Ode to Short Pants

Listen:

My shorts,

Mottled brown and well-worn,

Attempt escape.

Quite often indeed,

They flee,

My curvaceous rear.

But, they sag not due to a withering waistline.

Hoo ha!

Seems to me,

They rebut my butt.

Creating distance,

Each comfort laden day.

Flexing, forming and flawing,

As none foresaw for fabric.

Yet every stain and rend,

Each befoulment,

Bring them closer to me.

O cut-off garment!

The scourge of denim,

Racing hastily to a hem.

O short pants!

For me,

To declare to thee,

That I am endebtted,

To thee.

Might be,

A lofty decree.

And as that may be,

I nevertheless submit

My heartfelt and sincere gratitude,

For being all that you may be.

Untitled, 2 July 2009

I have visions of my past, my childhood. Underneath the porch where our things were. I see colors and shapes and textures, bright and brilliant but impossible to commit to sober memory. I see shapes like clovers and flowers. Pedals of colored plastic. Rough and shiny smooth. I've seen patterns. Strings of these colored plastic visions.

I see the brown of the house across the street. The black and browns of the decaying siding. Its old, something so familiar which barely exists any longer, unleashed only in stupor.

I see green, a sick, pale, fluffy green of Henrietta's carpet. The mottled browns of cheap furniture. I feel home, young, innocent curious and safe.

I see orange and yellow. Weathered plastic punctuated by cold rusted steel.

These are toys. Memories of childhood. They are remembrances of feelings of home and warmth. Nostalgia. Nostalgia of a time long since forgotten. Memories of memories I never had. Memories that remain but wisps afloat in my head. Smokey and intangible but nonetheless haunting. Not haunting but enduring.

Thing, place and feel.

My eyes blank, the world slips away for an instant. Then, flash. Light and nostalgia swirling. At once diffuse and intense. Any sudden movement of mind sends it running. Sends it diminishing into the black. Where the world appears again. The now. My world of short memory occasionally accosted by visions of that un-remembered.

Now form begins again. My mind from darkness to fleshy form. From memory, from nostalgia to thing. Now it is pink and wrapped and moist and any other manner of physical, medical description which is recognized by all.

A short trip. It ends but it doesn't. Just a cover for reality. Or a peek behind the veil of "reality."

Indecipherable. I can agree on that. An un-understood understanding.

A literal blow of the mind. Nevertheless, I live in reconstitution.

From the Death Pedestal to Philosophical Fear

In case you were out, the so-called king of pop died last Thursday. And, every day since we have been reminded that, indeed, he is still dead. No more dead than he was Thursday, certainly no less dead, but nevertheless, still dead enough. Then, I had the misfortune of tuning in CNN to get a brief of current events for work on Sunday morning only to be reminded by four, count them, four separate analysts that Jackson was dead. And (get this!), there was an autopsy. Someone died (died I tell you!) and those doctors had the audacity to try and figure out why. Finally, and I hope I read the news reports accurately, it seems that people are planning a funeral for the dead Michael Jackson.

Even this very morning it seems the only thing worthy of public consideration is that Jackson is still dead. Both CNN and MSNBC (The place for politics) are reporting this. If such thorough and reputable media organizations are reporting this, it must be true.

It seems my fears of the zombie apocalypse, at least in the case of Jackson, were, thankfully, unfounded.

In a close second and third recently, two more celebrity deaths. And fourth? That Farrah Fawcett's death was overshadowed by Jackson's.

I'm simply sick of this shit. Let's have a run down of things that actually are happening (other than the recapitulation of Jackson's death): The political situation in Iran dropped off the map as the state approached revolution. We are at war in two countries; though today marks the begining of the pull out in Iraq. The University of Illinois is under investigation for not only admitting unqualified (but well connected) students, but trading admission decisions for job placements (for underqualified candidates). As if two wars weren't enough, there is more war mongering begining to be directed at North Korea. Nevermind all the death and human suffering that never makes the news because we have become accustomed to it; that is, destitution, hunger and exploitation of the "low" classes in the US and around the world.

I think that this is becoming more than a short-sighted, anecdotal and momentary demonstration of priorities. This is an infectious and expanding attitude that will be detrimental to the social and physical state of the world. The continous expansion of celebrity obsession is more than a distraction, it is a deliberate state of ignorance. It is a conscious shrugging of the shoulders to those problems that are too depressing to be profitable. I will go as far as to say that the media storm surrounding the 2008 election, ironically, was a similar calculated means to set aside the mortal, sadistic, corrupt and depressing side of the human condition. I say that because the hoopla that peaked at the inauguration dropped off almost instantly as soon as Obama began facing the problems he campaigned about.

