A meditation on antonyms and etymological activism

Douglas Cole, on the discourse of salvage ethnography:

. . . The insights into the significance of collecting and exhibitions and the motivations and world views that stood behind them are an important contribution to our understanding of European, American, and Canadian societies that spent such effort to collect and display such objects from the Northwest Coast and hundreds of other cultures.

On the other hand, postmodernist and cultural studies sometimes suffer from their own problems. They appear as part of post-Marxist, post-Marcuse discourse, which is itself a product of a particular ideological and historical condition. Words like “hierarchies,” “elites,” “trophies,” and, especially, “capitalism,” “colonialism,” and “hegemony” characterize the writing. While intensely relativist, the concern remains Eurocentric. Offering valuable insights into the motivations of Western collectors and curators, they offer virtually none into the Native side of the collecting encounter.

That is seen only in reverse, largely through the ambiguous freight carried by the frequent use of the word “appropriation,” itself an expression of the view from the European side. Significantly, it has no antonym. The Natives whose objects were appropriated remain anonymous, even disregarded. We learn much about Western constructions, but little about any of those who were separated from the objects appropriated by Westerners.

Cole, Douglas. “Preface to the Reprint.” Captured Heritage: The Scramble for Northwest Coast Artifacts. Vancouver: UBC Press, 1995. x-xi.

I believe that an antonym may emerge in response to examination of the meanings of such terms. Practicing active language pushes against the sleazy glut of drive-through thinking. Go for slow thought instead, with bitters, micro-brewed. Etymological activism exposing the fiction of words. Story as story is likely to be true.

Maybe the antonym is not so much a word as an antonymous mode that responds to etymological rigour. Slippage in meaning shows in the way “salvage” is upheld to mean rescue and preservation. The supposed virtues of such activities cover up the theft involved, marking sites of heritage as a kind of cultural scenic fringe in a landscape otherwise produced in the local mind as if no people were ever there before the West arrived, a Shakespearean healing green world–empty, vital, untouched, vulnerable. The call of the wild calling out to be saved, forever positioning who we’ve made us as we who are chosen for the mission. Moral, decent, hearty, evolved, conscious, destined.

***

But what of stealing back–called stealing. Who robs the museum at night with his band of thieves and a calfskin bag, the entire calf, poor legs and arms tied over the shoulder in a permanent sad beauty, marking a white and brown heterotopia to fascinate your discomfort, the sharp crisis of a crying babe among righteous plundered violence on a cheap random road across a dry ditch somewhere in suburban Los Angeles.

The point is not whether you are who you say you are, or if you ever remember yourself, or if there is a compass for you, or the right way to love, or fuck, or remember, or mother, or battle, or interpret your dreams. The point is now the edges of objects cutting the air as they pile on the floor, the tangled irreverence for lusty weapons and masks all got from glass cases, and their status as sabotaged salvage. The anarchy laughs like a spirited horse at the scramble for paperwork authorizing pursuit, holding dusty issues of ownership behind a blue-jacketed ass while the other hand pens Jones Johnson Smith. 

Help yourself, boys. Stolen, stolen, stolen for a giveaway. Disseminate. Disorient. Scatter, cast, sow, confuse. Engender, incite, arouse. Put a problem in the desert wind and then listen to the laughter coming from everywhere in this peopled place.

*With thanks to a story from my mama.

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I went searching for an antonym

for salvage.

And the slippery lickery mercury cool slideroll of the word flashed a grin.

Rescue, retain, restore, recover, save, retrieve those objects that are not yours as though they were once yours, as though they are now yours, saved, preserved, restored. Set in glass. Colour tinted in resin. Lifelike in amber. Precious redgolden and rare. Muse in the gallery, echo chambered in arches, cathedral spaces for mourning, feel more, pay a copper, all time at a glance, and then leave.

In some antonyms truths lie, or the other way around.

