Sitting at home on a Saturday afternoon, eyeing the implacable to-do list. I’ve always believed a freelance writer’s work is never done. There is always another magazine to pitch, another blog to write, another idea to flesh out, another email to send, another newsletter to read. The opportunities are as limitless as grains of sand and each one missed feels like a small but meaningful moral failure.
That is my archaic Protestant blood; the part of me descended from Huguenots and who knows what else: Methodists, Calvinists, Puritans? They’re mixed up in my family tree. The clear line is work, duty and the precariousness of salvation. All I did was replace the fear of damnation with the fear of failure.
It is a poor exchange. The reward is as evanescent as the demands are arbitrary. What heaven? Whose definition of success?
I would like to have something wise to say about this and don’t.
What I can recommend to everyone, starting with myself, is to take the to-do list lightly. After the mushroom cloud, no one will remember or care if you ticked that last item off the list. Instead, spend serious time on things that have meaning right now. Like cooking a good meal, drinking a glass of wine, talking (not texting) to a friend. And reading books. Lots of books.
Media adds to the chaos and noise. There’s too much information, too much bullshit, too much chatter, too many memes, too much clickbait, too many ads disguised as editorial.
Books don’t have hyperlinks. Books create space for your mind to breathe. Books tell us how things worked out the last time around Off the top of my head, here are seven books you should read because they’ll help you make sense of right now.
To paraphrase he-who-shall-not-be-named “who the hell wants to talk about politics on a writing blog?” Alas. These are the times we live in. Times when we have no choice but to acknowledge the shitshow unfolding in the World’s Greatest Nation (TM).
Even the Senegalese hawkers selling beach blankets on Andalusia’s Costa de la Luz have opinions about HWSNBN, and are happy to share them. We can hide, apparently, but we can’t run from the catastrophic wrong of 8 November, 2016.
That disaster touched down at the Boy Scouts Jamboree on 24 July, ripping through common sense and common decency like a Russian-sponsored tornado.
The United States has no better citizens than its Boy Scouts.
Boys, ONLY BOYS, make the best citizens.
“Many of my top advisers in the White House were Scouts. Ten members of my cabinet were Scouts.”
Or maybe just the best yes-men to megalomaniacs?
Secretary of the Interior Ryan Zinke is here tonight…. Ryan is an Eagle Scout from Big Sky Country in Montana…. He makes sure that we leave our national parks and federal lands better than we found them in the best scouting tradition.
Secretary of Energy Rick Perry of Texas, an Eagle Scout from the great state…. So, Rick, thank you very much for being here. And we’re doing — we’re doing a lot with energy. And very soon, Rick, we will be an energy exporter. Isn’t that nice? An energy exporter.
Secretary Tom Price is also here today. Dr. Price still lives the Scout oath… And hopefully he’s going to gets the votes tomorrow to start our path toward killing this horrible thing known as Obamacare that’s really hurting us.
Ah yes, it’s Obamacare that hurts people. Not being bankrupted by medical bills; watching a loved one die too soon because they couldn’t afford healthcare; or being shut out of healthcare by rapacious insurance companies that refuse to cover “preexisting conditions”. Nope. Not that. Definitely the Affordable Care Act. Definitely to blame.
As the Scout law says, a scout is trustworthy, loyal — we could use some more loyalty I will tell that you that.
Blind loyalty. Wonderful character trait. For a Nazi foot soldier.
The fake media will say, “President Trump spoke” — you know what is — “President Trump spoke before a small crowd of Boy Scouts today.” That’s some — that is some crowd. Fake media. Fake news.
Go on. Infect the minds of impressionable kids with your disgusting, manipulative paranoia-mongering bullshit. Your the President. It’s your prerogative.
he went out and bought a big yacht, and he had a very interesting life. I won’t go any more than that, because you’re Boy Scouts so I’m not going to tell you what he did. (CROWD CHANTING) Should I tell you? Should I tell you? (APPLAUSE) You’re Boy Scouts, but you know life. You know life.
Did it involve pussy grabbing?
We have a tremendous disadvantage in the Electoral College. Popular vote is much easier.
Which you lost.
Under the Trump administration you’ll be saying “Merry Christmas” again when you go shopping, believe me.
But only in December. The rest of the year it’ll be: Sieg heil!
Do you see the billions and billions and billions of additional money that we’re putting back into our military? Billions of dollars. New planes, new ships, great equipment for our people that are so great to us. We love our vets. We love our soldiers.
Not enough to, you know, provide them with proper healthcare or mental health services, but still.
