SubscribeDecember 21st, 2011
a fish swimming, part 2
The idea that we have become fish out of water, that we are somehow outside life, outside “the world” is Giegerich’s way of explaining why we can suddenly (since the 19th century) ask questions like “is life meaningful”.
Man had to have stepped out of his previous absolute containment in life, so that he now was both enabled and forced to view life as if from outside, because only in this way could the whole of life become thematic in the first place. Now, with the question about its meaning and worth, existence as such had become a vis-à-vis, as it were, which is the opposite of in-ness. Man now for the first time had a position to the world per se. The question of meaning is the mark of the modern period after the conclusion of the age of metaphysics at the beginning of the 19th century. (page 3)
My question is whether or not this is the best way (most accurate with respect to actual human history) to explain the apparent changes in human psychology. For one thing, such a metaphor – to view life from outside – implies a place that is outside our lives. Where would that be? To require a place outside the forces that generate our living for our consciousness to view those same forces necessarily divorces consciousness from its ground of origin. Not only is it probably not empirically possible for such a divorce to occur, but such a view generates a dualistic metaphor that can’t be undone later.
I also have to question the in-ness he assumes in “pre-modern” minds. He’s talking about the minds that so questioned what they had as to paint the cave walls in France, those same pre-modern minds that came up with the wheel, atl-atls, hide boats, figured out how to domesticate dogs, horses, barley, corn, and everything else that made modern minds what they are. I’m sorry, but those minds sure seem as if they could think outside the in-ness for long stretches at a time.
I think part of the problem is that thinkers about myth and the unconscious seem to take for granted that we have a mind. A mind. We don’t you know. We have many minds and a kind of floating flash-light of an awareness that only makes it seem like we have “a” mind.
As we evolved different abilities, we also developed different brain-body bits to control those developing skills. When the “control movements and coordinate with visual sensations” is needed the spot-light is there and not on the “continually assess smells but only make “us” aware of ones that indicate possible dangers or potential treasures” skill that we still possess (ever suddenly smelt a hint of acrid smoke when you were driving and notice how your attention shoots over there?). Each of those abilities is the hub of a “mind”; they run simultaneously; most of them are unaware and constitute the manifold territory we know as the unconscious.
If we view mind like a cell, with many interlocking bits that make the thing function as a whole, with no in-ness in any time of human (Homo sapiens) history, then what to make of the loss of meaning?
I’m not done yet so there will be a part 3.
December 19th, 2011
Image: a fish swimming everywhere looking for water
Cathy sent me a copy of Giegerich’s paper “End of Meaning” which I hadn’t read, nor even heard of. (Thanks Cathy!) It’s long and I’m still on the road so I’m reading it a few pages at a time when I stop and have a walk-break.
Here’s the abstract:
“Meaning” as in “the meaning of life” is not (“semantically”) a belief system, but (“syntactically”) the sense of “in-ness.” A comparison of the logic of animal existence with that of human existence reveals that man, despite having been biologically born, remained psychologically unborn, language, myth, metaphysics having served as a secondary psychological “uterus” for him. With the dramatic changes in the human situation since around 1800 (the closure of Western metaphysics, the industrial revolution), the previous in-ness was no more. This fundamental change can be seen as the eventual birth of man, astrologically expressed as the emergence of consciousness from the status of “fish in the water” to that of “Aquarius,” the lord of the waters. In this sense, the “loss” of meaning must not be interpreted negatively as a loss.
C. G. Jung’s personal need to nevertheless regain a new sense of meaning necessitated his becoming a psychologist. Only through the logical interiorization of former contents of myth and metaphysics, only through the displacement of the arena of essential questions from the public world to the so-called unconscious “inside” the private individual, was it possible to simulate a situation where the former sense of meaning could become true once more. This interiorization is comparable to Kronos’ swallowing of his just-born children.
This idea that man has lost the exterior meaning function, that is, we have lost the capacity to live inside myth because we have become individuals, seems a little sideways to me. Nevertheless there are some brilliant moments in just the small amount I have read so far. For example, the idea that meaning is not semantic is frakking brilliant. Of course it can’t be because otherwise any non-linguistic human being is incapable of meaningful moments, relationships etc, and what little is known of normal adults with no language shows that this is not the case. So meaning is pre-linguistic.
