The Historical Beast

( bucultureshock.com )

Change – we’re in it –

It is interesting to me how this blog, and my relationship with it, has changed.  It began as a performance, a persona who is probably closer to who I was, am, or will be,  than any face I could ever offer the world in my physical body.  And indeed, it is still that.  In my current life, I have a name, a face, a physical being that probably does not look like the woman you imagine could write these words.  I struggle, in essence, because the being inside of me is not the face my body presents to the world.  (I suspect that is true of most of us right now, and it is our challenge, on this earth, to come to terms with the contradictions between what we appear to be and what we really are.) 

I am, in essence, a very old soul who is troubled about the state of the world we live in.  I see us going through monumental change, and yet not acknowledging how profound that change is, and how important it is for humans to accept their role within it. 

( daviddeen )

We are historical beasts, we humans.  I would argue that is one of the things that makes us different from every other animal on the Animal Planet.  My cats, for instance, are not historical, though they each have a history.  They, however, are oblivious to that; they live in the Now.  Right now, all my cats know is that I am not with them.  

I am traveling right now.

Traveling and thinking.  Asking very hard questions, and contemplating their answers, and the hardest question I like to think about is the nature of the change we, as a race, are currently going through –

I have long felt that we are in a paradigmatic shift, and right now, I am participating in a conference where that language is being very readily used.  It is a conference on education, on the changes needed in education to make it a viable industry for our children to participate in.  And our children are not us, in the most dramatic of ways.

Those of us who made their earthly entrance in the late 1950's, early 1960's, can be labeled in any number of ways: in the United States, we are the end of the Baby Boomers, the end of an age of prosperity that was born out of a victorious war. We were born at the peak of a wave that felt our culture is fundamentally right and good, and we were born right before that wave crested and broke against the rocky shoals of the 1960’s.  We were one of the last ages to trust our parents and others in positions of authority. 

We were one of the last ages to be nursed on Great Books, to be led to believe in the Rightness of the Book, and to love Great Authors.  Our age produced an abundance of English majors, because being an English major allowed us to analyze the by-products of Great Human Minds.  Yet we were also the age that was influenced by the questioning of our immediate predecessors, those who asked why all our Great Books were written only by White Men, thus causing a reassignment of Authority to Women and “Minorities.” 

We were also the first age to be raised solely on television. 

( nogreenbananas )

We were a cusp age in that regard, because we have lived our lives in a world where we appreciated and understood the values of the last few centuries, and yet we are the first age that can say that there was never a time in our memory when television did not exist: one might say, we were the first Human Age raised and influenced by a virtual, visual imitation of ourselves.

I hope, dear friends, you can follow this logic, because that’s what it is: logic.  This entry is the painful burden of an unencumbered human mind unraveling the cues that the world provides.  My mind is still an Enlightenment Mind, a Mind that believes that Humans can and do know without technological assistance, and that knowledge can come to us through rigorous study, careful examination of the artifacts of the world around, creative risk, and a good sprinkling of intuition. 

An Enlightenment Mind is profoundly grounded in the Written, Published Text – the Linear  Book, and in language that has been produced for that media.  That’s right: books are a Media, and for a few hundred years, they were the most radical media for disseminating knowledge and provoking creativity.

But the Age of the Book is over. 

Books are now antiquity, and

text

laces through space in a delicate filigree of complexity.

My words,

The words of this blog,

Are part of an increasing cacophony of other words,

A multilingual, unilingual digital embrace which,

Combined

Embodies the workings of the Human Mind.

And we, we lucky Historical Humans alive today

Have been born to witness the rapid transition

From the Age of the Book to

The Age of the Cyborg.

Our children, the current children

Who sit so complacently in our classrooms,

Repugnant

Indulgent

illiterate

Have been born into a New Literacy,

Just as we

Were.

The children of today are “digital natives” and

As such

They are wired to think digitally –

Digital literacy is not Textual literacy

Though Textual literacy is a part of the Digital.

But the Digital Text is not solid –

It practices a New Linearity

                         It is fleeting and acknowledges

The rapidity

With which

It can and will be challenged,

And the children

- if they can survive the education system we still have, an education system that was made to serve the Enlightenment Mind -

Major in Psychology

Because the most provocative fiction they can read

Is the working of Human Mind itself,

And the altered worlds it is capable of producing

At any given moment.

