IP yip yip

Look at me, all brave. Stealing the IP of Kenan Malik. Or is this the property of the New York Times? Gosh, it’s so hard to tell who owns what these days. Anyway, below is a defence of cultural appropriation typed by Kenan Malik. By the time I’m done, my blood pressure will be up twenty points and I’ll look like an idiot in public, but I suspect I’ll look less idiotic than Kenan Malik. For this witless motherfucker has done the classic, classic, classic bait and switch on the topic. He says we’re all richer for cultural mixing. He’s wrong. Having your cultural markers stolen for profit makes somebody richer, and wanting to prevent that is not gatekeeping, it’s survival. He says that all cultural practices are up for grabs because anything else may prevent the privileged from having compassion for the underprivileged, which is a narrow case of special pleading aka bullshit. And he skates by colonialism as if it isn’t the SINGLE BIGGEST ISSUE facing all content creators these days; it’s the issue that palimpsest-wise underlies his argument, and he avoids it the way a cab driver just doesn’t see you when he’s booking off shift.

LONDON – It is just as well that I’m a writer, not an editor. Were I editing a newspaper or magazine, I might soon be out of a job. For this is an essay in defense of cultural appropriation.

yeah, well fuck you. You start out from a position of privilege and you want more.

In Canada last month, three editors lost their jobs after making such a defense.

yeah, well fuck you. They were unprofessional, racist and FUCKING STUPID <<<<<<—– the way elites never get how fragile their blessed state is ——-> and gloriosky, they lost their jobs.

The controversy began when Hal Niedzviecki,

A man with a history of racism and stiffing writers, oh yes. …. gosh, is this a trend? A trans woman of colour told me he stiffed her for solicited writing. It wasn’t much money, but honey, when a first nations content creator thinks she’s selling me something I FUCKING PAY FOR IT. SO … right off the top, a racist asshole with holes in his pockets is represented as being ‘besieged’ ‘beleaguered’ and ‘besmirched’ for having a problematic opinion in public. Will Robinson is getting the danger page from his puckering butthole at this point, at least in the universe I inhabit.

editor of Write, the magazine of the Canadian Writers’ Union, penned an editorial defending the right of white authors to create characters from minority or indigenous backgrounds. Within days, a social media backlash forced him to resign. The Writers’ Union issued an apology for an article that its Equity Task Force claimed “re-entrenches the deeply racist assumptions” held about art.

OKAY LET’S JUST STOP RIGHT HERE. What Mr. Malik, administering his homeopathically weak smackdown of this ‘defence of racist writers for getting shit wrong’ aka ‘horrible censorship event’ fails to mention is ANYTHING LIKE CONTEXT. THE WRITE ISSUE WAS SPECIFICALLY AN ISSUE ABOUT INDIGENOUS WRITING. Okay, let’s go again. THE WRITE ISSUE WAS SPECIFICALLY AN ISSUE ABOUT INDIGENOUS WRITING. He could have put his feelings in his blog. He could have penned it for another publication. That would have been gruesome, but in the era of Doubledown Douchenozzledom, Racist Edition, he used a position of privilege to kick the living snot out of the people who were being represented in the mag. Gosh, folks, you should have seen my twitter feed when this all went down. Indigenous activists and writers were foaming, and justifiably so. Niedzviecki knew up front he was going to get shit, and for the first little while he laughed at the shit he got. Then he went OH SHIT, which is what you do when that college kid “just for a lark” smirk gets wiped off your face by real life.

