#Business dissolution process

[ifindtaxpro]

⏰📉 Timing is everything! Discover the right moment to dissolve your business with our strategic guide. Navigate the process smoothly and pave the way for new opportunities! #BusinessClosure #EntrepreneurTips

[read-marx-and-lenin]

There is no magic "abolish the state" button, which is why I'm an anarchist, as "when the state has socialismed enough it will just magically poof away in a cloud of smoke" is the leninist position.

That is not the Leninist position, the Leninist position is and always has been that the state cannot disappear until the material conditions for its disappearance are achieved. The withering away of the state, first outlined by Engels, is not a magic process but one that proceeds from the abolition of class and the dissolution of the bourgeoisie.

How are you going to get rid of the bourgeoisie without a state? Are you going to simply ask them nicely to leave you alone? If you are organized and if your organization is suppressing the bourgeoisie as a class, then you have created a state, you have created an authoritarian imposition on the free organization of some section of the people. If you are not doing any of this, then the bourgeoisie who you have left unmolested will invariably come to dominate you once more.

Anarchists have always played word games to get around these simple facts. There are the practical anarchists who will admit to some amount of authority, but always with the caveat that theirs is *just* authority, *necessary* authority, and that is is the *unjust* authority that they condemn. Just authority is not the State, because the State is unjust, and so if they see an authority as just then it cannot be the State. Fair enough, you can call things by whatever names you like, but if you put these ideas in practice you basically end up with Leninism. You want to create dual power? You want to abolish the bourgeois state and replace it with a democratic organ of the working class? Well so did Lenin, and now you know why the Mensheviks accused him of anarchism.

Then there are the quite impractical capital-A Anarchists, who are adamant that anarchy means anarchy and that even voluntary hierarchy and submission to democratic authority is impermissible. Whether pacifistic or militaristic, they are generally unremarkable and ineffective at their goals because they eschew most effective forms of organization as ideologically impure. Even the most advanced anarchists, the CNT in Spain and the Maknovists in Russia, were plagued by economic confusion and disorganization. Their lack of discipline led to their downfall.

If you want to read more, here are some pertinent links:

[susieandhobbes]

Its been a common fanfic trope but I'm truly so shook that Carmy offering Sydney an actual stake in the Bear is like...actually happening.

1.) It's INSANE. He's known her for...6 months?? Syd worked there for three-ish months which ended in her storming out during one of the biggest shit shows the Beef has ever seen and then telling him to shove his apology up his ass, and 2 hours later he was like "hey want to build the restaurant me and my dead brother dreamed about with me?"🥺. And then three months and change after that he's saying "hey, want to OWN part of the restauraunt me and my dead brother dreamed about with me?"🥺🥺 BANANAS. In the real world, absolutely nobody would expect him to do this! RICHIE doesn't have ownership in the Beef/Bear and he's Cousin. Sydney is essentially an outsider to a family owned business and Carmy said "i entrust all of this to you". CRAZY BEHAVIOR!

2) It's Hilarious. Carmy is so terrified of Sydney leaving he said "fuck it, I'm baby trapping her". History shows that she can and will leave him and highkey he can't trust himself to not fuck it up because despite his table promises he has already phenomenally fucked it up with her so now he's trying to contractually bind her to him for life. Because this isn't a decision that ensures she'll stick around for the next 3-5 fiscal years as a prized employee, that's a lifelong commitment baby. you are co-owning a business and any dissolution of that is a lengthy and potentially contentious process.

3) Local man who needed to take a workplace survey to see if his girl that's a friend was his girlfriend gives away part of his inheritance from his beloved and deceased brother to his ~platonic coworker~ without blinking.

[fatehbaz]

What it meant to "do geology" in Hutton's time was to apply lessons of textual hermeneutics usually reserved for scripture [...] to the landscape. Geology was itself textual. Rocks were marks made by invisible processes that could be deciphered. Doing geology was a kind of reading, then, which existed in a dialectical relationship with writing. In The Theory of the Earth from 1788, Hutton wrote a new history of the earth as a [...] system [...]. Only a few kilometers away from Hutton’s unconformity [the geological site at Isle of Arran in Scotland that inspired his writing], [...] stands the remains of the Shell bitumen refinery [closed since 1986] as it sinks into the Atlantic Ocean. [...] As Hutton thought, being in a place is a hermeneutic practice. [...] [T]he Shell refinery at Ardrossan is a ruin of that machine, one whose great material derangements have defined the world since Hutton. [...]

The Shell Transport and Trading Company [now the well-known global oil company] was created in the Netherlands East Indies in 1897. The company’s first oil wells and refineries were in east Borneo [...]. The oil was taken by puncturing wells into subterranean deposits of a Bornean or Sumatran landscape, and then transported into an ever-expanding global network of oil depots at ports [...] at Singapore, then Chennai, and through the Suez Canal and into the Mediterranean. [...] The oil in these networks were Bornean and Sumatran landscapes on the move. Combustion engines burnt those landscapes. Machinery was lubricated by them. They illuminated the night as candlelight. [...] The Dutch East Indies was the new land of untapped promise in that multi-polar world of capitalist competition. British and Dutch colonial prospectors scoured the forests, rivers, and coasts of Borneo [...]. Marcus Samuel, the British founder of the Shell Transport and Trading Company, as his biographer [...] put it, was “mesmerized by oil, and by the vision of commanding oil all along the line from production to distribution, from the bowels of the earth to the laps of the Orient.” [...]

---

Shell emerged from a Victorian era fascination with shells.

In the 1830s, Marcus Samuel Sr. created a seashell import business in Houndsditch, London. The shells were used for decorating the covers of curio boxes. Sometimes, the boxes also contained miniature sculptures, also made from shells, of food and foliage, hybridizing oceanic and terrestrial life forms. Wealthy shell enthusiasts would sometimes apply shells to grottos attached to their houses. As British merchant vessels expanded into east Asia after the dissolution of the East India Company’s monopoly on trade in 1833, and the establishment of ports at Singapore and Hong Kong in 1824 and 1842, the import of exotic shells expanded.

Seashells from east Asia represented the oceanic expanse of British imperialism and a way to bring distant places near, not only the horizontal networks of the empire but also its oceanic depths.

---

The fashion for shells was also about telling new histories. The presence of shells, the pecten, or scallop, was a familiar bivalve icon in cultures on the northern edge of the Mediterranean. Aphrodite, for example, was said to have emerged from a scallop shell. Minerva was associated with scallops. Niches in public buildings and fountains in the Roman empire often contained scallop motifs. St. James, the patron saint of Spain, was represented by a scallop shell [...]. The pecten motif circulated throughout medieval European coats of arms, even in Britain. In 1898, when the Gallery of Palaeontology, Comparative Anatomy, and Anthropology was opened in Paris’s Museum of Natural History - only two years after the first test well was drilled in Borneo at the Black Spot - the building’s architect, Ferdinand Dutert, ornamented the entrance with pecten shell reliefs. In effect, Dutert designed the building so that one entered through scallop shells and into the galleries where George Cuvier’s vision of the evolution of life forms was displayed [...]. But it was also a symbol for the transition between an aquatic form of life and terrestrial animals. Perhaps it is apposite that the scallop is structured by a hinge which allows its two valves to rotate. [...] Pectens also thrive in the between space of shallow coastal waters that connects land with the depths of the ocean. [...] They flourish in architectural imagery, in the mind, and as the logo of one of the largest ever fossil fuel companies. [...]

---

In the 1890s, Marcus Samuel Jr. transitioned from his father’s business selling imported seashells to petroleum.

When he adopted the name Shell Transport and Trading Company in 1897, Samuel would likely have known that the natural history of bivalves was entwined with the natural history of fossil fuels. Bivalves underwent an impressive period of diversification in the Carboniferous period, a period that was first named by William Conybeare and William Phillips in 1822 to identify coal bearing strata. In other words, the same period in earth’s history that produced the Black Spot that Samuel’s engineers were seeking to extract from Dayak land was also the period that produced the pecten shells that he named his company after. Even the black fossilized leaves that miners regularly encountered in coal seams sometimes contained fossilized bivalve shells.