( zapatopi )

Living through a Major Turning Point in Human History,

Which is what we are doing right now,

Is not without trauma.  It is, in essence,

A Birth,

And in our case right now,

Because of the role our own Technology is playing in it,

It is a New Birth into a Different

Physical Form –

The form of the Cyborg,

And any given Cyborg has an absolutely different relationship with the collective human mind (ie: this internet) than we have had with our own minds for

Centuries.

Indeed, the Cyborg accepts unequivocally

Its own participation

In the collectivity;

It relies

On this wealth

Of Knowledge Production and Reproduction

And laughs fondly,

With warm sentimentality,

Over the antiquity of the notion

Of Originality.

Nothing is Original on this earth, in this realm of reproduction and imitation.  From the moment when the Creative Force (aka God) sought to reproduce an entity in His Own Likeness, we (aka: the likeness) have been doomed to Not Be Original.  And now we have finally figured that out, and accepted it, and at some time, perhaps in the not to distant future, we will come to terms with the fact that once we stop trying to be Original, Once we stop trying to be Authentic and Right and True, we will actually Be

That.

But as I was saying, that will be the future,

Perhaps tomorrow,

Or this evening

When that will happen,

But right now we are Trapped in a Moment of Historical Change,

And we will be that Moment’s By Products.

Our delicate all-to-animal human entities will indeed die

In time

And we will be replaced by a generation that will recognize

That time is inconsequential because

The body is inconsequential

And yet,

The body is sweet –

Perhaps the Human Animal will live on through stubbornness (stubbornness is one of our more endearing qualities).  There will be some of us who will refuse to participate in the Rise of the Cyborg, sort of like Apes refused to participate in the Rise of Man, and we will live and toil on this earthly domain,

Sweetly,

Admiring its beauty,

Nurturing it lovingly,

Accepting our mortality

As a fact of life,

And that too

Will be beautiful –

The sustenance of that type of animal life,
of the Human Beast life,

if the Cyborg allows it,

Will be Eden

All over again.

( topnewstoday )

If we can do this:

than the time is approaching 

rapidly

in which time itself

will be

irrelevant.

Time is, after all, the product

of birth and death

of beginnings and endings,

of lost ways, 

             unrecoverable,

of reminiscences,

of longing

                        for the past,

                                for the future.

But if we can bring 

the past into the now,

the future will be there, too,

and they will all collide

in a countability

that will be

in essence,

uncountable.

( Joelsworld )

Underwater Garbage

Today,

while swimming at my local aquatic center,

I noticed a clump of hair suspended, about 

a foot underwater,

a band-aid somewhere near the bottom

and 

a discarded flipper.

I am certain that the next time I swim,

that junk will be gone,

scooped out by the diligent pool workers

paid by the same local tax money

that made this fabulous olympic size pool possible.

No swimming tax payer would tolerate

that junk in their pool.

(tonawanda.ny.us)

So why oh why

do we tolerate this

in our oceans? 

(dailygalaxy)

( earthfirst )

( sprinterlife )

This last picture comes from an article at a site called Sprinterlife,

which includes some pretty horrific other pictures. 

Another chilling source of pictures of the garbage "soup"

in the Pacific come from a photographer called Mandy Barker. 

I'm not absolutely sure why folks are suddenly so horrified by the amount of garbage

in our seas.  We've been tossing our refuse into them for

generations.  I remember once, when I was at a museum

in Girne (Kyrenia), North Cyprus, they had an exhibit of

nut shell that were found in the hull of an ancient boat

found on the sea floor -- they were the refuse

from ancient sailors eating snacks and tossing away the shells.

The problem is: our garbage today isn't biodegradable.

Sprinterlife has three suggestions on how we might curb

the increasing masses of garbage in our seas.  Here they are

with a couple additional thoughts from me:

1.  Recycle.  My current city has launched a very serious recycling 

campaign, and I'm very proud of them!  They've made recycling 

very easy, and more people are getting on board and thinking before they toss.  

If your city doesn't do this, perhaps you and your friends and neighbors 

should give your local government a good nudge to change that.