Another editor, Jonathan Kay, of The Walrus magazine,

A man who, ha ha, is well known as being a Joseph Boyden supporter (another riproaring case of mighty whitey, writing himself into native history with his very well reviewed (by whites) book “Orenda”). He only writes about native issues to talk about how racist natives are, let’s just skip all the decolonializing reasons Mohawk peoples might want to get white people off their land on Canada’s dime. Here’s the link. http://news.nationalpost.com/full-comment/jonathan-kay-the-one-place-in-canada-where-racism-is-still-tolerated-native-reserves. Now that’s not inflammatory at all. He could be talking about any kind of racism that happens in Canada. He could talk about how the city of Thunder Bay has more racially motivated hate crimes per capita than any other place in Canada; the hate crimes are overwhelmingly committed by white people on FN people. But the most racist place in Canada is a reserve. No hon, the most racist places in Canada are not reserves. They’re prisons. But I’ll stick the ‘and in conclusion, fuck you’ pin in that for the time being. WHY IN THE EVERLOVING FUCK would we want to take this asshole seriously about race issues, SPECIFICALLY about First Nations. The multiple appropriations of land, language, people, culture have no emotional content for him; FN are just getting upset because they’re special snowflakes. No hon, you’re the special snowflake, thinking Canada is 150 years old and that makes the First Nations 150 years old too. This kind of racism I call “Measuring the universe with a tapeline the same size and shape as you.” It’s another example of “I’m not racist but we should talk about how all injuns are alcoholic jailbirds,” but tidier… prettier… publishable by the Capitalist Choir of Discordant Twaddle responsible for the National Post.

was also compelled to step down after tweeting his support for Mr. Niedzviecki. Meanwhile, the broadcaster CBC moved Steve Ladurantaye, managing editor of its flagship news program The National, to a different post, similarly for an “unacceptable tweet” about the controversy.

I don’t suppose you’d care to guess what format this unacceptable tweetstorm took. A whole bunch of well-known, well-connected, mostly white writers and journalists, gathered ’round their beleaguered fellow lickspittle to mock the people who took offence and to pledge money for a “Cultural appropriation” writer’s prize. Steve was up for giving $500 but one thing I know about these folks is that they’re faster to pledge cash than cough it up, so I can well believe the fucker was kidding and I’ll give him my brightest and shiniest hall pass for that.

It’s not just editors who have to tread carefully. Last year, the novelist Lionel Shriver generated a worldwide storm after defending cultural appropriation in an address to the Brisbane Writers Festival.

Mr. Malik fails to provide the context, again. Shriver played the clueless and hectoring old white guy (surprise, she’s an American woman) in front of a group of people who mostly thought she was right on. Strangely, indigenous people and people of colour in the audience were horrified, oh puhleez. Them coloured folks and their identity politics, getting all mad about sombreros and such. They didn’t find her arguments about how white people should have unfettered access to all cultural traditions (so they can get the last word in, steer the narrative, drown out indigenous voices and get the fat stacks) convincing, mostly because saying that you mean well when you’re handing out the cultural equivalent of smallpox blankets just doesn’t go down as smoothly as it did two hundred years ago, who knew. Of course fiction is ‘fake’ Shriver but that doesn’t meant it isn’t real, and representation matters if the people being represented are being lied to and about

even more than when you get it right.

Earlier this year, controversy erupted when New York’s Whitney Museum picked for its Biennial Exhibition Dana Schutz’s painting of the mutilated corpse of Emmett Till, a 14-year-old African-American murdered by two white men in Mississippi in 1955. Many objected to a white painter like Ms. Schutz depicting such a traumatic moment in black history. The British artist Hannah Black organized a petition to have the work destroyed.

I would have been happy with the painting not being publicly displayed, but I’ve read Hannah’s letter and I understand where she’s coming from.

Other works of art have been destroyed. The sculptor Sam Durant’s piece “Scaffold,” honoring 38 Native Americans executed in 1862 in Minneapolis, was recently being assembled in the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden. But after protests from indigenous activists that Mr. Durant was appropriating their history, the artist dismantled his own work, and made its wood available to be burned in a Dakota Sioux ceremony.

Which is a fine response. Works of art are destroyed by their creators all the time. I’ve torched my own shit, and why not, it was shit and it was mine.

What is cultural appropriation, and why is it so controversial? Susan Scafidi, a law professor at Fordham University, defines it as “taking intellectual property, traditional knowledge, cultural expressions, or artifacts from someone else’s culture without permission.” This can include the “unauthorized use of another culture’s dance, dress, music, language, folklore, cuisine, traditional medicine, religious symbols, etc.”

