The Poetics of July
An impossible short story, an impossible day
[ we had brought a bottle of rum, some ancient ritual we remembered from nowhere and no one We said here we are They lay in their corners, on their disintegrated floors, they lay on their wall of skin dust 'I want In the Wake to declare that we are Black peoples in the wake with no state or nation to protect us, with no citizenship bound to be respected, and to position us in the modalities of Black life lived in, as, under, despite Black death: to think and be and act from there', We sewed the rim of their skins with cotton Right? Sometimes it's just my job to do the things Fugitive, running a thousand miles toward freedom, flying down a path with no ending, colliding with each other, he asks her what she wants I have often wished myself a beast A million days in your arms echoes in the background as they argue about Luther's early and late style What, to the American slave, is your Fourth of July? We all stood there for some infinite time I'm in a deep dive around Al It was pressed upon me by every object within sight or hearing, animate or inanimate It had given me a view of my wretched condition, without the remedy There was no getting rid of it We all want slaves They stood when we entered, happy to see us We were pilgrims There is not a nation on the earth guilty of practices, more shocking and bloody, than are the people of these United States, at this very hour Incomprehensible technological power people of these United States, at this very hour It says wrong things like it's right! We want to build a thing as close to human that we can exploit your sounds of rejoicing are empty and heartless; We did weep, but that is nothing in comparison *** When I finally arrived at the door of no return, there was an official there, a guide who was either a man in his ordinary life or an idiot or a dissembler What he said, though, that had me be like, This is — [snickering] This is why we're fucked What, to the American slave, is your Fourth of July? The silver trump of freedom had roused my soul to eternal wakefulness If we are lucky, the knowledge of this positioning avails us particular ways of re/seeing, re/inhabiting, and re/ imagining the world A century later, the scene will be repeated your shouts of liberty and equality, hollow mockery; — a thin veil to cover up crimes which would disgrace a nation of savages [laughter] Yet, while trapped in the graveyard of the world and bereft of any future they can count on, they hold one another, sob with joy, never let go of each other's hand, reveal their scars, embrace as they fall, listen to the infinite playlist of love in a world where black life is all but impossible This is the holiest we ever were *** it is also my hope that the praxis of the wake and wake work might have enough capaciousness to travel and do work that I have not here been able to imagine or anticipate How lemon, they said, how blue like fortune We stepped one behind the other as usual Any thing, no matter what, to get rid of thinking! It was this everlasting thinking of my condition that tormented me They looked at us like violet; like violet teas they drank us The castle was huge, opulent, a going concern in its time In this other variant, the question is no less pressing: How is love possible for those dispossessed of the future and living under the threat of death? I saw nothing without seeing it, I heard nothing without hearing it, and felt nothing without feeling it A love theme drifts through the car This is what we had It was heard in every sound, and seen in every thing It is my particular hope that the praxis of the wake and wake work, the theory and performance of the wake and wake work, as modes of attending to Black life and Black suffering, are imagined and performed here with enough specificity to attend to the direness of the multiple and overlapping presents that we face; Should they stay or should they run? I want us to understand that impulse We did not have wicked gods so they understood And now we've created supercomputers that do the same thing *** Our gods were in the holding cells You are still alive, they said As I writhed under it, I would at times feel that learning to read had been a curse rather than a blessing Yes we are still alive They said with wonder and admiration, you are still alive, like hydrogen, like oxygen And we had returned to thank them The trio on the roof of the Metropolitan Tower will not produce a new race of men and the fugitive couple murdered on the tarmac will not enjoy a free state or make their way to Cuba It looked from every star, it smiled in every calm, breathed in every wind, and moved in every storm A century later, the scene will be repeated As an inherently Is love a synonym for abolition? your national greatness, swelling vanity; As an inherently And we might use these ways of being in the wake in our responses to terror and the varied and various ways that our Black lives are lived under occupation AGI, artificial general intelligence, means a computer that is as smart and can do anything that a human can do They said, you are still alive It took all my will "Y'all", Exhausted violet, the clerk interjects To him, your celebration is a sham; your prayers and hymns, your sermons and thanksgivings, with all your religious parade, and solemnity, are, to him, mere bombast, fraud, deception, impiety, and hypocrisy Our guide said, this was the prison cell for the men, this was the prison cell for the women Where it supersedes the capabilities of humanity We took the bottle of rum from our veins, we washed