2.  Stop using plastic!  I refuse to drink bottled water.  I'm even trying to start to buy

my milk in glass (from local producers)  We should have more local folks using, and reusing

glass containers again.

3.  Make the transition to using biodegradable products.

I would add: think local.  If you're buying from local producers, 

there is less of a need to use packaging that has to withstand

long-distance travel.  After all, we think local when we think of our water:

if we want to swim in our swimming pools,

we keep them clean.  If we have a water reservoir as a water source,

we work hard to keep that clean too.   

The term "glocal" applies here:

what we do locally can and should have a global impact.  Including how we treat our vital resources,

like water,

and energy.

I don't know if we can actually clean up the messes in our oceans,

but we can sure make a strong effort to curb it.

And I agree with Sprinterlife, we have to do it NOW!

www.plasticoceans.com

Some Thoughts on Waking: 13 February 2012

i.

Running Bodies:

( from Assembling Bodies )

On the radio today

in a story of Bahrain

the announcer described a man

trapped in his own doorway.

Sourceless gunshots held him there,

"and outside there was only

running bodies,"

the disembodied voice explained.

Running bodies - as if they were already dead,

running running running,

until the bullets relieved them

of their worry.

In frozen Hungary, old money is being burnt

to warm chilled children

and snow snow snow snow

pales deeper 

the pallor 

of Old Europe.

I have wondered of late

about

the popularity of zombies,

but now I know for sure

that we live in a time

of living death,

and deep in our being,

we know it.

Running bodies -- that's us --

but what are we running from?

We're running from other zombies

who think they can gain power

in the world of zombies

by killing the living dead.

Might I propose that we run to a state of not

running, not dying, but rather, living --

the world will not be a zombie world

if we see that each day it brings to us

new life.

( from brooklinrunclub )

part 2:

dice roll

( from kickstarter )

Each morning's awakening brings

 a toss of the dice

and as it rolls into place

on its face

is an aspect of me --

today, my perceptivity,

yesterday, my insecurities,

tomorrow, my confidences,

and the next day, my deepest talents --

whatever the face, it dominates my play

for the day,

and if I believe the tossing hand is not mine, I am blind

to the consequences I produce for myself.

( from: stopbeatingaroundthebush )

No bother.

This morning as I lay in wait

for my fate,

I recognized the wrist and the fist

of the gambler --

it was not yours, my friend,

nor was it an unseen shape --

indeed

it was me, and the dice

bore no mystery;

each face was

and is 

a known quantity 

to me.

With the proper gesture

it will fall in my favor.

So too with you.

There is no mystery;

chance is in your favor

if you know the roll

is yours.

( poohbearcoloringpages )

Diva For The Weekend -- Whitney Houston, R.I.P.

It appears to me,

that with a diva like

Whitney Houston,

I can clearly say

that divas are required

to take those big risks 

and end up singing about tragedy. . 

. . . and to sing tragedy well

is to live it . . . 

. . . to wear it with both agony and beauty. . . 

.

Why, oh why, must some of them be destined

to die

so tragically?

A beautiful talent,

a great diva,

and 

a sad, sad loss.

This Ol' Orchid Plant

This past August,

I was quite obsessed by my orchids,

which hadn't bloomed in two years.

If you were following this humble blog back then,

you will remember pictures like this:

Well,

those lovely blossoms went the way

of all orchid blossoms:

they withered and fell.

But I was quite satisfied.

I expected the stalk from which they sprouted to do the same thing,

and I waited for that.

But that dear stalk remained

quite viable.

In fact,

here it is:

I paid very little heed to it, figuring it would disappear in time,

but instead, 

it sprouted another branch,

and now it appears to me 

that once again,

this ol' orchid plant

will bloom again:

Stay tuned!

I expect this will really begin to blossom

about the same time that 

spring arrives.

Happy day to you --

winter stillness

Although

we haven't had much snow,

my mind has felt numb these days.

Hibernation, I believe, is meant to be the condition

of women and men during the season of shorter days.

Words themselves seem

to have taken refuge

in the cave of  my mind.

So,

I have found it very hard to write blog entries

on things like

the Republican candidates (we are, it would seem, in America's endtimes,

during which the best candidates we can muster are the ones

who embody our overindulgences and mutations),

sinking cruise ships,

Madonna's Super Bowl Half Time Show,

or men who kill their children

then light their house on fire.

