What were scientists and educators thinking when they allowed the teachings of evolution (not so much a theory anymore) to be reduced to the idea that man evolved from apes?

I don’t know — but it has produced a society of apes. Seriously, I am unimpressed with much of western society and what it has degenerated into. Whenever I have cause to speak with someone bored and bred in the west, I generally draw a great intake of breath, quite prepared for some casual dominance and submission idiocy.

You know what though? I’m not an ape. And I’m also way too clever for your operant conditioning techniques, which are supposed to turn me into a busy and productive little worker.

My present mood

Friedrich:

It is my sympathy with all the past that I see it is abandoned,-

-Abandoned to the favor, the spirit and the madness of every generation that comes, and reinterprets all that has been as its bridge!

A great potentate might arise, an artful prodigy, who with approval and disapproval could strain and constrain all the past, until it became for him a bridge, a harbinger, a herald, and a cock-crowing.

We live in what, according to my opinion, is a strange age. I find as little to recognise of myself in the social Darwinists as I do in the Postmoderns.

Neither of these movements resonate with me effectively — not in a way which would I could actually experience as an eureka! moment, the way one joyfully rediscovers what is hidden. Not in a way, which is to say, which could in any way ressemble aspects of the way I was brought up.

I can understand these ideological states like weather conditions which prevail over me — I can even adapt.

Yet my sorrow is that I must always be the one to move from the cultural position which I’d like to embrace because it is the most familiar to me. Others expect this adjustment from me. Always. They have no conception of the amount of energy it uses, just to adjust.

Life with Neptune

I always enjoyed the impunity of the right wing refrain, “If you don’t like it here, go back to where you came from.” So resolute, so transcendent of any and all material realities it appeared.

And yet, and yet, it still (apparently) needs translation. “If you don’t like it here…… go back where? live where?….” not all parts of the earth are fit for decent human habitation — and that is partly because the world is a GLOBAL community, where what happens politically in Australia can affect events as far away as …I dunno… Africa?

So, in effect, the glorious right wing refrain echos the views entailed in Howard’s Pacific Solution. Namely, “If you don’t like it here, go and live AT THE BOTTOM OF THE OCEAN WITH NEPTUNE.”

I’m facetious of course — But ask yourself, why was “children overboard” such a credible scenario?

It echoed the right wing refrain that there are two choices, to live here or at the bottom the ocean.   Is this what most people feel?

I leapt in through the second floor of the Chinese family’s town apartment. I scampered over their unmade double-bed leafed with clothing debris, like I was a chimpanzee. I scampered downstairs, down the fireman’s pole which astonishingly ended half way down. I waited for my employers, somehow arriving on their polished pinewood floor in safety.

Can you come back and teach her on this day for only ten minutes, requested my business-man boss. I agreed, although the finickity request annoyed me.

I went back to the hovel in which I lived, with two soap opera men to choose from.

I went back through the Underground, which had been blown up. Workers pride had applied to concrete and pillars to support the mine. I was astonished that, after the bomb had blown it up, collective efforts had it fixed in just under ten minutes.

The men rocked back and forth, in primitive celebration. They sang about the drugs that were given to mend broken backs.

They seemed genuine strong and contented. I was amazed.

First migratory year

I had a problem understanding what was expected of me. I did learn one lesson, and it was in the library. “What are you doing here?” queried the school library assistant. “I’m looking at the library… My friend here is showing it to me!”

“Where are you from!!?” she demanded.

“I’m from Zimbabwe,” I replied, matter of factly.

“Don’t be cheeky!”

“Because you were smiling, I think she thought you were being cheeky,” whispered my companion, in mouse-like fashion.

It was an impersonal arena which I had entered, wherein I could expect to be taken seriously. Everything around seemed cartoonishly two-dimensional, like drugged sleep with the lights on. There were bright colours and cartoons on posters, ridiculously uncomic, telling us that we were all really cartoons. Nobody was real, and so I learnt to play along by disappearing into the background, not on purpose, but because I didn’t seem to matter.

Perhaps Gus mattered. He was an energetic boy who impersonated the poster of a nerd attached to the centre of the English prefab classroom’s back wall. He didn’t matter either – but he was made head boy. He had good marks and set a nice example, mixing just the right amount of jovial spirits with a will to please. I thought of him as quite cartoonish – especially when his sunglasses were purple and his shorts were orange. I thought these were not macho colours, and their effect on me ranged from shockingly ridiculous to a sense that such attire was shame worthy. Paul had mattered more because he’s worn his karki shorts with bravado, and you could tell that he was no-one’s dupe after he stole his toys back from the confiscating teacher, and he was good at marbles. The difference between Paul and Gus was that Paul took himself more seriously, just as I did.

But there was no point in my seriousness, because nobody was noticing. They just thought you were like everybody else, or slightly better if you got good marks.

