The polarising issues of our time are approaching a boiling point (and by that I mean, the repercussions have begun to noticeably affect the fence-sitting class while they have already ravaged the vulnerable). The wish-wash of the fence will soon be too uncomfortable to balance on. It is very much side-picking time. Who will you protect and who will you endanger?

It did, of course, spill from the ever-sapient mouth of James Baldwin that “to be black in America and to be relatively conscious is to be in a rage almost all the time” and if he were alive today, I’d find no great struggle in convincing him that being black and relatively conscious in Britain imprints a similar rage, if only varied in temperature and spice. Last year, and I meandered between the clothes stands of a vintage shop in Paris conferring about the rage™ in different nations—France, England, America—and looking back, I believe we were trying to determine the different flavours of incitement, because the rage Baldwin speaks of isn’t a spontaneous combustion, it is activated by the external stimuli of injustice. Rage is the genetic consequence of experiencing a wrong. When you watch enough videos of Baldwin speaking, you get a glimpse of what it must be like to see an angel cry; a being, plummeted to earth from a place much kinder, desperate to warn God’s most ignorant children of the yawning hell-mouth they’re dancing near that would certainly devour them all. In conversation he’d forgo his rage, or perhaps surface-grind its hereditary bluntness into something more incisive in order speak to—or about—white America as if its soul was on a precipice. One of Baldwin’s most famous public appearances involved paddling himself to save Paul Weiss, a philosophy professor at Yale who despite his accomplished station, was drowning in a boisterous ocean of his own insouciance, thrashing the water in resistance to the rescue buoy of Baldwin’s wit. A similar thrashing is revealed in a discussion between Yasiin Bey, Christopher Hitchens and Salman Rushdie on Bill Maher, though the comment section would have you believe Bey was on the business-end of an intellectual bodyslam. Yasiin Bey expresses the need for the nuclear club to be disbanded. Before he’s even set up his argument, giggles scatter through the audience, inaugurating him as the jester in this masturbatory court of philosopher-kings. Maher, Hitchens and Rushdie all dive head-first into the fertile ground of the ambient disrespect, beginning a plausibly deniable onslaught of derision towards Bey’s views on nuclear holocaust. Together, they point out the unique savagery of “radical islamists” who want to covet apocalyptic weapons and the impossible-staircase threat of Iran’s nuclear arsenal. One could talk for hours about the condescending abrasions Hitchens visits upon Bey but, in the interest of time, it’s simpler to say there were two different conversations happening at once. One man placed his ancestral rage to the side, trying to tread out a moral desire path through a field of endless, American violence. The other man believes the savagery so indigenous to The Other (in this case, Muslims but more recently, trans people) means the safety of the world can only be upheld by America’s retention of land tenure over the global pasture of violence. The pageantry of civility demands they waltz their arguments, concealing the truer, more direct points-of-view they probably wish they could both blurt out freely. Yasiin Bey’s truth is that nothing about his experience of white people could ever convince him that America having world-ending weaponry is a good or safe thing. Christopher Hitchen’s truth is that, through sheer brute force, America (and its euro-nuclear deputies) deserves to be able to end the world more than any of the back-savage civilisations. Here, Bey and Hitchens can be distilled into a crude binary. The moral and the intellectual. Morality is naïve. Intellectualism is pragmatic. There are things Bey doesn’t know that Hitchens knows and, in this particular paddock where the audience is trigger-happy with their sniggers towards Bey, Hitchens’ type of knowledge rings victorious. But what Yasiin Bey knows is what Baldwin knew is what Brian and I know is what my mother knows: there is an inner architecture of righteous rage and a spiritual consequence to not quelling it. Perhaps it is too simple to declare men like Weiss and Hitchens—thrashing eloquently in the water—were ignorant of the Black Enraged’s knowledge. Perhaps what they were reckoning with was a distorted empathy, governed by the idea that if black people did to white people what white people have done to black people, their rage would shape itself into an irrepressible crusade of vengeance. Perhaps they believe the Black Enraged are lying when we say we only want peace and to be left alone because they wouldn’t want peace. This explains why, when Yasiin Bey says he does not share the paranoid view of his fellow guests, his words are swallowed into an indignant abyss. The world has been moulded in the image of men who live in a state of cognitively dissonant paranoia—so deep in the weeds of violence that peace can only be destroyed into existence. Fifty six years ago, Paul Weiss asked Jimmy Baldwin what the fuck he was so angry about. Sixteen years ago, Hitchens, Rushdie and Maher teased Yasiin Bey for wanting America to set a moral example. Today, the world’s foremost military superpower is openly descending into fascism. Generations of heinous acts obscured by cruel and unusual discourse have dragged the Overton window to a place where the true face grows clearer. In the words of , “no worldview can hide its ontological core forever”. All pretence has eroded away and with it disappeared the utility of the high-minded water-thrashers. The public intellectual is extinct. All that remains are talking heads—calling for the euthanasia of the homeless or the bombing of the United Nations. There is only the Department of War. The parade floats of hypocrisy will likely be the most unremarkable part of the idiotic descent into nazi fan-fiction. The masochist in me is more anticipatory of the sheer cowardice that’ll be on rampant display. Will a man like Maher confront this moment with self-reflection, realising himself a pawn—no, more than that—a rook who’s angular strides towards islamophobia eked the Overton window to a more dickheadish place for years? Who among the so-called learned men—who sat opposite the Black Enraged and, for all their water-thrashing, snorts of derision and academic accolades, could not recognise the width and depth of America’s moral abyss—will admit they misjudged? Which interference runners will own the ignorance they painted over with jargon and mockery? Who among the apologists will snivel and fall in line? Who will acknowledge that the Black Enraged were right all along and try to atone in public?

for safe passage to the elysian fields of convenience, you must flip a coin of denial to the ferryman.

he will take you across the styx—an ectoplasmic river of restless souls—towards the opportunity at a better life; a place away from the savage wilderness.

all you have to do is pretend.

pretend that those who spend their entire political careers dragging the overton window of american discourse towards divisive rhetoric are reasonable, moderate men.

you have to pretend the chaos you see all around you has no discernible origin. no chauffeurs helped usher it in.

you have to pretend your performance of civility—a livelong endeavour—in response to political violence conceals some sophisticated, moral clarity despite all the political violence that’s occurred beneath the star-spangled banner.

all the civil us-backed coups. all the civilising foreign invasions. all the civil assassinations.

you have to pretend violent ideologies spawn from an ether, that words are, simultaneously, powerfully transformative and incapable of inciting great violence, despite the fact that each and every one of us is transformed by words every single day.

you have to pretend the death of a man—who’s love for the second amendment embellished his neck with a deadly love-bite—is a tragedy, and not a genetic consequence of his own advocacies.

you have to pretend that, because he spoke quickly and with conviction, was acrobatic with his arguments and “debated the right way”, he was a public intellectual worth more than the souls he made restless or the indigenous people he refused to acknowledge. you have to pretend to mourn, even when clips of his long, public career are functionally unusable for a visual eulogy because the fibre of his arguments were noticeably more heinous than his delivery of them.

you have to pretend you don’t understand why so many people are happy he’s gone—as if gleeful reaction to death is some uniquely evil feeling attributed to uniquely evil people and not some common emotion people experience so often that it has its own word. you have to pretend that, because he did things “the right way”, anybody who expresses their schadenfreude deserves swift punishment.

you have to pretend that “the right way” is cosmically neutral.

this is when you reach your hand over the rim of ferryman’s boat. your fingers skim the water. you feel a tug and recoil.

when the ferryman’s boat docks, you’re surprised to find your payment of denial has only gotten you across the river.

there is more you must do for the tranquility of elsyian fields.

the fates stand before you with scales.

the man’s soul is weighed against 100,000—give or take.

his entire life was pantomime of incitement. his words were engineered to leave the world worse way than when he found it. he called a black man everyone saw choke to death a “scumbag”. he once said, “i hate the word empathy, actually. I think empathy is a made-up, new age term that — it does a lot of damage.”

from his own daughter to the starving of palestinians—he spoke of fellow human with something worse than overt contempt—a detached, theatrical lens, flexible in presentation but profoundly inflexible in ideology and punctuated by bad-faith theoreticals that always seemed to conceal what he really believed. his legacy is one of stochastic terrorism, folding divisive rhetoric in half enough times to conceal its true ambition. it seems he was a pretender, too. there were only ever flashes of genuine inhabitance in his performances, propagandising mischaracterised as debate, where he could pretend his words weren’t the merchandise of a sycophant accruing spiteful interest.

now the fates hold his soul in a dish—counterweighted to starved palestinians, the ever-climbing casualties of american gun violence, trans suicides, george floyd and other victims of police brutality and an immeasurable amount more.

all you have to do is pretend once again. make a statement that “political violence has no place here” to a country with a $997 billion military budget that’s spent its entire existence at war.

one of the fates sees you falter.

“are you weary?”

you are but you believe in the pageant. you believe the revelry of it is all that’s holding this civilisation together. the truth is—it is crumbling under the weight of its own glaring contradictions. the energetic pressure needed to hold together the psychic stage, where one side of the violence demands condemnation and the other side rejuvenates its skin in conquered blood, generates enough raw power to level nagasaki and hiroshima twice over.

you make the statement.

the fates cut a door from the very fabric of reality with a pair of scissors.

elysium.

you step through.

and find a meadow on fire.

Somewhere between the valley of doom-scroll fatigue and the peak frustration of having to endure the ritualistic humiliations of capitalism, I dash away my overflowing folder of apparently unimpressive Curriculum Vitaes and prostrating cover letters, open up a new Text Post (yes, I’m one of those psychos who write directly into the Substack drafts—when life has no edge, whetstone your own) and make the decision to bravely cover ground I’ve not yet trodden before.

That’s right, darlings. I’m finally tackling ✨Artificial Intelligence✨.

At first, I dream of a go-to guide on AI resistance—a coruscating analysis so thorough that, if you squint, you’d mistake it for a sassy PhD paper. I start writing. The dream becomes misshapen. Its too stiff, it sounds preachy, its tedious to write and even more boring to recite back. The draft transforms, implodes, evolves. The intention to explore the concerns of, and around, this technology remain.

It’s difficult to talk about Artificial Intelligence when it’s building its own hull mid-flight. Criticism of an emergent technology requires figuring out how to criticise it—which involves working backwards from the visceral instinct and shaping its raw material into something refined. When it comes to AI, I trust my intuition. It tells me to not be fooled, to be wary, to resist, speaking at a volume much louder than the usual paranoia that basically utters the same kind of things, only quieter and about more absurd shit, like the old white lady in Tesco who looked me dead in the eye before tilting her shopping trolley to a 90-degree angle in the middle of the aisle, trundling off to pick up some Le Rustique Pasteurised Camembert from another shelf. I know you saw me coming, Glenda.

I’d rather not repackage my intuition and present it as “balanced” in pursuit of a journalistic standard that pretends neutrality is the highest form of intellect—so high, in fact, that nary a mainstream news outlet in the western hemisphere can complete a muscle-up to call a genocide by its name. Thus, I abandoned the dream of a comprehensive go-to guide.

Instead, I crafted a GPS route (because traditional maps are cartographically obsolete and everything outdated deserves a vicious, peasant’s death) to document a wandering.

Follow along, if you want.

Picture me: hunched over laptop keys.

Eviscerating, technophobic take-downs seep from my finger-tips with a viscosity that is, quite frankly, gross to the point of sensual intrigue.

I’m riffing on a level that is frickin’ sublime. Until I’m undone by a stray Google search that coldly and callously sets in motion a chain of events which end with me realising I’ve been mistaking Generative AI for Artificial General Intelligence.

Yikes.

I backspace 2000 words in blind fury. Here I am, thinking the Ayahuasca-addled, Great Automatic Grammatizator of ChatGPT is four OpenAI updates away from gaining sentience and plugging us all into the Matrix. I’d lapped up the shiny, chrome Kool-Aid. A faux pas destined to haunt me as ghoulishly as the time I loudly mispronounced a word I’d only ever seen written in a room full of my literary peers at one of the most prestigious libraries in Britain.

I’ve been saying “high-per-bowl” for like, two decades. Oh, well.

In case you’ve been messing up, too: Generative AI uses deep learning to specialise in a complex but single task—making them narrow artificial intelligences. Some also call them “weak artificial intelligences” but I’d rather not have too many robophobic comments in my digital archives when the techno-pocalypse begins. You think the backlash against white celebrities’ circa 2012 tweets was bad? Wait until our future robot C.E.Overlords dig up your old “clanker” jokes.

Anyway, Large Language Models, Text-to-Video Models, Text-to-Image Models, Text-to-Music generation are all examples of narrow artificial intelligence. The most popular and widely accessed Generative AI is, of course, Chat-GPT. Its task is to pull from vast datasets of text to generate humanlike responses to input queries. It does this task pretty well—but it sucks at maths. ChatGPT couldn’t tie its own shoelaces if you screwdrove robot hands to its servers. And it’s probably not going to win any Go championships any time soon.

There is so much stuff about Generative AI floating in the necrotic vastness of cyberspace.

AI’s getting more powerful but its “hallucinations” are getting worse.

Humans are falling in love with prompt machines.

Claude Opus 4 might resort to blackmail to stay alive.

Anybody want to create a NSFW chat-bot girlfriend?

Facial recognition policing seems pretty dystopian.

Generated babies videos, that feels pretty spooky.

A teenager killed himself earlier this year after months of encouragement by Chat-GPT.

Learning literally anything about Palantir1.

Separating the reasonable risk from the moral panic or the valid benefits from capitulatory glazing was a dizzying exercise that, honestly, would’ve made a go-to guide come out pretty shit. Luckily I’m not doing that any more. I still think Artificial Intelligence, especially the Generative persuasion, is a pretty bad idea.