The Shell logo was a materialized cosmology, or [...] a cosmogram.

Cosmograms are objects that attempt to represent the order of the cosmos; they are snapshots of what is. The pecten’s effectiveness as a cosmogram was its pivot, to hinge, between spaces and times: it brought the deep history of the earth into the present; the Black Spot with Mediterranean imaginaries of the bivalve; the subterranean space of liquid oil with the surface. The history of the earth was made legible as an energetic, even a pyrotechnical force. The pecten represented fire, illumination, and certainly, power. [...] If coal required tunnelling, smashing, and breaking the ground, petroleum was piped liquid that streamed through a drilled hole. [...] In 1899, Samuel presented a paper to the Society of Arts in which he outlined his vision of “liquid fuel.” [...] Ardrossan is a ruin of that fantasy of a free flowing fossil fuel world. [...] At Ardrossan, that liquid cosmology is disintegrating.

---

All text above by: Adam Bobbette. "Shells and Shell". e-flux Architecture (Accumulation series). November 2023. At: e-flux dot com slash architecture/accumulation/553455/shells-and-shell/ [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Presented here for commentary, teaching, criticisms purposes.]

[amateurasstrologer]

BY NECESSITY #1 SATURN IN PISCES

Hi babies, what’s up? You thought I forgot about you? 

Well, you’re right, I did. But I’m back, bitches - at least for today - to remind you that astrology is still the shit. So, before I ghost again, let’s talk. This week it’s a Saturn in Pisces special. 

Now, before you’re like, “Are you kidding? This bitch comes back after how long to talk about some random ass placement that doesn’t even apply to me? Ugh.” Just take a breath. Saturn is in Pisces. Right now. In the sky. So even if you’re not getting extra fucked like all the people having their Saturn Return, you’re still experiencing the energy and all the shit I’m about to say still applies to you. 

Alright. First, let’s talk Saturn. Saturn is all about form. It’s foundations, it’s structure, it’s hard, it’s the shit you stand on that you forget you’re standing on (until a transit happens and forces you to look down in ice cold terror). It’s important to remember that Saturn deals with all foundations - which foundation (physical, mental, etc.) depends on which sign you’re working with. When Pisces gets involved, you’re dealing with your psychological, emotional foundation.

Next, Pisces. Pisces is about all dissolution. Pisces is last in line for a reason. All the shit you absorbed during your little life cycle - collective beliefs and ideals, definitions of success, definitions of failure, the shit your parents believed, the shit their parents believed, etc. - someone needs to dissolve all that loud biz (cue Pisces) so you can get back in touch with the real true you (cue Aries). Pisces is on that transcendental shit - it’s here to elevate you, it’s fucking your foundations up in a beautifully painful liquidation process, as in we’re closing everything has got to go this business is over forever goodbye we’re done. 

When you put these two together and you get a fucking shit show. Hardening and dissolving? Opposites. Pisces is like “yes I’m here to love you forget you ever had a structure all of this is meaningless it’s time blend in the timeless space of forgiveness we’ll feel it all and understand the origin of life the mystery of life heart eyes” and Saturn is like “Look at your life! Build something! Be accountable! These are your limits - learn them! Wake up! You dropped your spine! Go pick it up! But also good luck bending over to pick it up because you don’t have a spine! Ha!” 

It doesn’t take eyes to see that Saturn is not comfy in Pisces. And it’s true, Pisces and Saturn do bring very different shit to the party. But relationships are raw materials, babies, it’s what you make with them that matters.

Saturn and Pisces, together, create an opportunity for you to give your psychological, emotional foundation a fucking upgrade. Pisces helps you dissolve the fake ass bull shit persona you’ve been passing off as a self, and Saturn helps you reform into a person who, you know, you’re actually happy to be - a person with a psychological foundation based on inner-truth, not on societal/cultural/ancestral rules and regulations. Bitch, you’re a treasure! You’re a beautiful unique person, not a robot! If you wanted to be all copy paste should have reincarnated as a keyboard smh. Wake up.

Saturn in Pisces is a call to transform yourself on a spiritual level. The deepest level. (Deeper than you Scorpio sorry.) This isn’t some find a new job, find a new hobby bull shit. This is deep unconscious reconditioning. This is scary, triggering shit. You thought Pisces was out here just blending in the gooey goodness of love? Please. Think about what dissolution actually means. You want to be psychologically free? You want to scrub your karma? Get in touch with your essence? Lol. Girl. Get ready. This transformation process is a gnarly, confusing, and, most importantly, it takes time (thanks, Saturn). Just can’t rush it. 

Alright, before you get too scared to continue, let me say it one more time for the people in the back: When Saturn is in Pisces, the unconscious, emotional (Pisces) foundation (Saturn) of your life stops being hidden. Material that was collecting dust (and power) in your unconscious (Pisces) is suddenly visible (Saturn). Surprise, bitch! Time to take a look.

Okay. Now, what happens when you’re confronted with your very own subconscious (Pisces) scaffolding (Saturn)? Well, two options: 

(1) You lose perspective and collapse the transformation process before it has time to do its thing, dissolving your sense of self (Pisces) and hardening around rigid beliefs (Saturn) to bring yourself back to a superficial sense of safety, making your life temporarily more stable and comfy but ten million times harder to confront your psychological foundation at the next opportunity.

(2) You stay focused on the big picture and face your fears, dissolving the toxic beliefs you were unconsciously building your life on (Pisces) and reforming your identity (Saturn) into something real and true, making your life temporarily more lonely and difficult but ten million times easier to relate to yourself and others forever and ever amen.

“Uh wtf who would pick option one?” You, me, anyone allowing themselves to actually feel the crippling existential dread of having to face the unknown (Pisces) or anyone who can’t bear the thought of looking critically at their inherited beliefs (Saturn). It’s not an opportunity for the faint of heart. Or for anyone who doesn’t have, at the very least, one friend. And not some moralizing “forgiveness heals all wounds hang in there” type of friend - I’m talking some real ass, truth staring ass, love you anyways bitch.

So, why did I return from the underworld to tell you this shit now? Because Saturn is only halfway through it’s uncomfortable stay on the Pisces commune. Listen - if you’re starting to feel crazy, like (1) “I swear some shit must be up I just cannot catch a break from feeling like living shit” and (2) “why does the same shit continue to happen to me over and over again like fuck I thought I got over this shit in 1933” it’s because (1) you’re being called to transform and transformation is an active process time to stop being dragged around use you legs and (2) part of this particular transformation process is acknowledging that you did not leave any shit in 1933 and you’ve actually been dragging that ugly shit around in your unconscious and it’s secretly been controlling every decision you’ve made since then. Sorry.

“Ugh, can I just close my eyes and open them when this whack ass transit is over?” Sure. They’re your eyes, babe. But, just between you and me, why would you want to do that? This is a wonderfully unique time to face the truth (Saturn) and give yourself compassion and grace (Pisces), so that you can, oh, I don’t know, turn this car around before you and your unconscious Thelma and Louise yourselves. For a limited time only - the lights are on! There is no better time to look at this shit. The cosmic support is here. Right now. Let these lunar lovelies carry you through. 

The key to navigating this transit successfully (and consciously), is to pay attention to what you’re dissolving, and what you’re hardening around. Be suspicious about the shit you take for granted emotionally - investigate that foundation - ask yourself: Where did this shit even come from? Is this the psychological foundation I want to perpetuate? Don’t keep trying to wrap yourself back up in that shed skin, babies, it’s not a good look. Embrace the rawness.

The energies are active, the pressure is there, but if you open yourself to working with the energy of the times instead of just closing your eyes and hoping for the best, you can completely transform your life over the next 12 months. No joke. No exaggeration.

Until we meet again, bitches, happy charting.

XO BULLSHIT FREE ASTROLOGY 

[kinglivv]

One Bed

Kate Lethbridge-Stewart x Reader

Summary: Being Kate Stewart’s personal protection was a job full of challenges - aliens, monsters, the supernatural. But none as big as finding yourself in a hotel with her… and only one bed.

Warnings: Implied PTSD

A/N: Realised I’ve never done this trope so rectified that immediately! Also, first time writing for Kate - what do you think?

You couldn’t believe it.