What gets me is that Giegerich then goes on to say as his “therefore”
Meaning, where it indeed exists, is first of all an implicit fact of existence, its a priori.
and this is a problem because it shoots us right back into Kant’s lap and that simply will not do. Now, perhaps that’s not what he intended so I’ll keep reading and see what happens.
So here’s what I am going to do. I’m going to do one of those post-as-you-read/react things.
The next installment will be titled: a fish swimming, part 2
November 30th, 2011
from God, to Man, to Nature, to Self, to Fiction
I’m reading Creating a Life by James Hollis and came across a passage that I just had to speak to.
I’m a few chapters in now, and will probably finish the book today or perhaps tomorrow. It’s a quick read; Hollis can write.
Hollis, seems to me, is a cross between Jung and Lacan. There’s a kind of abysmal misery in his history (as recounted in the opening of the book) that makes the infinite regression of Lacan’s mirror-Self resonate with the transcendent hope of Jung. What Hollis comes out with is the idea that, yes, our sense of self is fractured; yes, the Self is “dead”, but even so, even with the fact that all we have is fiction, we do have the power to make those fictions consciously. This conscious ability provides the “exit” from our existential tragedy – the tragedy of being human.
Making fictions consciously is sanity and pragmatism; making fictions unconsciously, and being captivated by them, is madness. Such madness is common to literalism, scientism, fundamentalism and most ego psychologies.
Do you spot it? This capacity called “making fictions” seems to be the unitary bulwark replacing the fractured Self. We just cannot frakking let go of the notion that there must be something singular to hold it all together. Why is that?
OK, yes. Hollis has moved from the self as a noun to selving, and thereby making of person a personing. We are not an object now, but a process. I have to admit I like that, but why, oh why, just one dominant process. Why the unitary need? In the penultimate paragraph of “The Examined Life” this (probably unconscious) need for a unification is expressed in the metaphorical “Archimediean point”.
There my be no Self, but the Self is a useful fiction which helps us find an Archimedean point, a stance outside that of the ego, from which to question all other points.
Gawd.
Let me back track for a minute.
Just before this section Hollis speaks about the “selving” going on.
The Self selves—for that we came, and individuation is the name. And yet the other side of the paradox is found in whatever guiding intelligence occasions that selving, which in somatic, affective or intellective ways forever seeks its further expression.
In seeking that supraordinate wisdom, intuitively perceived, the West has depended most on mystics, authorities, scriptures, and reason.
There are two major assumptions at work here, which I assume will guide the solutions Hollis develops as the book reaches its raison d’être. The first is that phrase “guiding intelligence” and the second is “supraordinate”.
Assuming a “guiding intelligence” is a bit like an anti-evolutionist citing the need of a watchmaker. Watches are complex structures, the argument goes, and life forms are even more complex. Watches need makers, therefore life forms do too. Baloney of course, but it sounds logical. Now I am sure Hollis is much more intelligent and well read than the average “watchmaker” proponent is wont to be but the ideological assumptive strategy is still the same.
Intelligence, consciousness, awareness, the capacity to reflect, to decide, to construct symbolic structures and narratives is not a monolithic “intelligence”. I know the singular noun suggests it to us, but that is a linguistic convention and not a statement of material truth. All the neurological, behavioural, anthropological (etc, etc) evidence suggests that what we have is a series of intelligences that results from our evolved material beings operating in our material and social worlds.
Our conception of a “guiding intelligence” is going the same way as did “God” and the “Self”. Just as millions of small moments of genetic change become a new species without the need of a maker, so do millions of small “decisions” made by complex chemicals in our bodies become “decisions” without the need of a guiding intelligence.
Does this mean we are at the mercy of the material universe? No. Wrong question. It means we are the material universe. We are the material universe which thinks when it is in this particular form. It means that asking questions like are we at the mercy indicates we are still in the grip of the old assumptions – the ones that furiously displace the One from God, to Man, to Nature, to Self, to Fiction.
There is no “the One”; there is no “guiding intelligence”.
Finally, “supraordinate”. It’s a Jungian term.
Supraordinate personality. An aspect of the psyche superior to, and transcending, the ego. (See also self.)
