Like many fat, sedentary. and deeply unadventurous Tamil Brahmins, I have an unreasonable and unreasoning love for the Turks and Mongols and, dunno, like Magyars and Bulgars and Khazars and so on. Why? I guess it has to do with the origin story of the Gokturks. They were slaves forced to labour in the iron mines of the Altai Mountains till one day, a little less or more than two thousand years ago- i.e. a time when the Greeks and the Romans and the Iranians and the Indians and the Chinese were already middle aged and the Copts and Hebrews and Babylonians virtually senescent- they just Spartacized themselves and upped and rebelled and began the second (the Bronze age was the first) great process of Globalization- i.e. the creation of a World Historical System- in a manner that clearly established that, for this World, Tengri- the Sky- is the limit. Oppression and exploitation aint fucking karmically ordained and don't fucking move things along towards the proper Hieros-gamos, or sacred marriage, between Earth and Heaven which, like the samadhi/satori of the Buddhists, arises absent, or irrespective of, any structure to events or, indeed, the hysteresis of history.
Mutatis mutandis, as of the Turks, much the same thing can be said about a bunch of adventurous fishermen off the Western coast of Eurasia whose courage and good cheer outlasted the walls of wood that defended them from the stupidity of slavery in situ, granting them instead a Marine passage to Ariosto's moon.
The great, good and always utterly wrong, Immanuel Wallerstein- who, sadly, never got drunk with Obama's dad, even vicariously, though sharing the same vantage point on 'African Socialism'- is my target for a Tesco-Champagne fueled mugging today coz like he didn't connect with the young Graciella Chichilnisky, preferring to talk to the likes of Samir fucking Amin back in the Seventies. As I have often explained- '68 was nothing special- not because History reached a turning point but failed to turn, but by reason of the patriarchal attitudes, the misogynistic practices of the 68-ers- the soixante-huitards as pseudo-intellectuals term them- who failed to understand that 69- pace Ahdaf Soueif- is sublime and always present as a liberative praxis outside history and sans any fucking Structure at all. Had Wallerstein's tickly mustache been pressed into service against Chichilnisky's immaculate, mathematical and uterine font- rather than a dialogue with other hairy Seventies' Marxist or soi-disant Marxist men- the project of a World Systems Analysis would not have been still-born.
If structures pre-exist and Historical processes are structural- then there is no convergent evolution, everything is genealogical; the human faculty for Mathematics, for abstraction, is unavailing- there was no reason for it to evolve- a casteist karma, a biological destiny, binds us- & as in 'the Death of Wallenstein' all that is left for us to say is-
Stern is the on-look of necessity,
Not without shudder may a human hand
Grasp the mysterious urn of destiny.
But this is a funeral, not Keat's Grecian, urn which once grasped, at last gasp, you grasp only ashes.
Ghalib, proud of his Gokturk origins, says-
Since Sorrow can tax the Free no more than one breath
Lightning's the lone candle we light for a death
Ours too is a World- but one barren to its own passion, tumult & wrath
& we the nuptial taper of the heart's bed-chamber of its moth
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