It was classic. You couldn’t write it. One bed, one room, you and Katherine fucking Lethbridge-Stewart.

It was a work trip. Travelling out to Belarus to look at some potential satellite launch sites. UNIT was still regrouping after it’s recent Brexit dissolution, and your commander was desperate to begin scraping back that hard power. Seemingly pointless trips like these had become the norm in the absence of anything existential such as the Flux.

The trip had been last minute. You knew you were going to share a room with Kate - a product of budget cuts and a HQ concerned that as her protection detail in a hostile country, the room next door wasn’t close enough. The hotel however, had apparently royally screwed up by giving you a double instead of a twin.

“Right,” Kate said in a matter of fact tone. You both stand in the doorway, suitcases in hand, clutching yours like a rubber ring on a sinking ship. It feels like a dangerous threshold between sensibility - your job, your boss, your professional relationship - and something else unwritten.

“There’s obviously been a mix up,” she states.

“Yeah,” you clear your throat, “I’ll go down to reception, get it sorted?”

She looks at you. Her hand clasps and unclasps her suitcase handle.

“You could… But I mean, it’s fine. Right?” She says, “It’s the middle of the night, we’ve just been travelling 12 hours. If you’re not bothered, I’m not.”

You take a breath. She had a point. It wasn’t a big deal - two grown adults just sharing a bed on a business trip.

“Alright ma’am,” you agree, “it’s only one night either way.”

“Great,” she musters, and powers on into the room.

It is alright, you tell yourself. It was just Kate. Your boss. It wasn’t like you weren’t used to being glued to her side. That was what you were paid for - her personal protection. You were one of her “strays” as the office called it. One of her impulsive job offers. You’d been a mere police officer in the right place at the right time, when in the middle of an alien incursion, you’d knocked her out the way of a deadly bullet, almost getting hit in the process. She’d quickly made it her business to know everything of use about you; did you go to the gym a lot? How many languages did you speak? Were you satisfied with your job?

Upon finding you had the reflexes of a cat and couldn’t stand the police, you were hired.

You’d been by her side ever since. Everyday in the office, the occasional night shift, the odd weekend at her house in the country. It was fairly mundane work, lurking in the shadows and watching her every step, but you’d quickly learned that there wasn’t much downside to being paid to stare at Kate Stewart all day.

Back in the present, you find that co-existing with her in such close quarters is fairly uneventful. She takes a couple calls, does her emails. She showers and changes into checkered pyjamas. She asks after your dog and you ask after her kids. You go over the car’s planned route for tomorrow and at 11 o’clock it’s lights out. You curl up as close to the edge of the bed as you can get and try to ignore the smell of her fruity shampoo.

You wake to the sound of a muffled groan.

It’s pitch dark and hot. At first you jump, forgetting that you’re in a shared bed and you feel like duvet shift slightly. Then again - a groan. Followed by mumbles - scared mumbles.

You sit up to look at Kate. She’s a dark silhouette, but you can make out her tossing against the sheets. She’s having a nightmare, you realise.

Roll over, a part of you thinks. Spare her the embarrassment. But it’s difficult to listen to. Your heart twinges for her as her brow furrows in anxiety over imagined monsters.

You were her protection - it was your job to protect her.

“Commander,” you whisper gently, reaching out for her shoulder, and then more firmly, “Commander!”

Brown eyes snap open as she’s wrenched out of her nightmare and back into reality. She all but jumps away from you, narrowly avoiding falling out of the bed.

“You were having a nightmare,” you pull your hand away as she frantically wipes away tears and catches her breath.

“Sorry,” she mumbles.

“It’s okay,” you respond softly, “I get them too. More often than I’d like to admit.”

“I - um. Sorry,” she repeats, shifting to prop herself up against the pillows, and it’s only then that you realise how close you are and how wildly inappropriate this is, “I woke you didn’t I?”

“It’s alright,” you say firmly, “Can I… ask what it was? I don’t know - sometimes it helps me when I get them. To talk.”

“Oh,” she says dismissively, “just… you know. Sutekh stuff. The usual really.”

Your face falls. You felt a lot of guilt about that day. Seeing your death approaching and being able to do nothing about it. Watching her crumble to dust seconds before you did. You had failed her in that moment.

“Kate-“ you try to say but it chokes in your throat slightly. “I never apologised for that day.”

She frowns at you through the dark. “What do you mean?”

“I didn’t do my job properly that day,” you state, as if it’s obvious. “I should have been quicker. Done something. You died - as your assigned protection I literally can’t have cocked it up any moreso.”

“Cocked it up?” She repeats with a sort of sad myrth. “Darling, a god of death appeared in our office. The bloody Doctor couldn’t prevent it and you certainly couldn’t have done anything. You died seconds later, I seem to recall learning.”

You blink back tears and look away, picking the duvet pooled around your waist. She’d called you darling. You’d called her Kate. Uncharted territory.

“Have you been blaming yourself for my death all this time?” She asks quietly. Her hand reaches out, cups the side of your face, forcing you to make eye contact with her. Her touch is electric.

You nod silently against her palm.

“Darling,” she whispers again, and God you could die happy hearing her say that. “It’s not your fault,” she murmers. She’s closer now, leaning in, “it’s not your fault.” She whispers against your lips and then you’re kissing her.

It’s soft and cautious, and your mind goes black for a minute as you try to process the fact that all your fantasies are coming true at once. She breaks the kiss - perhaps to mentally list through all of the protocols and policies she’s currently breaking, perhaps just to catch her breath - and you stare at her dumbly, mouth open like a fish and tears drying quickly.

“Sorry,” she rambles hurriedly, “that was unprofessional. Was that alright? I can’t bear the thought of you carrying that guilt when -“

You lean in again and this time the desire hits you like a wave, taking everything within you to keep it at bay. There’s a sigh and her hand sneaks into your hair, the other fighting off the duvet tangled around her legs to get as close to you as possible. You slip a hand under the hem of her pyjama shirt to find hot, smooth skins and you moan into her mouth.

The noise seems to bring you back to yourself and the tension in the room snaps, reality flooding back in. The kiss breaks and she stares at you for a moment with a sort of wonder in her eyes.

“Wanted to do that for a while,” you confess before she can say anything.

“Me too,” is all she manages. She leans in again, but you muster every resolve within you and pull away after a few seconds. She pouts.

“You have to be up at 6am tomorrow,” you point out.

“I’ll sleep in the car,” she quips back.

“Someone has to drive that car,” you retort.

She laughs and it’s a nice sound, much better than her whines of fear as she shook in the grip of her nightmare, only minutes earlier.

“I never get to tell you how much I appreciate you,” she says, shifting to lie back down and pulling you down with her. Her golden hair splays around her head like a halo, and fingers thread through yours. “You make this job a damn lot easier for me, you know that? Not just the safety stuff, but just… you.”

You know what she means. You pull her into you and she sleeps sounder than she has in months.

[scotianostra]

On February 3rd 1700, a fire broke out on the north side of Cowgate in Edinburgh's Old Town.

From there the flames spread and burnt down the close and its close surroundings, including the merchant’s Exchange building, where the Three Sister bar now is.

The fire extended rapidly up hill to involve the tall tenements on the south and east sides of Parliament Square. One, fifteen storeys high, the tallest building in Edinburgh, was reduced to a heap of ashes and ‘made a prodigious blaze"

The buildings were densely occupied and about three or four hundred families lost their homes, including many notables such as the President of Parliament, the President of the Court of Session and other Lords, lawyers, clerks and poorer families. Several lives were lost and a great number seriously injured.

Offices of businesses were destroyed including the recently opened Bank of Scotland – the only bank in Scotland at that time. Mercifully the Parliament Hall and St Giles escaped major damage. The Advocates, who lost their library in the fire, were given space in the Laigh Hall below Parliament House.

Although it escaped major damage the fire allowed the council to rebuild the Parliament “in a uniform style of architecture” regulating the buildings appearance to prevent fire. The rest of the close was given a grand entry and the courtyard was rebuilt uniformly with a continuous arcade along the front.