The “supraordinate personality” is the total man, i.e., man as he really is, not as he appears to himself. . . . I usually describe the supraordinate personality as the “self,” thus making a sharp distinction between the ego, which, as is well known, extends only as far as the conscious mind, and the whole of the personality, which includes the unconscious as well as the conscious component. The ego is thus related to the self as part to whole. To that extent the self is supraordinate.[The Psychological Aspects of the Kore,"CW 9i, pars. 314f.]
See above argument for “guiding intelligence” and apply it to “supraordinate personality”.
One final comment before I return to the last chapters. The only way I can see the supraordinate as existing in any form is in the body itself. That is, the various systems of self maintenance, the biocatalysts, the regulatory chemical structures, the bio and chemical mechanics of the body that hum, tick, whir their way through countless “decisions” made necessary by our organism’s meandering through the world, these various sub-systems all together make up the supraordinate – the “guiding intelligence”. But thinking that way changes the potential solutions. So I will read Hollis first, then read his solutions against my own. And really, shouldn’t it be the subordinate personality?
But be wary – this is not a “hive” mind I am suggesting because that suggests a queen bee. This bio-chemical bag of life is something quite else I think—it is, for example, made up of primarily the non-living—and figuring it out may well take us down the rabbit hole, but without Alice as a guide.
(Thanks to Andy for suggesting I read Hollis. I mean it. Thanks.)
November 29th, 2011
my kind of verbal humour
I’m reading Alan Bennett’s The Uncommon Reader as a way of decompressing after the push for class last night. I’ll have to start again on that poem/assignment, but not until tomorrow. Today is for pleasure reading. Hence The Uncommon Reader. I don’t need to tell you what the book is about because if you don’t know you can click on the amazon link and read the product description.
What I want to do is share with you part of a paragraph from the book.
To begin with, it’s true, she read with trepidation and some unease. The sheer endlessness of books outfaced her and she had no idea how to go on; there was no system to her reading, with one book leading to another, and often she had two or three on the go at the same time. The next stage had been when she started to make notes, after which she always read with a pencil in hand, not summarising what she read but simply transcribing passages that struck her. It was only after a year or so of reading and making notes that she tentatively ventured on the occasional thought of her own.
Howl. The Queen with a thought of her own. Goodness, I hope Elizabeth had the pleasure of reading Bennett’s book.
Also, glad to see I have so many things in common with Her Highness, although it took me considerably more than a year after beginning to read to have a thought at all, let alone one that could safely be described as “my own”.
November 6th, 2011
mental rest, but not
Reading Morton has been a bit of an ordeal. I feel a sense of responsibility as a reader to try to understand the point of any book, the ideology it structures, from the point of view of the author. I feel that only then can a reader, even when she vehemently disagrees, appreciate what the author has created. Morton makes that tough to do, and worse, I think he does it deliberately. Complexity, broken communication, these are part of the point for him. Such dislocation of the reader, the broken bridge between the author and reader, all of these things point toward the artificiality of the whole we seek to impose on the world. OK. Fine. But I’m human so I do seek a sense of a whole. I experience fracturedness all the time, every minute of every day, if I pay attention to my body moving. My aware mind seeks to balance that physical/material knowing through wholeness. The balance of the two is what enables my humanity.
So I put down Morton and picked up a book of essays called the Eye in the Thicket. I was reading Don McKay’s essay “Otherwise Than Place” before I went to sleep. It was perfect. A piece about our fear of oblivion and long stretches of time, McKay carries a small stone in his pocket: geologic time reconfigures human concern.
Here is the closing of the essay:
So let me close by risking another pair of definitions: place is the beginning of memory, and memory is the momentary domestication of time. We could continue that walk around the meadow, pausing at the mulberries where the cedar waxwings got drunk, the red maple beloved of orioles, and the grave of the second dog, Sam — and at each the stories would proliferate. But each would come with that temporary, provisional quality built in. Those little walks, whether exercised in situ or in memory, exist on the hinge of translation between place and its otherwise, with the flow going both ways, rooting me in place while they simultaneously open — always with that sense of danger, that pre-echo of oblivion — into wilderness.
Beautiful. And true to the simultaneous nature of being human. we have a body that walks, perceives, is part of the ongoingness of reality. Then there are the memories, the narratives that overlay the ever present ongoingness. Reading is like moving into another’s memory, and by doing this moving into a new one of one’s own. It does not supersede the body’s knowing of now and here. Narrative, memory, or McKay’s “place” just exists as a after image on a somatic photo already taken.
