Everything is local but, for once, the tables were turned
A global calamity, a clear opportunity for lessons to be learned
The shakedown had clarified a taxonomy of optimists and pessimists
A hierarchy of outlooks astride the great game of power and politics

Some put their faith in the state, the competence of the chiefs was unquestioned
A matter of organization, for their high priesthood, of rules and regulations
Call them optimists, the power of the collective was their proving ground
Leading by example, with a touch of advocacy, the rest would come around

Their leading lights lived mainly in the environs of Chwedru, to the east
The Wan tribe had a strict policy of zero tolerance for social diseases
Clear-eyed about the efficacy of doctrine, and serious, they brooked no loose ends
A coterie of technocrats at heart bent on engineering the right dividends

The other side of the coin, protectionist by nature, craved independence
Closed borders, crass provincialism, the very antithesis of openness
Nationalists of a sort, touting the virtues of self-sufficiency
Fatalistic opinions, a dim view of the prospects for humanity

Still, never let a crisis go to waste, it was a buying opportunity
This foundational insight lay at the very heart of their identity
Caricatured as common vultures, feasting on the carrion of catastrophe
Danger lay everywhere, only the paranoid survived latent vulnerability

These others, Ushers mostly, believed strongly that it was every man for himself
Effective cooperation was a pipe dream, they thought, it simply couldn't be helped
They would always make the best of a bad situation
Seeking every advantage to enhance their position

All of the three tribes of humanity were afflicted with disaster capitalists
It seemed quite clear that there was an influential cohort of catastrophists
Who would squeeze the lifeblood, the very essence, at every opportunity
The last gasps were their rightful due, profits, the fruits of inequality

Black gold to extract, fodder for crown jewels
They believed in the reign of the righteous few
Going by past evidence, they were certain that their position would be strengthened
Indeed the tensions of the present moment rather heightened the contradictions

Armed with trickle down bromides out of the mouth of juju tricksters
Dispensing sweet lies, the opiates of the masses, voodoo elixirs
With marketing prowess in abundance, masters of the art of the deal
Those rubes in the torrid zone would surely succumb to their appeal

And even the less cynical thought that a technological fix was in order
The medicine men and the panoply of scribes would surely find a panacea
And even if the notion of herd immunity had proved to be a chimera
The lesson was clear: error is a poor friend but an excellent teacher

The stage was set, the afflictions of the gods had raised a challenge
Would humanity, in the face of such different postures, be able to manage?
Between those who expected fundamental change and even better days ahead
Or those who were bent on consolidation amidst social upheaval instead

Shakedown, jostling for power, a radical restructuring
Which way would the tribes go in the face of this testing?
The challenge had been raised, now it was down to performance
Those who seemed best prepared had paid their soul insurance

Shakedown, a playlist

A soundtrack for this note (spotify version)

See previously Shakedown Part 1 and Protection Racket Part 2

Next in Part π Pressure Group, new variants on the horizon


File under: humour, satire, culture, observation, folktale, Ananse, storytelling, whimsy, myth, coronavirus, pandemic, Social Living, Things Fall Apart, Observers are worried, Buyer's Remorse, hatchet job, covidious, poetry, toli

Writing log. October 7, 2022

Ananse was a folk etymologist at heart, a man of the people
The spider kept his ear to the ground as he considered the sequel
What glorious phrase would future scribes use to coin his next endeavor?
How to top his previous mischief and count the ways in which he was clever

Shakedown - rather than a search, a process or a period of adjustment
The definition of shakedown that he preferred was readily apparent
He'd done it repeatedly, the squeeze plays of yore had come to fruition
Yes indeed, he was ready to embark on another instance of subtle extortion

He recalled that the chief linguist of the Ushers was a man of few principles
Indeed, he'd tried to cut him out of the earlier deal, the dirty rotten scoundrel
Functional defenestration was the prospect now that his red lines had been crossed
For a toothless dog contents itself with licking the bones it is tossed

Never one to forget a slight, he resolved to press ahead with his approach
He would emphasize that his no pressure tactics were beyond reproach
Add a sweetener, mention that his policies came with an extended warranty
Throw in a no fault clause or even, if need be, a money back guarantee

Along with Sika the actuary, he prepared the shape of the package
Not that he expected them to do due diligence, that he could manage
No, the threat raised of the claims adjuster's wrath would be the stern stick
Their thoughtful words, honeyed at that, would be the carrot that would mislead

This had all the makings of the ultimate protection racket
For the Ushers had painted themselves as an attractive target
Preparation was all, he would engage every option as a backup plan
Fifi, that young wastrel, duly suborned, would be his inside man

Of course, he would structure the transaction with opaque layers
They would be unable to perceive the extent of their betrayal
By the time they would discover the deception, it would be too late
And the mortification at their now-obvious failure would be great