Endanger, harm, hurt, injure, lose, waste. But! you cry. If I left the wreck alone a motorcycle would bob in the carcass of freight at the shore in the tide of the sea.

Rusted and lost.
Maybe radiant danger.
A relic from elsewhere, whenever, not here. Someplace vanished or vanishing surely. A lucky leftover trace to be gingerly saved, made marmalade, preserved, on toasts, at tea, politely. And cannons at noon if needed.

I went combing the shore for an antonym, I searched; it was no accident, no happy chance coincidence, I was looking for stormleavings, I was metal detecting, mastering meanings, trophy hunting, for curio concupiscence, finding myself in looking for you,
who are not me.

 

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“Does Bikram yoga incorporate any meditation?”

This post happened in a Facebook message thread between myself and an old friend I haven’t seen in a while.

I confess that I am a little leery to include this post, because this blog is not about yoga, and it is not addressing the yoga community, as it were, though it is also not NOT addressing that community, but I am aware that some of what’s here might even offend certain of the more delicate or specifically-oriented sensibilities of that community, or at least invite snarky and opinionated judgement on me for my obviously engorged third chakra, or my undying love of being in my head, or the fact that I have a mental illness that means sometimes I cannot bear to leave the house, or that I sometimes pour negativity into the stream from which we all must drink. For example. I might apologize for that, except that I find it hilarious. Which makes me glad. So I am just not sorry. But, you know, namaste. The light within me truly does salute the light within you. Obviously. Also, I half-heartedly toy with the notion of anonymity here, even though some of those among you know exactly who I am, and I know you understand. And I love you. All.

I decided to include this because I enjoyed writing it, maybe in part because it comes on the heels of eight hours or so of working on my paperpaperpaper. (GADS, WILL IT EVER END.) And also because I do rely on this yoga, both practicing and teaching it, for many things from well-being to community to entertainment, and especially for the intimacy of compassion, for myself, and for the other students. That is an unbelievably powerful experience. And, I do indeed consider the practice of yoga congruent with the utopian impulse.

So, in the spirit of generosity, here is my answer to the above question.

Dear friend,

I forgot to answer your question about Bikram yoga incorporating meditation in the sessions. The answer is this: the whole class is a meditation.

Bikram’s philosophy derives from the philosophy of traditional yoga he began learning at age 3, in Kolkata. His guru was Bishnu Ghosh, brother of Paramahansa Yogananda, who wrote Autobiography of a Yogi, in which that guru lineage is further explained.

The core principles of the philosophy revolve around the observation that in order to sit very still and meditate quietly until achieving self-realisation, one must have a disciplined connection between the mind and the body. If not, it is simply far too painful to sit still for that long. Especially in lotus pose. Plus it is really, really, really distracting, due to the dramatic performances of the mind that monkeys around trying desperately to get your attention. Which it is super excellent at doing. And presumably self-realisation takes a pretty long time to achieve. If ever.

So the story goes that the practice of hatha yoga (the practice of postures, or if you prefer the Sanskrit, “asana,” which loosely translates to “posture holding stillness, breathing always normal”) developed to limber up the body and prepare the mind in preparation for meditation. In lotus. For a really, really, really long time. Maybe even forever.

Bikram yoga, like all posture yoga, is hatha yoga, which means the yoking of the body and the mind, creating what Bikram likes to call “a perfect marriage.”

When he tells the story of agreeing to his guru’s request that he bring traditional Indian yoga to the west, Bikram emphasises the directive to not change it in order to make it more accessible to westerners (that is, easier with the help of blocks, straps, chanting, dim lights, music, pastel walls, sleeping, etc.). Instead, he was meant to give them the real deal: a physically, psychologically, emotionally, and spiritually challenging practice that enables practitioners to strengthen the five aspects of mind: concentration, determination, self-control or willpower, faith, and patience, in that order. Improvement in one facilitates improvement in the next. Eventually. Or in the future.