their faces I've talked about this before We said, yes, yes we are still alive They will not yield; they will not be moved I answer: a day that reveals to him, more than all other days in the year, the gross injustice and cruelly to which he is the constant victim What, to the American slave, is your Fourth of July? I think we all need to be in a deep dive around Al Freedom now appeared, to disappear no more forever She contemplates another horizon *** We were pilgrims I think it's a thing for us to be thinking about Look, I ain't gonna bend the world We took the bottle of rum from our veins, we washed their faces This is the holiest we ever were Exhausted violet, the clerk interjects For some strange reason he wanted to control the story Any thing, no matter what, to get rid of thinking! It was this everlasting thinking of my condition that tormented me That, I want a slave? Where it supersedes the capabilities of humanity They looked at us like violet; like violet teas they drank us We awakened our gods and we left them there, because we never needed gods again Because Violet files Violet chemistry Violet unction For, if we are lucky, we live in the knowledge that the wake has positioned us as no-citizen …75 more items ]
Yesterday I thought about writing a newsletter that can begin to hold how impossible yesterday is. That too, began to feel impossible. Instead I offer a collectively authored non-linear short story, a collage of footnotes, a citational quilt written in collaboration with a software I developed which randomly breaks and weaves sentences where there is a period (“.”). This non-linear short story was algorithmically generated with the following seed data: In The Wake: On Blackness and Being by Christina Sharpe1, The Blue Clerk: Ars Poetica in 59 Versos by Dionne Brand2, (Last weekend I went to see the Lessons of the Hour exhibition at the VMFA for a 3rd time which features performances of) “What, To The Slave, Is The Fourth Of July”3 and Life of an American Slave4 by Frederick Douglass, “The End of White Supremacy, An American Romance” by Saidiya Hartman5 and YouTube video transcript of “Where Do I Want A Slave?: AI and the White Male Imagination” by Sonya Renee Taylor6. This software and methodology is something we will explore in Seeda School’s upcoming offering, “Seed A Writing Practice: Creative Coding for Writers”.
For, if we are lucky, we live in the knowledge that the wake has positioned us as no-citizen. If we are lucky, the knowledge of this positioning avails us particular ways of re/seeing, re/inhabiting, and re/ imagining the world. And we might use these ways of being in the wake in our responses to terror and the varied and various ways that our Black lives are lived under occupation. I want In the Wake to declare that we are Black peoples in the wake with no state or nation to protect us, with no citizenship bound to be respected, and to position us in the modalities of Black life lived in, as, under, despite Black death: to think and be and act from there. It is my particular hope that the praxis of the wake and wake work, the theory and performance of the wake and wake work, as modes of attending to Black life and Black suffering, are imagined and performed here with enough specificity to attend to the direness of the multiple and overlapping presents that we face;. it is also my hope that the praxis of the wake and wake work might have enough capaciousness to travel and do work that I have not here been able to imagine or anticipate.
— In The Wake: On Blackness and Being by Christina Sharpe, pg. 22
When I finally arrived at the door of no return, there was an official there, a guide who was either a man in his ordinary life or an idiot or a dissembler. But even if he was a man in his ordinary life or an idiot or a dissembler, he was authoritative. Exhausted violet, the clerk interjects. Yes he was says the author, violet snares. For some strange reason he wanted to control the story. Violet files. Violet chemistry. Violet unction. It was December, we had brought a bottle of rum, some ancient ritual we remembered from nowhere and no one. We stepped one behind the other as usual. The castle was huge, opulent, a going concern in its time. We went like pilgrims. You were pilgrims. We were pilgrims. This is the holiest we ever were. Our gods were in the holding cells. We awakened our gods and we left them there, because we never needed gods again. We did not have wicked gods so they understood. They lay in their corners, on their disintegrated floors, they lay on their wall of skin dust. They stood when we entered, happy to see us. Our guide said, this was the prison cell for the men, this was the prison cell for the women. I wanted to strangle the guide as if he were the original guide. It took all my will. Yet in the rooms the guide was irrelevant, the gods woke up and we felt pity for them, and affection and love; they felt happy for us, we were still alive. Yes, we are still alive we said. And we had returned to thank them. You are still alive, they said. Yes we are still alive. They looked at us like violet; like violet teas they drank us. We said here we are. They said, you are still alive. We said, yes, yes we are still alive. How lemon, they said, how blue like fortune. We took the bottle of rum from our veins, we washed their faces. We were pilgrims, they were gods. We sewed the rim of their skins with cotton. This is what we had. They said with wonder and admiration, you are still alive, like hydrogen, like oxygen. We all stood there for some infinite time. We did weep, but that is nothing in comparison.