It’s not just the permission. It’s the context. It’s the taking as if the act of taking ‘makes you native’ or ‘makes you black’ or ‘honours the traditions’ when it patently, replicably and reliably does not.

Appropriation suggests theft, and a process analogous to the seizure of land or artifacts. In the case of culture, however, what is called appropriation is not theft but messy interaction. Writers and artists necessarily engage with the experiences of others. Nobody owns a culture, but everyone inhabits one, and in inhabiting a culture, one finds the tools for reaching out to other cultures.

But the messy interaction is one-sided. Members of the dominant culture, with law, language, media and custom on their side, interact with the traditions of indigenous and creolized and ancient cultures from a mixture of fear, hatred, stark envy and jealousy, and call it art. Sure art’s theft; but it should also be thought made visible, and the thinking that’s made visible is DOMINANT CULTURE CAN STEAL ANYTHING IT LIKES AND IF YOU COMPLAIN you’re WHINY LITTLE BASTARDS WHO DON’T UNDERSTAND THE BROAD SWEEP OF 2500 YEARS OF COLONIAL HISTORY. Urk.

Critics of cultural appropriation insist that they are opposed not to cultural engagement, but to racism. They want to protect marginalized cultures and ensure that such cultures speak for themselves, not simply be seen through the eyes of more privileged groups.

The tone here is like Saruman chiding Gandalf in The Two Towers. To be chastised is one thing. To be told that your feelings are going to go in a big stew of rhetoric and come out normalized and standardized… part of the dominant culture, acceptable…. yeesh.

Certainly, cultural engagement does not take place on a level playing field. Racism and inequality shape the ways in which people imagine others. Yet it is difficult to see how creating gated cultures helps promote social justice.

Everything is mine to steal and my theft promotes social justice. Fucking breathtaking, isn’t it? Nobody creates a gated culture to start out with, but it may end up that way if anything you leave lying around gets stolen by white assholes – who tell you they’re doing you a favour by popularizing your cultural ideals, and then laugh in your face when you want to get paid. He wrote more, but since I don’t want to quote any more from this masterwork of spineless sucking up to thieves and monsters, I’ll just take my blood pressure off someplace else now. Okay, last questions. Why do members of the dominant culture have so little going on in their own minds that they must appropriate someone else’s marginalized culture in the first place? What failure of imagination is this, and why does Malik get so exercised in its defence?

800 words yesterday total

I’m finally spinning up to speed again (I’m also parallel writing a fanfic which is a technical exercise on re-using story elements, stacked differently, a sort of Cloud Atlas-style porny ice cream sandwich, which I’m enjoying. And it, too, is problematic, but hey, disabled people have sex lives and representation matters.)

Sixers who ‘live original’ have conversations once — and then stop. Sixers who’ve been hanging around human beings tell the same stories over and over again. and…. I just wrote another 500 words. Inbound, mOm. Nereus gets some help….

256 words yesterday, 141 so far today

First thing that happened to me today was misplacing my glasses. Good thing I keep a special set of glasses in a special place for when I need to go looking for my glasses. SO it’s all good now.

Work on HOTM continues. I’m dividing the first chapter out into three; Lara’s journey, George’s ‘spinning in place’ and Kima reprising most of the mistakes she made when she got pregnant, thinking she knows it all when she really, really doesn’t. Right now she’s hanging nav lights and yelling at George to quit squirming.

500 words today

I think I’m going to enjoy writing Honey in the Moon or Honey On the Moon, haven’t figured out which I’m going with. (There’s George being perfectly still because if he moves, Kima complains.)

The man who supplied the voice for Wallace in Wallace and Gromit has passed. He was pushing 1000 (96).

I slept like 12 hours today. I just don’t want to do any work unless I’m getting paid for it LOL.

Three more shifts after this one….

 

YAY I MOWED THE WEEDS

The last week

Came home from work at 8, having picked up some groceries, made some salad, and collapsed. I literally only just woke up 20 minutes ago, which means I slept for six hours and a bit. Now it’s time to head downstairs and find out if there is anything on the pvr.