Cassells Old & New wrote this short account bout the Parliament building:

This magnificent hall and the buildings connected with it had a narrow escape in the “Great Fire” of 1700. It broke out in Lord Crossrig’s lodging, at Mr. John Buchan’s, near the meal-market, on a night in February; and Duncan Forbes of Culloden asserts in a letter to his brother the colonel, that he never beheld a more vehement fire; that 400 families were burned out, and that from the Cowgate upwards to the High Street scarcely one stone was left upon another.

A broadsheet entitled Fire! Fire! stated that the fire had been started by someone throwing a bottle of whisky into an open hearth.. The fire engines were of little or no use, water being scarce and the old closes so narrow that they could not gain access. As mentoned in Cassells. Duncan Forbes wrote to his brother that it was the greatest fire he ever saw ‘notwithstanding I saw London burne’, It reads;

All the pryde of Edenr. is sunk; from the Cowgate to the High Street all is burnt, and hardly one stone left upon another…the Parliament House very hardly escapt; all Registers confounded; Clerks Chambers, and processes, in such confusion, that the Lords and Officers of State are just now mett at Rosse’s Taverne, in order to adjourneing the Sessione by reason of the disorder…twenty thousand hands flitting ther trash they know not wher…These babells, of ten and fourteen story high, are down to the Ground, and their fall’s very terrible….This Epitome of dissolution I send you, without saying any more, but that the Lord is angry with us, and I see no intercessor.

Of course the clergy couldn't let this go without blaming someone, preaching sermons in which they attributed the fire to God’s punishment for the wickedness of the populace. The Town Council also took to preaching and on 4th December 1702 introduced an ‘Act anent suppressing Immoralities,’ which contained the following:-

…considering the great growth of immoralities within the City and Suburbs, and the fearful rebukes of God, by a dreadful Fire in Parliament Close….which happened about midnight upon 3rd February 1700….also, remembering the terrible Fire….on the north side of the Lawn market….28 October 1701 with several lives lost. Likewise reflecting upon other Tokens of God’s wrath lately come upon us… We…being moved with the zeal of God….do in the Lord’s strength resolve to be more watchful over our hearts and ways than formerly; And each of us in our several capacities, to reprove vice with due zeal and prudence as we shall have occasion…. under penalty of Twenty Merks Scots.

The height of the new tenements was restricted to eleven storeys rather than the fifteen storeys of their predecessors but even so Tobias Smollett writing in 1770 observed that ‘I cannot view it without horror; that is, the dreadful situation of all the families above, in case the common stair-case should be rendered impassable by a fire in the lower stories’.

The council's supposed "fireproofing" of the Parliament meant little as 124 years later a large section of the High Street went up in flames in "The Great Fire"

[a-tohmic]

Social Media Is Not Self-Expression

by Rob Horning, 2014

1. Subjectivation is not a flowering of autonomy and freedom; it's the end product of procedures that train an individual in compliance and docility. One accepts structuring codes in exchange for an internal psychic coherence. Becoming yourself is not a growth process but a surrender of possibilities that we learn to regard as egregious, unbecoming. "Being yourself" is inherently limiting. It is liberatory only in the sense of freeing one temporarily from existential doubts. (Not a small thing!) So the social order is protected not by preventing "self-expression" and identity formation but encouraging it as a way of forcing people to limit and discipline themselves — to take responsibility for building and cleaning their own cage. Thus, the dissemination of social-media platforms becomes a flexible tool for social control. The more that individuals express through these codified, networked, formatted means to construct a "personal brand" identity, the more they self-assimilate, adopting the incentive structures of capitalist social order as their own. (The machinations of Big Data make this more obvious. The more data you supply, the more the algorithms can determine your reality.) Expunge the seriality built into these platforms, embrace a more radical form of difference.

2. In an essay about PJ Harvey's 4-Track Demos, Michael Barthel writes:

While she was able to hole up in a seaside restaurant and produce a masterpiece, I need constant feedback and encouragement in order not to end up curled in some dark corner of my house, eating potato chips and refreshing my Tumblr feed in the hope that someone will have “liked” my Photoshopped picture of Kanye West in a balloon chair.

He's being a bit facetious, but this is basically what I'm trying to get at above: the difference between an inner-directed process of discovery and a kind of outer-directed pseudo-creativity that in its pursuit of attention gets overwhelmed by desperation. I'm trading in a very dubious kind of dichotomizing here, I know — artists make a lot of great work for no greater purpose than attention-seeking, and the idea that anything is truly "inner-directed" may be a ideological illusion, given how we all develop interiority in relation to a social world that precedes us and enables us to survive. But what I am trying to emphasize here is how production in social media is often sold to users of these platforms as self-expressive creativity, as self-discovery, as an elaboration of the self even, but it is really a narrowing of the self to the reductive, defensive aim of getting recognition, reassurance of one's own existence, that one belongs. That kind of "creativity" may crowd out the more antisocial kind that may entail reclusion, social disappearance, indifference to reputation and social capital, to being someone in particular in a network. Self-invention in social media that is perpetually in search of "feedback" is really just the production of communication, which gives value not to the self but to the network that gets to carry more data (and store it, and sell it).

Actual "self-invention" — if we are measuring it in range of expressivity — appears more like self-dissolution. We're born into social life and shaped by it; self-discovery may thus entail a destruction of social bonds, not a sounding of them.

Barthel lauds the "demos, experiments, collaborative public works, jokes, notes, reading lists, sketches, appreciations, outbursts of pique" that are "absolutely vital to continuing the business of creation." But the degree that these are all affixed to a personal brand when serially broadcast on social media depletes their vitality. If PJ Harvey released the demos as she made them to a Myspace page, would there ever have been a finished Rid of Me? Would the end product merely have been PJ Harvey, as the fecund musician?

Social media structure creative effort (e.g., Barthel's list above) ideologically as "self-creating," but they often end up as anxiety-inducing, exposing the self's ad hoc incompleteness while structuring the demand for a fawning audience to complete us, validate every effort, as a natural expectation. Validation is nice, but as a goal for creative effort, it is somewhat limited. The quest for validation must inevitably restrict itself to the tools of attracting attention: the blunt instruments of novelty and prurience  ("Kanye West in a balloon chair"). The self one tries to express tends to be new, exciting, confessional, sexy, etc., because it plays as an advertisement. Identity is a series of ads for a product that doesn't exist.

The process can't quell anxiety; this kind of self-expression can only intensify it, focus it onto a few social-media posts that await judgment, narrow it to the latest instances of sharing. Social media's quantifying metrics aggravate the problem, making expression into a series of discrete items to be counted, ranked. It serves as the infrastructure for a feedback loop that orients expression toward the anxiety of what the numbers will be and accelerates it, as we try to better those numbers, and thereby demonstrate that the self-monitoring is teaching us something about how to become more "relevant."

The alternative would seem to be a sort of deep focus in isolation, in which one accepts the incompleteness that comes from being apart from an audience, that comes from not seeking final judgment on what one is doing and letting it remain ambiguous, open-ended, of the present moment and not assimilated to an archive of identity. To put that tritely: The best way to be yourself is to not be anybody in particular but to just be.

3. So is the solution to get off the Internet? If social media structure social behavior this way, just don't use them, right? Problem solved. Paul Miller's 2013 account at the Verge of his year without Internet use suggests it's not so simple. Miller went searching for "meaning" offline, fearing that Internet use was reducing his attention span and preoccupying him with trivia. It turns out that, after a momentary shock of having his habits disrupted, Miller fell back into the same feelings of ambient discontent, only spiked with a more intense feeling of loneliness. It's hard to escape the idea of a "connected world" all around you, and there is no denying that being online metes out "connectedness" in measured, addictive doses. But those doses contain real sociality, and they are reshaping society collectively. Whether or not you use social media personally, your social being is affected by that reshaping. You don't get to leave all of society's preoccupations behind.

Facebook is possibly more in the foreground for those who don't use it than for those who have accepted it as social infrastructure. You have to expend more effort not knowing a meme than letting it pass through you. Social relations are not one-way; you can't dictate how they are on the basis of personal preference. As Miller puts it, describing his too-broad, too pointed defiance of the social norms around him, "I fell out of sync with the flow of life." Pretending you can avoid these social aspects of life because they are supposedly external, artificial, inauthentic, and unreal, is to have a very impoverished idea of reality, of authenticity, of unique selfhood.