Bishnu Ghosh was involved with yoga therapy as well, a therapy that functioned in accordance with Ayurveda to address health issues. In other words, a treatment involving the prescription of yoga postures, similar to physiotherapy or the like.

Bikram’s sequence of 26 postures (including two breathing exercises) was developed to address the common ailments and complaints of the western individual. The sequence works the whole body through compression and release to improve the blood and move it systematically through every part until every system is addressed. Bikram speaks of five main systems of the body: respiratory, circulatory, digestive, skeletal, and nervous. Together, they sustain the sixth and overarching system that governs homeostasis: the immune system. The Bikram series addresses each system, with some extra focus on backward bending, considered to be the healer of the spine. And of course the spine houses the central nervous system, which refers to the entirety of one’s physically mitigated material experience, and so! a happy spine means a happy life.

For Bikram, the body is the house of the spirit. If you have no body, how can you deal with the spirit? But if you improve your body, with help of your mind, you create a perfect marriage–the body and the mind can move out of the ugly apartment and into a nice beautiful condo in Beverly Hills. Which is where Bikram lives. He likes the bathrooms in the US, even if he finds that country’s spiritual philosophical practices to be rather defunct; that is what he is there for.

So, in Bikram yoga, you have one and a half hours in a hot and humid room that is brightly lit and lined with floor-to-ceiling mirrors. You are wearing not much, and neither is your neighbour. All are sweating. Maybe some crying. Maybe you. You are requested and repeatedly reminded to regard your own self in the mirror. For very very very very very many people, this is extremely hard to do. But everyone who keeps trying starts to get used to it. Maybe even–a little bit–they start to enjoy it. And everyone gets benefit: everyone together. Bikram says the darkest place is underneath the lamp, and the hot room offers the experience of stepping into that bright place so you can see what monsters lurk there, and eventually stop running away.

What really reached me was when at my teacher training I heard Bikram lecture about self-love. He said, “The problem with human being is you think you are that bad. How can you love each other when you fucking hate yourself?”

With practice, you begin to learn concentration, determination, self-control, faith, and eventually, if you’re very very, very very very very lucky, patience. You learn to try the right way, to try again and again, to try harder, and to not give up. And you have to remove yourself from your complaints that try to stop you from doing all of this: it’s too hot, it’s too hard, I can’t do it, I’m soooo bad, I’m toooooo sick, I’m toooooooooo special, nobody loves me. With practice, you learn a little objectivity that requires putting that stuff aside for the moment and just doing your yoga. So: your body improves, your mind improves, and you start to have a relationship with yourself that is founded on the moving meditation of your body, with your breath, according to your mind. Posture by posture, class by class, by trying the right way, trying harder, and trying again and again, you start to heal your relationship with yourself.

So, yes, the class incorporates meditation. And you might even learn to love yourself.

*Photo of Owl in bow pose, dhanurasana. Photo credit to maman, heavily edited by moi.

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Welcome to utopia. Here is your “‘[e]ndangered, taboo-animal’” lab-grown meatburger. For your unstoppable appropriative appetite. Good luck with that.

This is a response to Kate Lunau’s article discussing a new book by Josh SchonwaldThe Taste of Tomorrow: Dispatches from the Future of Food.

The article emphasises (speculatively entertaining) innovations in food production, and is, as such, a fun-filled collection of titillating tidbits and hopeful hypotheses about potential developments in food with regard to climate change, resource management, world health and economics, and the like.

It also considers foodie sensibilities, and the oft-utopian niche endeavours to grow your own and be the change you want to see (by keeping backyard fowl, distilling dandelions, and maybe–if you are me–running parkour with the urban deer). The problem with such excellent activities, of course, is that they are likely not accessible to the vast majority of people, who will continue to rely on mass-produced everything.

So the article previews Schonwald’s look at some possible changes to the menu of what may become available to the masses. Perhaps these possibilities will inspire the speculative writers among you for a nice little snack of a daydream idea. Please let me know if you write anything; I want to read it.