It’s the newest, largest and most advanced aircraft carrier anywhere in the world, and it’s named for an Eagle Scout — the USS Gerald R. Ford. Everywhere it sails that great Scout’s name will be feared and revered,
“Feared and revered” — it’s the new “winning hearts and minds”.
What you’ve done few have done before you.
Erm, been a Boy Scout? Pretty sure a few people have done that in the past 107 years.
But the words “duty,” “country” and “God” are beautiful words.
As long as you’re not Muslim. If you’re Muslim and say anything about duty or God we’ll call you a terrorist and lock you the fuck up.
What we did, in all fairness, is an unbelievable tribute to you and all of the other millions and millions of people that came out and voted for make America great again.
Either he’s admitting voter fraud, or he’s confused about the age of Boy Scouts.
This should be funny. It’s not, because it’s true. There is nothing funny about that man. Nothing funny about the wrecking ball he is gleefully swinging at the already fragile American infrastructure. Nothing funny for the people trapped in the rubble.
We have to find the words to fight back. Here are some books that can help us find them.
Like most Londoners, I am can’t look away from the awfulness of the Grenfell Tower fire and its aftermath. The death toll is at 30 and rising. Recriminations are flying.
Jonathan Freedland, writing in the Guardian, argues:
Grenfell Tower should mark a point of no return. No return to the frenzied deregulation, cost-cutting and rampant inequality of the last four decades. These are not new evils. They have been lurking for many years. But it took the light of a burning building for the whole nation to see them.
These are not new evils.
This is point is fresh and urgent in light of my current reading, Friedrich Engels’ sociological classic The Condition of the Working Class in England. Written in the 1840s, it reports with unsparing detail and more than a dash of bleak humour, on the mindless cruelties meted out on the poor.
Deregulation, cost-cutting and rampant inequality in the Industrial Era meant children in working in glass factories that were so hot the floor would burst into flames under their feet. It meant girls working 18 to 20 hour days in London sweatshops, sewing the elaborate dresses worn by their social superiors. It meant women giving birth and staggering back to the factory floor within days to slave for 12 or 14 hours at a stretch, bodies oozing milk and blood.
It also meant violence. At one point Engels defends the courage of the English working class by listing “Incendiarisms and attempted explosions.” In the course of a four months attempts were made to blow up three different factories in Sheffield, a knife and file works at nearby Shales Moor, and factories in Bury and Bolton. “Six cases in four months,” he notes, “all of which have their sole origin in the embitterment of the working-men against the employers. What sort of a social state it must be in which such things are possible I hardly need say.” (Italics mine)
Modern Tories, like the Victorian bourgeoisie, pay lip service to hard work. They tell us it is the path to dignity and fulfillment and social inclusion. That’s why you should do it for eight, 10, 12 hours per day, as many days a week as your employer sees fit. This is why you should accept zero hour contracts and hustle a second or third shift for Uber or Deliveroo (companies awash in unearned capital).
This is a lie, like everything else that seeps through their pursed lips. Capitalism, as an economic system, is not designed to reward work. If it were, cleaners would be making six-figures and braying public school boys would be on the dole. If it were the jobs that barely deliver a living wage in Britain, like social work, teaching, nursing, fire-fighting, caring, would make people rich.
The severing of the link between work and wealth is not an aberration of capitalism, it is the ideal. It isn’t a flaw; the system is working perfectly. Capitalism is designed to support the accumulation and concentration of capital. Concentration, by definition, means something that belongs to the few. A good starting point for understanding this is Thorsten Veblen’s The Theory of the Leisure Class.
Britain remains in the grip of its old evils because industrial capitalism evolved with a ruthless self-protection mechanism. English children no longer dip pottery into buckets of lead glaze with their bare hands, or die of consumption after inhaling industrial grit their entire lives. We’re not barbarians after all. Now the bourgeoisie suffocates the proletariat with hell of meaningless, repetitive, sub-living wage jobs.
“Nothing is more terrible than being constrained to do some one thing every day from morning until night against one’s will,” Engels writes. “And the more a man the worker feels himself, the more hateful must his work be to him, because he feels the constraint, the aimlessness of it for himself. Why does he work? For a love of work?… Not at all! He works for money, for a thing which has nothing whatsoever to do with the work itself; and he works so long, moreover, and in such unbroken monotony, that this alone must make his work a torture.”
Tories, like the factory barons of the 19th century, believe this torture is the birthright of the non-privileged. If you arrive in the world with capital you can participate in it with their blessing, otherwise, you can work.