The inescapable reciprocity of social relations comes into much sharper relief when you stop using social media, which thrive on the basis of the control over reciprocity they try to provide. They give a crypto-dashboard to social life, making it seem like a personal consumption experience, but that is always an illusion, always scattered by the anxiety of waiting, watching for responses, and by the whiplash alternation between omnipotence and vulnerability.

Miller's fable ends up offering the lesson that the digital and the physical are actually interpenetrated, and all the personal problems he recognizes in himself aren't a matter of technologically mediated social reality but are basically his fault. This seems too neat of a moral to this story. Nothing is better for protecting the status quo than convincing people that their problems are their own and are entirely their personal responsibility. This is basically how neoliberalism works: "personal responsibility" is elevated over the possibility of collective action, a reiteration of requirement to "express oneself" as an isolated self, free of social determination, free for "whatever."

What is odd is that the connectivity of the internet exacerbates that sort of neoliberal ideology rather than mitigating it. Connectivity atomizes rather than collectivizes. But that is because most people's experience of the internet is mediated by capitalist entities, or rather, for the sake of simplicity, by capitalism itself. You can go offline, but that doesn't remove you from the alienating properties of life in capitalist society. So the same "personal problems" the Internet supposedly made you experience still exist for you if you go offline, because you are still in a capitalist society. Capitalist imperatives are still shaping your subjectivity, structuring your time and your experience of curiosity, leisure, work, life. The internet is not the problem; capitalism is the problem.

Social media offer a single profile for our singular identity, but our consciousness comprises multiple forms of identity simultaneously: We are at once a unique bundle of sense impressions and memories, and a social individual imbued with a collectively constructed sense of value and possibility. Things like Facebook give the impression that these different, contestable and often contradictory identities (and their different contexts) can be conveniently flattened out, with users suddenly having more control and autonomy in their piloting through everyday life. That is not only what for-profit companies like Facebook want, but it is also what will feel natural to subjects already accustomed to capitalist values of convenience, capitalist imperatives for efficiency, and so on.

So Miller is right to note that "the internet isn't an individual pursuit, it's something we do with each other. The internet is where people are." That's part of why simply abandoning it won't enhance our sense of freedom or selfhood. But because we "do" the internet with each other as capitalist subjects, we use it to intensify the social relations familiar from capitalism, with all the asymmetries and exploitation that comes with it. We "do" it as isolated nodes, letting social-media services further suppress our sense of collectivity and possibility. The work of being online doesn't simply fatten profits for Facebook; it also reproduces the condition that make Facebook necessary. As Lazzarato puts it, immaterial "labour produces not only commodities, but first and foremost the capital relationship."

4. Exodus won't yield freedom. The problem is not that the online self is “inauthentic” and the offline self is real; it’s that the self derived from the data processing of our digital traces doesn’t correspond with our active efforts to shape an offline/online hybrid identity for our genuine social ties. What seems necessary instead is a way to augment our sense of "transindividuality," in which social being doesn't come at the expense of individuality. This might be a way out of the trap of capitalist subjectivity, and the compulsive need to keep serially producing in a condition of anxiety to seem to manifest and discover the self as some transcendent thing at once unfettered by and validated through social mediation. Instead of using social media to master the social component of our own identity, we must use them to better balance the multitudes within.

[ckerouac]

What I Read: July

Back with another busy month of books. Sitting in waiting rooms and poolside really adds up.

Fiction

The Familiar by Leigh Bardugo

4.5/5 || It sucked me in, devoured it in two pool afternoons.

In a shabby house, on a shabby street, in the new capital of Madrid, Luzia Cotado uses scraps of magic to get through her days of endless toil as a scullion. But when her scheming mistress discovers the lump of a servant cowering in the kitchen is actually hiding a talent for little miracles, she demands Luzia use those gifts to better the family's social position. Determined to seize this one chance to better her fortunes, Luzia plunges into a world of seers and alchemists, holy men and hucksters, where the lines between magic, science, and fraud are never certain. But as her notoriety grows, so does the danger that her Jewish blood will doom her to the Inquisition's wrath.

The Rom-commers by Katherine Center

4.24/5 || I really enjoyed this story, but the narrator definitely has a distinct style that you’ll either vibe with or it’ll drive you up a wall. I wanted to snatch all the ‘what? WHAT?’ type repeated questions from the author and put them on a high shelf out of her reach. But the story was really fun.

Emma Wheeler desperately longs to be a screenwriter. She’s spent her life studying, obsessing over, and writing romantic comedies—good ones! That win contests! But she’s also been the sole caretaker for her kind-hearted dad, who needs full-time care. Now, when she gets a chance to re-write a script for famous screenwriter Charlie Yates—The Charlie Yates! Her personal writing god! But what is it they say? Don’t meet your heroes? Charlie Yates doesn’t want to write with anyone—much less “a failed, nobody screenwriter.” Worse, the romantic comedy he’s written is so terrible it might actually bring on the apocalypse. Plus! He doesn’t even care about the script—it’s just a means to get a different one green-lit. But Emma’s not going down without a fight. She will convince him that love stories matter—even if she has to kiss him senseless to do it.

Tender is the Flesh by Agustina Bazterrica

4/5 || Unsettling and great. Apparently Argentinian horror is something I’m loving this year.

His wife has left him, his father is sinking into dementia, and Marcos tries not to think too hard about how he makes a living. After all, it happened so quickly. First, it was reported that an infectious virus has made all animal meat poisonous to humans. Then governments initiated the "Transition." Now, eating human meat--"special meat"--is legal. Marcos tries to stick to numbers, consignments, processing. Then one day he's given a gift: a live specimen of the finest quality. Though he's aware that any form of personal contact is forbidden on pain of death, little by little he starts to treat her like a human being. And soon, he becomes tortured by what has been lost--and what might still be saved.

The Spy Who Came in from the Cold by John le Carré

4/5 || A classic of the genre for a reason. Carré can do in 200 pages what takes other authors twice as long.

In the shadow of the newly erected Berlin Wall, Alec Leamas watches as his last agent is shot dead by East German sentries. For Leamas, the head of Berlin Station, the Cold War is over. As he faces the prospect of retirement or worse--a desk job--Control offers him a unique opportunity for revenge. Assuming the guise of an embittered and dissolute ex-agent, Leamas is set up to trap Mundt, the deputy director of the East German Intelligence Service--with himself as the bait. In the background is George Smiley, ready to make the game play out just as Control wants.

Husband Material by Alexis Hall

3/5 || I loved the first book, and this one was… fine. Completely lacking in the charm of the first book for me. I was so disappointed.

In Boyfriend Material, Luc and Oliver met, pretended to fall in love, fell in love for real, dealt with heartbreak and disappointment and family and friends…and somehow figured out a way to make it work. Now it seems like everyone around them is getting married, and Luc’s feeling the social pressure to propose. But it’ll take more than four weddings, a funeral, and a bowl full of special curry to get these two from I don’t know what I’m doing to I do. Good thing Oliver is such perfect Husband Material.

Funny Story by Emily Henry

3/5 || I think I need to accept that I find the plots of Henry’s books more interesting than her execution of said plots.

Daphne always loved the way her fiancé Peter told their story. How they met (on a blustery day), fell in love (over an errant hat), and moved back to his lakeside hometown to begin their life together. He really was good at telling it… right up until the moment he realized he was actually in love with his childhood best friend Petra. Which is how Daphne begins her new story: Stranded in beautiful Waning Bay, Michigan, without friends or family but with a dream job as a children’s librarian (that barely pays the bills), and proposing to be roommates with the only person who could possibly understand her predicament: Petra’s ex, Miles Nowak. The roommates mainly avoid one another, until one day, while drowning their sorrows, they form a tenuous friendship and a plan. But it’s all just for show because there’s no way Daphne would actually start her new chapter by falling in love with her ex-fiancé’s new fiancée’s ex… right?

A Fate Inked in Blood by Danielle L. Jensen

3/5 || Norse magic was interesting, main character acted dumber than a box of rocks on too many occasions. Not opposed to reading the second book, but I’ll be surprised if I remember read book 1 when it comes out.