What inspired my response is the delightfully problematic phrase quoted above, about the kinds of meat that could be grown in a lab with the help of “donor animals.” Mind, this is only one of Schonwald’s topics, and Lunau surveys more. But this is what caught my attention. From the article:

It sounds a bit like Frankenstein’s lab, but Post, a medical doctor by training, believes in vitro meat could help feed the world. With his method, “you still need donor animals to supply the cells,” he says, “but we think we could reduce the number of livestock worldwide by a factor of one million,” the equivalent of going from 10 billion animals to 10,000. Beyond freeing up land and water, “you could take care of every animal and make sure they didn’t suffer a death fraught with the issues of large-scale slaughter,” he says.

Post is slowly convincing others of the value of his in vitro meat. He received 300,000 euros from an anonymous donor to make one hamburger as proof of concept, which should be ready by November (Post still hasn’t tried eating his lab-grown meat). Schonwald, who met with Post while researching his book, writes about a possible future of “football-field-sized factories supplying chicken, beef and pork,” and in the home, “a toaster-sized appliance that makes meat making as simple as bread making.” Most mind-bendingly, with the right DNA sample, notes Schonwald, it would be possible to grow a hamburger out of virtually anything. “Endangered, taboo animals—zebras, giraffes, giant pandas, California condors.” If the idea of eating a panda burger isn’t exotic enough, keep in mind that if a scientist ever manages to retrieve dinosaur DNA, we could theoretically feast on a slab of T. Rex or brontosaurus meat.

So, the production of lab-grown meat could mean that we drastically reduce–with paradigm-shifting results–the environmental and ethical impact of agribusiness (and I agree that this is huge, huge! Still gross. But huge!). BUT ALSO, we could eat meat grown from the cells of exotic, extinct, and endangered animals. Taboo animals.

This phrase isolates one very big implication of growing meat. It is not exactly that it smacks of playing God. That is rather blurry; after all, the meat is live, but not alive. And the revulsion at the thought of eating it (Lunau comments that the project’s founder Post has not actually sampled the product) probably just comes from our not being used to it. . . . right?

But something else is going on here. The nagging strangeness seems to emerge from how such an innovation effaces the notion of a certain ontological primacy.

Regardless of arguments about God, or origins, or evolutionary potential, or free will, or biological determinism, the use of “taboo” introduces an uneasy pressure that has to do with the confrontation of the other, and the fear/desire dynamic inherent in that relationship.

Let us consider what else is signified with Schonwald’s invocation of “taboo.” There is the usual serpent-apple-whoa, naked-sex-banishment discourse. There is the question of cannibalism discourse. And then there is Oedipus. Thus, by thoughtfully classifying endangered (exotic) animals as ideologically “taboo,” Schonwald has set an epic table and invited a very primal cast of characters to the future feast.

Consider: here, you may gorge on Giant Panda Chops with Forbidden Apple Chutney, glugging goblets of mixed Pork Milk curdled by the Blood of the Lamb while wearing a Python Bikini that could actually be made from GENUINE SATAN SKIN. After you finish picking the gristle from between your insatiable omnivorous incisors, and wiping your omega-3-enriched oily lips, please have more sex with your brother (or your mother), who is also your number one fan! Nothing indelicate about it–all is yours for the taking! Exotic! Exciting! So lifelike! So REAL.

Dallying with taboos: heady stuff indeed. We may yet glut our collective maw with our own shadow. 

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my little circadian chimera

Narcolepsy
dysanea
paralysis
would Sisyphus
and his halfsmiling face
agree that man is born free and is everywhere chained,
or born, free
bouldered heavy
pressured to be

Camus, by the way, a heartbreaking babe
with a weight in his words, sad eyes, sad face
talking all night, all day with his collar raised at a tiny table in a French café where lovers and writers and fuckable philosophers heatedly trade on liberté, egalité, fraternité
where once they talked about love.