Since I’ve told everybody else who’s important, I’ll tell the world.  I resigned last week and the 8th is my last shift. It’s not prudent or mature to talk about reasons; please do assume I had them. Working midnights was not the reason. There were many others, and I’ll stay quiet.

Here and elsewhere

Got a brief message from Mike; his insomnia is ragging him hard. He’ll call me later. 

Katie and Alex called, they’re coming over for coffee. I’d had a half-hearted wish to go to church this morning for the next to last service of the church year but sticky kisses from grandson come *first*.

Rowena will not stay in tune. That’s okay, the character I took her name from doesn’t stay in tune either. Hopefully my demi-luthier buddies will help me fix the problems.  Still plugging away at a tune or two.

Sent off the first 3000 words or so of Honey in the Moon to mOm, hopefully that will provide some entertainment.

Old mattress is now back on the top bunk bed and I have some room to maneuvre in here again. 

later

Mah god, playing pinball (Xenon) with Alex is now my go-to happy place The look on his face when that chuffing sound comes on is pure joy. Bwub-wub-wub-wub…

Kids and Alex have come and gone; it was lovely to have them and Jeff and I are kinda bagged all of a sudden.

I feel rather splendid though, having contrived to get mOm to speak to all of her descendants in rapid succession.

 

flight patterns

Calamari’s off the menu

 — all my alien friends are AIs consorting as cuttlefish 

who don’t wear clothes since it’s pointless when you never know for sure

which end your limbs will sprout from —

locavores can be boring but they’re not wrong

I want hearts of palm and freesias in winter

all flown in

I’m a fool for that deep sticky pressurized

pool of oil

 

massive and incremental

all the changes, pecked to death by ducks

 

the earth our opponent

I can’t understand how that’s supposed to work

 

space-x just launched something and I watched it in real time with Jeff

all as it should be, hardly any waste, everything visible and shared

it’s going to the ISS and it’s a good thing; a place where the Americans and Russians are demonstrating genuine goodwill, not this wild tango of unsanitary deliberate disinformation

I’m so wretched about all of that

so wretched with it

so brought low

the sun’s a fleering halfwit in a pollen tank

blinking through clouds

each string and bone of this wildhearted body torqued at random 

blinking through dry eyes and excruciating cut scenes

Flee — I’d love to — if I believed there was a place

elsewhere than a thief of progress 

for the progress (or its lack) is forever with me

whether I redeem my aeroplan points or not

The confessional is open

I like sex and getting to the bathroom quickly. It’s amazing how those two hobbies have influenced my clothing purchases over the last ten years.

So a FN woman was commenting on twitter about her continued and risible fondness for ‘unavailable white dick’ otherwise known as ‘the flirty white dicks of nullibiety’ and I responded that I had a white hot spot of recognition. But that sounded racist even though it wasn’t, so I changed it to red hot. Realized that was definitely going to sound racist. too. Changed it to orange hot in the end, that worked. She will never know how much I revised that poem.

I didn’t know I was a masochist until I started working on my racism. Until you start to enjoy getting hurt, there’s not much progress and the learning never sticks.

Okay, the hors-d’oevres are dealt with.

(HORN STAB! Ã  la 5 Million Years to Earth!)

I was once the victim of demonic possession.

Before you put your hands to your mouths and pull down excitedly on the necks of your henleys, I must add an instant caveat, which is that no such goddamned thing ever happened. I had a brief and unintentional thought experiment pass over me, and it left a trail of wreckage in its wake that took weeks to clear.

I was at the inlaws’, and the only reading material was godly material, and under the influence of those badly written but somehow compelling works (one was a takedown of the Masons that read like it had been written by a committee of godly wackos) I started to think ‘what if I’m wrong about this whole atheism thing?’ And I felt the miasma of religion swallow, and engulf, and otherwise be rude with my person. I struggled and fought to throw the horrible ideas off; among those ideas that I was condemned to hell, that I was an abomination in the sight of God, and all those other feelings that you get when you’re in full doubt mode. 

The fact that the bed was as miserably uncomfortable is it’s possible to be while not involving sprawling on rocks in sub-zero temperatures might have had something to do with my mental agony. These things are, as they say, deeply intertwingled.