I know this in my body, in the calcium in my bones that will one day be part of some rock another will walk on, or carry. And yet I dreamt uncomfortably all night. As I read I could hear Morton’s refusal of McKay, the assessment of such ecomimetic strategies McKay employs as hiding the failure of the subject and pretending a holism we don’t in fact have. And I carried that niggle into my dreams.
And of course on waking I got angry, because we do in fact have it. Pay close attention to your walking. Feel your body’s pinging, pinging, pinging, and the attached thinking, thinking, thinking. This is the whole of the earth as it appears in this one little place called you. And yes it is a “place” but it is also a wilderness. It is both at the same time.
I suspect it may take a little time to recover from Morton. But also, the niggle, was something in McKay. The sense of the separation of place and its otherwise (wilderness) is an old trope but I think a bad one. In this I agree with Morton. But not to continually require artists to draw attention to this “failure.” That’s ridiculous and a bit petulant if you ask me. Instead, perhaps, we could draw attention to the simultaneity of multiple experiences, of the ongoingness of both “wilderness” and “place”. And with McKay, I agree that we might begin by conceiving of long-time, of rock history, of geologic scales as a counter weight to the brief flare of human time, of our impermanence, and quick oblivion. That would be a fine recovery.
For Jan Zwicky’s poem “Recovery” from which the book’s title comes go here. It’s a beautiful poem and perfectly fits my sense of recovery from Morton.
November 5th, 2011
Timothy Morton’s poetics
I’ve been struggling with Timothy Morton‘s Ecology Without Nature, and for now am finished with it.
Essentially, what the book does is deconstruct Romantic ecocriticsm with the idea of making it stronger, and moving our attention back to the seams in our reality and thus breaking down what Romanticism (and contemporary ecocriticism) tries to construct as a seamless whole.
In aid of this he develops his deconstructive criticisms of ecomimesis, which is a way of describing nature (through art) as if we could see nature truly, and undesigned, unconfigured by our own agendas. And of course we do see the world through our own bodily agendas. Morton is absolutely correct in this. The thing I have a problem with is Morton’s solution to this identity politics/identity aesthetics, which is to construct our “art” in such a way (collages, mash ups, montages, etc) so as to keep the seems—the agendas—always visible.
To describe my reservations with his “ecocritical artwork” I am going to resort to geometry and Abbott’s Flatland. Imagine Mr. Square inside a Circle home. He has been reading too much Wordsworth and so he continues to try and apprehend Sphere by repeatedly transiting the circumference of the Circle home.
Circumference of a Circle = π • diameter
N0w imagine Mr Square reads Dr Morton and has a revelation about the failure of the subject. As a consequence he gives up his attempt to encompass the circle’s circumference. Instead he realizes the power of radians, radii and chords. In this way Mr Square gives up the idea of grasping the concept of sphere through grasping the whole of a circle and instead seeks to understand through the jagged juxtopositions of wandering roads along a variety of meeting and unmeeting lines intersecting with the aforesaid circumference and creating angles as yet unseen by Mr Square.
The thing is, of course, that Mr Square’s broken linear progressions will not get him any closer to sphere than would his circumferential perambulations. Both styles of walking are of the Area of a Circle; they are a dialog between two algorithmic terms.
Sphere Volume = 4/3 • π • r³
To get to where Morton wants to go—the sphere in my little metaphor—the problem cannot be constructed as a dialectic. It requires three terms to figure the volume of a sphere. And his collisions, collations, constructions, will not allow for it.
Should you want to read a good review of Morton’s book which summarizes his position on ecomimesis rather well go read “Ecocriticism, Ecomimesis, and the Romantic Roots of Modern Ethical Consumption” by Vince Carducci in Literature Compass 6/3 (2009): 632–646, 10.1111/j.1741-4113.2009.00638.x. I got a copy of it through a restricted service I have access to so I cannot give you a link.
October 26th, 2011
Timothy Morton/Ecology without Nature
Here we go.
Now that I am recovered from poetry overload I have begun Morton‘s Ecology Without Nature. Hoping for the best. Today’s goal: the introduction.
October 16th, 2011
Timothy Morton/The Ecological Thought, part (last) 4b
This post is about Timothy Morton‘s The Ecological Thought, and as you can probably tell from the post’s title there are three other bits on tailfeather about the book. You can find them here.