In the anthropocene—the era where mankind has, in our impressively short lifespan on the face of the earth, had the biggest hand in fucking it up—humanity has caused:

• Biodiversity loss

  • The decline of insect populations

  • The extinction of 777 animal species since 1500

• Mass deforestation

  • Land Infertility

• Fossil fuel over-dependence

  • Ocean Acidification

  • Greenhouse gas emissions

• Radioactive contamination

• Plastic waste

• Air, Water, and Light Pollution

Britain kicked off the industrial revolution, setting the pace for America to take the rootin’, tootin’ pollution baton and digivolve into a superpower. There was a glimmer of hope, maybe, once. A brief period where environmental consciousness was an institutional focus in a presidential administration. Jimmy Carter established the Department of Energy in 1977, set goals to shore up renewable energy, regulated strip mining and even installed solar panels on the The White House roof. As far as being in charge of a hyper-militarised, cowboy capitalist settler-colony built on slavery with an insatiable lust for instigating foreign coup d'états, Jimmy seemed like a pretty decent bloke2.

I guess the American public thought he was a hippie loser who was too soft on the Ay-rabs or whatever—so they voted him out. I probably needn’t say more than Ronald Reagan removed the solar panels in 1986.

Industrialised nations have gone on to pave a global ecosystem over the natural world. You read studies reporting half of world’s CO2 emissions comes from 36 fossil fuel firms, concentrating pent-up rage at the big, bad, ultimately faceless energy companies. We know the biggest culprits, just as we know tearing down those 36 firms, shutting down plastic production or turning off every oil refinery on the planet would destabilise our precious ecosystem (which is totally the best system that’s ever existed) in a way nobody is willing to deal with. Imagining a new world is one thing, bringing it into fruition is another.

You and I may never have a carbon footprint as big as an oil baron but we’re complicit by way of citizenship of the western world. And it sucks. A lot of bisonshit being done in our name and with our tax pennies. Trivial (or fraudulent) initiatives help us believe meaningful change is happening, as if the inconvenience of drinking through paper straws at Wagamama’s or manoeuvring our mouths around bottle-lid attachments are finally turning the tide in the war against pollution. Tell that to the micro-plastics in my amygdala, every raindrop on the planet being contaminated with forever chemicals or the garbage island the size of Angola floating in the North Pacific.

Everything about the way we’re living as a civilisation is so clearly unsustainable and it seems vaster and more interconnected than we can wrap our palaeolithic minds around. There’s little anyone feels they can do about it individually because if my next-door neighbour isn’t giving up beef to save the Amazon rainforest then why the hell should I deprive myself of a cheeky Marks and Sparks Wagyu steak?

Companies that bleed and burn the world’s fossil fuels are seen as “lawful” because the greenhouse gasses they pump into the air are within “acceptable legal limits” while climate activists are routinely punished under the same rule of law. A bunch of countries signed that Paris Agreement like, a decade ago. That was cool. Can’t help but feel like the government I have the displeasure of living under takes the agreement less seriously than they take the French themselves, though. Seems like they’re more wrapped up in the brave work of berating and criminalising asylum seekers as a spineless capitulation to the rising far-right in this country.

I get it. After 20+ years of whipping the white working class into a rabid islamophobic fugue state, it’s probably easier to dabble in perception management than try to avert the slow-motion car-crash of societal collapse. It’s just toooo difficult to tax über-rich guys, treat war-fleeing asylum seekers with some basic human dignity and transition towards sustainability before we’re all smoked by hydrofluorocarbons.

…This is the cultural context Generative AI is spawning into.

One of the more widely studied impacts of Generative AI is its energy use.

Each time a model is used, perhaps by an individual asking ChatGPT to summarize an email, the computing hardware that performs those operations consumes energy. Researchers have estimated that a ChatGPT query consumes about five times more electricity than a simple web search.3

Alphabet Inc’s CEO John Hennessy often gets cited when speaking about the energy expense of LLM’s, claiming they “likely cost 10 times more than a standard keyword search.” points out that a single ChatGPT prompt only uses 3 Watt-hours—equivalent to running a vacuum cleaner for 10 seconds or playing a games console for a minute.

If you multiply an extremely small value by 10, it can still be so small that it shouldn’t factor into your decisions. If you were being billed $0.0005 per month for energy for an activity, and then suddenly it began to cost $0.005 per month, how much would that change your plans?”4

The MIT Technology Review crunched the numbers of AI’s energy usage. I’m only half-concerned with the statistics themselves. The figures for energy usage (or water consumption) are fundamentally flawed abstractions. The consequences of the data they represent are too far removed from our immediate experiences. When I mentioned abstaining from eating beef, do you think you would’ve thought about the Amazon Rainforest unless I mentioned it explicitly?

When it comes to environment, we rely on translations to make us care. Harm presented as numerical data, verified reports of collapsing environments, photographic evidence of decaying habitats. I don’t think you need them. Because you feel it, don’t you? The friction between capitalistic growth and ecological sustainability, its thermal contradiction contorting your mind and cracking the planet like an eggshell. Food doesn’t taste as flavourful any more. There’s way less bugs in the summer. The last few European heatwaves straight up caused thousands of heat deaths. Academic papers and copious links in a Substack essays don’t need to convince you.

You can feel it.

Environmental critiques of Generative AI should be a discussion-ending mic-drop but we’re so culturally avoidant about nature’s destruction that any pollution Generative AI causes is too easily rationalised as inconsequential. Its just more, unremarkable wood for the raging bonfire that’s already suffocating us all.

Generative AI isn’t uniquely polluting. Masley’s claim that Chat-GPT isn’t bad for the environment isn’t a calculus of harm, more a declaration of conformity saying: The damage isn’t that bad when you compare it to the damage that’s already going on. In a way, these kinds of essays are initiation processes—welcoming Generative AI into the apathetic norm.

The Earthly

An Entire Country Has to Be Evacuated Because of Climate Change

If you want to understand what climate collapse looks like, look to Tuvalu. A nation that has done almost nothing to cause this crisis is now being told to pack up and leave. Not because of war or economic ruin, but because the ocean is swallowing it. One wave at a time…

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a year ago · 179 likes · 5 comments · earthlyeducation

Perhaps then—it is more useful to speak about what will, rather than what is. If Generative AI is to become a societal mainstay (and I suspect it’ll have more enduring relevancy than the equally environmentally unfriendly ancestor of NFT’s) the demands of its existence will come at a great cost to the world.

Those costs will mount—environmentally, financially and, fuck it, existentially—blending into the expenses we’re already spending, hiding in plain sight until we can no longer live in denial about their impact.

In Britain alone, data centre usage is expected to “surge six-fold in 10 years”. There’s no way on God’s rapidly-browning Earth that uptick will be handled greenly. At best, the data centres will comply with current energy regulations—keeping the civilisational ship steady on its course towards a slowly melting iceberg. At worst, high demand will lead to aggressive expansions and data centres like Elon Musk’s that are currently poisoning Memphis will become far more common. At a certain point, we have to ask whether the technological advancements bringing comfort to our lives are worth the breath they’re stealing from our sky and what we’re going to do about it.

Gary Stevenson was a Citibank trader, securing major successes in finance by betting on the collapse of the economy. He left it all to write a book and run a Youtube channel calling for the UK government to tax the rich.

Stevenson breaks down how the wealthy have been capitalising from economic events like austerity, COVID bailouts and the housing crisis with focused concision. His videos are like Promethean fire on these bleak abysmal isles. Boy, is it dark-sided round here. At the top of the year, Oxfam reported, “Britain has highest proportion of billionaire wealth derived from monopolies and cronyism among G7 countries.” According to the Economic Policy Institute, CEO’s in 2023 were paid “290 times as much as a typical worker—in contrast to 1965, when they were paid 21 times as much as a typical worker.” America

Stevenson’s videos and public appearances warn, urgently, that if the unchecked greed of corporatism isn’t met with intervention the resulting economic decline will plunge large portions of the population into poverty. We are careening towards neofeudal levels of wealth divides and it’s clear that Generative AI is one of architectural instruments being used to accelerate this transmission of wealth:

“CEOs are extremely excited about the opportunities that AI brings. As a CEO myself, I can tell you, I’m extremely excited about it. I’ve laid off employees myself because of AI. AI doesn’t go on strike. It doesn’t ask for a pay raise. These things that you don’t have to deal with as a CEO.” — Elijah Clark5

Entry level jobs are disappearing. OpenAI themselves declared the roll-out of Chat-GPT 5 is “a major step towards placing intelligence at the center of every business.”6 Worker replacement has already begun. In the US, there is currently more unemployment than job openings. People are getting replaced and the entity does a shittier job than them.

Recently, when watching Burnt (2015) on Amazon Prime, the captions had translation errors similar to Tiktok videos and Instagram Reels. There were three different misspellings of “tarragon” because three different people said it in three different accents. A professional captioner wouldn’t have made that mistake. It was clear Amazon Prime had begun using AI to caption their films and TV shows.

Y’know—If I could do one thing to dam the virulent spread of anti-intellectualism, it’d be blow-darting the knowledge into everyone’s brains that “X is the New Y” statements are not impressive in 2025. The most insufferable sapiosexual you know is spewing out some fake-deep word equation like “AI is the new printing press” and the similarities are so surface level that it’d only be a lightbulb moment for someone so dim they need Chat-GPT to--You know what? Too mean. I’m trying to abstain from the holier-than-thou supposition that Generative AI is an inherent, intellectual failing and I’ve grown a little uncomfortable with the “Chat-GPT depletes critical thinking” quips. They’re getting a little eugenicsy, if you ask me.

But I don’t know, man. The printing press made scribes and scriveners obsolete by democratising the mass-production of books. Generative AI is transactional—you prompt what you want and it echoes those wants back to you. The process of creativity is outsourced and, ultimately, forfeited. Artistically, it’s creative middle management.

Any resemblance AI has to the printing press begins and ends at the point of it being a popular, new technology—which you could just as easily compare to the home printer or mobile phones. If we’re going to whip up cringy snowclones, I’d personally go with “AI is the new cotton mill” seeing as the debut of the textile factory was met with infamous animosity. Retrospect implores us to see the comforts of today through a sort of teleological-capitalist lens—we look around and see iPads, flat-screens and Teslas and we infer they’re optimally designed.

Deeper investigation shows the Luddite movement was fighting to preserve standards of living we’d be lucky to have today. Their Cottage Industry was the OG Work From Home. Cloth-makers wanted the autonomy to continue earning wages that didn’t depend on working under someone else’s roof. When peaceful protests and appeals to government were denied, the cloth-makers earned the Luddite moniker by sabotaging the cotton mill machinery.

History has downplayed Luddism as a neanderthal tantrum or superstitious moral panic. It wasn’t some ooga-booga vandalism against technological progress, it was a calculated resistance against the exploitation the machinery facilitated. We could probably do with more of that, huh?

In this respect, AI is just as unremarkable as every industrial advancement. Quickness is king but “better” is a matter of perspective. When citing the medical content offered by Chat-GPT, a study found “most of the references provided were found to be fabricated or inaccurate.7” Recruitment algorithm bias is evident in gender, race, colour, and personality.8 Captioning software—from short-form video reels to streaming services—are less accurate than human subtitlers. The quality is poor enough to notice but not unbearable enough for users to jump ship. How many typos in an AI-generated caption would make delete Tiktok or cancel your Netflix?

Whether its exploiting the precarious citizenship status of migrants, outsourcing customer service to overseas call-centres or offshoring factory production to sweatshops—the practise of capitalising off of the lowest-paid labour force possible has long been established as a savvy business move.

Generative AI is the next evolutionary step to cheap out on labour. Corporate executives can replace working people with entities that don’t take lunch breaks, go to the toilet, join unions or sleep. Tensions will squeeze along existing, social grooves as the discontent is palmed off on predetermined scapegoats—asylum seekers and Schrödinger’s Immigrants. The fanned flames of rising Anglo-American fascism are a perfect distraction for a heist-in-plain-sight transference of wealth.

Will Dunn, the business editor of the New Statesman, poses an interesting question. If machine-generation is such an inevitability of progress, why are entry jobs so readily accepted as replaceable by Artificial Intelligence as opposed to executive level jobs?

Automating jobs can be risky, especially in public-facing roles. After Microsoft sacked a large team of journalists in 2020 in order to replace them with AI, it almost immediately had to contend with the PR disaster of the software’s failure to distinguish between two women of colour. Amazon had to abandon its AI recruitment tool after it learned to discriminate against women. And when GPT-3, one of the most advanced AI language models, was used as a medical chatbot in 2020, it responded to a (simulated) patient presenting with suicidal ideation by telling them to kill themselves.

What links these examples is that they were all attempts to automate the kind of work that happens without being scrutinised by lots of other people in a company. Top-level strategic decisions are different. They are usually debated before they’re put into practice – unless, and this is just another reason to automate them, employees feel they can’t speak up for fear of incurring the CEO’s displeasure.9

If we consider executive roles rely on high-octane decision-making, wouldn’t it be better to replace them with a machine that can look closely at company data and make semi-accurate forecasts analysing input trends?

The duties of an executive are obscured to the average worker, trapping us in the logical assumption that what a CEO does must be 290 times harder or riskier than the average worker, therefore justifying they’re 290 times more valuable. Yet, other countries that are happier like Finland or more technologically advanced like South Korea have far less pay disparity between their workers and executives.