Bound in an unwanted marriage, Freya spends her days gutting fish, but dreams of becoming a warrior. And of putting an axe in her boorish husband’s back. Freya's dreams abruptly become reality when her husband betrays her to the region's jarl, landing her in a fight to the death against his son, Bjorn. To survive, Freya is forced to reveal her deepest secret: She possesses a drop of a goddess's blood, which makes her a shield maiden with magic capable of repelling any attack. It was foretold such a magic would unite the fractured nation of Skaland beneath the one who controls the shield maiden’s fate.

Big In Sweden by Sally Franson

2.5/5 || You know those fanfics that have a great set up but you quickly realize is written by someone who feels compelled to overexplain everything to prove they have the correct opinions and are aware of how ‘problematic’ everything is? Yeah.

Paulie Johansson has never put much stock in the idea of family: she has her long-term boyfriend Declan and beloved best friend Jemma, and that's more than enough for her. Yet one night on a lark, she lets Jemma convince her to audition for Sverige och Mig, a show on Swedish television where Swedish-Americans compete to win the ultimate prize: a reunion with their Swedish relatives. Much to her shock, her drunken submission video wins her a spot on the show, and against Declan's advice Paulie decides to go for it. Grappling with long-held notions of family, friendship, and love--not to mention her feelings for the distractingly handsome Swedish cameraman who's been assigned to follow her around--Paulie starts to reconsider her past and rethink what she wants for the future.

Nonfiction

King Leopold’s Ghost by Adam Hochschild

5/5 || You think you know how bad the Belgian destruction of the Congo was. Yeah, it’s even worse. Once I picked this up, I couldn’t put it down.

In the 1880s, as the European powers were carving up Africa, King Leopold II of Belgium seized for himself the vast and mostly unexplored territory surrounding the Congo River. Carrying out a genocidal plundering of the Congo, he looted its rubber, brutalized its people, and ultimately slashed its population by ten million--all the while shrewdly cultivating his reputation as a great humanitarian. Heroic efforts to expose these crimes eventually led to the first great human rights movement of the twentieth century, in which everyone from Mark Twain to the Archbishop of Canterbury participated. King Leopold's Ghost is the haunting account of a megalomaniac of monstrous proportions, a man as cunning, charming, and cruel as any of the great Shakespearean villains. It is also the deeply moving portrait of those who fought Leopold: a brave handful of missionaries, travelers, and young idealists who went to Africa for work or adventure and unexpectedly found themselves witnesses to a holocaust.

The Far Land: 200 Years of Murder, Mania, and Mutiny in the South Pacific by Brandon Presser

3.25/5 || Very readable as a travelogue, but takes a lot of liberties in the history presented as fact that can’t be known for certain.

Told through vivid historical and personal narrative, The Far Land goes beyond the infamous mutiny on the Bounty, offering an unprecedented glimpse at life on the fringes of civilization, and how, perhaps, it's not so different from our own. In 2018, Brandon Presser rode the freighter to live among its present-day families; two clans bound by circumstance and secrets. While on the island, he pieced together Pitcairn's full story: an operatic saga that holds all who have visited in its mortal clutch--even the author.

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[md-guel]

and for one last time, happy guel wednesday everybody!! after all the tragedies and the heartbreaks, we've finally come to the final episode where everything ends in forgiveness and rainbow lights. and after 3 years, it looks like everyone's just about settled into their new lives

having lost both of his custom mobile suits, and with much of the work now resting in suletta's shoulders, guel didn't really have much to do except to provide some insurance as backup. the next time we see him after he watches quiet zero disintegrate, it's already been 3 years, and we see him in the office, chatting amicably with lauda and petra, and then frustrated with negotiations with burion company.

and I know a number of people were frustrated on the kind of ending he got, too. he started off as a fierce ace pilot, and then ended up in his dad's office, doing his dad's work. he also saw how destitute earth was because of companies like his own, but he went back to continue that kind of work, anyway.

the way I see it, though, personally, his ending isn't just about the scenes he was given in episode 24, but also every scene he went through throughout the anime in context. he's back in the office, doing corporate work, because that's what he promised everyone and himself that he would do. he would hold onto the things that bound him to his dad, and to do that he would rebuild the company

it's never really said what he's done to the company, but I think there's enough hints for us to take away and fill in the rest of the blanks ourselves. he's sitting in the same office as his dad which means that in spite of the benerit group's dissolution, jhm managed to survive as an independent entity, and probably the only one to do so among the three branches. he also entered into a contract with burion company to help him keep asticassia open and find work for his employees, which means guel is the kind of ceo to look after his people and to look beyond his office walls. also: because he's looking for outside ways to support his employees, I think that means that jhm really shrunk, so they couldn't have been one of those spacian businesses reabsorbing the assets shaddiq and miorine had scattered on earth.

so, as far as maintaining his integrity as a good and conscientious man, I think we've got enough clues to think so. then again, I do see how it's kind of anticlimactic that he ended up doing what the older generation (who ruined everything, by the way!) told him to do. but if you think about it, suletta also did what the older generation told her to do which is to marry her bride. but, suletta didn't just marry miorine out of obligation anymore, but out of love. and I think that's something that can be said about guel, too: he did what he was always expected to do, but he's doing it his way, and with far more compassion and understanding than his father before him

personally, I'm happy he's living a peaceful life now 😂 after all his near-death experiences, every time he went out to fight, I felt like a mother waiting for her son to come home from the war. 🤣 but, after everything he did go through, and losing both his mobile suits in the process (though I am hanging onto ippei gyoubu's "headcanon" where the darilbalde is being repaired), I personally don't see him being a pilot anymore either. and I don't know if any of our esteemed pilots even still do it anymore. the closest one is probably chuchu, but that's for work, you know?

in the end, I think the point of the characters' endings, and with guel in the forefront of my mind, isn't that they went on doing what is cool or what it was they loved to do, but that they broke free from the clutches of the past generation and took their future into their own hands. they made their beds in the best way they could make them, and 3 years later, they're laying on it.

do I think that after 3 years, guel has finally stepped away from his dad's shadow? considering the smile he's wearing and the way he's leading his company, I'd say he's at the very least taken the first step towards healing. and because I want nothing but the best for guel, because he deserves nothing but the best for everything he did and everything he survived, I wanna say that one of these days, he's going to get there in the end 🥰

and that's it for guel wednesday!! 🦁 for now? who knows what the future holds but for now, thank you for reading all the way to the end! ✨

[mariacallous]

Bulgaria edged closer to a seventh general election in just three years on Monday, when the reformist alliance of pro-EU parties We Continue the Change WCC and Democratic Bulgaria DB received – and immediately returned – the government-forming mandate to President Rumen Radev.

Since 2021, Bulgaria has witnessed the decline and comeback of the long-ruling centre-right GERB party, he birth of several new entities opposed to GERB and increased friction between pro-EU parties and the generally pro-Kremlin President Radev.

“We won’t change our model and upfront priorities – to build a welcoming environment for business and investors, so we can increase income, reduce inequality, and have the means to secure a better level of quality of education and healthcare“, said former PM Nikolai Denkov of We Continue the Change, who was in office until the dissolution of the latest short-lived coalition. 

WCC/DB received a government-forming mandate after the last election winner, GERB, was unable to muster a majority in parliament despite initial ambitions to do so following June 8 elections won by GERB and its allies in the Movement for Rights and Freedoms, MRF. 

However, MRF, a party relying mainly on ethnic Turkish votes, entered a leadership crisis after its co-leader, the oligarch Delyan Peevski, pressed the party to support a GERB-led government, which party founder Ahmed Dogan opposed.

MRF’s parliamentary group split into two camps by July 11. The battle between Peevski and Dogan has seen party members taking opposing sides in the media, and opens up questions about whether the MRF will stay by GERB’s side in the long run. 

The mandate then went to WCC/DB, which could not capitalize on the moment. Last week, party leaders promoted the idea of delaying the handing of the mandate for two months, during which time parliament would approve various reforms and amendments backed by WCC/DB. But this plan did not gain hold and now the party is returning the mandate. 