Ananse was mindful of the old proverb that explained it best
Namely that when a farmer is clearing a path in the forest,
It is only somebody else who stands behind them - and this was the insight
Who can actually tell that the path is veering to the left or the right

With sleight of hand, misdirection and other elements of deceit
What they believed was immaterial, what mattered was their conceit
Such were the main tricks of the trade, along with a touch of hyperbole
All of which worked to confound, relying on the inability to properly see

If indeed beauty and greed lay in the eye of the beholder
Ananse held that blindness and conceit were the prey of the deceiver
While it was said that the best cons were elegantly wrought
Experience taught that you should always check what you bought

Shakedown, then, the lynchpin of Ananse's strategy
Shakedown, mindful of humanity's peculiarities
Shake down and see who is ultimately left standing
Shake them down, they were headed for a hard landing

The Ushers fancied themself sophisticates and rugged individualists
Unable to consider the collective, they simply ignored systemic risk
A disastrous posture when the gods were set on testing their mettle
Force majeure, market turmoil would reveal the extent of the bezzle

Shakedown, a playlist

A soundtrack for this note (spotify version)


See previously Shakedown Part 1

Next in Part 3 A Bestiary of Sorts

File under: humour, satire, culture, observation, folktale, Ananse, storytelling, whimsy, myth, coronavirus, pandemic, Social Living, Things Fall Apart, Observers are worried, Buyer's Remorse, hatchet job, covidious, poetry, toli

Writing log. October 6, 2022

To the gods, the evidence was clear, if not incontrovertible
That humanity had decided to forgo the mosquito principle
For their appetites were proving to be, as advertised, insatiable
They were content to accept losses that were once said to be incalculable

Without skipping a beat, some had even returned to their violent ways
Unable to suppress their pathologies, they had been counting the days
Lining up conquests to embark on and making blunt threats of annexation
The specter of grievous calamity, they roundly dismissed as mere vexation

The poisoned chalice of free will was such that you could choose to be insane
But after a fair warning, the punishment due was the application of pain
By this stage, the claims adjuster was well practiced so he remained patient
After all, enforcing the gods' will was only a matter of launching a new variant

Still it was rather puzzling, the situation that humanity faced
The nature of their hubris, the bravado and confidence misplaced
Rather than accept the lessons of the global pause and embrace solidarity
Their vision of the new world order was strictly limited to the pecuniary

The commercial among them had taken extreme measures to preserve their interests
The profit imperative had blinded them to sense and made them thoroughly reckless
Business never personal, went their mantra, easy money, unearned rents
The prospect of a hard day's work for them was simply without precedent

As to the gods, the minds of Nyame and Nyankopon were firmly set on a shakedown
To place humanity under continued scrutiny, a kind of metaphorical lockdown
A thoroughgoing investigation of their tendency to be reckless
What central bankers in these modern times might call a stress test

Odomankoma and Asase Yaa, on this matter, were more tolerant and considerate
Laissez faire by inclination, theirs was a light touch take on this debate
Willing to cut humanity a little slack so long as they didn't make a fuss
And even more if they made good faith efforts to protect the least of us

And one could point to a few signs of realignment
The picture was mixed, it was not all disappointment
One heard in parts of some amount of forbearance
Cutting through perhaps, the lessons of soul insurance

But there were limits, and these turned on matters of integrity
It wouldn't do to allow rank sin and iniquity
Agency was one thing but it was hard to abide hypocrisy
After all, the phrase did have meaning: excessive liability

Nyame took the lead in enforcement and made to summon the claims adjuster
This last reassured the god that plans were well advanced for humanity's next chapter
Indeed before long they'd be cast as stars of modern day horror stories
Staffing shortages and supply chain snafus would be the least of their worries

Still, Nyame reiterated that due process must be followed
Nyankopon added that the social fabric need not be hollowed
That lip service be paid to probity in as much as could be managed
Although the response from the gods must, of necessity, be seen to be savage

The claims adjuster agreed that it was time to put his foot down
And set about to put into high gear the plans for the shakedown
Serendipity, as far as variants went, he'd now reached the magic number
Pi, archaic though it may be, it would give them something to remember

Shakedown, a playlist

A soundtrack for this note (spotify version)

• Shake you Down by Gregory Abbott
• People get Ready by Brand New Heavies
• Risin' to the Top by Keni Burke
• Shake Your Body (Down to the Ground) by The Jacksons
• Let's Get Back to Love by Loose Ends
• Shakedown by Brand New Heavies
• Your Mess by Omar
• (If You Ain't) Comfortable by Lynden David Hall
• Soul Shakedown Party by Bob Marley
• Shake Down Blues by Blind Boy Fuller
• Shake Down by Evelyn "Champagne" King