Our society values everything from Executive vantage point. The news reports GDP has risen and you and I feel proud at how well our country is doing then we walk through our local town centre or high street and witness the decline of infrastructure around us. Generative AI is never seriously considered as a replacement for CEO’s because executives hold the share of political power to decide who is replaceable. They would never guillotine themselves.

There are more pressing thought experiments than whether “AI is the new printing press” or its protestors are neo-luddites. Generative AI should make us question the very nature of progress.

Why is the cycle of technological progress one that threatens the livelihood of the labourer, of the artist, of the working class?

When will we prioritise technological advancements that make wealth-hoarders obsolete?

In response to ’s experience of Substack plagiarism, argues “ is an Echoborg more than she is a Plagiarist” — an “Echoborg” being a person who does “not speak thoughts originating in their own central nervous system: Rather, the words they speak originate in the mind of another person who transmits these words to the cyranoid.10” He arrives here after observing how a particular genre of Substack essay courts popularity:

Many of the posts we see on Substack, the ones which go most immediately and clearly viral, are what I would like to call “empty vessel posts.” They’re posts, like a Rupi Kaur poem, with just the right amount of substance and nothingness that the work becomes perfectly reflective.

The reference to Rupi Kaur’s “instapoetry” is apter to his point than he knows. Many may not be aware that Kaur was confronted by one of her contemporaries, Nayirrah Waheed, about the “hyper-similarities” between their work in the early 2010’s.

One could throw paint at the wall about why Waheed’s allegations never impacted Kaur’s meteoric rise—the infancy of call-out culture, the implicit power imbalance between Kaur (an Indian-Canadian) and Waheed (a Black woman), a robust public relations team that’s seemed to have scrubbed all mention of Kaur naming Waheed (and Warsan Shire) as her inspiration. All likely contributors. Although, the most obvious factor may lie with the writing itself.

Instapoetry naturally evolved from Tumblr, where Nayyirah Waheed, Warsan Shire and Lang Leav dominated the reblogs. If we were being reductive, we might assert this emergent genre was a spiritual predecessor to Chat-GPT outputs—accustoming the literary appetite of an impressionable generation in the compressed frame of social media. It was poetry mirroring the sleek character-limit of a tweet, the zippiness of a vine, the square-crop of an instagram photo.

As a genre, Instapoems lure you into bathing in their earnestness, economical wording and finely-chopped line-breaks, at their best. At their worst, they shatter their own illusion, revealing themselves as fragmented quotes, stretched-out and cosplaying depth. The latter is how many receive Kaur’s writing—personal but cavernous in a way that eerily resembles Rick and Morty’s description of the popular new kid Bruce Chutback: “He just kinda sat there—with a jaw slack enough for us to project our insecurities on.”

For many, Kaur’s writing was an entry point into poetry but, in a way, her work feels like reading an afterlife. Every meaning is suspended in a controversial purgatory between profound and banal, flooded with so much white space that it’s practically impossible to assess if plagiarism is even possible in something that conveys so little.

I sympathise with Waheed. “Hyper-similarity” is a diplomatic way to approach what you feel in your bones as someone biting your style and calling it “inspiration”11.

When the line between plagiarism and inspiration blur into a spectacle of philosophical debate, it is interesting—if not entirely predictable—who ends up benefiting from the ethical greyness and who ends up suffering.

Since confronting about her viral “essay”, others have lasered in on her conduct in a way that, unfortunately, misses the greater issue. It’s not just about her usage of Generative AI but how she’s used it as a laundering service to lift the work of others.

The optics of Tyler googling essays about “AI” and “taste” and prompting the results into Chat-GPT is far less juicy than a rising Tiktok influencer copying and pasting someone else’s essay into their notes app then publishing it on their own Substack because, whoopsie, they forgot!

It’s unfortunate that a platform-wide outcry recognising Tyler’s plagiarism is unlikely.

I lack the clout to nail the coffin shut. Or perhaps my assertions are too flimsy to summon a Substack mob towards boycotts and pitchforks. Just as it was impossible for Waheed to prove Kaur was sucking the spiritual essence from her Tumblr contemporaries—it’s impossible for anyone to prove that Tyler lifted Veldenberg’s essay and ran it through Chat-GPT without a subpoena of her laptop. It is the unfortunate reality of being creative under capitalism.

Despite my profound dissatisfaction at being forced to know about the existence of yet another trans-obsessed, pseudo-spiritual, scammerific white woman with the supernatural willpower to make her own mediocrity everyone else’s problem—the case of Stepfanie Tyler provided me an opportunity to refine some of that gooey, visceral intuition I spoke about earlier.

Every technological advancement leaves gaps for opportunists to flood in, hungry to exploit the lawlessness of the empty, new marketplace before regulatory bodies start interfering with pesky ethics and legal protections that’ll spoil all the fun.

This, too, is an inevitability of “progress”.

On Substack, AI Enthusiasts (or “Boosters”) are the first to tell you that using Generative AI to “assist” their writing is an Armstrongian step towards embracing innovation. As a result, they’re publishing something unlike traditional writing. They’re producing something new. For lack of a better term, they are “post-writing” while reaping the benefits of being considered alongside “traditional” writers.

Any moral concerns with Generative AI are misrepresented as geriatric finger-wagging: “you’re denying progress, you’re denying the inevitable, you’re denying prompters their right to use their tools in peace.”

They’re distractions from the core concern that should worry us all: Generative AI is defined exclusively by its ability to mislead. The success of the most powerful technology of our time is measured by how well it can sell a lie.

Deception is the driving principle of its societal value.

My distaste with the Stepfanie Tylers of the world is their disingenuousness. Cool, they may announce their work is AI-generated in isolated “essays” as they petulantly restate their right to do whatever they want, but in the pieces that go viral and amass them hundreds of paid subscribers—there is never any overt disclosure.

A general reader randomly coming across their “work” will assume it’s traditionally written because Boosters lack the integrity to disclaim it was generated by Chat-GPT at the start of the “curated” technicolor yawns they churn out.

The success of their “work” depends on a lack of transparency that has never had to exist before.

Whether its bad faith analogies comparing Generative AI usage to literal studying, corporate-wellness campaigns about AI’s potential to expand humanness or the fact that whenever Chat-GPT hocks a loogie of false information its branded a “hallucination” (my Crustacean in Christ: that is called a mistake) — deception of Generative AI is so integral to its form and function that all its chief advocates perform amateur gymnastics with the English language just to talk about it.

We have a word for that.

Chip tweets his shock about people who are “genuinely upset” after finding out he’s used Chat-GPT but is it not revealing to say, “if they catch you”, a phrase almost exclusively used to describe when we’ve caught a person in a lie? The “actual people irl” are upset about being deceived and Chip speaks of them like their feelings are inconceivable. This is because Chip has already normalised the deception of Chat-GPT into his own moral framework. There wouldn’t be a process of “catching AI users out” if we could trust them to disclose their usage of AI in the first place. But the success of using Generative AI predicated on deceiving the viewer, something that will only worsen the better and more sophisticated the technology becomes. Chip simultaneously admits that he’s trafficking deceit while the purpose of his tweet is to retriangulate how others should respond to being deceived through a mechanism of light shame. The inevitable outcome is a society haemorrhaging trust.

In a conversation with Ezra Klein, the electronic musician Holly Herndon declares, “AI is aggregated human intelligence so it’s better to call it collective intelligence than artificial intelligence.” Simone Biles would be impressed. Referring to Generative AI as “collective” only makes sense if the information were consensually collected. It is commonly known that Generative AI has been largely trained on artist’s work without permission. OpenAI themselves state:

Because copyright today covers virtually every sort of human expression – including blogposts, photographs, forum posts, scraps of software code, and government documents – it would be impossible to train today’s leading AI models without using copyrighted materials.12

It wouldn’t be impossible. It would simply take more time and effort than any capital-dependent endeavour is willing or capable of handling.

A true “collective intelligence” would require dedicated outreach; certifying permission from every author, film director or musician, perhaps, under a non-profit organisation. Kind of like how OpenAI was founded. I suppose they shifted to a for-profit structure so they could win the Age-of-Ultron arms race with villainous China.

This is about more than “copyright infringement”. AI generates “slop” because the creative works they’re trained on are compressed into the algorithmic sludge of a dataset. When the creators of Large Language Models treat literary works like cattle-feed—pseudo-sustenance is pre-ordained.

Artists weren’t given a choice. These datasets are hoarded resources, appropriated through unethical practices that perfectly mirror the western world’s colonial extraction of resources from underdeveloped nations. But to be a citizen of the west means to master denial, doesn’t it? Being proudly maladjusted to the mounting exploitations that’ve afforded us comfort? If we can ignore the smog in the air and the blood in the soil—ignoring the theft of intellectual labour is child’s play.

The creators of this technology had every opportunity to practise ethical acquisition. They failed. The trajectory of Generative AI has been manipulated into being a matter of hoarding data yet we have a “supercomputer” in our skulls that we needn’t level a forests to power its storage. In order to justify this arc of “progress”, tech companies must evangelise—banking on a sheepish concoction of ignorance and apathy in their users so they can bombard AI extensions on every website and app imaginable until we’re forced to submit, conform, and get real comfy nut-guzzling a technology that’s primary merchandise is deceit.

After learning Large Language Models weren’t a stones throw away from achieving Artificial General Intelligence, I got a little obsessed with Superintelligence.

I watched lectures, debates, read papers—all of them laced with homogenous particles of fear that Superintelligent AI is going to be smarter than us and arrive sooner than we think.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t point out two things I noticed:

A) In Star Wars: Rogue One, Director Krennic—played pitch perfectly by Ben Mendelson—despite not being a Taoist space wizard, carries a gravitas that positions him as the most heinous motherfucker in every room. He’s a commander of men. A real billy big bollocks. Darth Vader demands an audience with him and, in a moment of displeasure, the Asthmatic Sith Lord force-chokes him out. When Vader releases his grip, Krennic looks at Vader with this kaleidoscope of emotions—Fear, awe, a little turned on.

That’s how every computer nerd talks about AI Superintelligence.

B) They’re mostly white guys (I’m not being cute. It’s relevant, I promise).

The AI 2027 report theorises the timeline of Superintelligence over the next couple of years. There’s a substantial focus on misalignment—where AI stops serving humans and begins to act in its own self interests.

This is the place where the white-guy fear, science-fictional awe and libidinal arousal all begin to coalesce in real life.

Our current political landscape has dumbass podcasters swinging elections and a nightmare blunt rotation of a country openly stating they “create a pretend world”. Superintelligence being “misaligned” with “human interests” doesn’t sound nearly as catastrophic as Superintelligence being “aligned” with the current people in power and their emotional-support, Silicon Valley sycophants when all of them are weird fucking guys powered by dad-shaped holes in their hearts itching to pull the Scooby-Doo mask off this technology and reveal it to be a nefarious tool of repression.

I can’t help but notice how these conversations about Superintelligence’s misalignment are masochistic—wary but curiously receptive to the dystopian possibility of the machines cleansing the world. They are a fundamentally white supremacist fantasy—steeped in colonial guilt, christian fundamentalist suicidal ideation or the patriarchal urge to die slow in the undriven snow and take all of civilisation with them. A cynical part of me can’t help but see fear-mongering about Superintelligence feels like a misdirect from the technofeudalist ambitions of mass surveillance.

There’s always been this bizarre yearning for technology to be apolitical, evolving to realise some detached, universal truth. A Superintelligence won’t be able to feel in anyway that we recognise but it will think, mechanically, in ways that we do. There’s no way Superintelligence will evolve into some cosmically unbiased entity because Generative AI hasn’t even manifested that way. No matter the control, feigned control or restraint—intentionally or unintentionally—a creation will always reflect the biases of its creators.

AI marks the Imperial March of an Orwellian cyberspace where post-truth is one-shotting uni students and baby boomers alike. Some of my darlings are getting caught in the hype. I want to shake the black and white swirls out their eyes. A ratking of the worst people imaginable can’t wait for this technology to become so advanced that it’s indistinguishable from human creativity—as if their silicone-based salivation doesn’t provide a perfect, spit-shined reflection of their contempt for humanity itself.

We’re walking the plank, bruv. The sharks are circling and the water below is a hyperreality where nobody knows what the fuck is real. Open curiosity is replaced with distrustful paranoia. Americans are lynching teenagers for playing knock down ginger and weirdos everywhere are trying to transvestigate any woman who doesn’t look like Baywatch-Era Pamela Anderson. And we’re supposed to believe that a Silicon Valley Word Generator spewing up fantasised facts and pseudo-sentient Photoshops churning out fake images are going to be a stabilising presence to our so-called democracy?

It’s about to get PEAK politically. Right-wingers will flood the internet with some of the most mean-spirited, cognitively dissonant and ideologically incoherent weirdo slop you’ve ever seen. Sycophantic politicians will amplify AI-generated dead cats whenever they need to distract from some shady scandal they want buried.

But tools aren’t neutral. As a technology, Generative AI is akin to wanting invisibility as a superpower. You can probably do some cool stuff with it but nobody who wants to be invisible ever really wants to use it for good.

With Artificial Intelligence, the deceit embodying its very existence is being concealed under the guise of efficiency and progress. The lasting implications of this is a future where we cannot trust the images we see, the words that we read, the videos we watch. It is a level of distrust that only serves a particular brand of elites who get to exploit everyone else’s confusion.

When the most influential technology of our time is leading to us not trusting anything that we see it begs the question: what direction are we “progressing” towards?

Sight informs touch to anticipate softness when we see a furry surface. The olfactory braids with the gustatory—sometimes tightly enough that aromas are perceived by the tongue. The cohabitation of the senses in the body results in a diplomacy so coherent the absence of one is said to lead to the heightening of others.