What’s next: eyes on the President

Under constitutional rules, the President should now give the final government-forming mandate to a party of his own choice. Traditionally, Radev has chosen the pro-Russian Bulgarian Socialist Party for this usually doomed task. But in April 2023, amid another election phase, he chose the nationalist There’s Such a People, which at the time promoted the idea of turning Bulgaria into a presidential republic. 

The President’s other option is another right-wing pro-Russian party: Revival, now the country’s main far-right force. 

Parliamentary newcomer Greatness, which leans towards nationalist, pro-Russian, Eurosceptic and conspiratorial ideas, has meanwhile practically dissolved: like the MRF, it has entered into a leadership crisis and is likely to fade.

With every phase of the process it looks likelier that election-weary Bulgarians will again head to the polls in the autumn, with the parties increasingly isolated from each other.

GERB leader and former PM Boyko Borissov on Saturday said all efforts must be made to end the stalemate with the next elections. “We don’t have time for any more experiments,” he said.

[sophie-st-2002]

Roundtable 3: All That Jazz (1979) directed by Bob Fosse

Question 1: What are the social aspects within the film’s narrative that align with the film’s songs?

The narrative of “All That Jazz” explores the dark side of entertainment. In the opening number, “On Broadway”, the audience is introduced to the allure of show business while being shown the grueling audition process.

The upbeat R&B song, performed by George Benson and popularized by The Drifters in 1963, complements the energized dancers and fast moving tryout. The lyrics of the song express longing and escapism, with the narrator dreaming of making it big on Broadway. However, beneath the glittering lights and promising opportunities lies a darker reality. The director, Joe Gideon, uses his artistic prowess and influence over the production to lead casting decisions based on who he wants to sleep with rather than talent.

He begins a sexual relationship with one of the dancers he chooses from the sequence, Veronica, and in a future scene he essentially breaks her down to tears in order to get the performance he wants out of her. To bring it back to “On Broadway”, the tension between the glamorous facade and the seedy underbelly of show business reflects another tension in the film which is a broader dichotomy in the entertainment world, where personal ambition often beats out artistic and personal integrity.

The scene between Veronica and Joe.

Another social aspect explored within the film’s narrative through song is the cyclical nature of life and art in “Everything Old is New Again”. The song was originally by Peter Allen in his 1974 album “Continental American”. As Joe grapples with his morality and attempts to reinvent himself creatively, the song serves as an important reminder of the cycle of birth, death, and rebirth, suggesting that trends and fashions often repeat over time. During the 1970s a large number of traditional values were being challenged and individuals sought to redefine themselves in the ever-changing and evolving world. Joe is able to find comfort and define himself with the comfort of the cyclical nature of art and life.

Question 2: How do the historiographies of previously recorded songs inform audience relationships with the musical’s narrative and performers?

The use of previously recorded songs in “All That Jazz” seeks to add layers of meaning to a specific audience familiar with their original contexts, an audience of Broadway and the style of bygone eras. For example, “Some of These Days”, a song associated with vaudeville performer Sophie Tucker, is used in a scene where Joe faces his mortality. Audiences familiar with Tucker’s career may interpret the song as a nod to the past, invoking a sense of nostalgia and paying homage to the rich history of stage productions and entertainment that predate Joe Gideon’s era which is inspired by Bob Fosse’s life.

Sophie Tucker

Similarly, “Bye Bye Love” originally by The Everly Brothers is used in a scene where Joe grapples with the dissolution of his relationships. The lyrics of the song become more significant in this context, reflecting Joe’s sense of loss and longing.

Question 3: What musical genre/style drives the film’s score, and how does the genre/style (re)define the film as a musical?

The music of “All That Jazz” encompasses a wide range of musical genres and styles including, jazz, pop, classic R&B, and traditional Broadway music. The eclectic mix reflect the diverse taste and influences of its director, Bob Fosse. By mixing the different genres, the film defies categorization and helps to redefine the musical genre. 

Bob Fosse in a situation similar to one we see Joe in many times during the film.

Unlike some jukebox musicals which adhere to a singular style or formula the film embraces experimentation and innovation. The film uses non-linear storytelling, surreal imagery, and unconventional musical numbers to challenge audience expectations. It doesn't feel like what one might think of as a musical, it feels more like a prolonged fever dream of a performance.

The Angel of Death that Joe converses with and performs for throughout the film in surreal scenes.

[ruminativerabbi]

The Court on Trial

It’s hard to know where even to begin writing about the truly outrageous law suit brought by South Africa against Israel in the International Court of Law, the United Nations tribunal located in the Netherlands, in the Hague. The charge itself—the charge of genocide allegedly being inflicted on the Palestinian nation by Israel—should make clear to all what kind of nonsense this all is. (The term “genocide,” coined only in 1944 by Polish-Jewish lawyer Raphael Lemkin to characterize the behavior of the Nazis towards the people it intended to exterminate, derives from the Greek genos,  meaning “people,” “tribe,” or “state” and the familiar “-cide” suffix, from the Latin, denoting killing, as in suicide, homicide, fratricide, etc.) To be guilty of genocide, therefore, a nation would have to undertake wholly to annihilate another people or nation. The Nazis didn’t invent the concept, but there have not been that many serious efforts of one nation embarking on the effort, not merely to decimate, but actually to eradicate another: even the almost unbelievably barbaric massacre of civilian Cambodians undertaken by the Khmer Rouge from 1975 to 1978, in the context of which a full quarter of the national population was murdered, even that was not really an effort to rid the world of all Cambodians: for one thing, the murderers themselves were Cambodian. The Rwandan nightmare of 1994 comes closer: the Hutu militias did their best to massacre the entire Tutsi tribe and managed actually to murder as many as 800,000 before they were finally stopped by Tutsi militia groups that invaded from neighboring lands and gained control of the country. Had they succeeded, there would today be no Tutsis at all. That is what the term “genocide” denotes.

But the term has its limits—and those limits have to do with intent, not with numbers. To lament in humility and shame the fact that, by the time American independence was achieved, the population of native Americans had dropped by about 90% from what it had been before Columbia “discovered” America is the fully correct response. But to characterize that decline as the result of genocide would require arguing that the Europeans who came here undertook a conscious effort to exterminate the native population, that they brought along smallpox and other deadly diseases not by accident and not unawares, but fully intending to let disease do what they lacked the physical ability to manage on their own. Of course, there is no such proof at all that that was their intent. And that is true even if it is also true that the colonials in Central, South, and North American were cultural imperialists who had neither respect nor interest in interacting in any meaningful, mutually respectful way with the aboriginal population, and most of whom would not have minded at all if the decline had been 100% instead of just 90%.

And that brings us to Gaza. For a Jew considering the charge of genocide, the matter is straightforward. No one needs to lecture the Jewish people on genocide or on its most effective techniques. Nor does anyone need to explain the process: we are more than familiar with the slow (or not slow) progression from petty microaggression to disabling discrimination, and from there to the dissolution of civil rights (including the right to be a citizen of one’s own country, to live in one’s home, and to work in one’s own business) and finally to the withdrawal of the right to live itself, which new reality the state then helpfully accommodates by undertaking to murder the disenfranchised individuals and making them not alive at all and therefore no longer in contravention of the law. There isn’t a Jew in the world—or at least not one with even the least sense of intellectual or emotional engagement with his or her Jewishness—there isn’t a solitary Jewish soul out there who doesn’t know all of this. We’ve seen this movie We’ve swum in this stream. We’ve been there, all of us.

So that actually makes us just the kind of expert witnesses the International Court of Justice should be seeking as it gathers evidence.

Mind you, the Court has its own problems. Its justices come from any number of different countries in which human rights are not respected: Somalia, China, Uganda, Russia, etc. So that’s not too encouraging for a tribunal devoted to the cause of justice between nations. Nor is the Court’s record too impressive: although it has existed for more than three-quarters of a century, it has managed not to take note of the plight of the hundreds of thousands of Syrians murdered by the Assad regime, the fate of the million-plus Uighurs forced by the Chinese into a gulag all their own, or the fate of the millions of North Koreans who live with neither civil rights nor any hope of escape. The Court has not censured any of this, nor has it taken note of it. It certainly hasn’t put Syria on trial for genocide, let alone China. Instead, it is now training its steely gaze on Israel to determine if Israel, of all nations, is committing genocide in Gaza.

