Freedom is always and exclusively freedom for those who think differently” – Rosa Luxemburg

On the subject of failing to put words on paper, the cliche is at hand. I am suffering from writer’s block, a psychological inability to write. One definition suggests this has to do with having nothing to say. Such a judgement scratches a raw nerve, its implication too close for comfort. Indeed I often feel wearily repetitive and stale. Haven’t others said much the same thing and better? Haven’t I said much the same thing and forgotten saying it? And, even when I think I’ve said it well, how many have noticed? Hence the obvious, why am I so bothered about the paralysis, both in thought and action?

Well, one reason for sure is that I seem to compose endlessly, from dawn to dusk and then in my dreams. Walking the dog, sitting on the terrace or in the kafeneio, or riding my bike, I string sentences and plait paragraphs into captivating prose, only to see the words slip from my grasp. This hardly matters. Unlike the novelist, I am not searching for an unexpected, yet unknown twist in a story. Unlike the poet, I am not seeking a subtle alliterative allusion.

The crude and sophisticated thoughts, sometimes pounding, other times petalling the interior of my head are here, there and everywhere. They are the stuff of gossip, of idle and animated conversations, of the media in all its forms, of propaganda, both good and bad. Whatever our education such ruminations are a messy mix of the psychological, social and political. All of us in one way or another psychologise, offering opinions about why people, including ourselves, say what they say, do what they do.

In my case the psychological, social and political explanations to hand owe still a great deal to my chance recruitment in the mid-70s to a small Trotskyist organisation, the Marxist Workers Group. There I tussled with the inextricable relationships between class, gender, race and sexuality – long before if I might say so, the appearance of intersectionality. Privileged later to spend a year in Higher Education I sought with Marilyn Taylor to sketch the outline of a grounded Marxist-Feminist psychology, which situated the unique individual within the constraints of her circumstances. The project remains incomplete but snatches of our exploration are to be heard in the tinnitus of voices accompanying me as I wend my way along the paths of my daily existence.

For now, though, I need to emphasise, that, although seen as something of a maverick, I saw myself as a man of the Left. Indeed I saw myself pretentiously as more Left than the majority of the Left. My increasing hostility to the authoritarian inclinations of the traditional Left, both social-democratic and revolutionary led me to seek out the dissident writings of the German, Dutch and Italian Left, dismissed by Lenin as ‘infantile’, the works of anarchists such as Bakunin and Kropotkin and somewhat later the autonomous provocations of Castoriadis. Steadfast I was always enamoured with Rosa Luxembourg, her overflowing humanity. In doing so I was fortunately able to discuss the importance or otherwise of these thinkers for over two decades in a pluralist caucus of activists, known in one of its incarnations as the Critically Chatting Collective. The group included Malcolm Ball and Steve Waterhouse, to whom this website is dedicated and I can still see them outside in the garden of Exeter Community Centre arguing passionately the toss. I wish so much they were here to take me to task for my ramblings.

Within Youth Work, which continued to occupy much of my time after ‘retirement’, my writing and activity remained rooted in a defence of a radical practice with social and political justice at its heart but one, which was ‘volatile and voluntary, creative and collective – an association and conversation without guarantees’. It was a direct refusal to bow to the diktat of behaviourism, the imposition of prescribed scripts and predictable, necessary and expected outcomes. Without quite knowing, it was a rejection of impact capitalism. Thus, almost to the dying days of In Defence of Youth Work, I focused on the destructive legacy of a destitute neoliberalism and the frightening dominance of behavioural psychology at all levels of practice and policy in welfare and education. I continued to hold to a view I expressed in 2008 that we were in danger of ‘sleepwalking into authoritarianism’. And I feared the Left was not unduly concerned. In fact, in retrospect, it was undeniably implicated.

Nevertheless, not being a purist in practice, I lent my genuine if cautious support to what now seem to be the dying moments of left social democracy, namely Corbyn’s Labour Party in the UK and SYRIZA in Greece, where I happened to live. Corbyn fell foul of foes within the Party itself and the media, not least the nauseous Guardian, hung him on the absurd charge of anti-semitism. Tsipras, the leader of SYRIZA, despite referendum support to resist the demands of the International Monetary Fund and its allies, capitulated. The night previous to his treachery my small Cretan village was abuzz with an uncertain feisty excitement. Within hours this gave way to a cynical disillusionment that persists to this very day.

During 2019 I was reading analyses that argued the economic crisis was much worse than in 2008. Quantitative easing, the relentless printing of money for money’s sake could not be sustained and needed to be hidden. What was the ruling class, the elite going to do? True to form the elite has gone to war. Historically the strategy has served them well. And the enemy, whatever the appearance of things, has always been the working class, the peasantry, the dispossessed, the oppressed and exploited.

Crisis capitalism was the order of the day. First, a respiratory virus of less than existential concern was used to manufacture unprecedented global consent by way of fear-mongering propaganda for an astonishing authoritarian programme of restrictions on personal and social liberties. The Left in the UK approved, simply frustrated that it was not the government of the moment. Immune to the soaring profits of Big Pharma, it would have been even tougher. As this threat to humanity faded, the virus shrank into the shadows and the climate crisis took centre stage. Unless fossil fuels were sorted, by whom and by when was not that clear, 2030 or 2050, Armageddon was at hand,. As best I can see, many in the better-off parts of the world are less than convinced, for those less well-off so what? However, if this catastrophic scenario is not inducing sufficient angst there is always proper, bombastic war – missile after missile, death after death. Entering from the Left or Right, it matters not which entrance, the conflicts in the Ukraine and Palestine boost immeasurably the profits of the armaments industry and serve to buttress the USA’s and its allies’ desire to retain global influence whilst dismissing the slaughter of the innocents and the views and needs of folk back home, wherever that may be. Democracy is a word to be cynically abused, a rhetorical device devoid of meaning.

Of course, these are sweeping assertions, replete with contradictions, which I acknowledge and would want to discuss. Indeed I have written about these, especially with respect to COVID, without any serious engagement with my mutterings. The main point I’m clumsily trying to make is that since COVID I have broken out of my Left bubble. I have followed, read and conversed with figures across the political spectrum, critical of the authoritarian arrogance of the elite, the ruling class and its army of compromised, careerist technocrats and its team of amoral, behaviourist managerial manipulators.

I’ve found these relationships, their contempt for the deceitful discourse of ‘misinformation’ spread by all of the mainstream media thought-provoking and heartening without knowing where any of it is going. I have gained a great deal from these encounters. Little more than a month ago I would have argued that an open and questioning dialogue across ideologies premised on a challenge to hierarchy, authoritarianism and the spectre of global governance is both possible and crucial. I still do but my naive optimism has been dented. Suddenly the Israeli/Palestine’s inevitable eruption has seen free speech advocates of the past few years rush to condemn and silence pro-Palestinian sentiment. It saddens me into despair.

And thus on tomorrow’s favoured ramble through the olive groves, I will hear another swish of doubt amidst the swirl of thoughts between my ears. What the fuck is it all about and what can I say or do? Then the gritty voice of the goatherd and the tinny clanging of their bells will interrupt my self-centredness and my uncertainty. We will exchange greetings as we would have centuries before. Such ordinariness is heart-warming. It lasts for seconds yet forever. And, I know, as best I can, I should carry on struggling with uncertainty. And then, my dearest Glyka wags her tail and I know for certain she loves me and I love her. Time to head home for breakfast.

POSTSCRIPT

In lieu of any original offering from me, I’m determined to start sharing links to interesting and provocative articles you might well miss. I’m off for a week but hope to fulfil this promise soon.