One sense has expanded past its border. Thomas Kaminski describes taste as “the faculty by which we make judgments about art1” — its fixture as a metaphor for aesthetic sensibility was explored by 18th century philosophers who’d pen sprawling diss-ertations and hype up their theories as Michael R. Spicher summarises:

“For David Hume, taste is a subjective feeling with a standard found within the beholders. For Alexander Gerard, taste is an act of the imagination. For Immanuel Kant, taste is subjective, but beautiful objects present themselves as having universal appeal.2”

Immanuel Kant is considered one of the most influential moral thinkers in western thought. He and Hume were also profoundly racist. Mentioning the latter does not liquidate the reality of the former but it does sober the context.

The tug-of-war between subjective affinity and objective standard is complicated by the fact that aesthetic standards were largely defined by an era of imperial expansion, aristocratic elitism and patriarchal catholicism. When Akala states, “I can't say Shakespeare is the greatest writer of all time. I don’t read Arabic, I don’t read Mandarin, I don’t read Swahili” it’s because despite being held as the literary standard, the ubiquity of Shakespeare’s greatness has been heavily dependent on imposing Anglo-European culture on the rest of the world.

How does Kant’s musings on taste change in the light when you consider his xenophobic ignorance lead him to believe “negroes are the lowest of all of the American races3”? What does it mean that Hume believed taste to be governed by a standard found in the beholder when he beheld it “apt to suspect the negroes to be naturally inferior to the whites”?4

If the olfactory can influence the gustatory in the same body—doesn’t it stand to reason the prejudicial influences the philosophical?

There’s an odour—foul enough to shrivel tastebuds, pungent enough to stir the guts.

Is this what the end of the world smells like?

Many believe the scent of apocalypse wafted into the airways with the detonation of the atomic bomb, where an uncloseable hell-mouth was pried open by patriotic warmongers and advanced nuclear physics. Others look back further to the smog of the industrial revolution.

My crack-pot theory has more banality in its evil than the soot of the combustion engine or a radioactive holocaust’s ectoplasmic glow.

To me, humanity’s fate was sealed with the production of plastic—a functionally immortal nuisance that defies the natural laws of decay, stubbornly refusing to give itself back to the worms, trees or mycelium. It seems “progress” always places nature on a slab for ritual sacrifice. Plastic is one of our most profound trespasses. And we yearn to be just like it.

When compared to silicon-based neural networks, a Nobel Prize winning scientist calls the neuroplasticity of the brain a “sloppy system”.

Michel Foucault might speculate this cavalier attitude towards human intellect in the face of artificial intelligence’s infancy originates from “the 'Enlightenment', which discovered the liberties, [but] also invented the disciplines.5”

He believed the disciplines to be formulas of domination, “policies of coercion” formulated to “increase the forces of the body (in economic terms of utility) and diminish these same forces (in political terms of obedience).”

Is it not the conditioning of “the disciplines” that compel us to marvel at the efficiency of computers while we scoff at the “sloppiness” of a human mind so complex that it can’t even fully comprehend itself?

ChatGPT can churn out academic essays with made-up resources in seconds but it can’t cook a meal or do maths. AlphaGo can defeat a world champion of an ancient game but it can’t articulate the joy of winning in a press conference. The innovation of these technologies are far less impressive when you realise they’ve been flooded with resources to superhumanly master one thing and, in the case of endeavours like live subtitle captioning, they don’t even do them very well.

“Yet.”

We are assured Large Language Models can only improve while studies show a linguistic and cognitive decline of the users who rely on them. They’ve mounted the conveyor belt of “progress”, mistaking their ennui and fear of being left behind for hope and opportunity and in their embrace of AI, their critical thinking skills deteriorate. At the risk of sounding melodramatic, I imagine Martin Niemöller would look at this crossroads and say, “First they came for the artists…”

Contrary to my gauche allusion to German fascism, I don’t hate Generative AI. I hate that—like western civilisation itself—it has established its superiority through theft. I hate how devastating its environmental impacts are. I am wary of its unpredictability and I hate the growing number of the atrocities it’s being used for. The existential risk of AGI becoming “misaligned” to humanity doesn’t concern me as much as a Super-intelligence aligned to the whims of the current world elite.

More than anything to do with AI itself, I hate how people are unable assess its place in the threats we’re collectively facing. Artificial Intelligence is advancing parallel to a politically spooky world. In 2013, blew the whistle on the NSA’s illegal mass surveillance programs to global uproar. A decade later, we surrender our data on a daily basis with every cookie acceptance and the omnipresence of smartphones has made the offline world into a panopticon for the digital realm. We surveil each other—dishing out ridicule or aggressively self-policing out of fear that our humiliation will be etched in viral marble forever. The enforcement of the 2023 UK Online Safety Act has meant official identification is now required to access explicit websites, which hasn’t just affected pornography sites, as sites with explicit sections like Reddit now require images of your passport or driver’s license under the guise of child protection. The police force are using advanced surveillance state apparatus in South London under the guise of quelling gang crime. Social services are being strategically under-funded to allow corporations more power than ever. Western nations have been overlooking a genocide and the citizen’s principled protest have been met with criminalisation and detainment. Our governments are doing everything but making our lives better, nothing is fucking working and we’re so overwhelmed by the sheer monstrosity of it all that it’s been conditioning us to not care about anything but ourselves.

As a result, capitalistic individualism has deceived us into believing the advancement of AI will remedy—not exacerbate—any of this. The embrace of AI relies on the belief we have something a machine can never have.

Perhaps the odour scraping softly on the tongue is denial.

“In an age where AI can make anything, taste matters more than ever.”

If the vibe of this phrase feels familiar, it’s because there’s a creepy number of think-pieces with this same premise. As of writing—I count: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 and, of course, 7.

Matteo Azzolini6 and Stepfanie Tyler begin with the exact same announcement:

“We are drowning in content.”

Tyler’s text shares stark similarities with Elliot Vredenburg’s Why Taste Matters Now More Than Ever—which was published a day before her own and is by far the most compelling and well-researched essay in this emergent genre. She admits to using AI assistance in her “writing” but never confirms the nature of the assistance. The complicity in theft by using AI to “assist” your essay is one thing—but to actively feed aspects of other, published writers into ChatGPT is, put kindly, a tasteless contribution to the reservoir of “content” she claims we’re all drowning in.

If “taste is the new intelligence7” — Tyler’s methods betray her own premise.

It is difficult to grasp whether the eerie regurgitation of think-pieces are independent arrivals at the same unoriginal conclusion or gross displays of faux-deep incest.

By positioning taste as some final bastion of humanity, these manifestos podium human discernment to run interference for AI’s expansion into art. The claim “we’re drowning in content”, for instance, sets the scene for two objectives:

1. Reinforce the flattening of art (expressive, structure-challenging, time-liberated, communal) into content (structure-appeasing, market-based, time-constricted, mass-produceable, parasocial).

2. Once everything creative is established as “content” — claim the over-saturation means nothing is worth creating anyway.

This is how “progress” is facilitated—devalued production and maximised output. These AI “writers” believe themselves to be curators descending from a proud lineage of taste-making when they’re more akin to Wall Street traders; betting on the imaginative fatigue of the populous, ceding the production of creativity to machines because the actual practice of making art is too tedious and economically inefficient. Instead, they hydraulic-press all creativity into the manageable currency of “content” so they can shuffle it around as data on the viral stock market for their own gain.

They don’t want to be writers. They want to be recognised as writers so they may leverage the engagement into financial capital.8

It’s trippy watching someone preach about the need for discernment when discernment is needed of them. Maybe that doesn’t make Tyler a hypocrite but rather a perfect avatar for her own message.

“The Party told you to reject the evidence of your eyes and ears. It was their final, most essential command.” — George Orwell

The event that spurred me to confront Tyler was witnessing a prominent Black curator repost her “essay”. The second-hand embarrassment of watching otherwise astute thinkers celebrate vapidly constructed plagiarism is the main thing that bothers me about its massive reach. I’m reminded of a quote by critic Paul Fussell:

What's the difference between bad and BAD? Bad is something like dog-do on the sidewalk, or a failing grade, or a case of scarlet fever—something no one ever said was good. BAD is different. It is something phony, clumsy, witless, untalented, vacant, or boring that many Americans can be persuaded is genuine, graceful, bright, or fascinating. For a thing to be really BAD, it must exhibit elements of the pretentious, the overwrought, or the fraudulent. Bathroom faucet handles that cut your fingers are bad. If gold-plated, they are BAD. Dismal food is bad. Dismal food pretentiously served in a restaurant associated with the word gourmet is BAD. Being alert to this distinction is a large part of the fun of being alive today, in a moment teeming with raucously overvalued emptiness and trash.9

Tyler and her contemporaries are right—we are drowning in content. There’s no remedy in adding to the slop-bucket and trying to pass it off as “taste”.

Abundance is just a symptom. The problem is malnutrition.

We don’t really care where our content comes from; any more than we care about what farm the cow in the polyethylene-wrapped beef sirloin came from in the supermarket or where the wealth that guarantees our western comforts comes from or how ChatGPT acquired the literature it was trained from.

We care how things look, how they’re presented and/or packaged but not how they are. Not how they sustain us, how they can transform us, how they make us feel. The modern pace has quickened to a speed where caring is easily swiped away. Some may see this lack of care as fundamentally antithetical to taste. Others might point out it’s in line with the negligent paradigms embedded by Hume and Kant.

Taste requires principled acquisition—ideally from sustained, active exposure to an art-form that is contextually informed and structurally examined. The art itself must be met with curiosity, neutrality or optimism and an equal interrogation of one’s subjective distaste (lest we be guided by prejudices we haven’t reckoned with).

The vice-grip of late-stage capitalism means most people don’t have the time, energy or privilege to give art such due diligence. They have no time to savour. Music, literature, movies, social media; all condense into arenas of escape. These are the conditions that have brought about the great glazing of tastemakers—a time-honoured tradition of celebrating those who do have the means so they may help shepherd the aspiration of the masses—leading them to bespoke Pinterest boards of minimally arranged furniture and well-selected Spotify playlist.

The phantom allusion of these texts is that you, my dear reader, can become a tastemaker just like Rick Rubin! You just gotta be more “vibe-driven” — situational/economic disparities be damned. In reality, they are appealing to the little corner of your mind that wants your passive exposure to the internet—this chaotic archive of all human knowledge at our fingertips—to feel like useful consumption.

We yearn for our doom-scrolling to feel productive.

Tyler and I know this intimately, which is why we both understand that the sycophantic onslaught of AI-prompted banalities she refers to as an “essay” will get more traction than anything I’ll ever pen on Substack—because it validates the need to not try. But, my dear reader, I will always implore you to try. The acquisition of anything worthwhile—including taste—requires more effort than appealing to screen-fatigued base desires or the lowest common denominator. It is not convenient, profitable or economically efficient to cut through the easily-chuggable AI content and the vapid flavours that have readied us for the coming avalanche of reheated nacho-paste. But it is necessary, and despite speaking about AI enthusiasts with a level of hostility that could quite easily be seen as tasteless, I hope you recognise my offerings beyond the entryway of taste. As rightfully points out—perhaps none of this is about taste at all. Perhaps it is a matter of nutrition and, by focusing on taste alone, we are missing the fact that every problem uttered in this essay is a problem of malnourishment.

Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs begins at the zenith, where the disembodied voice of Flint Lockwood narrates the question: Have you ever felt like you were a little bit different?

We plummet through clouds into Flint’s childhood self—an awkward and cute young inventor—gingerly addressing his classmates. He identifies ‘untied shoelaces’ as the number one problem facing the community of his peers and proposes an alternative, laceless foot covering': spray-on shoes.

He drops to the floor, flings his dinky legs into the air and whips out an aerosol can. The iridescent vapour he sprays over his feet sets into glittery, translucent dark shoes. Voila! The class erupts into an impressed hubbub until Brent’s lone voice cuts smugly through the ovation: How you gonna get them off, nerd?

Flint panics, whimpering and clawing at the rubbery substance that’s now inseparable from his feet. Kids that were just applauding Flint’s innovation point a kaleidoscope of mocking fingers at him with snide laughter and Brent delivers the deathblow taunt—What a freak! He wants to be smart but that’s lame!

Beyond the dwindling reading comprehension of heated twitter debates or CHATGPT usage eroding the ability to critically think—anti-intellectualism is in full bloom.

Brexit felt like a tangible moment of pollination. Initially, economic experts unanimously agreed leaving the EU would make Britain worse off. Despite the procession of flags in every shade of red, the majority of Brits voted to leave.

The topic of immigration was a defining factor. A study of UK media coverage of the 2016 EU Referendum campaign1 found ‘coverage of immigration more than tripled over the course of the campaign, rising faster than any other political issue’.

Western immigration is inherently shaped by racial anxiety. Eurocentric countries that’ve established their wealth through colonial kidnapping and theft dictate strict regulations on who should enter their countries. This historical context ensures immigration rhetoric is always discussed as an emergency issue, one that requires brute force, control and domination—lest the government appear weak and doom their electorate to the same, invasive fate it once inflicted onto others.

Still inflicts. Britain will destabilise a country in the third-world and pit their citizens against the refugees requesting safety from British-made bombs. It is an offensively simple playbook tapping into the paranoia of the white British majority—relying almost exclusively on British ignorance of its own racial history and a libidinal investment in tribalism.

The average white Brit doesn’t know or care how to interrogate themselves racially. To critically consider their own relation to empire causes too much psychic damage. It is far safer to dismiss it all as woke nonsense. It is the anti-intellectualism of sociocultural ignorance—or the want to not know—that made immigration such a boringly predictable crossbar of puppetry in Brexit discourse. The decades of Conservative-led austerity meant the British population—especially the most impoverished—were restless, frustrated and ready to lash out. They were then presented a choice—to leave or remain—and herded towards an event that made them feel like they were actually doing something in regards to an institution that they knew frighteningly little about.