This callousness rarely spills into overt murder in the enlightened 21th century. When it does, as with Grenfell Tower, it is an unfortunate outcome of fiscal prudence. Saving a few thousands pounds while insulating a tower block is perfectly reasonable. After all, there are MPs expenses to pay, second homes to keep up, children to send to private schools. These exquisite capitalists are generous about their own needs but frugal when it is someone else’s life in the balance.
I would like to have some pithy words of advice to wrap this up. A five-point plan, maybe, or six tips for survival. I’m sorry to say, nothing springs to mind. I’m mired in this system just as much as you, they and we all are.
“Protest and Persist” by Rebecca Solnit offers powerful ideas. Naomi Klein’s new book No Is Not Enoughmight have some pointers. If you have any suggestions, thoughts, or have a story to share, jump into the comments or Tweet @CilaWarncke.
Driving south on E McLemore I see a church on almost every block. What’s God up to in this corner of Memphis? Houses not dedicated to worship of the Almighty slump among empty lots: paint peeling, porch rails crumpled, concrete warping beneath the wheels of clapped-out cars.
It takes a minute for my eyes to adjust to the bright, solid lines of Stax Records. Properly, the Stax Museum of American Soul Music, a modern reconstruction of the iconic studio torn down in 1989 after a church failed to find a use for the shell.
If I believed in God, which I don’t, that would make me doubt. A righteous, omnipotent being wouldn’t let the finest thing on E McLemore vanish in dust. God would take better care.
Stax Records is to soul what Sun Records is to rock’n’roll. Stax was Otis Redding, Sam & Dave, Isaac Hayes, the Staple Singers, Rufus Thomas, Carla Thomas, the Mar-Keys, the Bar-Kays, Booker T. and the M.G.s, William Bell, Johnnie Taylor.
Inside, Stax is clean and calm. A short film tells the Stax story. How it was founded by Jim Stewart and his sister Estelle Axton (Stewart + Axton = Stax), both White. How it became a magnet for Black musicians, many of them kids from un-integrated local schools. How an alchemy of music and passion kept the place not just afloat but aloft. How Stax introduced Europe to soul and used music to bring unity to post-Watts Riots South Central LA.
Stax Records took virtually its whole roster into the South Central in 1972 for an epic concert called Wattstax. It was a joyous, defiant celebration of Black pride and unity.
I froze in front of the Wattstax display. I knew that voice: “This is a beautiful day. It is a new day.”
The next words were unfamiliar, as was the lack of piano chords beneath the voice, which rose and rose. “It is a day of Black awareness. It is a day of Black people taking care of Black people’s business.”
Jesse Jackson continued with words that, once again, reverberated with my memory: “Today we are together…. on this program you will hear gospel, and rhythm and blues, and jazz. All those are just labels. We know that music is music.”
I know Jackson’s soul-stirring speech as the intro to Primal Scream’s acid house masterpiece ‘Come Together’. But never, in the 15 years I’ve loved that record did I realise the Scottish ravers (or, more likely, their genius producer Andrew Weatherall) cribbed the best part of ‘Come Together’ from Stax Records.
Rev Jesse Jackson’s face shines from an LP on a wall of record covers. I am somebody.
Across the street from the Stax parking lot, two teenage boys lark around, holding trombones. On the pavement in front a handful of workmen stretch canvas over a frame, getting ready for a fundraiser. On the marquee: Staxtacular, February 11.
He tells of the brilliance. The betrayals. The triumphs. The catastrophes. The stories of people who made some of America’s finest music then, largely, slipped through the cracks of our cultural history.
Leaving Stax we drove past Royal Studios, erstwhile home of Hi Records. The small brick building with a bright mural painted over the door is the only thing in blocks that looks like it wouldn’t sway in a strong breeze. There’s no place to buy food in this neighbourhood apart from a couple of “grocery” stores with heavily barred windows and blistered paint. The houses look abandoned. Windows boarded, hemmed with weeds, screen doors hanging from a single hinge. The only business we pass is an AT&T outpost that looks like a prison, complete with razor-wire topped fences. Churches, though, have gleaming white porticoes and landscaping.
Subtly, lines soften as we head towards Midtown. Grass is greener. Blighted buildings give way to petrol stations to, finally, the accustomed restaurants, shops and offices.
I don’t know how to process the injustice, the beauty, the senseless repetition of tragic histories. Does anyone figure it out?
“Sorrow everywhere,” Jack Gilbert wrote. “Slaughter everywhere.
If babies are not dying someplace they are dying somewhere else.
With flies in their nostrils.
But we enjoy our lives, because that’s what God wants.”