Morton’s book is basically an argument for moving forward into animism. I hasten to say that he does not mean the kind of animism of locality, or tribal societies actually operating in our world. Rather, his animism is defined based on the scope of its application. “Ancient animisms treat beings as people, without a concept of Nature.” This is the starting place, but for Morton, the scope of such treatment is what really matters. One must include the non-living as well as the living.
All of this sounds wonderful but it is a surface thing, a thing of personal feeling, without much material experience to provide its material body, its manifestation. Morton’s construction of animism certainly doesn’t uproot basic Western assumptions that, arguably, get in the way of Morton’s postulated rather intense human change.
The feeling thing: It’s a bit like my feeling about pumpkin pie in the fridge. I do want to eat it all. I do. Convinced of such a thing, my stomach howls for it and yet I know if I don’t moderate my feeling, much of the rest of my alimentary system will react poorly, and with some acidity. Yes, it would be wonderful if we humans could think outside our own personal world, get past our desire for the “whole pie”. And of course we are individually learning to do so, but is that what is really going to change how we behave as a group, especially when faced with threats outside our body’s ability to perceive?
We were wired to react to a fast moving predator. We were not wired to handle the stressors of urban living. We’ve largely dealt with the predator issue because we could. We aren’t dealing with urban stressors at all well. Is it because we need bodily cues of the “Watch Out! Bear coming!” sort?
The assumption thing: Having lived with animists for much of my lifetime, I can tell you they are not particularly environmentally friendly, not in a way that will moderate such realities as terrible population density, family and community destruction and other such contemporary human issues all of which destroy the human capacity for compassion and caring. The lack of environmental awareness (have you ever seen the dump on a Rez?) comes not from a lack of animism, but from something else. That “something” is what will be key to shifting things should one wish to do so.
I did read the last of the pages in Morton’s book, despite my need to take a day and not think about it all. I walked instead, saved some seeds from the garden, cooked – experiential palate cleansers. I still have mixed feelings. Mostly I despair of the lack of real argument, of sense, of an accurate understanding of what it is to be human today, and of course the lack of understanding of animism and other such particular moments in the text. On the other hand I deeply admire the attempt Morton has made to think past Romanticism (which I agree is deadly), and define for himself and others a new way of attending to presence that will save our collected butts.
I do think he’s got some interesting bits in there. There are ideas worth thinking through, and I will read on to his Nature and further explore his OOO. But he hasn’t been able to banish the ghost of Romanticism and I doubt whether I’ll find he has been able to do so in these further works. The simple fact that this is a book about what we should do, how we should think, what we should let slide, that’s fundamental to Romanticism.
Romanticism is a kind of literary religion that has become, today. a culturally Green religion; it’s a form of Western religion that conflates what we want with what should be—it’s a revised Christianity, a moral faith about how to live here and now on the Earth based on the idealized (but temporally very local) notions of what could/should be. Just because it has the material earth at its core does not make it any sort of animism. Not that I am saying Morton thinks this, just that often when a person replaces God with Man, they think they have become a humanist, but they are really just theologists who think of Man as God. The same is true for those fundamentally theologically minded persons who replace God/Man with Nature (or Earth, or Goddess, or the Mesh.)
In my experience (as an animist and as a watcher of animists), animism’s true distinction is not that it treats the rest of reality as a multitude of persons (and it’s not just other life forms either Dr Morton, one can have a relationship with lightning as well as with a bear) but that most animists are pretty aware that morality is designed for human beings to get what human beings need and want, at a specific place, and at a specific time. (The head woman speaks for the band, not for the gophers, not for the deer, nor the waters, unless the gophers are her particular partner, and then she would not be speaking as a head woman but as the partner of the local gophers.)
The group will have rules of course, all human groups do, but those rules are based on history, common law, and very few of the day to day rules (like sleeping with another’s spouse, say) are ever couched in terms of “because God says not to”. If thought of at all, those rules are couched in consequential terms. For example, if I get caught I am going to get banished and cause horrible pain to my sister, but if I don’t do this I am going to remain a very very unhappy woman. Or, if we eat all the gophers, then who is going to let us know when the bison are coming from too far away for us to hear or sense?