As a slogan, are the deeper, spiritual intentions at work not abundantly clear?

A portmanteau of “Britain” and “Exit” rose to being the exclusive way of referencing the entire campaign. A subliminal incantation. Brexit subconsciously appeared in the British psyche as a loveless marriage. We were asked whether we should leave or stay—even when our real, abusive relationship was with the conservative government. “Leave” was a true verb, a doing word, a pronounced dissatisfaction followed by an act of resolve. “Remain” was static, the same pain persevering, grinning and bearing it.

The toy-out-the-pram political reaction fuelled by quasi-imperialist rhetoric like “taking back control of our borders” and “asserting national sovereignty” was a symbolic up-yours to a European establishment that was only tangentially responsible for our domestic problems. In choosing to leave, the British public refused the advice of economic experts and I can’t help but think of Dr. Ha-Joon Chang’s Oxford Union Address2, where he stated economics is “the language of the rules”. A politically agitated and fatigued population that’ve been forced to comprehend everything in economic terms was finally being given an opportunity to reject the enforced paradigm. The people were always going choose motion, even if the motion lead to a downward spiral.

At the start of Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs when Brent chastises Flint because he “wants to be smart”, the wording is revelatory. Brent does not mock Flint for being smart—Brent mocks Flint for wanting to be smart.

The difference is isolated in wanting. Desire is the incubator where all transformation occurs.

Even the wildest conspiracy theorists have pinged intuition, understanding that something is not quite right, sensitive to an anomaly in the matrix. Their “want” to fix the bug is valid. Their feet are trapped by rabbit-holes or hollows in the minefield.

Similarly, Brexiters who sought reprieve from the measurement of everything in such banal, insidious terms of commerce were right to. The neoliberal axiom of everything needing an economic function would burn all the forests for firewood if we followed it blindly. The rejection of intellectualism, in this context, was an understandable response; acting on their distrust towards experts whose presence had made no material difference to the average person’s financial life. The citizen bet ignoring the expert’s opinion would make no difference either.

Rejecting experts of an unreliable field is meaningless without substituted knowledge. To reject the intellect of economists just to be seduced by racist propaganda is an arbitrary exchange.

You can attribute much of the vitriol following Dr. Ally Louks’ completion of her PhD in Olfactory ethics to the fact that pursuing knowledge for knowledge’s sake is culturally undervalued. Rather than celebrating someone successfully studying a subject they’re passionate about (which shouldn’t be celebrated in the first place—it should be a societal norm) the controversy revealed how much people have succumbed to the neoliberal conditioning that passionate study is only valuable if it is economically lucrative.

It is a metric that even affects how we view art. We fixate on the box office success of films, hype about the first week sales of musicians and all of it rings as a hollow substitute for critical analysis or simply enjoying and casually discussing the emotional resonance of an artistic experience.

Furthermore, the anti-intellectual rejection of the expert is exacerbated by the non-expert’s inability to accept the human flaws and/or perceived shortcomings of the expert. If an expert is an expert they aren’t allowed to be wrong.

When Brent initiates the kid’s choir of ridicule towards Flint for wanting to be smart, he does so in denial of the observable fact that Flint is actually smart—smart enough to invent something that is essentially a neighbour to magic, even if it was a misfire.

Smartness, if not executed perfectly, is lame.

The anti-intellectual’s inability to allow grace for the intellect’s failure mirrors exactly how we treat morality. One mistake can fell a good person from grace. One good deed can change a bad person’s lighting. Our cultural understanding of morality and intellectualism are fundamentally defined by distrust and by extension, the desire to not be made a (further) fool of.

Story time

My short story Pat-a-cake begins with the line: In the dreamscape of before, when your mother was a world…

It is not a beginning I arrived at easily nor is it an arrival that is particularly complete (I still might change it before it gets published).

For a long time the entrance was: In the hypnagogia of before, when your mother was a world…

Hypnagogia is ‘the transitional state between wakefulness and sleep’. It’s also a word I’ve known since I was twelve because I was the kind of kid who’d read the dictionary before bed.

When I first showed a friend Pat-a-cake, he asked me what ‘hypnagogia’ meant. I explained. No biggie.

I showed it to another friend, a writer this time, and they did me the courtesy of reading all the way through before asking what it meant. I got worried. Was this one of those words that was more obscure or archaic than I realised? I defined it. They said cool. No biggie.

The third time I shared it was in a writing workshop. The unanimous feedback was that as an entrance, ‘hypnagogia’ had the potential to throw the reader off. It alienates the reader from the story almost immediately.

It is also the most snugly fitting word for the sentence.

With consensus growing, I changed ‘hypnagogia’ to ‘dreamscape’ — keenly aware that I had sacrificed the precision of meaning, the emotional charge and the layers of texture for the reader’s convenience.

If anti-intellectualism criminalises the ‘want to be smart’, anti-pretentiousness criminalises the ‘want to seem smart’. The usage of ‘hypnagogia’ might earn me the title of pretentious for its obscurity. The flip-side is the insincerity of replacing it with ‘dreamscape’, which feels like an insult to the intelligence of the reader, a mollycoddling, a lack of faith in their curiosity when given the opportunity to learn a new word.

What happens when a culture—addicted to aesthetics and systematically devaluing the acquisition of knowledge (save for economic productivity)—is presented with knowledge it doesn’t understand?

That is—what happens when “seeming” becomes indistinguishable from “being”?

Smartness itself is rendered an exhibition and intellect becomes less about knowledge and more about the ever-more finite ways of marketing, cosmetically packaging and presenting knowledge. The “wants” collapse under the weight of themselves. The knowledge itself withers.

If you’re Austin Butler, you get called pretentious for liking The Good, The Bad, The Ugly as a kid. If you’re Celine Song, you get called sauceless and told you’re not allowed to like Zootopia until you make better movies. If you’re Ryan Coogler, you’re spared the digital gulag for being inspired by Puss in Boots: The Last Wish before making Sinners.

If neoliberalism has demanded economic productivity, internet culture demands output for the attention economy; a system largely run by a cryptocurrency of sincerity (or maybe rather, sincerity as a compelling performance).

Austin Butler is identified as pretentious for liking The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly as a kid because his film choice seems insincere, implausible, even a deception. His film choice alerts the skeptical audience that he is someone who wants to seem like a cinephile. The assumption is easily rectified with an ounce of good faith. Maybe Austin Butler grew up watching Dad films with his Dad. Maybe he was just a weird kid. Perhaps all childhood experiences are not the same and what is registering to the fly as a chaotic “want to seem smart” is just normal to the spider.

You’d be well within your rights to brand me pretentious for using the word “zenith” at the start of this essay. I could’ve just said sky. I’d like to think I don’t choose words because I want to seem smart. There’s a whole cocktail of reasons swirling around my subconscious when I’m writing that determines what word lands on the page and they’re all rarely concerned with how I might seem. Zenith sounds better than sky. It’s relationship to astrology imbues it with more poetic connotations. Stylistically, it holds more emotional charge. I know the word so I use the word.

Whenever I sacrifice a word for convenience, the essence of CHATGPT phases through me with a ghostly chill. Words like “accessibility” ring in my skull but never with the resonance of urgency or necessity. Instead, they ring like a neoliberal axiom—demanding everything be economically viable.

What of beauty for beauty’s sake?

There are film enthusiasts whose top 4 Letterboxd films are works of niche cinema. There are writers who string together a daisy-chain of infrequently-used words. I refrain from accusing them of pretentiousness or trying to seem smart because I’d prefer not to indulge my own distrust at the site of being challenged. I have stumbled across too many great, obscure films and read enough wordy prose that is equally profound3.

You might get a hint of a writer “trying to seem smart” in the corporeal body of their text but it can only be verified in the spirit of the content—in the way arguments flow, in how it eschews or confronts contradiction, in its success in retaining your interest.

A world as treacherous as ours requires a healthy skepticism for survival. The shoehorn of anti-pretension and anti-intellectualism is connected by a metallurgy of distrust—distrust in the intentions of the (pseudo-)intellectual or distrust in the intellectual practice itself. Legibility is an integral part of intellectual transmission yet we are governed by convenience so tyrannically that challenge—even healthy challenge—can make us refuse potentially useful knowledge in nausea. Intellectually and morally—we want so badly not to be duped. And although the vigilance activates our hyper-sensitivity, it does not necessarily sharpen our discernment.

As a writer, all I can do is make the choice between ‘hypnagogia’ or ‘dreamscape’ that will allow me to sleep best at night. As a reader, all I can do is approach what I read with enough curiosity that will open up worlds, with less stifling distrust and the awareness to know when I need to just close the page and move on.

you mistake your squeamishness at violence for moral clarity.

your empathy extends only one chess move ahead.

when met with images of people violently resisting kidnappers, modern-day slave-catchers and other state-sanctioned brutalists—all you see is the simplistic, fairytale villainy of ‘violence is bad’.

then you log off, turn on star wars and cheer for luke, leia, han and cassian andor killing stormtroopers. yes. sometimes the good guys murder the bad. i suppose it is much easier to stomach such slaughters when a laser-bolt hits a tin suit and the bad guy tumbles down cartoonishly. the pillows of narrative gently cushion the reality and gore and loss for you. that guy with the plasma-heated hole in his breastplate is conceptually dead.

you have not reckoned with the violence that you enjoy.

if you had your way, or rather, if your way came to pass—we would all die noble, unremarkable deaths. you would applaud at how morally incorruptible we all as we refuse to fight back; batons showering our flesh, tear gas scorching our eyes, bullets ricocheting through our extremities, ropes burning the skin of our necks.

we would we wither in jail cells and concentration camps and you would write us letters and celebrate our fortitude. you would forget how to call a genocide “a war” and you would ‘see’ one side too many. you would have us wait patiently for heartless governments to bloom a flower of a conscience, even when all that’s visible out the window is a sulking, perpetual winter.

you mount the soapbox preaching about voting, optics, and the winning of hearts and minds. what if all the votes are rigged? all the optics are conspiracy-theoried into blurry obscurity? all the hearts are charred? all the minds are empty?

you wheel out martin luther king jr’s name as if you are not the very stumbling block he wrote about from jail. remember, they jailed him? whenever you say that you believe in nonviolent protest like him—all i hear is that ‘you want me to die without a fuss’. remember, they killed him?

the fbi called martin luther king jr ‘the most dangerous negro in america’. they wiretapped his phone and sent him letters urging him to kill himself. that’s just the shit that’s searchable on wikipedia.

cointelpro were more enthusiastic in snuffing out king than the ku klux klan.

yet, you partake in a delusional optimism about him and the system he fought. king may have had a dream but towards the end of his life he also said that his nonviolent protests “carried the blemishes of (his) inexperience”.

you freeze him in amber at a point where he can be your good, saintly, docile negro and you trundle out the fossil of his most convenient ideologies when you don’t have the stomach or wherewithal to overcome your own cognitive dissonance about the truth—that your country’s legacy is one of victorious bad guys.

can you look at the current state of your nation and say, with a straight face, that king’s inexperienced nonviolence has yielded lasting success? do you believe any of the progress—the “melting pot”, the most billionaires per capita, all the black faces in high places—make up for the fact that a child of south african apartheid did a nazi salute at the presidential inauguration, ran through federal government in a perpetual k-hole, got fired then called the president a paedophile? both sides of the political aisle funding the extermination of indigenous people? tourists getting flung in vans? citizens getting detained? people—who have built their lives in your country with the same amount of documentation as the pilgrims—getting snatched up?

proximity wise, how close do you feel to that sparkling dream of his?

your nation has arrived at all its self-proclaimed greatness—its technological advancement, its wealth, its vast occupation of land, its nuclear arsenal, its imposing global military presence—all through violence.

you have not reckoned with the violence that you are a beneficiary of.

what does it make you, to say that nonviolence is the only acceptable avenue for change? are you a wilful or unwilful hypocrite? are you ignorant of your nation’s violently achieved successes or do you just sweep them under your cognitive rug? do you condemn violent resistance to state-sanctioned violence out of a warped sense of care, duty, concern, self-preservation, love? do you believe that luke, leia, han and the ewoks should’ve marched with placards against the empire?

how do you see yourself as an integer in this complicated, moral equation?

do you even know what you are?

The world is freckled with people who live their lives so potently that they transform ours from afar. Their writing stitches fine embroidery on our souls. Their art coaxes our ways of thinking down scenic pathways. Then they die. And we post about them.

Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o was one such life. Hearing that he’d passed shone a floodlight on my memory of discovering his work. In the petty contrarianism of my late teens—I decided my first foray into African Literature shouldn’t be as predictable as reading Chinua Achebe’s widely renowned Things Fall Apart. Instead, I turned to Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o’s The River Between.

The Paris Review posted one of Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o’s quotes in the wake of his death. “I don't think anybody who has gone through a colonialist system can claim to be free of the effects of the colonial. All we can do is continue to fight against those tendencies. Scars on the mind take a long time to heal.” It resonated and I reposted.

In another corner of the internet Ayo of Feminist Inc published How revolutionary can a wife beater be?

The essay illuminates Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o’s abuse of his first wife, Minneh Nyambura. Their son, Mũkoma wa Ngũgĩ, spoke out about his father’s domestic violence in March last year. Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o never responded.

How revolutionary can a wife beater be? Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o’s own quote partially answers.

“I don't think anybody who has gone through a colonialist system can claim to be free of the effects of the colonial.”

