As most may know, I recently wrote an extensive paper dealing with several subjects discussed in what we could call "futuristic narrative" (derived from Futurism, the early XX century art movement developed in Italy). After watching Michael Moore's Capitalism: A Love Story, Frozen River and a long discussion of these with my brother, I can't help but post some of my "academic" commentary pertaining to the issue of economics and capitalism in futuristic narratives included in my past midterm. My hopes are for it encouraging some discussion... but if not, at least you can see what I've "learned".
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My brief context-setting of the Futurist movement:
Italy was an incipient nation-state with a very strong sense of patriotism, since it was beginning to rise, after over 40 years of internal struggle, as a unified country. Due to this, there was much hope, but also much disagreement, concerning what the “new Italy” should become.
The economic situation began to improve through different measures, though disparity among the “industrial north” and “agrarian south” continued to plague Italy. Intellectuals and young artists such as F.T. Marinetti (author of the Futurist Manifesto) preferred a less “democratic” but more dynamic and technology-driven government to push Italy forth into the future – by any means necessary. These intellectuals saw Italy “staying behind” in the times, while all around them, new inventions and advances in technology were propping up. This predicament triggered a radical reaction, in my opinion, that was the prime fuel and inspiration for the futurist movement.
In this movement, ideas of violent change, motion, rejection of tradition and dynamism of sex (also a rejection of religion and prudish values), were the main objective. Italian society, in the artists’ view, needed a “blow over the head” in order to move forth from its archaic, though artistically glorious past. Benito Mussolini’s fascism seized power soon after, emphasizing structure, efficiency, militarism, as well as perfection and discrimination. In this way, the futurist artists may have seen an ally in the government, since some of their objectives for society were reflected upon the government’s views – especially when it came to upholding Italy as a powerful, dynamic and modern power.
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Ideas on the "efficiency revolution", labor and some economics
Fredrick Winslow Taylor was an early twentieth century thinker and engineer, whose thoughts focused on ways to perfect the incipient industrial revolution. Taylor's thought established the so-called “Efficiency Revolution” that served to inspire people such as Henry Ford to devise ways to make manufacturing more effective, efficient, profitable and quick-paced. “Taylorism”, in my view, is an injection of futurist essence into the workplace, since it sought to make labor faster and more dynamic, to save time and to take best advantage of resources available in the workplace. According to Taylor, the end goal of an efficiency revolution was to allow people to have more free time instead of having to focus so much on work.
Nevertheless, this fast-paced revolution of the workplace most likely led to repetition, exhaustion and stifling of creative potential among workers. Surely, as is seen on the modern vehicular assembly lines, parts of the system worked and did, indeed, make labor more cost-effective and efficient; yet on the other hand, too much mechanization and emphasis on efficiency may have led to abuse in the workplace and the ultimate detachment of the worker from his or her job.
The notion of “Taylorism” gone awry is clearly seen in Fritz Lang's Metropolis (1927), as well as in Yevgeny Zamyatin's novel, We.
In Metropolis, the abuse and lack of concern for the workers shown by the elites ultimately lead to demands and revolution for improved and more humane working conditions; Lang seems to be critical of absurd “efficiency” demands, by portraying his film's workers as not doing many productive things, though they are constantly manipulating dynamos that appear industrious. Meanwhile, We's reference to “Taylorism” can be perceived in the structured division of society and especially, of time: work, sleep, sex, personal – all constructs to make life more efficient to the Great Benefactor and the One State's purposes. [...]
Moloch is an allusion to a sort of extremely demanding presence that governs over the machines in Fritz Lang's Metropolis (1927).
This presence at some point, becomes an oneiric creature whose “face” is seen in the ensemble of machines found in the workers' city. Freder, the company owner's son, has an illusion of this monster as he realizes how the workers are being consumed by their labor demands. This could be seen as a criticism on “Taylorism”, in the sense that, with extreme efficiency and mechanization, also come consequences such as becoming a literal slave to wages and work.
Although they are not the same in nature, it is relevant to mention some of the links between notions such as the Great Benefactor or the One State in We and Moloch, especially on their similar demands from human beings. People in We are absolutely subjected to the whims of the Great Benefactor and their obligations to the One State; while in Metropolis, workers' lives are governed by machines and excessive efficiency demands, personified in Moloch.
I believe that, in our present era, the idea of Moloch extends beyond mere mechanical demands within a factory, to encompass an entire economic system of exploitation, production, consumption and automation. The macro scale to which this notion of Moloch has grown in the present day, continues consuming people, making them tired (from work, school and stress), apathetic (from simplistic media sound bytes) and detached from one another (through technology such as the Internet, multimedia devices and even automated answering systems, instead of live customer service). [...]