Most animistic religions aren’t connected to the host culture’s moral system in the same way Christianity encodes morality through (say) the 10 commandments. When a spirit speaks and tells you to do something, it isn’t meant for everyone. The spirit speaks to get you what you need. It isn’t for your neighbor. That’s fundamentally different than what is intended behind the story of God speaking to Moses. When the woman above makes her decision it won’t be based on this sense of “rightness” but on what’s good to live with. That’s why the Salish words for “wilderness” really translate to “land not good for us to live on” and do not equate with the cultural lode born by the English word.
Because animistic belief and moral systems are separated, how one connects to what is and how one behaves with other humans are also based on different cultural structures; and that is fundamentally different from Romanticism. Romanticism is based on the same assumption that is fundamental to Judaism, Christianity and Islam—that how one behaves and what one believes are based on the same thing—or at least they should be. This integration of belief and behaviour (the ecological thought) is what Morton’s book tries to establish, and also why it fails to get beyond Romanticism.
The central question about “thinking forward” comes from the simple fact that the Enlightenment was essentially the development of science based on that same assumption that codes Romanticism. Can scientific thinking (which is what will allow us to know enough about the actual world outside human needs and desires to actually think about it and not some echo of us) operate in a new OS? Can we dump that moral/behavioural conflation (a key code sequence in the Enlightenment/Romantic OS) and still keep the applications (e.g. science, aesthetically based “spiritualities”) built upon it? I suspect yes, but I would really like to know what that would mean to the kinds of things we choose to think about, to desire and obsess about.
October 14th, 2011
Timothy Morton/The Ecological Thought, part 4a
This post is about the last section of Timothy Morton’s The Ecological Thought, and as you can probably tell from the post’s title there are three other earlier bits on tailfeather about the book. You can find them here.
This is a read-along post. Basically what you’re going to get here is my reaction as I hit bits I hate or love. I’ll probably sum up my reaction in the last paragraph of the last part if you don’t want to go along with me.
p. 98/The title of the last section is “Forward Thinking”. I haven’t read anything in the section yet but it already suggests that he is going to mean this in two ways. The first is the implication of that comes with the ideology of progress; the second is simply a movement from the “dark” place he’s taken us so far and into the the human social world that would be created by thinking the ecological thought.
He’s clearly in love with language; I wonder if he writes poetry. He turns some wonderful phrases, but his love of sound and the rhythm of sentences is getting in the way of clarity and this is prose with an intent to get across a very specific, rather important, message. It irritates me this lack of editorial control over one’s own work.
p. 99/His thing about ethics drives me nuts. He starts by saying that if there is a truck coming at a little girl you, if you see it, have an obligation to rescue her. The fact that you realize the truck is going to kill her obligates you. This seems to be part of what he means by sentience, the realization that something is coming. He then pushes this premise to say that we know climate change is adversely effecting the world in which we live, and so sentient forms (including humans) are responsible for climate change. It doesn’t matter if we caused it or not. He argues that we don’t have to come up with a reason to rescue the girl (or our selves from climate change), we just have to do it. “That’s why it’s called an ethical decision.” It doesn’t have to be proved or justified. You just do it.”
Gar. There are so many holes in that set of links that it’s nearly senseless. Take the woman that rescues that little girl. She may have reacted fast and, from her point of view, didn’t take the time to think about what she was doing, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t thought out. It just happened way below the level of consciousness and was based on a life-time (and an evolutionary lifetime) of preparation and situational analysis. So there are lots of reasons to save the little girl. And surely Morton isn’t trying to make self awareness a necessary component of sentience?
Also, can we really call the woman’s reaction ethical?
(The only thing Morton seems to actually want to accomplish in this section is to divorce the question of whether we are at fault for climate change and our current and future behaviours to address the ongoing destruction. This is a sensible point. Why did he feel the need to dress it up as an ethical problem, rather than just a survival one?)
Normally what it means to act ethically is to act in accordance with what are the norms of the society, the rules, the moral code. Yes, normally one imbibes these from one’s infancy on and they become all but unconscious, tied to emotional cues like disgust and awe. We might not be really aware of our code, in the same way a native language user isn’t usually aware of his or her language’s rules. This doesn’t stop the native speaker from following the rules, nor does the invisibility of the rule make it nonexistent.
Moral codes, like linguistic ones, are arbitrary, evolved as they are to the needs of the species. Moral codes are built on human needs, human biology, human sociology. Saving the little girl is a human-oriented moral impulse. This impulse exists to save humans alone. It does nothing for lions, or trucks, or the quality of the air we breathe.
