The World Is Too Much With Us, William Wordsworth (published 1807)
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.
‘Wordsworth wrote the poem during the First Industrial Revolution, a period of technological and mechanical innovation spanning the mid 18th to early 19th centuries that thoroughly transformed British life.’
“we lay waste our powers;—Little we see in Nature that is ours”
I finished my last post on the expanding distance that’s been put between us, as humans, and nature. That we have strayed so far from it, meaning I believe the notion that us and nature are one, to the point that I don’t know how we get back from this point we are currently at. Today we function more like robots than we do like animals. I’ve been thinking about the tension between human and machine. It’s almost like this strange sexual tension, you know when someone poses as though they hate someone, but the hate is actually rooted in desire (and the fear and confusion of that desire), and to a degree I think humans wish to be more like machines. It’s also ultimately a power struggle, because we’ve created something that supersedes us, and renders us useless, to a degree. Like an even more modern Modern Prometheus. Two films I’ve watched in the past month are Alien: Romulus (2024) and Interstellar (2014)—both released 10 years apart. Both including robots as central characters in the narrative. Interstellar shows us robots as human-aids and our dependency on them. And Alien shows us the deceitful potential of machines. There was clearly a power struggle between human and machine in the story. But also a lot of focus on our ability to empathise with machines, raising questions on whether they are sentient or not.
It’s uncanny how realistic Andy is in the film. Or should I say, how robot-like David Jonsson is in his performance. It took me some time to work out that he wasn’t human. I think there’s something to say for our ability to mimic machines. After all, we model ourselves on them within the context of labour. I’ve spent the past 7 months applying for jobs, at a time of critical financial decline in the UK, and mass unemployment due to redundancies and downscaling workforces within organisations. All in the name of maximising capital, might I add (need I even say it?). I can’t help but notice how I describe myself to employers, and how similar this is to the functions of a robot. Reliable, efficient, problem-solver, possessing a stream-lined mode of working, has the ability to thrive under pressure. Do you get what I’m saying?
All of this was to strengthen my argument that we have moved far away from nature, and closer to machina.
Deus Ex Machina (Latin for ‘god from the machine’).
It’s a plot device used in narratives when we see a seemingly unfixable problem miraculously solved by an unexpected occurrence. Originating in the conventions of ancient Greek theatre, it’s seen as a cheap way to progress a narrative. A popular example is in Lord of the Flies when a passing naval officer rescues the children. And William Golding described it as gimmicky. It damages internal logic of the plot, making it hard to believe, yet it moves us closer to a ‘happy ending’. Like a shortcut. Bypassing the inevitable trials and tribulations, and often potentials for unhappy endings that are part of the reality of existence. I think it’s worth noting that, if this was a device used in Ancient Greek theatre, it proves the very human desire through history to want a happy ending. We as humans so badly want things to go well. But this is unrealistic. I guess I should’ve said as a disclaimer that I’m a realist, not an optimist. I reject the idea of a utopia. My beloved taught me the etymology of the word ‘utopia’, and that it is Ancient Greek for ‘no place’. “It means a place that cannot exist”. I’m in early stages of grief. I’ve always been quite the realist, and that’s been concentrated since beginning my path dealing with the loss. It’s sticky, bitter and sickly. But I’d say staying realistic constitutes much of my essence, and it’s important to me and the way I move through the world.
Dispelling the idea of utopia doesn’t mean we must not dream. What does dreaming look like in 2024? I have an interesting relationship with dreaming. I’ve always been a daydreamer. My mind can be extremely consuming, and has the ability to dislocate me from reality. And my dreams are often very detailed. I reflect on my dreams a lot. I write them down when I can be bothered. They’re like if my life was made into a Hollywood remake— extremely unrealistic and hyperreal, but with elements of the truth embedded in the storyline. They act as a map or indicator for how I’m feeling. I noticed I often dream about cats and spiders. That’s supposed to mean something. I looked to Cosmopolitan magazine for answers of what spiders in dreams symbolise, but the information was vague. But apparently they can mean different things: fear, entrapment and betrayal.
Martin Luther King Jr was murdered for having a dream.
Like him, I also dream of an '“oasis of freedom”.
I have been asking the question on why many others don’t dream that same dream. I have a theory that they think they’re already drinking from and swimming in the oasis of freedom. They’re basking in a pool, not an oasis of freedom, but of false ideas of what freedom tastes like. The ripples that are suspended on the horizon— a mirage. “Capitalism is seductive. It limits your imagination, and then tells you that you should feel free because you have choices, but your choices are limited to the products they put before you, or the limits of your now limited imagination.”
You’ve been sold diamonds, but given plastic.
But they told you there are no diamonds left, so you learn to become satisfied with the plastic fake the seedy jeweller at the pawn shop gave to you.
I know there are real diamonds left though, and I’m dedicated to remain on the path of pursuit for the oasis of freedom. It’s hard to remain hopeful in these times. Starmer is Prime Minster, slavery never ended, it’s just been given a tummy-tuck and a face lift; my taxes are being spent on weapons to kill Palestinians, and Trump and Harris are battling it out to become the next President of the United States. Still, hope is important in the plight of liberation. Not for the sake of hoping blindly because it feels like the right thing to do. But because hope is a practise, it is not an emotion/feeling. “…[I]t’s a way of thinking or a cognitive process” (Brene Brown).
In the killing of MLK for having a dream, it is clear that dreaming does not serve white supremacy. It is unproductive and subversive. They like to confiscate it, criminalise it and destroy it. Evident in the operation of COINTELPRO in the 50s to the 70s. It also explains why magical literature is banned in US prisons.
“When deprived of human intimacy and other avenues for creating meaning out of life, escapist thought provides perhaps a necessary release, without which a potentially crushing realism would extinguish all hope and make continued living near impossible. Many incarcerated people, potentially with decades of time to do ahead of them, escape through ideas.” (Moira Marquis, Censoring Imagination: Why Prisons Ban Fantasy and Science Fiction). Marquis poses the question, “do carceral authorities believe that magic is real?”. It’s a fair question, because you wouldn’t ban something that unless you believed it posed a threat.
Hope and dreaming are often referenced in the same breath. I’m quite certain that dreaming facilitates hope.
I got distracted by the idea of dreaming today when faced with the question ‘who inspires you today?’, when completing a survey on contemporary culture in London. Part of one of my day jobs as a researcher is to analyse culture. This analysis is used as data to inform organisations that heavily depend on culture or recognise the profitability of it in itself, or in understanding it. I struggled with this question. I initially felt slight fear, because unexpectedly I’d come to the conclusion that very few people are inspiring to me right now. But the more I thought about this, the more it made sense, and it links to my feelings of hopelessness lately.
Who are the contemporary beacons leading us? Why do people feel less inclined to inspire? How did we get here? And how do we turn back? Or perhaps, is turning back even the answer? Instead, should we continue moving forward, orientating ourselves using the map written by those that inspired, but are no longer here?