Obsession
compulsion
paranoia
panic, anxiety, mad faerie quick trickery
Socrates met Augustine
hysteria bloomed
in the garden, drunk glee
sucking stolen oranges quickmilked from the tree,
now rest among weeds
sated, disturbed, beloved.

Beloved the rest, sacrificed, holocaust
on Aegean beaches, one million beasts in the fire

(Come deer and hide here, under the waving cedar)

Derrida’s embrace bid salut/audieu/the world missing you, Levinas
heartbroken open more love flew out
careened around, broken winged
off pitch, off yaw
left arm, left shoulder, heart armour leftover
you do not need that anymore, dear

But unshackled and weaklegged thrust in the day, can you explain?
free
just
born
happyness
spinepinned, dusky spelled in the cave of the prelingual real
no boulder, no wing, not yet halfsmiling
heartpaused, unaware, oneiric

Tesseracting ahead
thin skinned, emotional, poor impulse control
reckless, endangered, offended
faced off with a monster;
monstrous and mad, yellowed wallpaper
more coopted colour
perfection cheerflowered, sunshine, butter

And there is no outside, and no same river twice
but Heraclitus must have tried
and Foucault no doubt the same troubles as I

Hyperfocus
titration
broken wing
staggered morning
hypersomnia, insomnia, somniphobia, thanatophobia
disorderly anxiety, murmuring heartbreak, fuckable philosophy

Fear of the woods after Puritan fields
awake in the day
and that much pressure to be free.

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Semantic satiation

is when a word loses its meaning from repeating it too many times.

I write my paper, my last paper, the final paper paper, the important paper paper paper. The paper is not a thesis, but a paper. I use “paper” and not “essay” because “paper” (paper paper paper paper paper paper paper paper paper paper paper) better represents the paper’s length, the paper’s research, and the significance of the paperpaper, including the fact that I will be defending the paper. (To a glowing supervisor, a singing second reader, and a celebrated external. At least one of whom in my fantasy stands ceremony to acknowledge the Coast Salish territory wherein all this papering takes place. As it were.)  The paperpaper is a long paperpaperpaperpaper, though, longer than other papers, all the other papers I have heretofore written, though I wrote long papers for each of my seminar final paperpapers. Indeed, even my short papers were longer papers than they should have been. But this paperpaper will no doubt be the longest paper of all the papers. This paper is the paper.

A stack of copy paper.
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Found poem: in which we go for a walk and receive an Easter message.

Every once in a while–notably often when the mood is persistently askew, running dark against a bright and humid afternoon filled with illogical blossoms plethora-ing from every tree, harassing the bottomed mood with heavy beauty, blue and bright and daffodil and alley green and pinkwhite, among a non-revolutionary quietude unchallenged by lawn machines or holiday tantrum family screams, all noisemaking paused–a moment occurs where the air sort of splits, and someone steps out with a riddle.

On Saturday we saw this person twice, with a lot of time and moody beautiful neighbourhood in between. In the beginning he shouldered past, narrow, slanted, with pockets, irregular but pedestrian, and a bit young for the way he looked down on his beard and busily was alone. Then much later we saw him coming toward us straight as if knowing our conversation might still go nowhere while draining the day of those colours I mentioned above. The sidewalks in those blocks run politely in a line slightly sloped here and there and the light was dappled and everything was obviously staged.

P: There is that guy again. He is depressed.
Me: Hi.
Guy: Do you believe in Jesus?
P: No.
Me: Pardon?
P: Do we believe in Jesus.

Guy: He came to this town and he drove around in a car.
And there were these red angels of fire and they burst into bloom.
I saw it. And it was beautiful.
He’s real.
He made me strong when I was weak.
He’s a good healer.

P: Chemical imbalance.
Me: So?

Jesus came to this town and drove around in a car. And there were red angels of fire who burst into bloom. Every once in a while the air sort of splits and the voices say something that interrupts a moody afternoon. And if I may quote you, P, “Levity, baby.”

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