The Kingless Generation

I did it, folks: I returned to the burning bouncy castle that is the small town settler entity on Turtle Island. In between fulfilling various karmic obligations and reconnecting with fellow settlers, relatives and friends on both sides of the Trump/Kamala cultic divide, I managed to do some real-life investigation of Indigenous reservations, visiting museums and cultural events, albeit in a shallow, short-term capacity. Herein I share some musings on this experience of questionable depth but with fireside vibes aplenty.This version is a short take which I did earlier on in the visit and which got interrupted, though it’s nice and snappy and focused. A longer take done later with a bit more information and a lot more vibes will follow on the premium feed only.

The first half of the Popol Vuh as we have it from the Kʾicheʾ colonial tradition is a quintessentially Kingless epic, as the story revolves around pre-human gods, successive generations of hero twins, who must defeat a series of aggrandizer figures, including the lords of death in the underworld, in order to bring about the dawning of the human age. Although the same basic story can be found in earlier art and hieroglyphic inscriptions which since the 1990s are being deciphered at an exhilarating pace, recent research has pointed out that this anti-accumulative tendency of the story may be somewhat unique to the Popol Vuh as we have it, which, it is hypothesised, may represent a retelling slanted toward anti-colonial resistance. While I agree that this may also be the case, I (based on my limited understanding as an ignorant outsider) think it might make even more sense to take this story, written down only some thirty years after first European contact, as faithfully reflecting older layers, though perhaps not of the somewhat exploitative and stratified Classic Maya (ca 250–950 CE) but rather of the socially creative, decentralized, and egalitarian Postclassic Maya (950–1539), which represents one of the great examples in world history of the deescalation of class struggle, when people came together to build the Kingless Generation.

In a series that I hope will include Martin Bernal’s classic Black Athena (about the modern British fabrication of “ancient Greece” and its true roots in ancient Egypt), we start with the East: in recent decades, great advances in Hittite studies have illuminated much of the mechanics of transmission of Mesopotamian literature and religion to a nascent Greece from a grain state in Anatolia (modern-day Turkey) which used cuneiform writing (in addition to their own distinctive hieroglyphs) and was ruled over by an Indo-European-speaking ruling class. In addition to illuminating details of class struggle between slave-owning city council members against a king who wants to free the slaves—though perhaps only in order that they may serve the cult of his ancestors in the temple—we contemplate the dependent origination and lack of perduring essence of ‘ancient Greece’, that flimsy idol enshrined at the center of the white supremacist worldview.

A close reading of “The Playboy Dialect,” a classic sharebon, or narrative of fashion and manners in the pleasure quarters of Edo-period Japan, where a consumer culture, to rival anything concocted by the capitalist dictatorships of the Century of the Self, was wielded as a weapon of class struggle by the rising urban commoner class against the de facto feudal rulers, the samurai.

The rise of ancient empires in the Eurasian continent ushered in the Axial Age, with its ideologies of absolute good and evil and the promise of revolutionary recompense for unheard-of oppression by the Occupiers of the Earth (שכני הארץ). The books of 1 Enoch and Jubilees, quoted by name in the New Testament, still contained in the Bible of the Ethiopic churches, and exerting a massive influence over the entire Christian view of human history, have recently been re-edited and re-translated with reference to the Aramaic and Hebrew originals partially recovered from the Dead Sea scrolls. Their text shows a greater class consciousness than ever, declaring, “it was not ordained for a man to be a slave, nor was a decree given for a woman to be a handmaid: but it happened because of oppression. This lawlessness was not sent upon the earth: but men created it by themselves, and those who do it will come to a great curse,” (98:4) proclaiming, “woe to those who build their houses not with their own labors, and make the whole house of the stones and bricks of sin,” (99:13) while we workers “toiled and labored and were not masters of our labor; we became the food of the sinners.” (103:11) In response to this situation—ambiguously connected with the idea of God’s angelic police (עירין “watchers”) and prosecutors (שׂטנין “accusers”) betraying Him and engaging in a kind of mafia side hustle which corrupted some humans so that they began to consume and exploit others—the patriarchs Enoch and Moses are given secret knowledge of the cosmic surveillance apparatus that will bring reward to the just, punishment to the rich, and justice to the victims of oppression. We engage in an extended meditation on the impact of these ideas as a weapon of class struggle, both from above and below, in late antique, medieval, capitalist, and our own techno-feudal times.

I thought I had a hot take in response to the Little Mermaid discourse last year, but predictably I’m not the first one to think of reading the Isle of Venus in Camões’ Lusiads against the Age of Exploration diary entries in which roving European savages discuss their adventures in more complex Indigenous kinship structures where sex was not commodified and the family was not specialized to pass down private property—as well as (what one suspects was actually much more common) rolling up on Indigenous women around the world and committing sexual violence. Sure enough, my guest Min has written an entire scholarly thesis on two different poetic re-imaginings of the Isle of Venus which highlight the colonial violence that Camões’ poem works to conceal: one by a white Anglo woman in Brazil, and another by the leader of the Angolan revolution against Portuguese domination, António Agostinho Neto.

In the final installment of the series, we cover all that is known about the mysterious death of this strangely GLADIO-brained scholar of classical Japanese literature and favorite translator of “aesthetic terrorist” Mishima Yukio.

We explore the Windsor Free Festival, Sunday Head, Albion Free State milieu of hedonist, individualist, libertarian (and decidedly anti-communist) radicalism in 1970s Britain, led by figures like Ubi Dwyer, Sid Rawle, and Paul Pawlowski, as well as scions of elite families like Heathcote Williams and Nic Albery—in light of the fact that, as we have already seen, Nic Albery and his movement appear in Nobuko Albery’s semi-autobiographical novel merged together (and not-so-subtly equated) with Mishima Yukio and his far-right Shield Society, with whom Nobuko and Ivan Morris were also closely associated.