9 June 2009 4 Comments

Aphorism 1: The spirit hits you when your artfulness–your capacity and willingness to describe truth in a contingent yet sincere way–supercedes your insistence on a truth that corresponds with absolute fidelity to language.

Because I am (at least for now) an historian, I like to tell stories.  Or perhaps it’s the other way around.  However, instead of taking on some of the momentous events in the early history of Globatron (the other gods in the pantheon are doing a fine job of this), I would like to briefly reflect on my recent road trip to the end of the old American frontier.  In doing this, I hope to shed a little more light, both for myself and for our readers and contributors, on ideas that we have already discussed, as well as on the concept of civilization and ways in which the language we use to describe these things impact some of the identities we rely on for meaning and order.

I won’t go too far into disclaimers about the difficulties of approaching such topics–in what may seem to be a cursory, protracted way–to say nothing of the dangers of veering from a given topic into many topics and into a state of incoherency.  But here’s a short paragraph that addresses these concerns.  Of course these are difficult and complex topics; it is in the spirit of facing them that I write.  The new mission that guides this project inspires me to approach topics that exceed my ability to handle them on my own.  That is to say, more than anything, when I write down my thoughts and share them, I do so not out of a sense of authority but from curiosity about the human condition.  In short, it is an invitation that I hope to craft.  An invitation as well as a complement to the wonderful work and the important questions that materialize here, at the great digital frontier known as globatron.  The modern insistence on specialties, the extreme division of labor, and expertise in myriad topics drives us away from one another and hence circumscribes the ability of any one person to communicate confidently about anything beyond what is deemed popular or a matter of “common sense.”  And even these concepts are at turns contested and vilified.  I see my participation in this forum as a way of challenging such division.  I see it as a means of questioning the premise of “difference” that has compelled every atrocity, every act of violence, every insecurity, every moment of despair among human beings since the concept of civilization gained currency.  And in asking what it means to be human,  I see my presence here as both an acknowledgement and a challenge.  To the first point, it is an acknowledgement that we, as a species or race or spiritual entity or however we define humanity, now stand at the edge of something vast and uncertain.  We are transforming; our consciousness–if a collective form of it can be said to exist–is merging with something Other, which may or may not have consciousness, but which nonetheless promises to alter that of humans.  Some call it the beginning of the post-human era.  To take one example or scenario, some foresee a seamless merger of mind with machine; others predict a point of massive conflict and rebellion against such a transition.  We can view a form of this debate quite easily in our movies and games and commercials and sci-fi literature.  But, as many of us know, it is also a topic of serious scholarly and artistic concern as well.  We cannot know exactly what form such a transition will take, but I happen to believe that it is taking shape at this moment in history.  To the second point, my presence is a challenge to discuss the parameters of humanity and to begin to live in such a way that those parameters have meaning and consequences for the ways our successors on this planet will live their lives.  In the end, this may mean only that we tried to give unified definition to the human mind, to the human capacity to reason and feel and care about our environment, to tell our descendants what we were like before we left.  But in my opinion, that is challenge enough.  Rebellion, revolution, etc., may indeed be futile at this point, not least because we have no clear definition of the oppressor or of the Other. So perhaps it is best to stick to the old writer’s maxim and write what we know.  Or at least try and find out, collectively, what we can know.

No doubt, I help to serve a tall order, parts of which have already messily fallen from the platter to the floor. As is often the case when I think about people, I  veer and swerve in a number of ways that seem to defy the expression of a unified idea and that threaten to confuse and alienate those with whom I would most like to communicate.  Mostly, this is a consequence of the limits of language, but also of my own limitations as an imperfect individual who must communicate via this archaic language.  If I veer and begin to fall, I don’t apologize but ask that others catch me, walk with me, and continue to invite me to walk with them.  I am not afraid of being labeled high-minded or as preoccupied with lofty topics.  To my mind, this is the greatest compliment and the most worthwhile occupation.  Even if I don’t quite know what the hell I’m doing.

Anecdote:  The Homeless

I just returned from a trip to Los Angeles.  There, the fact of life that struck me hardest was not the traffic, though it was mostly horrendous; not the weather, which stood in wonderful contrast to that where I live; not the view of the Pacific Ocean from Santa Monica, which was beautiful; but the stark division between the ways that people live.  In particular, I was struck by the contrast between Mercedes-driving homeowners, who lunched at nice cafes and the homeless, who slept under overpasses and ate whatever handouts they could find or coerce from people who had money.  Of course, homelessness is not unique to Los Angeles, and this was not by any means the first time I had witnessed it in a large city.  In fact, what struck me was the consistency of the experience of division–of difference–across the the United States and in my memory since I was a child.  Another obvious point is that I can only speak for myself and for my own experience of difference regarding this topic.  Yet there is something consistently troubling about the ways in which it is addressed as a phenomenon.  Although there are a few histories of homelessness on record, I know of none that deviate fully from the notion that it is a scourge or social problem that should be solved.  We perceive the homeless as people with mental or physical disabilities, drug addictions, or severe financial difficulties.  Rarely do we acknowledge the burden placed upon people by the western “work ethic,” the consumer culture on which economic stability depends, or a culture that does not tolerate the prospect of anarchy or of true diversity of opinion:  minds that reject the generally accepted idea of civilization.  Although homelessness is a problem particularly in the modern period, which promises progress and improvement, the phenomenon we call “homelessness” is a symbol of the timeless problem of civlization.  Civilization can tolerate, in other words, only a limited degree of diversity and dissent.  It cannot accommodate both its own rules and that which exists beyond those rules.  It relies, therefore, on a practiced ignorance of the other.  On the fringes, of course, we acknowledge the homeless; we try to help them through charitable means made possible by the rules of civil society.  But there is always the notion that they are beyond help.  As long as people remain outside certain boundaries of social behavior, they are treated as something other than civilized entities.  And I suspect that this has always been part of the definition of civilization, albeit a part that is now customarily ignored.

Yet I believe that homelessness is today not primarily a function of social hierarchy and class but a function of the perception of what is and is not part of the modern ideal of progress.  It defies the notion that democracy works for all people; it accentuates the failures of modernity.  It is part of our definition of humanity that we cannot squarely face because to do so is to question the foundations of modern civil society.  We suspect, after all, that for every homeless person there are several others who abide by the rules of society though they may wish to escape them completely.  They hang on, often in that quiet desperation to which literate people refer but dare not investigate with their whole minds and bodies. The devil we know is preferable to that which we don’t know.  And the ignore-ance of phenomena that define the boundaries of society fractures the mind and inhibits the expression of a secret desperation to know.  If only there were absolute security in knowing, in venturing just beyond the illusory lines of progress, the forward-moving train of being–the prison of time itself–then we might consider taking a peek.

That is all for now.  More later on the idea of time.