Very nearly died of cute when my two did this at the dog park last night.
A good and honorable death it would have been.
I have a favorite quote about L.A. by William Shakespeare. He said, ‘This other Eden, demi-paradise,this precious stone set in the silver sea, this Earth, this realm… this Los Angeles.’
Harris K. Telemacher (via random-acts-of-mikeness)
Part of the reason we’re seeing so many black men killed is that police officers are now best understood less as members of communities, dedicated to keeping peace within them, than as domestic soldiers. The drug war has long functioned as a full-employment act for arms dealers looking to sell every town and village in the country on the need for military-grade hardware, and 9/11 made things vastly worse, with local police departments throughout America grabbing for cash to better defend against any and all terrorist threats. War had reached our shores, we were told, and police officers needed weaponry to fight it.
The worst part of outfitting our police officers as soldiers has been psychological. Give a man access to drones, tanks, and body armor, and he’ll reasonably think that his job isn’t simply to maintain peace, but to eradicate danger. Instead of protecting and serving, police are searching and destroying.
If officers are soldiers, it follows that the neighborhoods they patrol are battlefields. And if they’re working battlefields, it follows that the population is the enemy. And because of correlations, rooted in historical injustice, between crime and income and income and race, the enemy population will consist largely of people of color, and especially of black men. Throughout the country, police officers are capturing, imprisoning, and killing black males at a ridiculous clip, waging a very literal war on people like Michael Brown.
How we ended up here:
It’s hard to find something we got right in the modern bathroom. The toilet is too high (our bodies were designed to squat), the sink is too low and almost useless; the shower is a deathtrap (an American dies every day from bath or shower accidents). We fill this tiny, inadequately ventilated room with toxic chemicals ranging from nail polish to tile cleaners. We flush the toilet and send bacteria into the air, with our toothbrush in a cup a few feet away. We take millions of gallons of fresh water and contaminate it with toxic chemicals, human waste, antibiotics and birth control hormones in quantities large enough to change the gender of fish.
There’s a certain standard-issue pose for the young person of literary ambitions in New York. Cynical and slightly bored-seeming on the outside; thirsty on the inside: disillusioned with the whole idea of “believing in anything,” exhibiting a generalized scorn of government, religion, politics and philosophy, as well as a set of received feelings about women, and about “respecting” women. Very rarely will anyone venture one syllable outside that SOP for fear of imperiling a nascent career. And understandably so, perhaps: in the fishbowl of New York media, the slightest deviation from conventional thinking is so easily magnified that the risk of being blackballed is real.
Major pause in a piece/review/essay I otherwise am really into—Is this true? It feels very untrue, but maybe I, a, do not have literary ambitions, b, do not know people who do, c, am again falling prey to failing to see that there is the “book world” and the “media world” and they overlap but aren’t the same. But Maria says “literary” and then says “media.” But this thing she calls standard-issue sounds completely alien, from real life, to me.
This rings true to me, but I think it’s important to offer that it’s an impression more than a pose. Which is to say: it comes to those of us on the outside for whom it rings true through a series of filters. Many of us are interested in literary things but have careers that are not literary in the slightest and do not live in New York, and for us the primary encounters with these people is through social media and through literary publications and through spats between literary people being covered by one of the aforementioned, and through defenses of them in one of same. So the filters are those of character limits and third-party framing and when in our own lives (even what time of any given day) we happen to find them and who they are actually trying to reach when they happen to reach us instead.
So filtered, it’s impossible to say how much of the underlying pose makes its way through to the impression we get. But yes, it rings true. And it feels notable, because many of us also fashion ourselves intellectuals of some kind, and the things the writers do “wrong” remind us of ourselves at our most obnoxiously self-important or self-absorbed. Which is sad because most of these people are probably pretty cool to be around most of the time, because they are smart people and smart people are pretty cool to be around most of the time.
Anyway, it reads to me that “media” isn’t so much about a given world but about the thing that shapes the “fishbowl.” New York media are the lens through which we see literary players if we’re not, personally, among them. The fishbowl is being described in its function as a lens for outsiders, not as the walls that defines space for activity within. In this case, the suggestion is it magnifies the things that feel out of place, and that seems correct: media cover the things that are out of place far more than those that are where we expect.
The increasingly intentional branding of authors makes some of this weird focus on their poses unavoidable. We want to know them, not just what they’ve written. In general, I hope I discount most of these impressions and put more credence in what they write. But I guess I can’t know for sure whether I do.