Awareness of a problem requires us to act? Let’s rephrase: there is a problem; I ought to fix it. Bah.
Yes this climate change is our responsibility, just as the Cyanobacteria were responsible for the devastating atmospheric destruction that released that poisonous gas oxygen into the atmosphere in enough numbers to nearly wipe out all anaerobic life on earth. Of course, the consequence of that devastation was to allow for the development of aerobic life forms (you know kitties, puppies, us). If we’re going to get really big here, then all we’re doing is being good Cyanobacteria copycats and preparing the planet for the next great wave of life forms.
Sure all the lions, tigers and bears will go down with us, but really, in the course of geologic time, who is out there to give a frack? It only matters to us if all humans die (well, and maybe it matters to dogs, and house cats. Maybe.). So what responsibility to we bear? To keep ourselves alive? Yes, I’d say this is a biological imperative and probably the root of all human moral systems. Do we need to take into account the lions, tigers and bears to meet this? Good question. The problem is that we can’t really answer it. We’ve already killed off many, many species and we’re still here.
What we don’t know is for how long we’ll be here. Perhaps what we’ve already done is more than enough to see off the long slide down into our species’ extinction. It’s a bit like having a red pill and a blue pill. One is poison; one is not. You have the option to swallow one whole. Which will you choose? If it was my choice, and I knew one too many pills would kill me, I’d just not swallow either. Safer that way. So yes, we may be too late since we’ve already swallowed many life forms whole in our species’ drive to expand. If we can stop acquiring (which is grave doubt) then it would be safer not to kill off any more species and thereby take that one pill too many.
The point is that our ethics are not the ethics of Cyanobacteria. We are in conflict. They might be all in favour of allowing us all to die so that the earth can return to its earlier anaerobic paradise. They might have a chance at a resurgence then. They don’t right now. The whole mesh thing, this thinking big schtick Morton has going on depends upon the idea that the earth “should” stay viable for its current crop of creatures. Bah, bah, bah. Pisses me off this kind of logical fallacy couched as it is in pretty words.
Why not just say I don’t want to die. Do you? If you don’t then we need to get real about our limits and the limits of the bio system’s capacity to support us. There. Done.
p. 102/end of the first subsection. More of the same. Prophet speaks roars through all the paragraphs. There’s a bit where he says, “Gregory Bateson, who asserts that the only good decisions are unconscious ones, an idea that sounds suspiciously, like “The only good woman is a dead one.” Reminds me of the kind of “logic” Glenn Beck would use.
You know I really don’t want to finish reading this book, and only 20+ pages from the end. Take a break, drink some coffee, watch the crow soliciting donations across the road.
October 12th, 2011
Timothy Morton/The Ecological Thought, part 3
Reading Morton is like reading Deleuze’s The Fold, only Morton isn’t as clear.
I picture a bit of writing (especially prose) as a space through which the reader is being asked to move. At first one is blind, but with each sentence walls appear, windows, doorways, and through them the colours and textures of the interior, the bright lights, the dim regions. The author’s job is to provide a world in and through which his or her thoughts can be communicated.
Not that any such communication can be perfect. The writer and reader, whatever similarities they may have will differ in their areas of knowledge, culture, experience, etc., and therefore their connotations will differ – and so the message communicated to the reader will not be identical to the author’s sense at the time of writing, not once “the message” lifts up from the marks on a page and into the mind of the reader. There will be commonalities because otherwise the marks will just be marks and not communication, but no message is ever static. But Morton – jeez, it’s like negotiating one of those fun house rooms that take advantage of the ways in which our perceptual organs assume things about the world that aren’t in fact the case. And going through said fun house while on a rolling ship, whilst battling seasickness.
And you know, I think it deliberate. It has to do with his message, but I rather think he’s taken the idea of form following function a bit too seriously.
Of course there are wonderful bits in there, some startling, “decorative” moments in the house Morton built, but the argument itself?
Section two (“Dark Thoughts”) follows section one by washing the reader down the whirlpool created by a purposeful flinging off of identity. What he does is follow the feeling trail of monstrousness (his strange stranger) all the way down to the place it shoots back out into a new universe, presumably discussed in the final section called “Forward Thinking”. It’s a bit like taking a bad trip.