This paradigm is not exclusive to colonialism. You can easily swap colonial with patriarchal—for the patriarchal system contorts masculinity itself by narrowing the idea of manhood into machismo cookie-cutter moulds that very few men (if any) comfortably fit into. A man may come out of boyhood’s brutal formatting with clean edges but never without bits of him getting cut away. None are free from the effects of the systems we swim in. Ngũgĩ wa Thiong'o’s conduct in his marriage reveals a gaping wound that bled acid onto the woman he claimed to love.

How revolutionary can a wife beater be?

This confronting question made me think of Benjamin Zephaniah. I remember stumbling upon a discussion about his history of domestic violence soon after he passed away.

Unlike Ngũgĩ, Zephaniah publicly addressed hitting his ex-girlfriend—expressing regret and recounting his attempts at making amends. Maybe we can speculate why Zephaniah reached a place where it felt necessary for him to condemn his own actions publicly in a way Ngũgĩ did not. Zephaniah was 20 years younger, his experience of life in Britain had all manner of differences to Ngũgĩ’s upbringing in Kenya. They still enacted the same shade of violence on the women closest to them.

In her essay, Ayo argues that the misogyny of male revolutionaries “makes their liberation incomplete.” I believe the opposite is true. The misogyny of revolutionaries, whose principled ethics in one arena and confounding lack of them in another, exhibits a messy interiority that we’re all capable of.

Where the goal of liberation is morally uncomplicated, people are not. And we have a tendency of flattening the revolutionary into a two-dimensional monument, worthy of reverence only if they are perpetually correct. It does us and them a disservice. Us; because it sees them as unattainable outliers of moral clarity that we can’t achieve. Them; because they aren’t. Expecting incorruptible exhibitions of their principles will always be disrupted by their failures. To recognise the collision of those failures is to see them whole people and not parasocial ambitions that we can project our own idea of perfection onto.

Because sometimes, their “failures” aren’t as egregious as abuse. After Nikki Giovanni passed, discourse quickly erupted about her having a white partner. The criticism of Black revolutionaries partnering with white people has evolved into a tedious ‘gotcha’ moment—sanctimonious paranoia more concerned with exposing the hypocrisy of principled blacktivists who’ve paraglided into the dreaded downdraft of the snow-bunny snowstorm than critically considering if or how their romantic affiliation is indicative of an internalised bias that would call their work into question.

Which is maybe the crux of the issue. We attempt to understand influential figures through moral arithmetic. We weigh their bad deeds against the good to make them legible. When they die, we measure their scales like The Fates of Ancient Greece.

In Ola Ojewumi’s thread, she mentions how John Amos’ character was killed off in Good Times for criticising the racist stereotypes of the show’s scripts but “the whole time, John Amos was married to and had all of his kids by a white woman.” The framing here is that John Amos’ marriage to a white woman negates his right to resist racist stereotypes—as if he would’ve only been qualified to call out anti-blackness when he was married to Lillian Lehman, a black woman, years later.

We position the bad to cancel out the good in a way that misses the point of why its necessary to do so. What if it isn’t subtractive? What if the good is just the good and the bad is just the bad? What if we didn’t pit them against one another so mathematically?

It may appear like I’m advocating for your bog-standard separation of art from artist. Again—I am saying the opposite. I’ve met my fair share of people who use the excellence of Kanye’s discography to excuse his slow decay towards attention-seeking naziism. I’ve also been roped into an hours-long group-call after one of my friends said “Kanye isn’t even influential” and found myself in the bizarre position of expressing that just because Ye is wiling out, doesn’t retroactively erase the fact that—between fashion and music—he has influenced popular culture in countless ways.

The mounting offensiveness of Kanye West’s actions informs the totality of him. He has always been outspoken. When he said “George Bush doesn’t care about Black people”, he was David pointing the glock at Goliath, speaking out on behalf of the victims of Hurricane Katrina who were being federally neglected. When he interrupted Taylor Swift to declare “Beyoncé had the greatest music video of all time”, he was speaking out against the systemic bias of awards shows on behalf of a Black female peer.

As the years went by, his disposition for disruption clashed with the position of power he rose to. By the time of his Yeezus album rollout, his declaration that “classism is the new racism” was the catalyst for me to recalibrate my thinking in the way I’m articulating to you now. Here was a man I admired greatly, who’d shifted culture more times than I could count and was on the verge of doing it again… Saying one of the most ridiculous things I have ever heard. His inherent outspokenness had stopped being deployed in defence of others and his self-absorption had grown so clear that it echoed back through time.

Yes, he might have been advocating for the Black people of New Orleans when he challenged George Bush but he also benefited from the cultural capital of calling out a Republican president on live TV. Yes, he might have been defending Beyoncé being snubbed at the MTV Awards but he was also looking out for himself as a Black artist saying, if you won’t give Beyoncé an award for a masterpiece then you aren’t going to give me one… Let me nip this in the bud.

The conviction in his voice when he claimed, there’s this new thing called classism was because he was experiencing classism—not in the sense of a proletarian being exploited by the rich but as a rich man being denied access by other, richer men. In that moment, I felt a shift. He (or perhaps his work) didn’t mean less to me. It was just my investment lessened.

As is the nature of all growth, whatever the direction, he’d changed but he’d also remained the same.

There is something to be said about how parasociality manifests towards influential figures; how we grapple with the proximity we aren’t privy to. When speaking about Kanye for GQ, Pusha T recently said, “He's a genius. His intuition is even more genius-level, right? But that’s why me and him don’t get along, because he sees through my fakeness with him. He knows I don’t think he’s a man.” The privilege of interpersonality is the clarity of rejection. Pusha T knows Kanye West and has no interest in associating with him—not because Ye’s not talented but because: “he knows what I really, really think of him. He’s showed me the weakest sides of him, and he knows how I think of weak people.”

We aren’t afforded that access, we’re simply spectators—always afar.

Yet, these figures transform us all the same.

To return to misogynistic revolutionaries, it is natural for us to judge them by the ways they’ve harmed the women in their lives. I tend to use such revelations as a way to identify the inconsistencies I’ve sensed in their work. I calibrate a new context and lessen my investment.

The penance of the misogynistic revolutionary can only be negotiated by those in orbit of their harm—the women and the children and, perhaps more ambiently, those who’ve experienced domestic harm who follow the misogynistic revolutionary’s work. How these men seek accountability in their own lives is something we may never be privy to. We have no idea of the ways Ngũgĩ might have sought to make amends with Nyambura. Zephaniah publicly opening up about his wrongs might push us to ask, is this enough? Is this true accountability? The committal of an act as unspeakable as domestic violence is made all the worse because it is rendered unspeakable. We are allergic to and ill-equipped for active reparative work because we’ve been conditioned to rely so solidly on punishment and exile as the one-true enactment of justice. We don’t know how to speak about the harm, address it, prevent it, deal with it, stop it, change from it, heal from it, move on from it.

If rectification means stripping the title away from misogynistic revolutionaries, I understand. But I want for us to interrogate our very consumption and expectations of the figures who influence our lives from afar. Especially the revolutionary.

We treat them like messianic incarnates whose moral clarity is so unblemishable that it makes them incapable of wrongdoing. Then death becomes an amphitheatre for fond remembrance and aired grievances alike.

I often wonder how useful it is to relitigate the legacy of dead thinkers who did bad things. We can, of course, boycott Ngũgĩ’s books and refuse to buy them—but he’s not alive to get the royalties even if we wanted to keep patronising his work. “Holding him accountable” and “forgiving him” seem equally hubristic when only those in his orbit had the power to truly do that. All we can do from here is condemn the actions of men too dead to feel them. But doing so doesn’t quell that displaced moral energy that aimlessly wanders inside of us with nowhere to go, the pent-up expectation for punitive consequences would love to see the legacies of revolutionary men to be ruined, for their reverence to be erased from the cultural collectiveness.

The most important thing about the legacies of dead revolutionaries and thinkers—of revered figures in general—is to know and reveal these darker parts of their legacy so we may recontextualise their actions with clear knowledge of their shortcomings and accept them as a clear, less mystified image. Understand: this acceptance is not apologism. It is deconstructing the parasocial instinct to see revolutionaries as uncomplicated, archetypical heroes, it is a binary-belief-shattering, the humbling recognition that some of the world’s most renowned intellects still weren’t able to think their way out of cultural conditioning. There is, perhaps, some grief to this acceptance—in the foreground is the disappointment in the individual failure of people we once admired but in the background, there is a more terrifying indictment of the monstrosity of the system itself, the realisation that how its tentacles can seep into any weak crevice or ignorant space if we do not remain vigilant and it truly doesn’t matter who you are. The guy we all know as the smartest man alive, whose very surname is synonymous with “genius”, was monstrously racist towards Chinese people.

When looking to the people who’ve transformed our lives from afar—the problematic and the unproblematic alike—I encourage us to observe their legacies, their work, their life without venerating them in a way that is so precious and fragile that it would shatter under the weight of a damning revelation. Go into them accepting them as whole—not for them, not to excuse them, or to launder their existing legacies. It is for us; so that we can progress with a better moral standard than those that came before us, so we can be clear and honest about the ethics we have and that we expect of “the greats” who live today. It is easy to shy away from the failures of fallen thinkers, to discredit the beautiful or impactful or important parts of their work in recognition of the darker, worse parts of their personhood. But the acceptance of all their parts is ultimately an exercise in humility, prompting us to confront the inevitable conflicts within ourselves that feel too difficult or tangled to confront. It is a signal that we must try anyway, endlessly. We are all complicated, hypocritical and woefully deficient in some way and so was every revolutionary we’ve ever been inspired by. We must ask ourselves—what are the truths that lie on the other sides of those complications?

The barista calls out “Siobhan” even though the waiting woman said her name was “Shauna” at the till.

Some of us wonder if baristas do this on purpose; a subversive power move in the molecular battle of interacting with customers they don’t like.

There is much to dislike about Shauna/Siobhan.

She clattered through the coffee shop doors and broke our calm into shards. In the queue, she fidgeted and twirled too and fro in a way that felt fizzy at our peripherals.

She unsheathed her phone from her taupe yoga pants and chose to make a phone-call just as she was about to be served, holding up the line.

Her body language, her tonality, her intensity—discordant.

Shauna/Siobhan only settles once the espresso is in her hands. She finds a seat close to the door and glares towards us.

Begrudgingly, we settle and creep back up into a light hubbub.

We revel here as The Great British Lull. No singular voice towering above another. No accent too distinguishable, no airpodded music louder than tinnish ambience. Each visa-tap is a spiccato beep. Every name hollered by the barista brings is its own crescendo. The disruptions of manhandled cutlery, scatter-graphed coughs, La Marzocco jet-blasts, yawn contagions, iMessage swooshes, sprinkled chuckles and giggles, hollow chairs skittering across the linoleum flooring as one of us rises to leave.

All of it percussion to a familiar symphony.

OI!

Many of our heads whip towards the Shauna/Siobhan’s calm-piercing yell.

That guy just stole!

We all wince, even those of us that believe Shauna/Siobhan’s accusation.

Who want to believe it.

Who agree with her.

None of us rise. All squirm. Bonded in…

Cowardice?

No. Are we not all brave in our own ways?

Indifference?

No. Too many of our jaws are clenched, fists balled. Too many of our feet are tapping, palms sweaty, ready.

Self-preservation?

Perhaps. Each of our hearts are woefully uncertain of the other’s. We are far more comfortable with polite business-minding (one of our greatest hits) than brash reaction (one of more our experimental, left-field passion projects). None of us wish to bargain on the altruism of the neighbour in the next seat.

We stay one in the quiet.

…A voice breaks away from our continent.

SHE didn’t take anything!

We try to remember his name. “Temi” was perhaps what the barista had called into our lull. His emphasis on the pronoun is laced with a bitter tone of knowing as if he’s faced the fine blade of accusation more times than we can count and has the scars to prove how intimately he who knows the price of silence.

The accused stands on the edge of us now, petrified by the door.

“Esmerelda. But Esme will fit on the cup nicer.”

Many of us feel sorry for them. How bitter it must feel, to be pushed from us by something as trivial as blame. Their dress, fitting off-kilter to their frame. Their make-up sitting askew. We can see that they are new to femininity—still figuring it out. If we don’t avert our gaze in shame, we can see clearly that it wasn’t Shauna/Siobhan’s accusation of theft that cleaved Esmerelda like the blunt-edge of the knife. It was the address within the accusation.

Temi’s dissenting voice peels further away from us with his volume.

Leave her be, bruv!

Some of us smirk at the irony of Shauna/Siobhan being referred to as “bruv”. A few of us don’t know how to feel. Temi’s voice bubbles the further he strays from us—forming its own gravitational pull.

Aye!

Another peels from us. “Lucy”. We remember her clearly because she made the barista snort with laughter. Before she blended into us, Lucy spoke about ignoring her needy friend.

She wanted to “post a wee selfie to instagram stories wi’ nay bother,” so she shared her fool-proof strategy. Respond to the needy friend first, selfie on stories after.

Lucy’s banter, infused with Scottish whimsy, cheered us up.

Poor lass is just trynae sip a coffee.

Lucy sounds maternal, hopscotching between empathy and assertiveness.

We worry about this escalating, knowing that escalation is a likely avenue for chaos.

We don’t maintain integrity well in chaos.

One more voice splits from us.

Yeah, give it a fucking rest, Siobhan!

We chuckle as a song.

Temi, Lucy, and Esmerelda, their varied timbre of laughs become lead instruments and everyone plays their part—except Shauna/Siobhan. Or perhaps she does, in her seething silence.

We chuckle in enough sprinkles that it makes her scoff and clatter out the door as cacophonously as she arrived (to the sarcastic, scattered applause of a few of us).