There are few things that I'm truly afraid of (in a philosohpical sense). One is my untimely death at the chaotic hands of an evangelical Christian children's army. Another, a new one, is the long-term effect that this new profit-hungry, mainstream, normative, omnipresent media machine is having. There will a come a point where profit will not be a strong enough forced to demand all our attention. I can only hope that the competing force, at that point, will not be self-preservation.

Hiatus

Intellectual sucubus. Chew on that one for a while if you will.

The fallout, as it were, from the completion of my B.A. in anthropology has consisted largely of an intellectual vaccuum. Indeed, I've gone from waging a subversive media war on the Butler University president and administration, completing a thesis (all while expanding my photographic portfolio) to naught more than landscape maintainance and playing a punching bag for pent up suburban angst and self-righteousness.

When I first returned home from my four year forray in academia I longed to be Jon Irons once again, that oddly memorable guy-with-bandana/guy-with-camera/anthropology-cult-figure. For, you see, at home I am instead Jonathan, loafing academic, argumentative and jobless (though far from a failure in the eyes of my parents I must admit).

Next, I experienced a brief reprieve, becoming a Jon Irons of a different sort. A relic of pool seasons past, wisened by years of rescues and guard staffs coming and going, noted explorer (apparently staff members will, from time to time, "pull a Jon Irons" and dissappear for 6 weeks or so). In my seventh year at the pool I claimed a new position, supervising supervisors. But, in a few weeks I began to bear the weight of long sunny days, angry entitled suburbanites and stepping up to be the bad guy. Not to mention that the humanihilsocialist perspective is far from customer service friendly.

Thus we arrive at my forced attempt to claw my way out of this inspirational hiatus. I've spent what little cognitive surplus I've had on contemplation of my future, my rapid rate of disenchantment and Vonnegutian perception of the world.

I suppose at this time I am attempting to figure out exactly what a world without enchantment looks like. The highs and lows are fleeting and intense. This inevitably translates into erratic and raw imaging and opining.

So here ends this hiatus with the realization that I must learn to flex my intellect without the immediate stimulation of academic workloads for the time being. Here ends this hiatus with the creation of new perception. Here ends my hiatus with an intellectual spring fillings newfound voids and topping off trusted resevoirs.

Listen: Poo-tee-weet.

The Decay of the American Dream

I saw a woodpecker today, pecking.
Peck, peck pecking,
On a wooden fence.

Peck, peck, pecking on a white wooden fence.

I said, to the woodpecker,
Why, you are mis-taken,
You, pecking on that white wooden fence.

There are no grubs within,
No homely hollow to harbor your heavy head,
Tired, from pecking that white wooden fence.

There is no inside,
Only the otherside,
A woody illusion, deluding your birdy brain.

I pleaded with the woodpecker, as he pecked,
Peck, peck, pecked that white wooden fence.
Move on! Make haste!

The woodpecker paused,
He fluttered off.
I do not think he heard.

My plea, drowned out by that futile peck, peck, pecking,
On that white wooden fence.

The Crossroads of Archaeology: Navigating the World Between Disciplines

I was nominated and chosen to deliver the student address at Butler's College of Liberal Arts and Sciences spring awards ceremony. The following is the speech manuscript.

As an aspiring archaeologist I sit at a contested point between endeavors in the humanities and the sciences. A great deal of critical commentary in recent years has concerned the negotiation of the archaeological identity. Are we scientists practicing within the rigors of replicability and objective method? Or, are we humanists, enveloped in a futile struggle between subjectivity and authority?

The professional discourse is still undecided. But, what being in this college has imparted to me in four years is the importance of resisting disciplinary constraints which compel us to choose either or.

In my honors thesis I look at archaeology through an ethnographic lens, examining the culture of the archaeologists themselves. I use perspectives from socio-cultural anthropology, photography and the sociology of science.

Interdisciplinary is what some call a buzz word. But, I think this is more than trendy borrowing from an array of disciplines. In its best form, interdisciplinarity engenders an organic perspective of open-endedness. As liberal artists we’re asking the big questions about identity, authority, and what it means to be a responsible human in an increasingly contested, post-modern world. By being interdisciplinary we need to wander the world between disciplines. There, we not only learn useful tools and perspectives from other worlds, but can begin to see the limits of our own.

We should not be threatened by the so-called intellectual anarchy in the space between disciplines. The separations and borders within the scholarship are by no means natural, predetermined or necessary. They are artifacts protecting our capability of rationalizing the world through a narrow perspective.

When I began to approach archaeology, I was guided by my passion for the field and those practicing in it. In my attempt understand knowledge in this field, I needed to adopt methods from cultural anthropology and photography to understand it. I was guided by my curiosity and not by strict archaeological methods.

It is this way of navigating the world, led by properties of our passions and by adopting a pragmatic method, that we will escape a narrow focus on disciplinary knowledge. In the borderlands, having escaped the comforting net of our discipline, we can see sameness and difference in new ways; a perspective which transcends separations in the academy.