—The Blue Clerk: Ars Poetica in 59 Versos, by Dionne Brand, Verso 55, pg. 223
What, to the American slave, is your Fourth of July?. I answer: a day that reveals to him, more than all other days in the year, the gross injustice and cruelly to which he is the constant victim. To him, your celebration is a sham;. your boasted liberty, an unholy license;. your national greatness, swelling vanity;. your sounds of rejoicing are empty and heartless;. your denunciations of tyrants, brass fronted impudence;. your shouts of liberty and equality, hollow mockery;. your prayers and hymns, your sermons and thanksgivings, with all your religious parade, and solemnity, are, to him, mere bombast, fraud, deception, impiety, and hypocrisy.—a thin veil to cover up crimes which would disgrace a nation of savages. There is not a nation on the earth guilty of practices, more shocking and bloody, than are the people of these United States, at this very hour.
— “What, To The Slave, Is The Fourth Of July” Speech by Frederick Douglass, 1852
As I writhed under it, I would at times feel that learning to read had been a curse rather than a blessing. It had given me a view of my wretched condition, without the remedy. It opened my eyes to the horrible pit, but to no ladder upon which to get out. In moments of agony, I envied my fellow-slaves for their stupidity. I have often wished myself a beast. I preferred the condition of the meanest reptile to my own. Any thing, no matter what, to get rid of thinking! It was this everlasting thinking of my condition that tormented me. There was no getting rid of it. It was pressed upon me by every object within sight or hearing, animate or inanimate. The silver trump of freedom had roused my soul to eternal wakefulness. Freedom now appeared, to disappear no more forever. It was heard in every sound, and seen in every thing. It was ever present to torment me with a sense of my wretched condition. I saw nothing without seeing it, I heard nothing without hearing it, and felt nothing without feeling it. It looked from every star, it smiled in every calm, breathed in every wind, and moved in every storm.
— “Life of an American Slave” by Frederick Douglass, CHAPTER VII, pg. 43-44
Should they stay or should they run?. She contemplates another horizon. A century later, the scene will be repeated. When the pandemic overtakes the city, they will die in greater numbers, they will suffer more. When the mob arrives, they will be as courageous as Mary Turner and call out the names of their killers. They will not yield; they will not be moved. In this other variant, the question is no less pressing: How is love possible for those dispossessed of the future and living under the threat of death?. Is love a synonym for abolition?. In a turquoise Impala, they drive from Louisiana to Florida, hoping eventually to make their way to Cuba, a place where they might elude the death awaiting them and escape becoming property of the Ohio Department of Corrections, slaves of the state. A love theme drifts through the car. Fugitive, running a thousand miles toward freedom, flying down a path with no ending, colliding with each other, he asks her what she wants. She says: “I want a guy to show me myself. I want him to love me so deeply that I am not afraid to show him how ugly I can be.” She asks him what he wants. “I want someone that’s always gonna love me no matter what. Someone that’s gonna hold my hand and never let it go. She gonna be my legacy. Look, I ain’t gonna bend the world.” Queen and Slim (2019). A million days in your arms echoes in the background as they argue about Luther’s early and late style. The expected and tragic end only serves to underscore the lesson of “The Comet”—their love is without legacy. It won’t defeat the world or make them immortal or shield them from gratuitous violence, or spare the children, but they are grateful for love. Of all the things that love makes possible: eyes that see you, someone to hold your hand until the end, adore you even in your ugliness, kiss you a thousand times, hold you when you are carrying on like that bitch, do everything for your baby, even swing a knife for your love, risk it all for one last dance, exchange vows even when there isn’t a chance in hell of being together, see heaven all in her eyes, carry a corpse-child through the devastated city in search of him, miss her until it breaks you, not want anybody else to ever love you, the one thing it is not able to do is confer a legacy or guarantee a future. Your love is all I need—a beautiful lie, a necessary refrain that helps you survive in the meantime, experience tragedy after tragedy, endure another scene of grief, as if “our love” was fortification and always enough.