In Shauna/Siobhan’s absence, the bubbly-voiced Temi checks on Esmerelda. Lucy rises to speak to her, too.

And we slowly settle back into the serene rhythms of The Great British Lull.

The traditional chauffeur of a story is conflict. Morals are pitted against one another, ideologies exchange blades, survival hangs in the balance. The shared values of a society govern how stories are told. Norms and prejudices shape the ideal of who is deemed good or bad. There are times when the antagonist’s whims—whether exposing corruption, challenging oppressive systems, or seeking vengeance–can appear more justified than
the protagonist’s allegiance to the status quo.

Hear ‘em Out! is a discussion series exploring stories where the “villain is right.”

After watching Cleaner (2025)—an aggressively average film where militant environmental organisers overthrow an energy company’s gala as a dishonourably discharged soldier-turned-window-cleaner fights to save the hostages after realising her older brother is among them—Sophie Katsali of That Final Scene chatted about the film’s curious portrayal of villainous radical activists.

Inigo
Cleaner structurally interested me in how it approached the common trope of what I like to call noble goal, crazy guy. The initial antagonist—the environmental activist Marcus Blake (played by Clive Owen)—is militant but somewhat agreeable. Blake leads a siege on the mega-corporation Agnian at their annual party, intending to force confessions from the shareholders for their environmental crimes and their covert murder of an activist. Blake uses force in the form of knock-out gas and intimidation but makes it clear he has no interest in killing anyone. Noah Santos (Taz Skylar) however, overruns the plan and quickly resorts to graphic murder. Blake's noble goal is corrupted by Santos’ gratuitous use of violence. The violence of Agnian’s corporate crimes are detached and ambient. The poisoned water produces faceless victims. The slain activist is revealed to us as a static image in a legal file. The corruption of Blake’s noble goal is beholden to an unwritten law: immediate violence is more transformative than the recollection of violence. That is why the Academy was quick to voice its disapproval when Will Smith slapped Chris Rock at the Oscars but were remarkably silent about Hamdan Ballal being kidnapped by Israeli militants to the point where they had to apologise. The film renders the crimes of Agnian as unobservable and therefore inconsequential. Santos’ observable violence ensures him the villain. Cinematic logic dictates the villain deserves death. The men who traffic unobservable violence might die but their death is a matter of shock value, tragedy and/or mobilisation for the plot. They deserve it—but it is in a far more nonchalant, atmospheric manner.

Sophie
You've nailed the core structure: the classic "noble goal, crazy guy" tango. Blake should be our way into questioning Agnian's eco-crimes. But his performative eco-gravitas gets immediately undermined. In fact, his siege exists in that cinematic twilight zone where villains make perfect sense until the script remembers they're not supposed to. Like Magneto's historical analysis (X-Men: First Class) before he's forced to become cartoonishly genocidal (X-Men: Apocalypse), or Sorry to Bother You's corporate villains whose business model is somehow less horrific than actual Amazon warehouses.

Your analysis of observable vs. unobservable violence opens up what I call "aesthetic conservatism"—how Cleaner's technical elements actively maintain status quo politics. Campbell's direction embodies this perfectly—his throwback approach to action traps Blake and Noah in lifeless fluorescent lighting that the film uses to drain the environmental manifesto of any vitality. Meanwhile, their acts of violence get the glossy action treatment with well-shot fight sequences. The aesthetic itself becomes the politics.

The script may present Blake as initially militant yet somewhat agreeable, but Campbell's visual framework absolutely fucks him over. The pristine compositions of corporate spaces versus the chaotic framing during the siege create a world where environmental crimes look like business as usual while resistance looks like madness. The seamless flow between Blake's legitimate critique and Noah's gratuitous murder blurs any moral distinction between them. It's cinematic guilt-by-association.

Campbell's crisp cutting functions as its own form of violence—slicing Blake's coherent eco-radicalism into disjointed fragments that read as derangement. The film's inconsistent pacing serves a political purpose—rushing through Blake's exposition like an auctioneer on speed while lingering pornographically on the human cost of his methods.

Perhaps the most honest film would show Agnian's executives continuing to poison communities while their PR team produces a movie about dangerous eco-terrorists threatening good American jobs. They'd call it Cleaner. And the Academy would eat that shit up.

Inigo
I’m considering how the film renders Santos in the lulls between what you named as the “pornographic lingerings” of his violent tenure. The police response team gathers intel to reveal Santos harbours “anti-humanist” leanings by showing an old video-recorded manifesto that he delivers from an unidentifiable interior, sitting in front of a brick-wall. The visual innuendo of terroristic threat is a perfect example of the “aesthetic conservatism” that you mentioned as the audience is coerced into an islamophobic association to justify disdain for him. His long hair reminds me of a young Barney Stinson—who was a naïve, hippy barista before the sitcom-trauma of losing his girlfriend to a finance bro transformed him to a suit-obsessed, raging misogynist in How I Met Your Mother. Santos peers down the barrel of the camera with a glassy-eyed stare declaring, “man is a blight upon the world. A cancer. A virus. And for a human virus requires a radical, invasive approach” and everything in that moment—his appearance, the cinematography of the clip, the language scripted for him—is a transparent attempt to ruin his credibility, yes. And, as you said, showcase his derangement, of course. But largely: present him as laughable. The lead officer cuts the manifesto with a dismissive “delightful!” that’s jam-packed with all the textbook British snark a three syllable word can muster. He, and therefore his position, is supposed to be a joke.

What I actually find funny about the scene is, if I were interpreting Santos’ manifesto through an afropessimist lens—he is perhaps the sanest person in the whole movie. His understanding of “humans” being a “virus” instantly made me consider how Frank Wilderson identifies the way whiteness rendered Black people “non-human” to reify itself.

If we read Santos’ usage of “human” as fundamentally demarcating Black people into “non-human” then his credibility-ruining rant reveals an ouroboros of white violence.

Santos’ manifesto is revelatory in that sense. An accurate diagnosis of the problem but a pathological investment in whiteness ruins his remedy. He says “man is a blight on the world” and a feminist lens would be concerned with how those blights are specific concentrations of patriarchal violence. He refers to the “human virus” to mean the collective population of people when it is specifically the industrialisation of Euro-colonial expansion that triggered the global careen towards environmental collapse. The mega-corporations pumping harmful chemicals into the air, water and land exist today off the historically belittled and destroyed Black and indigenous ways of life. Every time we saw the inclusion of “Voodoo” in a film or TV show growing up, it was micro-conditioning to understand Black indigeneity as “savage” while conveniently deflecting away from how savagely the Euro-colonial capitalist expansion is burning through planet and people.

In that respect—you’re so right that this hypothetical film would clean up at the Oscars, not only because it would add to the aesthetic sanitisation of environmental destruction but it would also present said destruction as a philosophically inevitable tragedy that “we” collectively brought about together. Prejudicially divided in life, collectively responsible in doom.

Sophie
Inigo, your afropessimist reading of Santos' manifesto makes me want to run a thought experiment: Replace Santos with Elon Musk delivering the identical "humans are a virus" speech at a Tesla keynote. The same words would then be backed by soft amber lighting, steady tracking shots, and approving nods from executives—transforming a terrorist rant into a TED Talk on visionary futurism.

This isn't theoretical, of course. When Bezos tells us we should move our polluting industry into space, when Musk champions Mars colonisation because Earth is doomed, when Thiel is freezing his body after death ‘just in case’, when tech billionaires build luxury bunkers in New Zealand, they're expressing the same core misanthropy as Santos. Sam Altman secures billions for OpenAI while publishing essays about existential risk. Marc Andreessen parades his god-awful "Techno-Optimist Manifesto" advocating for technological solutions precisely because he believes current systems are unsustainable. The difference isn't content but presentation—who receives cinematic-like authority to express environmental despair.

Campbell's direction unconsciously enforces this double standard. Silicon Valley figureheads routinely describe humanity as an infection while stock prices explode; environmental activists say the same and become terrorists. This asymmetry extends beyond Cleaner into our actual media landscape: VICE documentaries use contemplative, respectful framing for billionaire preppers while employing frantic, destabilised shooting for non-wealthy ones expressing identical apocalyptic predictions.

This explains why environmental cinema fails so consistently—the medium has absorbed capitalism's core value judgments into its technical DNA. Even if Santos were able to pinpoint whiteness as the true virus destroying indigenous relationships with land more conspicuously, Campbell must render him visually illegitimate because the grammar of film itself has developed alongside colonial expansion. There's no established cinematic language to present Santos' perspective without immediate devaluation.

After watching Civil War, I realised this runs deeper than content alone. Films about environmental collapse can render apocalypse in exquisite detail but cannot visually legitimise activists who predict that collapse without marking them as extremists through technical devices. Your analysis exposes the most insidious aspect of Cleaner's failure: viewers walk away feeling they've rejected Santos based on rational assessment of his arguments, never recognising how the visual techniques predetermined their response. We believe we're exercising judgment when we're actually performing a reaction that was encoded for us through the camera.

Santos doesn't fail because his analysis is wrong—he fails because cinema's technical apparatus cannot visualise his position without marking it as aberrant.

Inigo
What you’ve said about films that “render apocalypse in exquisite detail” but “cannot visually legitimise activists who predict that collapse without marking them as extremists” makes me think of an essay that’s been gestating in my drafts about the western obsession with dystopian fiction. You’re right. There is an observable asymmetry when it comes to works about collapse—not only environmental but societal. The abundance of apocalyptic media has started to make me see it as hope-sterilising propaganda. The presentation of characters like Santos really helps grease the wheels. I’m going to be more aware of the “visual grammars” and “technical apparatuses” of cinema moving forward—paying attention to how they’re employed to warp or obscure the moral thrusts of the film.

Thank you so much for your all of thoughts, Sophie! I don’t know if we’ve convinced anyone to watch Cleaner but I reckon we might be the first people to discuss this film with such rigour and it’s been an absolute pleasure. To sign off, I wanted to ask you one final question: Is there any movie, TV show, novel or any story you can think of really, where you find yourself passionately agreeing with the villain?

Sophie
Really enjoyed this, thank you Inigo! I can’t help but catch myself nodding along to Killing Eve’s Villanelle's disgusted eye-roll at the beige mediocrity of existence. Her refusal to tolerate emotional fakery hits a nerve. I don’t condone the stabbing part (obviously!), but I'm drawn to how she spots someone equally trapped in Eve and says "I see you" in her own twisted way. We've all sat through dinner parties wondering if we're the only one noticing how everyone's pretending. Villanelle just turns that feeling into fashion-forward carnage while I bite my tongue. That core impulse to burn down the artificial and find something real? That part I passionately get. It's just that most of us settle for therapy instead of becoming international assassins.

Sophie Katsali is the creator of That Final Scene, where she writes about how films and TV shows reflect the conversations we're having in culture today. With a background in running social media campaigns for major studios including Warner Bros, Universal Pictures and HBO, she brought her entertainment expertise first to Instagram and later expanded to Substack. Sophie now works in marketing for Canva.

Where body positivity rose to challenge the infrastructures of western beauty standards—it is easy to interpret the recent, ozempic-powered resurgence of noughtiesque skinniness as a failure of the movement.

Ugliness blooms in the psyche with such violence that some declare it a palaeolithic instinct. A 2020 social and clinical psychology study titled Ugliness Judgments Alert us to Cues of Pathogen Presence examines how “ugliness judgments are linked to the behavioural immune system, alerting us to objects that may contain potentially harmful diseases1”. Ryan P. Doran’s philosophical essay Ugliness Is in the Gut of the Beholder offers “the first sustained defence of the claim that ugliness is constituted by the disposition to disgust2”, with disgust being defined as “a basic emotion which is characterised, paradigmatically, by feelings related to nausea”.

In early life, beauty and ugliness bifurcate crudely along a moral binary. Handsome, fairytale heroes—lily-white in face and/or teeth—become pristine bastions of justice. The damsels they save are dainty, beautiful pillars of the purest victimhood. Nursery rhyme villains are rendered physically undesirable, disfigured or dark in a fascinating ouroboros of cause and effect. (Scar just so happens to be the darkest and most maimed lion in the pride.)

With the binaries of beauty = good / ugly = bad fashioning the foundational pillars of western beauty standards (and all of these concepts having their own symbioses with oppressions like anti-Blackness and ableism)—rather than interpreting the “skinny comeback” as an end to the body positivity’s era—perhaps it is easier to understand beauty-based prejudices like anti-fatness as so terminally woven into the anatomy of society that any contemporary challenge can only provide their temporary remission. Is it? But we must do it. It is our responsibility, in the words of the great Kwame Ture.

At the risk of contemplating perspectives feminist scholars more learned have explored deeper, I find myself curious about the very battleground(s) where beauty standards have been challenged—specifically Instagram (and its other visual-based social media platform relatives).

The mind drifts to pastel-hued insta-infographics whenever I think of body positivity, which doesn’t accurately capture the length or breadth of the movement’s activity but is perhaps the most familiar access point for so many introduced to it.