P.S: Tidbits of "futurism" (one is from CBS, meh, but I like video over links)
"Outsourcing Unemployment" from Current TV (I don't really dig the sometimes biased stand this takes at times, especially towards the end where it talks about "political reform" as a way to improve economy, but overall, I thought it to be at least an interesting look to current and future dynamics of economy. Also, it touches upon my "YOU caused this!" point of view towards the consumption-production cycle of capitalism)
Last but not least -- in case you missed it back in February: Iran's "Omid" (Hope) satellite's launch (Venezuela has Venesat-1 in space, though it was launched from China -- Iran launched it in its own backyard. The point is, the future is now, even for developing nations )
Reports of my Xanga death have been greatly exaggerated.
I'm still here, still happening, but perhaps happening too much. When I get busy and when I'm feeling relatively happy, I don't write as much, or at all, even. It's kind of unfortunate, but to my defense, I am writing somewhere else, and that's The Collegian. Granted, it's not as incendiary as some of the stuff I post on here, but allegedly, it might help me in this whole becoming a professional deal. Even if I don't really ever want to go into journalism. But, my dear Xanga blog, you're always in my heart, even if Facebook is a very worthy competitor.
Other than classes, hanging out with friends, dealing with some $ issues (as always) as well as existential issues (also, as always), things are going relatively OK. Except for the ever-present turmoil that continues in my heart over a certain someone, but I guess I've come to terms that, sure, I care about that person a lot and if things were different... But they aren't, and that's just fine. I suppose I've really matured in that sense.
I look back at when I was with Wyant and how utterly toxic that entire ordeal was, or when Kais seemed like such a big deal. But no more. I'm not saying I'm completely exempt from any future trainwrecks, but overall, I feel I've truly grown and learned to manage whatever caring or love I'm dishing out to the people in my life.
In political matters, following a certain party where I helped cook a Spanish dish, in addition to living with two strange roommates (to say the least), I definitely feel a text coming, about the stupidity and irony of certain language majors. Maybe not this week, but hopefully the next, after my French video has been turned in and I've done a bit more research on the matter. I've gotten so used to being PC, but really? Does that even do any good to anyone? I'm all for trying to find common ground and encouraging productive debate, but there comes a time where you have to say enough is enough, and lay your honest cards on the table, whether the rest of the world likes it or not.
So, that's what's up these days -- I hope there will be more substance to subsequent posts, but I always say that. Maybe it all went with the 6 lbs they took after my tummy-tuck; or maybe it's all that flat-ironing I do to my hair, hah.
Perhaps the 7 (and counting) air fresheners that my roommates have installed in our apartment are starting to get to my head. I mean, how pungent can my and Yunji's cooking really get? (When I actually do get 2 seconds of time to eat at my place). And the comments on my seaweed and my consumption of Camembert and Provolone... I could've smacked someone, but I'm still (contrary to popular belief, hah) a lady.
I should make some extra spicy Chicken Vindaloo this weekend (I think they're staying home) so they can keep bleeding cash on air fresheners. You will not Lysol away my spirit!
I haven't written anything good in a really, really long time. It's frustrating, but I have plausible excuses. Nevertheless, this doesn't make me feel any better.
Before May 8th, it was simply being busy (or drunk) having one of the most intense 16 weeks of my life; now, during my summer hiatus, I blame it on cosmetic surgery recovery and being back in Caracas, the place I have grown to both love and hate. It was this fucking boredom that characterizes this city that made me want to leave in the first place last August (oh, yeah, and the academic opportunities somewhere else).
It doesn't matter that I have access to more money, more "civilization" and more clubs than back in SD -- this place is just tired. And expensive! No bar/club/restaurant here to date is worth the astronomical prices that they advertise. I've been wanting to check out El Teatro, but the $25 cover charge (with no drinks) makes me cringe. Perhaps I've gotten way too used to Brookings' unreal cheapness. Even Elmo Bar closed down -- what the fuck is wrong with these people? The best places keep getting shut down and replaced by cookie-cutter clones of whatever's "hot" at San Ignacio. (Are we surprised? After all, it has only been a year)
Granted, my perception may be a bit altered because I have been in recovery for a while and haven't given the city enough of a chance to wow me -- but really, a mere survey of friends' shenanigans in the last few days suffices to let me know that I'm probably right.
It's revolting to think about yet another random night of mediocre drinks, coming home on an overpriced taxi after dancing to an avalanche of utter musical 2007 top 40 bullshit, amidst drunken, sweaty, UGLY bodies... and calling it a rocking evening.
Look, I'm no better -- by no means am I a 9 or a 10, but I have gotten some fucking standards, and for the life of me, I have not seen anyone above a 4 in this city.