Part of the data set that takes us down into these “dark” thoughts is the acknowledgement that we don’t know with any certainty what is living and what is not. In fact, the consequence (the tight, dark well at the bottom of this effort) is to acknowledge that such a line between life and non-life is fictitious.
“Life” is a word for some self-replicating macro-molecules and their trnasport systems…”life” is to be found within matter itself. (p 67)
There are a lot of bits of data like this in the chapter; it’s a bit like being in a sandstorm of fact. Makes it frakking hard to see where you’re going.
He also argues that life is algorithmic in nature (p.68) which is lovely and, at least at a certain level of macro-molecular expression, certainly true. He argues that our capacity for language is an evolutionary matter of degree and not kind. Again: almost certainly true. But the thing is that there is still enormous argument over this in the literature. There are reputable arguments still being made for the idea of “kind” and not “degree” and this is not mentioned by Morton at all. It gives me pause when a serious discussion is mentioned only as fact. This is what I called “prophet speak” and I don’t trust it, even if I agree with some of the points made.
Much of his argument is to suggest the radical strangeness of all beings, including our “selves”, which makes us all equal. Yet he also has these moments, when discussing things like anthropocentrism and aesthetics when he also suggests our differences.
Everything we think becomes suspect, as we assume that there is a Nature from which our thinking can deviate. And deviancy must be punished. The position of hunting for anthropocentrism is anthropocentrism. To claim that someone’s distinction of animals and humans is antropocentric, because she privileges reason over passion, is to deny reason to nonhumans. We can’t in good faith cancel the difference between humans and nonhumans. Nor can we perserve it. Doing both at the same time would be inconsistent. We’re in a bind. But don’t despair: kings felt less for peasants than they did for pheasants. The bind is a sign of emerging democracy of life forms. (p 76)
It is? Here I thought the “bind” is a consequence of the multiple evolutionary developments by which a group of social primates came to think as they do currently. But do you see what I mean about the “folding” of thought in Morton. Democracy of forms? Didn’t know bacteria cared one whit for us as “host”. Is a human reader privileging reason over passion really the same as the denial of reason to nonhumans? And the fact that two positions are apparently inconsistent is a problem with humans? We do that all the time. More than two positions, even three is common I’d of thought. I mean just look at right wing theists who also visit doctors when ill. Or those against genetically modified food who eat corn. Or Tea Partyites that get mad when their medicare payments are discussed.
If I were to summarize this section, it would be to quote Morton
We are embodied, yet without essence. True materialism would be nonsubstantialist: it would think matter as self-assembling sets of interrelationships in which information is directly inscribed: DNA is both matter and information. (p 82-83)
then add, and everything else is just a wavering set of simulations, a performance put on by matter. And that means you, so get used to it. You’re really just matter putting on a show which thinks of itself as human.
Of course so is everything else. All things are just various performances, which makes us all equally chimeras and simulations. That’s the ecological thought, as far as I can tell. What makes this “dark” is the supposed reaction one has to this realization.
I recognize that Morton is a Romantic scholar, and as such he is likely to have had an emotional tie to those writers and thinkers that felt that Nature (that personified notion, like Gaia, or Mother Nature, or some other such divine modeled on our various religious histories) was our salvation, our true being. Of course there are many people who feel this way, and the book, I suspect, has been written for them. It is a kind of road map to giving up Mama (she who replaced sky-daddy), without plunging into nihilism. OK. But please don’t ask me to mistake this map for the actual road.
Intimacy is never so obvious as when we’re depressed. Melancholy is the earth humor, made of black bile, the earth element. Melancholy art, such as the German “suffering play” (Trauerspiel), speaks the truth of pain. This art might be more ecological than sunnier versions. To be intimate with the strange stranger is to be in various kinds of pain. Being glued to a heating world that might overwhelm or kill us is bad news. Ecology is stuck between melancholy and mourning. Nature language is like melancholy: holding on to a “Bad” object, a toxic mother whose distance and object like qualities are venerated. Environmentalism is a work of mourning for a mother we never had. To have ecology, we must give up Nature. But since we have been addicted to Nature for so long, giving up will be painful. Giving up a fantasy is harder than giving up a reality. (p 94-95)
Bah. This path sure seems to lead from one True Belief state to another.
On to the final section.