So what is the tangible benefit for liberal artists? Whether we spend our lives in academia, or step out of the ivory tower, I think everyone can benefit from a success bred by seeing the world as full of influences instead of constraints. We learn to critically resist objectivism, dualisms and the status quo; things paramount to making a difference.

This may not translate to the world at large, this so-called professional world. But what more is this common sense professionalism than an excuse to ensure job security and work towards that cushy American dream life? What more is it than an excuse to forget the areas in-between?

Interdisciplinarity and the liberal arts demonstrate that limitless intrigue epitomizes learning; not GPAs, test scores and degrees. It demonstrates that we cannot and should not bound our pursuit of knowledge to the conventional means of evaluation and compensation of the "real" world.

The real world remains blind to the possibilities of the in-betweens, it remains a world of either-ors, of categories. But there can be no end to this learning and investigation as we tear down boundaries one after another. We, as students of LAS, should change definitions of success and professionalism with this in mind. We should take and cherish this lesson through economic highs and lows, begin to challenge the present and mold the boundless potentiality of our futures.

A Cartoonish History of Race

In one of my anthropology classes we referenced this cartoon. We had been looking at a cartoon that depicted two ape-like figures balancing on a scale. As to which one was more ape-like, we went undecided. Beneath one figure was something like, "Black," and on the other, "Irish." Through this cartoon we were able to observe the confusing and amorphous boundary between concepts we know as Race and Ethnicity.

It was fairly easy to see the blatant racism/ethnocentrism at the heart of this matter, for the scale was prefectly balanced. Then, our professor foreshadowed what was to come and said that she had hoped we would be past such things. The next slide was the cartoon depicted above. It has been at the center of much controversy and just today, Rupert Murdock publicly apologized for its appearance.

Our professor said something truly intriguing in conclusion. She said that she could not say anything about intentions. No judgements can be made there. She could however, say something about our reactions. Again, this is not a matter of judging but rather of taking social note. The artists intentions are pointless, what is of more depressing note is the great deal of anxiety that such precarious depictions generate within the United States.

I will say something more of this. The concept of race or nationality or ethnicity has been entwined with notions of belonging and difference. Such a concept would not be so threatening were it not for the nature of power. That is, when a group comes to control resources, suddenly the ability to belong (or condition of being excluded) becomes a matter of life and death.

As the 19th Century turned to the 20th, the importance of race became so critical that those in power went to one of the highest sources of legitimization: Science. Here we come across anthropology's dark side. Social Darwinism, eugenics and race science exploded on the scene. Anthropologists are greatly culpable for creating categories of race and "scientific" means with which to identify them. The result was the presumption that biological causes played into the definition of race.

More contemporary debate has complicated this view. The American Anthropological Association has adopted statements that demean, if not reject, the importance of biology in race. Along with this is the position that race is a social construction, indeed, an "experience". A more relativist claim (as anthropologists are won't to make) suggests that race is not so pure, that is at once derived from an inseparable conception of biology and social experience/expectations.

I propose something different. I think that race is a box in which we arbitrarily store perceptions of slight human variation. That said, the basis for race is indeed purely biological; the biological condition being classification as Homo sapiens. To be human subjects one to the slight variations of our bodily entities, as well as a capacity to interpret them. Such capacity is a result of our shared brain chemistry and preempts social experience.

Think of our biology (that is, our common human condition) as a series of dots. Not unlike this cartoon above, we are presented with an array of dots (this might have implications of recognizing a creator/designer, a view that I do not condone). The intention of the one who arranged these dots is, for all intensive purposes, absent and unknowable. It is the manner in which we arrange these dots into meaningful patterns of words and figures which is knowable. Surely, some parts of our recognition are beyond our control, but many aren't. Ultimately, this interpretation is subject to change, and changes more often that we recognize it. Race, in any sort of reality, is simply an arrangement of dots (one that does not vary considerably). Our interpretation of these dots is what we know popularly as race, and ironically, we perceive it to vary drastically.

Translate this to the cartoon above. We are presented with a series of lines the origins of which we cannot and should not begin to guess. It is not the fact that the artist may have portrayed Obama in a 19th century manner which is saddening. It is the brutal reality that we are still able to see in this series of dots something comprising a dead, bleeding chimp which represents our president. We need not accept this interpretation (of the ape being Obama) for us to play into the current discourse of racism, we simply need recognize the possibility.

As we grasp hold of a postmodern conception of race, we can begin to move beyond deeply embedded historical artifacts which characterize our social experience of race in the United States. It is by recognizing and embracing our subjective and agentative role in the interpretation of biological monoliths that we will move passed this anxiety. We should not be sponges simply absorbing social ideas, but rather something with a more guarded permeability. Not something closed, but something inherently critical and understanding.