Okay, maybe I have; but they have turned out to be gay -- and not just "I think that guy's gay", but truly, "I'm shaking my ass at a gay club" gay. I have no problem with gay guys (I don't even want to *hear* the word "homophobic" after this post), though it seems as if Caracas has been hijacked by the male homosexual community -- no lie, confirmed by several other straight women in my circle. I don't understand how women are still getting pregnant here; I believe we are being forced to settle for the below 4s, and as the silicone breasts keep getting bigger, the waists smaller, ugly guys' egos and shamelessness have reached epic proportions. There is such a shortage of straight men, that even economic status is starting to leave its "deal-breaker" status.
Competition is tough here in Caracas, but, what the hell are we even trying for? No thanks, I'd rather be celibate for the remainder of my stay. Sometimes I want to club these women over the head, for taking such painful detail to look good for these disgusting bozos that hardly even deserve to be out in public. But then again, has anything really changed? Other than me and my own perception of myself after the weight loss and subsequent cosmetic surgery (I'm coming back for another one in December, haa!)?
Needless to say, though -- this entire weight-loss journey has changed me in unimaginable ways: some good, some bad, some ugly... especially when some haters start telling me "my personality has changed" or that "they liked the other Vanessa better". I guess they just miss the complacency, the sycophantic nature, the comic relief? At the risk of sounding arrogant... haa, nevermind.
I might as well focus on the good things about being back home, though, because among the crap, there were several people and activities that I used to take for granted, but seriously, seriously missed. Yet, I'm not so crass as to start waxing optimistic on this website (when have I ever?).
That being said -- I'll proceed to exploit my vanity with pre and post surgery photos (which I have already posted on Facebook, but it's time to get back to my roots).
Will there be more substance in my next post? Doubtful -- I leave that for the scholarly activities before and after the summer.
Check me out right here -- photos on the left (with longer hair) are BEFORE, photos on the right (with shorter hair) are AFTER:
A trapeze artist—this art, practiced high in the vaulted domes of the great variety theaters, is admittedly one of the most difficult humanity can achieve—had so arranged his life that, as long as he kept working in the same building, he never came down from his trapeze by night or day, at first only from a desire to perfect his skill, but later because custom was too strong for him. All his needs, very modest needs at that, were supplied by relays of attendants who watched from below and sent up and hauled down again in specially constructed containers whatever he required.
This way of living caused no particular inconvenience to the theatrical people, except that, when other turns were on the stage, his being still up aloft, which could not be dissembled, proved somewhat distracting, as also the fact that, although at such times he mostly kept very still, he drew a stray glance here and there from the public. Yet the management overlooked this, because he was an extraordinary and unique artist. And of course they recognized that this mode of life was no mere prank, and that only in this way could he really keep himself in constant practice and his art at the pitch of its perfection.
Besides, it was quite healthful up there, and when in the warmer seasons of the year the side windows all around the dome of the theater were thrown open and sun and fresh air came pouring irresistibly into the dusky vault, it was even beautiful. True, his social life was somewhat limited, only sometimes a fellow acrobat swarmed up the ladder to him, and then both sat on the trapeze, leaning left and right against the supporting ropes, and chatted, or builders' workmen repairing the roof exchanged a few words with him through an open window, or the firemen, inspecting the emergency lighting in the top gallery, called over to him something that sounded respectful but could hardly be made out. Otherwise nothing disturbed his seclusion; occasionally, perhaps, some theater hand straying through the empty theater of an afternoon gazed thoughtfully up into the great height of the roof, almost beyond eyeshot, where the trapeze artist, unaware that he was being observed, practiced his art or rested.
The trapeze artist could have gone on living peacefully like that, had it not been for the inevitable journeys from place to place, which he found extremely trying. Of course his manager saw to it that his sufferings were not prolonged one moment more than necessary; for town travel, racing automobiles were used, which whirled him, by night if possible or in the earliest hours of the morning, through the empty streets at breakneck speed, too slow all the same for the trapeze artist's impatience; for railway journeys, a whole compartment was reserved, in which the trapeze artist, as a possible though wretched alternative to his usual way of living, could pass the time up on the luggage rack; in the next town on their circuit, long before he arrived, the trapeze was already slung up in the theater and all the doors leading to the stage were flung wide open, all corridors kept free—yet the manager never knew a happy moment until the trapeze artist set his foot on the rope ladder and in a twinkling, at long last, hung aloft on his trapeze.
Despite so many journeys having been successfully arranged by the manager, each new one embarrassed him again, for the journeys, apart from everything else, got on the nerves of the artist a great deal.