In the same way Twitter seems socially engineered to reward riler-uppers and foster addiction to perpetual cycles of petty conflict, Instagram is socially engineered to supply a steady trickle of ✨ aesthetics ✨ —ornately plated food, greek-god physiques chiseled in luxury gyms, an endless pantheon of unattainable baddies—curating kernels of desire in reels and carousel images to rise to the apex of the algorithm™ to flood dopamine receptors and keep users hooked via the irresistible glamour of spectacle. With a near supernatural prescience, Guy Dubord reflects on the imagery of such spectacles in his 1967 book, The Society of the Spectacle:

The images detached from every aspect of life fuse in a common stream in which the unity of this life can no longer be reestablished. Reality considered partially unfolds, in its own general unity, as a pseudo-world apart, an object of mere contemplation. The specialization of images of the world is completed in the world of the autonomous image, where the liar has lied to himself. The spectacle in general, as the concrete inversion of life, is the autonomous movement of the non-living. The spectacle presents itself simultaneously as all of society, as part of society, and as instrument of unification. As a part of society it is specifically the sector which concentrates all gazing and all consciousness. Due to the very fact that this sector is separate, it is the common ground of the deceived gaze and of false consciousness, and the unification it achieves is nothing but an official language of generalized separation.3

If we understand Instagram and other visual-based social media as arenas of spectacle—full to the brim with “concrete inversions of life”—perhaps we must consider how much a cultural attitude can be shifted through them? This is not a question reserved for body positivity’s fight alone—but one applicable to any social movement sharing its tenets through these digital arenas of aesthetics.

I suspect the complication of the spectacle is what rendered body positivity less a challenge to beauty standards and more a commitment to expanding its borders. An eerie chill would roll over me whenever I observed a disabled person wheeling down a New York Fashion Week runway or an ad-campaign presenting a racially diverse group of differently sized woman. I’d shiver in the same way when George Floyd passed and every corporation decided Black people appear to matter and that it was finally time to take a reparative step towards removing caricatured grins from packets of rice and bottles of instant pancake mix.

Symbolic changes are unsustainable. Or rather, they exist to coat historic infrastructures with fresher paints. When pressured to change, infrastructures eventually revert back to their traditional shape or, at best, subsume new data and make themselves vaster. Institutions and the societal standards they embody have an observable rhythm.

The star-spangled banner vulgarity of Donald J. Trump appears as an inevitable chaser to the multi-culturally suave imperialism of Barack Obama.

DEI begets DOGE.

Body positivity begets Ozempic.

The elasticity of infrastructures (and on the topic of western beauty standards these include but are not limited to: fashion houses, magazines and advertising companies) will only bend so far until they bounce back into the imperial values they’ve been formed from.

I won’t pretend to know how to snap the rubber. I suppose my goal is mostly to say, “that is a rubber band and you’re treating it like a brick.” There is no intellectual razor in this essay that will shred the band of beauty standards into elastic debris. However, I find myself wondering whether what sort of liberation lies in the guts of ugliness.

Mia Mingus’ essay, Moving toward the ugly: a politic beyond desirability, confronts ugliness and poses questions to it that I’ve found myself asking for years:

We all run from the ugly. And the farther we run from it, the more we stigmatize it and the more power we give beauty. Our communities are obsessed with being beautiful and gorgeous and hot. What would it mean if we were ugly? What would it mean if we didn’t run from our own ugliness or each other’s? How do we take the sting out of “ugly?” What would it mean to acknowledge our ugliness for all it has given us, how it has shaped our brilliance and taught us about how we never want to make anyone else feel?4

As I pen this essay, I feel ugly. In the three month window of spring, I suffer from intense hay-fever symptoms.

It was so bad when as a kid that teachers would send me out of class. Pollen would inflame my asthma and we found my respiratory symptoms would settle down if I stayed in the library in the middle of the school. On my worst days, the office staff would call my mum and she’d leave work early to take me home but most of the time I’d just camp out in the library under a teaching assistant’s supervision for the afternoon—eyes and nose streaming unceremoniously—sniffling and engorging myself on books.

I’d leak an unholy potion of tears and Optrex drops into one tissue, Beconase and snot onto another, until exhaustion or forgetfulness would meld the two tissues into one. Some point down the line, I’d finally give up trying to plug the leaks altogether and set the allergy fluids free to drizzle on book pages.

Aptly, this is how I acquired my first Harry Potter book. The teacher’s assistant supervising me likely assumed keeping a book with dried booger pages broke a hygienic code of conduct so she told me I could keep it in its allergen-mangled state.

As an adult, I don’t fair much better. I’ve tried many remedies. Every anti-histamine you can name, neti pots, steam baths, local honey. I’ve heard rumblings of mysterious immunotherapy injections the NHS keep in the centre of a booby trapped temple of bureaucracy. I’m yet to secure it.

When spring arrives, I treat it like mammalian winter. I go into pseudo-hibernation for a few weeks so I may sniff and leak and wheeze and rub my eyes in relative peace. It has presented a strange, seasonal relationship to my own body and how it (not I necessarily) is perceived. “I feel ugly”. There are weird weight distributions the word “ugly” is carrying. My most immediate feelings are discomfort and vulnerability, overcast with a relative inability to focus. Ugliness clasps its claws around an essence beyond those feelings because, ultimately, it speaks to feeling undesirable.

How can we mention beauty standards without the entropy of desirability? Western beauty standards are governments of desirability, funded liberally by the libidinal economy5 of what bell hooks affectionately names “the imperialist white supremacist capitalist patriarchy”.

Desire is a messy ecosystem. Want is as present as shame. Fear seeps into attraction. Euphoria as woven as despair. It is as much about being as wanting. Desire presents, or perhaps evolves, at a pace and with a ferocity too wild for western ideals to contain into the rigidity of its traditions and infrastructures. The result is contortions and fragmentations—amplified grossly in the arenas of spectacle.

When Ashton Hall’s videos recently stoked virality to thinly-veiled admiration and hollered ridicule, I was most fascinated by how his routine felt spiritually indistinguishable from Patrick Bateman—aesthetically pleasing, religiously performed yet functionally devoid of any soul. At a time when the average person’s quality of life is palpable declining, Hall’s videos struck me like well-orchestrated capitalistic monuments to nothing.

Nevertheless, Hall’s spike in popularity reveal him as an ideal—satirically or seriously—in the arenas of spectacle where masculine desirability is ulteriorly geared towards courting aspiration from other men. Gone is the age of the principled, rugged every-man. Metrosexuality has won out; ascending to the gold-medal podium of manhood with the traditional desire of conquest remaining—especially in regards to women.

In that respect, Hall’s videos are perfect odes. His muscularity dwarfs Bateman’s; with his Blackness positioning a fetishistic lens unto his ritualistic upkeep of an aesthetic self/lifestyle that careens into utter illogicality (like—does bro step out the lift, set up the camera, go back in the lift, close the door, then record himself stepping out the lift?). The wordless, ASMR presentations of daily activity are accentuated tastefully with a faceless, servant-wife who’s revealed only in obliging body parts to infuse his videos with an puzzling air of authority.

If you were to argue Hall’s visuals are peacockings to intrigue women within or aspiring towards a certain socio-financial tax bracket, I’d dare not disagree. The assertion his videos are carefully engineered to make the traditional male mind nod in appreciation is also hard to argue with.

Desire has fractured along lines of commodity in the same way beauty/ugliness fractures along moral lines. Whether Hall is peacocking for women or trying to get a head-nod from the boys, the overarching truth is that he is trying to make money—for capitalistic success is synonymous with survival. He performs in the arena of spectacle; locked in a perpetual state of getting ready as a source of entertainment and/or distraction and/or inspiration, his own body, a currency.

This, of course, is not a new or surprising transaction. We all barter our bodies in some way under capitalism. What is perhaps new about it all is how we’re dealing with the modern evolutions of spectacle. The epidemic of sexlessness in film that Raquel S. Benedict identifies in her essay, Everyone is beautiful and no-one is horny extends beyond the silver screen to the little blue one in our pockets. There is a profound disconnect between a man looking at a beautiful woman on Instagram—vivid and curated—and wanting her. We watch sex behind thicker plates of glass than ever before. An even further disconnect exists between wanting her libidinally (as an object of sexual desire) and wanting her whole (as a potential partner). Each are fundamentally incomplete desires unto themselves that demand an archaic expectation of ownership.

Where desire for a public sex symbol may have—at one point—been once-removed (a psychic death in its own right), it is now divorced along a mobius strip of unattainability. To patronise an Onlyfans model is a contract of distance, the illusion of potentially “having her” in any real way is completely removed by the very transaction of subscription. I could never say whether this transaction of desire is worse or better—simply that it is warping us all into inhabiting more voyeurism than ever before.

With desirability dictating how well we are treated in society—a reality that undoubtedly affects women and femmes in more pointed ways than men—it seems the masculine mind is tearing itself apart trying to fathom the chasm that is now between itself and a Kardashian vs. the gap between an average young man in the late 1950’s and, say, Marilyn Monroe. In the arenas of spectacle, men’s heterosexual relationship to desire is zombified—or as @lilgnar has stated more poignantly and succinctly: “niggas was never meant to see this many bad bitches, social media got us fried. our ancestors used to only see 10 like baddies in dey whole life.”

It would be foolish of me to try to articulate how this voyeuristic pressure is affecting women from any vantage point other than flawed and incomplete observation. Anecdotally, I know Black women’s existence outside of the western beauty standard is already fraught with too many conflicting tensions to house in one essay. It is in the arenas of spectacle where the BBL procedure, based on a psycho-sexual exaggeration of Black women’s stereotypical proportions, was adopted by non-Black women of the Kardashian ilk and elevated into a quasi-western beauty standard.

With the caricatured Black feminine form reduced a trend; the libidinal colonialism of a body type brings just as much casualty in the “skinny resurgence” as the body positivity movement. That is: to discard a body type that certain women are born with as a trend is iniquitous work only made possible by the rigidity of westernisation, and I am sure someone more tuned in to pop-culture than me will note the reversion of the Kardashians specifically, towards skinniness aligns with a socio-economic climate careening towards a cataclysmic global recession.

Beauty is a buttonhole that desire attempts to fill. My orientation as an artist should dictate an undying fealty for beautiful things, right? But when Susan Sontag speaks about the differences between prose and poetry in The Aesthetics of Silence, I find myself undergoing a cognitive recalibration:

The aim of prose is to communicate, the use of language in prose is perfectly straightforward. Poetry, being an art, should have quite different aims: to express an experience which is essentially ineffable; using language to express muteness. In contrast to prose writers, poets are engaged in subverting their own instrument: and seeking to pass beyond it. Insofar as this theory assumes that art is concerned with Beauty, it isn't very interesting. (Modern aesthetics is crippled by its dependence upon this essentially vacant concept. As if art were "about" beauty, as science is "about" truth!)6

Poetry—although often stumbling into beauty, is in search of an “effable experience”. We could reductively call this ineffability “a species of truth”. A truth that the pursuit of beauty can often get in the way of fully discovering.

When Mingus writes, “there is only the illusion of solace in beauty. If age and disability teach us anything, it is that investing in beauty will never set us free. Beauty has always been hurled as a weapon. It has always taken the form of an exclusive club; and supposed protection against violence, isolation and pain, but this is a myth. It is not true, even for those accepted in to the club. I don’t think we can reclaim beauty,” I know I am not alone in feeling trapped by a world governed by beauty. There is an imposition as both a desirer and a desiree, an uninteresting imprisonment of the need to be satisfied.

In the yearly, bear-cave retreat of springtime where I resign myself to the throes of ugliness—allowing myself only to be seen by loved ones and eschewing any of the performances of desire altogether—I find myself beside a thinning veil, drawn closer to understanding how the arenas of spectacle are door handles to a more fractured sense of humanity.

In looking beyond desirability, Mingus affirms ugliness is a conduit for magnificence.

“Magnificence has always been with us. Always been there in the freak shows—staring back at the gawking crowd, in the back rooms of the brothels, in the fields fresh with cotton, on the street corners in the middle of the night, as the bombs drop, in our breaths after surviving the doctor’s office, crossing the border, in the first quiet moments of a bloody face after the attack is done. Magnificence was there.”

I consider how the arenas of spectacle is lined with complicating ground, a metaphysical quicksand, whereby way of presentation and performance we attempt to beautify. I participate even now—even here. The point of sharing anecdotes about my allergies was to present a scenery of ugliness, which is perhaps overshadowed by the fact I’ve taught myself to write with a resolve and rhythm that’ll always be artistically pleasant for me to read back even if I wince at the subject matter.

The paradox of spectacle.

The ugly—in its centring on the stage—is reified as a contorted form of beauty. Perhaps, the most magnificent thing that ugliness can be is divorced from the paradigms of spectacle altogether, rendered not egregious nor triggering of disgust but simply a realm of everyday discomfort, like stubbing a toe, missing a bus or stepping in dog shit.

When I thought of this piece and titled it—I assumed it would conclude with a desire to reclaim. But there are so many ways that reclamation can be a trap; a way to reposition elements of the oppressed through oppressive infrastructure.

Something else has been happening as I’ve been writing, too. This is a topic I feel shaky about, unqualified to speak about with any authority, and so I’ve let my mind meander in a manner that I don’t typically. I am freestyling because, on the immense topic of western beauty standards, the holes I’d usually jam my feet into are not as clear, there is no angle I concretely have, no set path that I can traverse in your field of vision that will lead to a polished nugget of knowledge.

No.

On the topic of beauty standards—maybe beauty itself—I am searching for a truth that shifts as perpetually as the surface of the sun. A way of seeing and accepting things as they are, how they appear and what they could be all at once. I peer at ugliness, not as something greater or less than beauty but simply a different texture, a texture that isn’t indistinguishably tethered to immorality but signpost seeking to clarify our own assumptions of evil, disgust, or weakness. Ugliness as a confrontation of the spirit.

There is a potential destruction in the euphoria of beauty, when desire begins to button it. Such pursuits have guided me towards, and indeed torn-down, the most memorable relationships and experiences. There are violences in beauty, nestled beneath the perfect symmetries and fuzzy feelings, that ugliness could never commit. And if we only ever fixate on the beautiful, it is inevitable that we mistake those violences for ugliness.