I’d like to offer my perspective to the court. (It’s unlikely they’ll be interested in rationality or reasonableness—this is an organ of the United Nations, after all—but nonetheless I’d like to say my piece.) Yes, there have been many civilian deaths in the course of these last 100 days, while Israel has combed Gaza for its own citizens being held hostage by Hamas and, at the same time, for the perpetrators of the October pogrom in the course of which more than a thousand civilians were murdered, the dead were mutilated, and women were savagely and repeatedly raped. That is regrettable. Civilian deaths are always regrettable! No one could hate Nazism more than I myself do. But even I, whose loathing for the German government that murdered more than a million and a half Jewish children could not be more unambiguously felt, even I regret—and regret profoundly—the deaths of innocents, including children, during the carpet bombing of Germany, including Hamburg and Dresden especially, that paved the way for the successful invasion of Germany from the West by the Allies under General Eisenhower and from the east by the Red Army.

This is not an especially  courageous position I’m staking out for myself here. What kind of monster can take delight in the death of a child? There were babies in Dresden too, just as there were in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. How can there not have been? But the International Court didn’t get off to a good start in 1945 by putting the United Kingdom or the U.S. on trial for genocide. And it didn’t do that because those deaths took place as part of a wartime initiative to defeat an enemy that was evil itself. And when fighting a war against evil, the only truly immoral act is to lose.

But back to Gaza. Where exactly are the gas chambers? Where are the boxcars shuttling hundreds of thousands of Palestinian civilians to the killing sites? For that matter, where are the killing sites? If the goal was to eradicate the Palestinian nation, then why drop leaflets encouraging civilians to flee areas in the northern part of Gaza that were targeted for bombing? Why let any humanitarian aide in at all if the goal is to turn Gaza into a beach-front version of Treblinka? Most trenchant of all questions to ask: why would Israel risk the lives of any IDF soldiers at all if the “real” goal of the operation was to empty Gaza of Palestinians? Before the IDF incursion, there were, after all, no Israelis at all in Gaza, so the field could have been relatively clear. If the only goal was killing civilians with the specific intention of emptying Gaza of Gazans, the entire operation could have been safely—and totally effectively—conducted from the air with the chances of Israeli casualties minimized, if not totally eradicated.

Much has been made in some quarters of a throw-away remark of Bibi Netanyahu’s equating Hamas with the ancient nation of Amalek and I’d like to address myself to that as well.

Amalek occupies a strange place in our history. They attacked the Israelites on their way out of Egypt from the rear, picking off the elderly, the infirm, the part of the people the least likely successfully to be able to defend themselves. Israel went to war and was victorious. The Torah makes a big deal of this, but then ends up on a note of ambivalence. On the one hand, the name of Amalek has to be wiped out entirely. On the other, the Israelites are commanded to labor to remember all the despicable, dastardly deeds that Amalek committed when they were attacking. So how does that work: if they’re completely forgotten, their very name erased from the world’s memory banks, then how can the Israelites guarantee that they will always be remembered? They have either to be remembered or forgotten, don’t they? You can’t have it both ways!

And yet that’s the Torah’s command. And when the Torah appears to self-contradict, it’s always pointing to a deeper lesson just beneath the surface. Amalek is not one of the Canaanite nations. It’s fate is not sealed. They represent pure hatred for Israel, what we would call fanatic anti-Semitism. The Nazis were Amalek. Stalin was Amalek. And Hamas is Amalek too. The Torah is saying that these people must be fought back against vigorously, just as the IDF is doing. But it’s also saying they will always be there: there will always be people out there who hate Jews. Labeling Hamas as Amalek simply means that they are not “merely” hostile folks, but part of a cosmic battle between good and evil. Bibi probably should have kept Amalek out of this, but, in the end, Amalek is a theological concept, not a battle plan. By bringing Amalek into the discussion, Bibi was speaking in the natural idiom of Jewishness, not recommending genocide.

In the end, it’s not Israel on trial at the International Court of Justice. It’s the Court itself that is on trial. Its future reputation rests on getting this right. Its actual future itself may rest on that as well. In the end, the verdict will tell us clearly if the International Court is a force for good in the world to be respected and supported…or just another failed, biased, and bigoted wing of the United Nations.

[scotianostra]

On February 3rd 1700, a fire broke out on the north side of Cowgate in Edinburgh's Old Town.

From there the flames spread and burnt down the close and its close surroundings, including the merchant’s Exchange building, where the Three Sister bar now is.

The fire extended rapidly up hill to involve the tall tenements on the south and east sides of Parliament Square. One, fifteen storeys high, the tallest building in Edinburgh, was reduced to a heap of ashes and ‘made a prodigious blaze"

The buildings were densely occupied and about three or four hundred families lost their homes, including many notables such as the President of Parliament, the President of the Court of Session and other Lords, lawyers, clerks and poorer families. Several lives were lost and a great number seriously injured.

Offices of businesses were destroyed including the recently opened Bank of Scotland – the only bank in Scotland at that time. Mercifully the Parliament Hall and St Giles escaped major damage. The Advocates, who lost their library in the fire, were given space in the Laigh Hall below Parliament House.

Although it escaped major damage the fire allowed the council to rebuild the Parliament “in a uniform style of architecture” regulating the buildings appearance to prevent fire. The rest of the close was given a grand entry and the courtyard was rebuilt uniformly with a continuous arcade along the front.

Cassells Old & New wrote this short account bout the Parliament building:

This magnificent hall and the buildings connected with it had a narrow escape in the “Great Fire” of 1700. It broke out in Lord Crossrig’s lodging, at Mr. John Buchan’s, near the meal-market, on a night in February; and Duncan Forbes of Culloden asserts in a letter to his brother the colonel, that he never beheld a more vehement fire; that 400 families were burned out, and that from the Cowgate upwards to the High Street scarcely one stone was left upon another.

A broadsheet entitled Fire! Fire! stated that the fire had been started by someone throwing a bottle of whisky into an open hearth.. The fire engines were of little or no use, water being scarce and the old closes so narrow that they could not gain access. As mentoned in Cassells. Duncan Forbes wrote to his brother that it was the greatest fire he ever saw ‘notwithstanding I saw London burne’, It reads;

All the pryde of Edenr. is sunk; from the Cowgate to the High Street all is burnt, and hardly one stone left upon another…the Parliament House very hardly escapt; all Registers confounded; Clerks Chambers, and processes, in such confusion, that the Lords and Officers of State are just now mett at Rosse’s Taverne, in order to adjourneing the Sessione by reason of the disorder…twenty thousand hands flitting ther trash they know not wher…These babells, of ten and fourteen story high, are down to the Ground, and their fall’s very terrible….This Epitome of dissolution I send you, without saying any more, but that the Lord is angry with us, and I see no intercessor.

Of course the clergy couldn't let this go without blaming someone, preaching sermons in which they attributed the fire to God’s punishment for the wickedness of the populace. The Town Council also took to preaching and on 4th December 1702 introduced an ‘Act anent suppressing Immoralities,’ which contained the following:-

…considering the great growth of immoralities within the City and Suburbs, and the fearful rebukes of God, by a dreadful Fire in Parliament Close….which happened about midnight upon 3rd February 1700….also, remembering the terrible Fire….on the north side of the Lawn market….28 October 1701 with several lives lost. Likewise reflecting upon other Tokens of God’s wrath lately come upon us… We…being moved with the zeal of God….do in the Lord’s strength resolve to be more watchful over our hearts and ways than formerly; And each of us in our several capacities, to reprove vice with due zeal and prudence as we shall have occasion…. under penalty of Twenty Merks Scots.

The height of the new tenements was restricted to eleven storeys rather than the fifteen storeys of their predecessors but even so Tobias Smollett writing in 1770 observed that ‘I cannot view it without horror; that is, the dreadful situation of all the families above, in case the common stair-case should be rendered impassable by a fire in the lower stories’.

The council's supposed "fireproofing" of the Parliament meant little as 124 years later a large section of the High Street went up in flames in "The Great Fire"