The desperation of each of these silences me

and makes me simply want 

to look close at each

and every day.

I actually pray

for more snow,

so 

the earth too can slumber with me.

I know,

as you know,

that after great silence comes

sound--

in the meantime, I will write here sometimes,

on days of thaw,

or share the words of others with you

that I think

are worthy of contemplation.

Be well,

dear friends --

I'm still here!

(all photos by Makropoulos)

excerpt one: "The Sole Origin is Sound" by Hazrat Inayat Khan

"The life absolute from which has sprung all that is felt, seen, and perceived,

and into which all again merges in time,

is a silent, motionless, and eternal life . . . .

Ever motion that springs forth from this silent life is a vibration and a creator of vibrations.

As motion causes motion, so the silent life becomes active in a certain part

and creates every moment more and more activity,

losing thereby the peace of the original silent life.

It is the grade of activity of these vibrations that accounts for the various planes of existence.

These planes are imagined to differ from one another,

but in reality they cannot be entirely detached and made separate from one another.

The activity of vibrations makes them grosser,

and thus the earth is born of the heavens. . . . "

(from: The Music of Life by Inayat Khan)

( ebaumsworld )

We create . . . we destroy. . . . we

create we . . . . destroy we. . . . . .

. . .recreate. . . . . to . . . . . . . . . .re

destroy to . . . . . . . . . . . .  recreate

to destroy . . . . . . . . .  . . . . . we re 

create to . . . . . .  . . . . . .destroy we

recreate to . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  de

cimate to . . . . . . . . . . . .recreate . . .

we de . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .cimate to

evolve

( wikipedia - supernova )

Happy 75th, Philip Glass (Philip Glass' Hands)

Yeah, he's a diva,

he's divine.

I was able to hear him perform once,
live,

right before I saw the Dhalai Lama.

In fact, I took this picture

of 

Philip Glass' Hands --

And here, on his 75th birthday,

I share them

with you ---

Happy Birthday, Mr. Glass,
and thank you --

Skin Words

( raisingredheads )

Your skin

              is an organ,

the biggest of all;

it just happens to be

in open air.

But it's not like a fabric,

not a curtain,

not a veil; it's 

organic and it tells

you the tale of your innards.

( scienceroll )

These skin words so often

go so utterly unheard,

despite the clear warnings

of demise,

or simply the signs

that our skin

is changing,

aging,

or adapting to the changes

around us.

(biology-nature)

So why must we

why do we

do things like this:

( plasticsurgery )

rather than listen to this organ's song --

it's a swan song

about life

about love

about care

about food

about earth

about air 

( healblog )

about heart

about soul 

about generation

and re-generation.

( huffingtonpost )

There is no sin

in the skin

you're in.

Imagine what it would be like

if we did some of the same damage to

our heart

our colon 

our liver

our gall bladder

our stomach

that we do to our skin?

Just imagine.

( concreteloop )

Play all your organs with care

                             and love

                             my love,

and you will live peaceably

until eternity

and you

come to meet.

(instrumentsforkids)

Today's Diva: Natalie Merchant

Western New York State's greatest contribution

to the world of music:

Today's Diva: Nora the Piano Cat

I haven't posted a diva video in a while,

but today I found this one:

This is one of very few entries that have made it

to both my blogs.

What else can be said???

Thoughts on Martin Luther King, Jr. day, a few days late

So,  Monday was Martin Luther King Day, and as part of it, my NPR station seemed to be continually streaming stories of the man and his cause.  At one point around mid-day, I heard an interview in which an African American teacher made the claim that only black people can and should teach out race.  I immediately wanted to respond to this remark, but I was driving, so that was not an option.  So I mulled it over a bit, then put my pen to the page, and here I am.

When faced with the inevitable race question on a job application, the only choice I can make is Caucasian, or "White."  I cannot call myself "Black" or "Asian" or "Hispanic"; and even in those times when I have applied for jobs in New York City, I could not choose "Italian American."  That's right: once when I was applying for a position at a Manhattan-based university, I received a form in the mail that asked which of the following applied to me:

Caucasian

African American

Hispanic

Pacific Islander

Asian

Italian American

Other

So stymied by the inclusion of Italians, I chose "Other" and wrote in "Polish-Irish American."  And perhaps that is why I did not even get an interview.