The trio on the roof of the Metropolitan Tower will not produce a new race of men and the fugitive couple murdered on the tarmac will not enjoy a free state or make their way to Cuba. Yet, while trapped in the graveyard of the world and bereft of any future they can count on, they hold one another, sob with joy, never let go of each other’s hand, reveal their scars, embrace as they fall, listen to the infinite playlist of love in a world where black life is all but impossible.
— “The End of White Supremacy, An American Romance” by Saidiya Hartman
What's up, y'all?. I'm in a deep dive around AI. And I think we all need to be in a deep dive around AI. because... it's here. And I want to remind us that it is another piece of technology borne out of a very specific imagination. The imagination of white men. I'm sitting here listening to the founder and CEO of OpenAI. The creator of Chat GPT. Guess what it does? You will never guess what it does!. It says wrong things like it's right!. [laughter]. It literally just makes guesses and says them with authority. I wonder how it learned to do that? Hmmmmm!. Literally, they've created a piece of technology that talks to you like a white man!. And it's funny; the woman who's interviewing him called it the "drunk frat guy". And I was like, it's not the drunk frat guy. It's white male socialization. It's the socialization of patriarchy and whiteness. And now we've created supercomputers that do the same thing. I also want you to know that this was co-created, and who sat on the board, was Elon Musk. And it started off non-profit and then of course they had to make it some sort of hybrid for-profit entity in order to raise the one billion dollars that it was gonna cost to develop this, right? So I just want you to already see the ingredients in the cake!. I've talked about this before. You can't take out an ingredient once you've already baked the cake. We are baking capitalism. We are baking patriarchy. We are baking whiteness. Into supercomputers who can mimic all of the knowledge base, abilities, and functions of humans. We have baked it into a device that will MAGNIFY that thinking. AGI, artificial general intelligence, means a computer that is as smart and can do anything that a human can do. Singularity is when the computer now can do everything better than a human can. Where it supersedes the capabilities of humanity. Incomprehensible technological power. What he said, though, that had me be like, "This is — " [snickering] "This is why we're fucked." Is he said, "The benefit of this technology is, right, it's like, what does it mean to have someone that'll do everything it is that you wanna do and all the drudge work, happily, all day long, 24 hours a day?". And I was like, "YOU WANT SLAVES!". That's LITERALLY what you want!. In his, in his imagination we all want that. We all want slaves. We all want something that will do everything we don't want to do happily, all the time, forever. The... conception of slavery didn't begin with whiteness. But the structuralization? The building of entire world models on it? If we'll be generous, it seems to have been perfected in the white male imagination. Y'all. I want us to understand that impulse. As an inherently... disconnecting impulse. It is an impulse born in othering. It's an impulse that says, "You, thing over there, are beneath me." Because if you weren't beneath me then I would recognize that it's just my job to do the things. And sometimes those things aren't fun. Right? Sometimes it's just my job to do the things. If I didn't see someone else as the person who should have to do that instead of me. Or the entity that should have to do that instead of me. We build things to help us. But the idea that we want those things to get as close to sentient as possible. This is Westworld. We want to build a thing as close to human that we can exploit. 'Cause that's what's inside white supremacist delusion, hetero, ableist capitalist patriarchy. And so I want you to explore inside of yourself, "Where do I just want a slave?". And what does it mean in the system of bodily hierarchy, what does it mean inside of a construct of marginalization?. That, I want a slave?. And that we keep trying to build things to figure out how to re-institute the dynamics of slavery. I think it's a thing for us to be thinking about. Post-haste.
— Where Do I Want A Slave?: AI and the White Male Imagination by Sonya Renee Taylor