Next in Part II. Protection Racket, Ananse seeks easy profits

See the previous covidious folktales: Soul Insurance and Buyer's Remorse

File under: humour, satire, culture, observation, folktale, Ananse, storytelling, whimsy, myth, coronavirus, pandemic, Social Living, Things Fall Apart, Observers are worried, Buyer's Remorse, hatchet job, covidious, poetry, toli

Writing log. October 5, 2022

Close to the Masonic Lodge,
Near the order of Odd Fellows
By the Temple of the Goddess of Mercy,
Around the block from the cathedral
With the mosque in the background,
The calls of muezzins and roving preachers
The distractions were many, but one could see Hill House around the way

Where a society of friends would gather in quiet devotion
Mindful of the other faiths in their midst,
   the fierce competition for souls
No exuberant dancing
  as with the nightclub vibe of the new christianity
A meeting of minds in a circle close to the ground,
   theirs was solemnity

Eschewing ostentation, riches were to be expended on the spirit
Sharing thoughts, joyful worship but always in a minor key
The paths that life may take you on, the fateful journeys
Ever outwards, sometimes worlds away, yet reaching back to that weekly home

The comforting silences of friends, the keen observations
Most of all, the peaceful reflections and the fellowship
A region of the mind centered on earth, grace fixed in memory
The enduring appeal, sustaining; the reach of Hill House

Hill House, a playlist

A soundtrack for this note (spotify version)

• This is my story, this is my song by Thelonious Monk
• Abide with me by Thelonious Monk
• How my heart sings by Bill Evans Trio
• Be Not Always by The Jacksons
• How Can I Keep From Singing by Pete Seeger & Arlo Guthrie

File under: memory, culture, religion, Quaker, Ghana, Africa, observation, perception, Social Living, poetry, toli

Writing log. October 8, 2022

Much of online activity related to literature involves posting quotations from novels, invariably without commentary and attributed to the book's author with the implication that it is a statement of personal belief, sometimes as an authoritative comment on current affairs but mainly as a piquant insight into the human condition. That it is spoken in a specific context by a particular character, or by an anonymous narration protected by aura of the book, is tacitly ignored. This may be an innocent pursuit and not one to censure, but such innocence doesn't end there. Almost every discussion of a novel assumes the book under discussion offers access to something relatable and is the statement of the author enabled by free indirect discourse, the familiar mechanism unique to the novel in which the thoughts of a character are immediately available to third-person narration, comforting the reader like a safety blanket under which there is a secret to be found. Note how often reviews of literary fiction begin with the words About halfway through or Towards the end as if a chink in its book-armour has been discovered through which the secret can be disclosed. Genre fiction doesn't require such attention as the revelation of a secret defines it, which is why genre fiction should be read and not reviewed. Again, there is nothing to censure here. However, Timothy Bewes' Free Indirect: The Novel in a Postfictional Age cites contemporary novelists for whom the lore of literary fiction has become a problem. He quotes an interview with Rachel Cusk in which she says she is not interested in character because she believes character no longer exists, and another with WG Sebald who found the "modes of certainty" in fiction tedious and unacceptable, and while he did not stop writing novels, his narrators do not indulge in omniscience, leading to a perpetual delay of generic revelation. The problem, Bewes says, is not biographical as problems are necessary to the novel, but with what he calls 'instantiation', that is, how ideas in works of fiction are instilled without being explicit:

Just as the color red or green, a quality or attribute, is not named but instantiated by the presence of an apple in a bowl…so ideas in novels have no need of being espoused by a speaker within the work to transport their normative power to the outside.

In order to work, such qualities and attributes must not be explicit ("show don't tell"). What concerns these authors then is the assumptions instantiation brings, assumptions considered necessary to the form but, as Sebald claims, become a self-deceiving knowledge, mere inventions of "a straight line of a trail to calm ourselves down". To seek a less assumptive mode, a withdrawal from the modes of certainty becomes necessary, hence critical doubts about whether certain writers' novels are really novels, with the common rebuke that they have removed fiction from the novel, are lightly disguised autobiograph, or the greatest blasphemy of "writing about writing". This is what Bewes means by "postfictional", not perhaps an end to the novel so much as a development in which the constraints on imagination have become more challenging. When the abstraction of instantiation breaks down and fails to correspond to something universal and thereby relatable, it leaves something Bewes defines as the "free indirect" element of a novel. The third author cited in the introduction provides a good example. As a writer and a visual artist, Renee Gladman found that her drawing has the same relation to thought as writing, except the thought of drawing is "conducted by the hand". She wrote but what was produced were drawings.

"I wasn't writing. I was decidedly not-writing; even as I held this pen in my hand, I swore I wouldn't write. I didn't." At the same time, the writing continues by means of a transformation in the relation between its material and immaterial aspects. 