But the point remains that Race is such an overblown, misunderstood concept in the U.S.A., while it is also perhaps  the most important issues for Americans to confront and discuss, and continue to discuss.  To say that I, one of Northern European ancestry, have no right to teach students about race is a racist remark in and of itself, and if being the object of racism qualifies one to talk about it, then that remark qualifies me to participate in that discussion.

found at "CensusScope"

And a discussion it must be.  One cannot "teach" race in any quantitative sense because that experience is so fraught with complexity, depending upon region, socio-economics, gender, and any other number of intervening circumstances.  Indeed, my understanding of racial inequality is no doubt not the same as yours, and this is why to "teach" about race is to open a discussion, and to do it with great compassion to the multitude of experiences, and to the very real fact that one's own experience might be proven limited or limiting.

I have taught the topic of racism, if we can define "teaching" as I do in the previous paragraph.  In my early years of college teaching, I would approach the topic through literature such as James Baldwin's "Sonny's Blues," or a favorite of mine -- the pairing of Death of a Salesman with August Wilson's Fences.    Or through essays on Ebonics or rap.  All of these provided, and still provide, starting points for discussion.  This was the 1980's, and there may have been only one or two black students in a room of twenty to thirty students; sometimes, they were brave enough to share their perspective, and I began working on ways to make those students feel comfortable enough to share, without feeling put on the spot.  I found it my job to listen, carefully, and urge others to listen carefully to each person's ideas before responding.  

I don't believe I succeeded in "teaching" race; that was, after all, not my intent.  Rather, my inent was, in the end, just to get people to talk and to share experiences, and by doing so, broaden each students' perceptions of this difficult topic, not to mention my own.

(ahamoment)

Without a doubt, the most profound experience I ever had when it comes to learning (and teaching) about race came when I taught for a year at one of the Historically Black Universities & Colleges (HBCU) in Mississippi.   Previous to this appointment, I had been living and teaching full-time in Turkey for four years, and I was grateful and excited to be offered a one-year full time appointment in the USA, even before I returned to the country.  In academia, stepping out of a full-time job without another one is almost certainly the kiss of death for your career.  For family and personal reasons, I had to return to America; my preference was to be in the North, but here was an offer I couldn't refuse, coming in just under the wire.  So, after succeeding in getting my Turkish street cat through U.S. Customs, I packed her up in my car and moved to the Deep South.  As someone who lived for over forty years in the North East, going from teaching in Ankara to teaching in Mississippi was like moving from one country to another, and neither of them were the America I grew up in.  

But I quickly came to understand, albeit on a pretty superficial level, that Mississippi is part of the United States of America, and by living there, I came to love my country even more.  But I also came to the conclusion that I mentioned above, that is: that race is the crucible issue in the USA, the one we must continue to confront if we are to grow as a healthy nation.

When I arrived in Mississippi, I was grateful to a fellow American who I met while living in Turkey; for simplicity's sake, let's call her "American Woman", or "A.W."  A.W. had left Turkey the year before I did, and had gained a tenure track position at this HBCU, which happened to be located near her home town.  Thanks to her, I secured this position.  She was Southern,  and white.  After driving alone through about six states to get to my new job, she let me stay in her new house, which actually dated from the antebellum period, for a few days after I arrived.  But she was eager to help me find my own place; she brought me to a secluded apartment community on my second day in town; she stood by my side while I signed a lease for an unfurnished two bedroom apartment there.  As we drove out of the parking lot, she said to me, "Oh, this'll be a good place for you; there are no darkies livin' here."

Mind you, this was in 2003.  

I moved my car full of kitchen supplies and camping gear into my unfurnished apartment the next day, and she never invited me back to her house after that.  Occasionally, when she walked past my office at school (remember, she was my colleague), she would peak in my door and say "How's the job search going?" then hurry down the hall.  Once or twice during the year, she agreed to meet me for lunch, but that was all.  I might consider myself lucky now for her coldness, but at the time, she was the only person I knew in the entire state.