Anyway, I finally perceived the thought experiment as an external, demonic influence, a voice and a personality attempting to pierce the veil of my mind and gain control over it. It was entirely ghastly and it was easily two weeks before I was out from under the feelings and thoughts.

No, I was not subject to demonic possession. BUT I WAS RAISED ATHEIST and my parents are deeply committed to rationality and scientific enquiry and they also raised me to question my own perceptions against a large array of cognitive balancers, always a bittersweet advantage in a world where the irrational seems to mean PAYDAY but really means MAGICAL THINKING WILL SCREW US ALL.

Point being that if I can be made to briefly believe things that aren’t true, then people who sit in front of Fox all day are hosed.

progress

400 words on The Book of Kind Words. I’m kinda cheating and writing the preface, but it’s writing, the alternately hectoring and beguiling style of my homilies.

New mattress seems fine and I’m not sorry I bought it – it’s amazing how they can cram this thing into a tiny box..  I am having *a* regret about the dulcimer though, I’m going to have to get somebody to sand off the fret buzz for the low D. In time, in time; I’m otherwise reasonably happy with the new instrument and have already set to work on a choon. She shall be called Rowena, or did I mention that yet. Of course +2 people know why but that’s my lot in life, to forever be playing to the smallest clique in the room.

I’m at a pivot point in my life and I need to clarify what to concentrate my efforts on but of course there are a million projects (40, eckshully, real ones) and I am but one puffed up goldbrick. 

Not been editing

3,000 words on Honey on the Moon in total – I’m working on it every day –  only 85K to go har har.

Mattress arrived today.

I ordered and received an appalachian dulcimer from Robert Worth and it ALSO arrived today, 60 bucks customs due excuse the fuck out of me.

I will stop spending money now; thankfully payday is Wednesday.

Feeling much lighter

I edited AND wrote yesterday (SOTW and HotM respectively) and practiced mandolin, and worked a shift, and did a shop, and felt gross and slept too much.

Now I’m feeling really kinda okay.  I was still getting migraine signs until a couple of hours ago, but I think it’s lifted and I’m much more cheerful.

There are apparently 113 fire trucks at the Cherry Street Fire in Toronto right now. Toxic smoke would be even worse if it hadn’t been raining off and on through the night.

 

I can’t sleep

I thought I’d do a bit of a core dump.

Why do I want to write? “Find the why and you’ll find the way,” says Michael T. Sheehan.

It seems an absurd question. Once I mastered letters, they were indeed my servants. I can make them line up and do things other people do not even attempt to do, especially not in the length of time I generally give myself to do it.

I write because I can. I write because characters sidle up to my mind and kick my ass and breathe in my ear and get anxious, anxious I tell you, when I don’t get them right. I write because I briefly visualize something interesting, (it has to be brief, as my powers of visualization are not great) or synthesize two or three pieces of recently discovered tech or science into a McGuffin. I write because I’m in love with someone else’s characters, and I want them to have a thousand first kisses, a thousand first sensual caresses, a thousand first ‘no, you say what you were going to say’ moments. The awkwardness and pressure of first lust, that wickedly funny burgeoning that fires HOLY FUCK along every synapse and ends in sticky cuddles. I write because until the editing starts, it’s fun. I write because even when it’s not fun, it’s worthwhile.

I write because I can spell. I know that sounds stupid, and spelling is nothing on talent, Chip Delany and Gerald Durrell being classic examplars. But I can see the words and they are as solid and real as bricks, except of course no one else can feel that way. I write because I’ve had a lot of experiences, mostly good, and I want to share them. I write because villains are trite, heroes are hard, and outwardly unremarkable people are anything but. I write because I fantasize a lot, about a lot of different things. I write because I am interested in just about everything except keeping my room clean.

I write because I don’t have to clean my room when I’m writing.

I write because I want to sew a bead on the things you think when you’re in the process of changing your mind about something. I write because I love talking, and I love dialogue. I write because I can say what I want to say about things that are important to me.

I write because nobody sees the world the way I do, and yet with each passing year I get more like everyone else. I don’t understand how that works, I may never.