Once when they were again traveling together, the trapeze artist lying on the luggage rack dreaming, the manager leaning back in the opposite window seat reading a book, the trapeze artist addressed his companion in a low voice. The manager was immediately all attention. The trapeze artist, biting his lips, said that he must always in future have two trapezes for his performance instead of only one, two trapezes opposite each other. The manager at once agreed. But the trapeze artist, as if to show that the manager's consent counted for as little as his refusal, said that never again would he perform on only one trapeze, in no circumstances whatever. The very idea that it might happen at all seemed to make him shudder. The manager, watchfully feeling his way, once more emphasized his entire agreement, two trapezes were better than one, besides it would be an advantage to have a second bar, more variety could be introduced into the performance. At that the trapeze artist suddenly burst into tears. Deeply distressed, the manager sprang to his feet and asked what was the matter, then getting no answer climbed up on the seat and caressed him, cheek to cheek, so that his own face was bedabbled by the trapeze artist's tears. Yet it took much questioning and soothing endearment until the trapeze artist sobbed: "Only the one bar in my hands—how can I go on living?" That made it somewhat easier for the manager to comfort him; he promised to wire from the very next station for a second trapeze to be installed in the first town on their circuit; reproached himself for having let the artist work so long on only one trapeze; and thanked and praised him warmly for having at last brought the mistake to his notice. And so he succeeded in reassuring the trapeze artist, little by little, and was able to go back to his corner.
But he himself was far from reassured, with deep uneasiness he kept glancing secretly at the trapeze artist over the top of his book. Once such ideas began to torment him, would they ever quite leave him alone? Would they not rather increase in urgency? Would they not threaten his very existence? And indeed the manager believed he could see, during the apparently peaceful sleep which had succeeded the fit of tears, the first furrows of care engraving themselves upon the trapeze artist's smooth, childlike forehead.
In light of recent fortunate and unfortunate events during Easter break, an evening with the brothers and the constant wondering, I've decided to re-post a truly brilliant entry from one of the blogs to which I subscribe, with some of my favorite comments that other readers left. My two cents is, well, nobody knows shit. At any moment, everything you so firmly believed about human interactions can be blown to smithereens, and there's nothing you can do about it.
The worst thing is that, though I avoid it, even *I'm* in some undefined, inconcrete, platonic kind of situation, and that's the *good* one, because the bad one ended abruptly over the break, "not with a bang, but a whimper".
It's very frustrating. When the fuck did it get so complicated, and most importantly, why?
I know we're all young, wishing to get out there and experience life to the fullest, not feeling tied down to anything or anyone. And that's what youth is all about, but I think there should be some sort of Geneva Convention-style dating ethics in order to reduce the ruthlessness and cynicism that abounds today.
Ah well. "Dating is a rollercoaster - enjoy the ride".
I remember back in high school, things used to be so easy...meet a girl, ask her out, get parents to drive us around, hold hands, kiss, cop a feel, oral sex, sex, anal sex... everything was all planned out in this one linear path.
As I get older, dating has become a lot more complicated. Things don't always go in one direction, actually, I'm not even sure a direction exists anymore.
With Girl #1 it was: Make out, sex, oral sex, anal sex, date
With Girl #2 it was: Date, date, date, date, date, make out, date...
With Girl #3 it was: Make out, Oral sex, find out her name... never see her again
I just don't get it anymore.
What's even worse is that we have a million labels for everything, or no labels at all. A guy and a girl can be: seeing each other, dating, going out, in a relationship, complicated, casual dating, friends with benefits, etc etc... and of course there are those who refuse to use labels and who prefer to remain ambiguous.
Can someone please tell me the difference between exclusively dating and boyfriend girlfriend?
I once asked a girl what her relationship with this guy was and she replied "Oh, we're exclusively dating."
"So you're his girlfriend then?" I questioned.
"No, we're just dating...exclusively"
Errr.... o.O
And another thing, why are girls so afraid of labels? I know girls who refuse to be called a guy's girlfriend, and yet act super lovey dovey around their man and won't date anyone else. Are we really all so insecure and afraid of commitment that we will go through extreme lengths to keep some sort of artificial freedom? Even if it's as simple as refusing to admit to a label? Since when was being a commitmentphobe cool?
As much as I love my freedom and enjoy having multiple girls around, I think I'm the type of person that's willing to give someone all of my attention and settle down if I like her enough... ambiguity is just not something I enjoy. And if that means sucking it up and slapping a silly title on everything and having her be my *cough* "Girlfriend", than so be it because the alternative is just retarded.
"Labels are useful at times.. you know when you want to know if you're actually dating him or if you're just another whore he sleeps with on the weekends. It's absolutely necessary."
"not labeling is simply a cop out, yo. it's their way of saying, "i dont want to fuck only YOU." ultimately it means that they're not into you, coz hell, if i ever found a guy i was totally and completely attracted to, you bet im going all in, title and everything, and never let go."
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