And thus I began to understand how region colored the issue of race in many subtle ways.  I was a Northern White, the second generation progeny of working class immigrants, but with a Ph.D. from an intimidating Northern university (N.Y.U.)  She was a Southern White Ol' Miss graduate, whose family (as she was very pointed in letting me know) had settled in this area in the early 1800s, and who had once owned quite a bit of land, and -- no doubt -- slaves to boot.

My loneliness was matched only by my great longing to return "home" -- and in my mind that was either New York State, where I had lived for over a decade before moving out of the country, or Turkey, whose people had made me feel very welcome.  In Mississippi, I tried to teach lessons I had taught in both places, and was met by confusion.  But I will say to this day that I was treated with great respect, as well as a large amount of fascination, by my students who were, 100%, the children of former slaves.

I could tell many stories about that year, but I will tell two, because these two taught me some vital lessons about Race in America.  From the beginning, I made it a point to always refer to the majority of my colleagues and students as "African American," the term I had learned was proper during graduate school in the North, in the 1980's ad 1990's.  One day, one of my colleagues took me aside and said: "Listen, you're really making me crazy with this African-American thing.  To begin,  I'm not African.  My family was slaves in Georgia, and they were brought there from the West Indies.  And somewhere in there, somebody got in with some Indians - Native Americans you'd call them - so I have plenty of that blood, too.  Look at my skin. . . " (she held her dark arm against mine, which was pretty pale for want of sun) "I am Black.  Call me Black.  Call us all Black.  That's what I am, just like you are the whitest White Girl I've ever seen."  And then she invited me to lunch.

Black and White: that's what she taught me.  In the Deep South, it's about the color of your skin, and the "brighter" a Black person was, the better off they were.

So I watched what I said, carefully, often going to this colleague for advice.  I listened to what people called each other.  One term that I heard used a lot, with my male students, was "boy."  My white colleagues called young black males "boys," so did my black colleagues; the football coach called his team "boys."  In the grocery store, any black male of any age whose name was unknown was called "boy."  

One day in class we were discussing an essay about gender, and I decided to break the class into groups - male and female.  When I referred to the groups, I called them the "Men" and the "Women."  Quite frankly, I always call my students Men and Women, because, after all, at the university level they're old enough to vote, get married, and go to war.  In my current classes, students giggle when I call them Men and Women.  In a Black university in Mississippi during the 2003-2004 academic year, when I used these terms, it was a different story.

The women liked being called Women.  They seemed to sit up straighter when they heard the term.  The men, mostly football players, looked confused, and whispered between themselves, until finally one young man spoke up, in a very confrontational tone:

"Excuse me, M'am.  What is that you keep calling me?"

I paused, trying to remember the last few minutes of conversation, trying to figure out what I had said that was wrong.

"I'm calling you Men," I said.

"What?" he said.  He had a deep Northern Louisianna drawl that I could barely understand.  (The following week, I pointed that out to him, and he told me he could barely understand me, either.)

"Man."  

"I'm sorry, I still don't understand what you are saying.  What are you calling me?"

The women in the class chimed in then, to help me -- "She's calling you a man" -- while I wrote the word "MAN" on the board.

And for a stupefied moment, he and all the other men in the room were silent, and then he said:

"Pardon me, Miss.  I didn't understand you.  But yes, you're right.  I'm a man." 

Later, one of the young women explained to me that that was a term that young black males rarely heard applied to them.

I will let you form whatever conclusions you would like about these stories.  For me, these incidents, and others, helped me realize that Race in America is far more complex than anyone can imagine.  One would have to travel and live in every corner of this huge nation to experience its subtleties.  But most of all, one would have to take the chance of talking and listening to how we talk or don't talk to each other.  (This reminds me of another black student I had in the late 1980's - in the North East - a single mom who decided mid-semester to move back to Georgia with her toddler son.  When I asked her why she expressed her concern for her son, then said: "at least in the South the racism is clear; in the North it's all hidden behind politeness.")

To teach about racism in the U.S.A.?  No one person has the ultimate authority.  But we all have the right - and the freedom - to share what we've experienced.  What we really need to teach is how to listen, compassionately, carefully and without judgement,  and how to be brave enough to admit that our own experience is only an entrance point to any true conversation on the subject.