(Trusting to the movement of the hand over the page is something Gabriel Josipovici says in his 1999 book On Trust that writers such as Beckett did when faced with doubts and suspicion about their work.) The product of the Gladman's hand provides the 'thought' of a novel that Bewes is concerned with. If there is "no more fundamental question in literary studies than what a work means, whose thought it is voicing, what it is really saying", what does it mean when "the thought of the work is seen as fundamentally eluding 'the straight line of a trail', how can it become the object of a critical study? How is literary exposition possible?". 

Towards an answer Free Indirect focuses on the work of Lukács and Bakhtin, and while close attention is given to JM Coetzee's Elizabeth Costello, Deleuze's study of cinema provides the theoretical lead, with "free indirect" in cinema being what appears in the frame of the picture. With that comparison in mind, I have to say much of what I have written here gives only a pinhole view of the book. I cannot give an in-depth discussion of the book. Instead, I want to select elements of the book that relate to my concerns and respond to them in future posts. For instance, I wonder if there is confirmation of a crisis in the modes of certainty more generally in the recent proliferation of novels about novelists. I noticed it first when David Lodge and Colm Tóibín produced two novels with Henry James as their subjects. Before that, there were two novels with Dostoevsky as the central character: Coetzee's The Master of Petersburg and Summer in Baden-Baden by Leonid Tsypkin. Lodge and Tóibín have since written biographical novels about HG Wells and Thomas Mann respectively. Indeed, just last month I read Paul Theroux's 2024 novel Burma Sahib following a young Eric Blair as a colonial policeman and the incipient novelist George Orwell. And not just novelists: there also many recent novels about artists, musicians and philosophers. I have written about one or two: Jean Echenoz's Ravel and Lars Iyer's philosophers trilogy featuring surrogates of Wittgenstein, Nietzsche and Simone Weil, while the latter are not biographical they do seek to connect the thought of all three with life in the contemporary world. The turn, if it is one, may indicate awareness of an experience of art that floats free of exposition, something we experience when immersed in a work of art but troubles us because it enables only vague, unsatisfactory definition. As a result, we feel we must tether it to the ground, turning us into either potatoheaded booklovers, knowing reviewers or academics paring their fingernails. A purely fictional artist wouldn't do this because their reported work has only a reported aura. The trend continues accompanied by an increase in critical anxiety with the rise of autofiction in which a version of the living author replaces the biographical figure. If this indicates the future of the novel, what is the future if literary criticism? Perhaps we can respond without reference to any novels or novelists and without any reference to theories or theorists. But perhaps that is exactly what a novel is.

In those days we had a choice to make
Whether to raise our voice and be counted
The dilemma in the face of violence
For oppression is a determined foe

And even if silence was our blanket of loss
We marked the times of dread with patience
Consoled that relief would surely come
But always, in faith, we bore witness

Oh the threats we endured,
The heat of cold fury
Such threats that we faced
Those foregone opportunities
Survival carves its blood-tinged imprint
The mold is the human animal

Speak, memory
Of fond flesh departed
Of bonds disappearing
Speak of absences enforced,
This life of ellipses
Speak of unease and timeless worry
Of the heaving bodies we saw drawing their final breaths
Even as throughout, we listened and we stared

But even if a look only deflects the blows of a willful detractor
A burdened soul beholds a shield of grace
Protection that turns into a weapon
For mercy is ours to give

This, the gods have long made known:
Mercy is the gift


...

The fuel Justice layeth on, and Mercy blows the coals

— The Burning Babe by Robert Southwell

Mercy, a playlist

A soundtrack for this note (spotify version)

• Mercy Mercy Mercy by Cannonball Adderley Quintet
• Mercy Mercy Me (The Ecology) by Marvin Gaye
• Mercy Mercy by Don Covay
• Somebody Have Mercy by The Memphis Horns (ft. Bobby Womack)
• Have Mercy by Mighty Diamonds
• Somebody Have Mercy by Sam Cooke
• Mercy Mercy by Wilson Pickett
• Mercy Mercy Mercy by Caleb Quaye & the Faculty
• Quality of Mercy by Michelle Shocked
  Ending with a devastating take on the immortal line

...

And earthly power doth then show likest God's
When mercy seasons justice.

— The Merchant of Venice by William Shakespeare

I've always loved the way the Bard echoes Southwell... the quality of mercy is not strained.


See previously: The Voiceless Past, Speak, Memory, Wrath is for the Weak, Truth and Reconciliation


File under: culture, memory, observation, perception, strategy, displacement, mercy, empathy, Ghana, dissent, Africa, reconciliation, philosophy, Social Living, poetry, toli

Writing log. October 7, 2022