I didn’t have friends, and that was why. I had one girl who I sat with. She was called Kerri, and she didn’t have much to live for. She couldn’t create an imaginative world with me – and the one thing that I wanted was that someone would, to help me to escape. She had a reasonableness which stunted flowing thought. “Let’s get up at midnight and ride around on our bikes!!” I ‘d suggest, throwing Kerri my utmost spark of inspiration. “No,” she’d deadpan, “It’s too dangerous.”

Kerri got tireder, rather than being energised by my ideas. She always saved 75 per cent of all-of-her-energy for me, as well as for her everyday chores and the bike ride home. When there were aspects of my social world I didn’t know about, Kerri became exasperated with me for not pulling my weight. She never expressed complete hostility, which would have surprised me. Yet there was a quiet resentfulness which ground and ground like some cogs inside a factory tower, which one has overheard. I had never caught a bus before, and Kerri showed me where to get the brochure information that could help. She stopped flat outside the transport information office after it was indicated. My needs to travel far afield to get out of the city were vaguely, dully, embarrassing, it seemed.

autobiographical

There was, to put it plainly, a two-tiered system in operation, where I came from. You were either “a child” or “an adult”. There were to be no ambiguity concerning this line drawn in the soil – and so it was, that aged 16, I was suddenly reckoned as an adult. In truth, I doubt that this adjustment would have been so sudden if I hadn’t had no choice. My friends of my own age had been those who had not already “taken the gap” to greener pastures as part of the mass exodus of whites following President Mugabe’s appointment to power. I had let go of them, one by one, and then, having made quiet but solemn announcements of the immigration plans made by my parents, I has simply resolved mentally that I would not see my Zimbabwean friends again.

Now, there were adults at the door. They entered. They had an appointment with my parents which was too serious to refuse. I hurried to my room to put on one of my presentable church dresses. It didn’t look good, though, as there was something wrong with the hem and the material clung to my thighs because of static. I knew that this was nothing like anything I’d seen the girls wear at the Perth school I’d been attending now for several weeks. That made me feel a little odd – wrong-footed, but not yet capable of grasping, “why?”.

It was dark in my bedroom as I’d shut the curtains. I wouldn’t find anything suitable to wear, I felt, but I still had a few minutes. I tore off the shiny rayon dress and scrambled for material with a matt surface. Astoundingly I found two items which appeared to match – the colour was fawn brown. I zipped on the brown shorts, then slipped under the crocheted top. It looked wrong. My walnut-sized breasts were hanging all too obviously like sad white crescents underneath the brown attire. I had to find a solution, so I ripped the crocheted top off and scrambled again, for something. The something went underneath my crocheted items so you couldn’t see through them. I found it. I put it on.

Now my parents were getting agitated: “Jenny, put some shoes on now, hurry up!”. I found some slops, flip-flops or thongs, and now I was ready for the outing. We were going to “the river bank”. I hadn’t been there before. My parents’ friends were going to show us what it was like. They had a car and had been there before, from what I could gather. It was important for them to be able to do that.

Well we got to the riverbank somehow, and then I got out of the car. It didn’t look like there was anywhere in particular we should go, so somebody must have decided we would just sit anywhere. The grass was really green and horrifying. I really wanted to see the brown earth beneath it. So, my dad said that we had to get the deckchairs and put them out next to each other, which we did. Then I didn’t know what to do as it felt awkward, so I sat down on one of them and pretended everything was okay. The other ladies – my mother’s friends – also sat down upon these chairs. Then I noticed that husbands had all gone to talk, some metres off. I looked for guidance to the ladies. They were crossing their legs, so I did as well, and I made sure to smile at their remarks and look like I thought they were intelligent and witty. Then I noticed they were talking back and forth to each other, ignoring me. So, then I changed my plan of action and decided to look distracted and vaguely amused at the river and my younger brothers and sister running around.

I sort of sensed that I wasn’t altogether happy with this situation. The husbands had hired an enormous water-peddler machine, all bright and garish, with huge tractor wheels. They had done this especially for the children, and it didn’t appeal to me. I didn’t think it looked very interesting to sit on the water-peddler and to peddle it though shallow river water. I wondered what the point was – and it was wet and, dirty!

“I’m bored here,” I whispered, hesitantly, leaning towards my mother’s ear when I thought no-one was looking. “Do you think we can leave soon?”

I was feeling tired and nauseous in humid heat, which I still wasn’t used to, having been more used to temperate conditions.

My mother looked apologetically at the other women, sitting in a jagged line. “What’s the matter?” they asked, politely. “Oh, Jenny is getting bored.” Suddenly I was being reduced to a child again.

“Well,” they chirped in, eager to provide a solution: “She could go for a nice ride on the water peddler, when the children come back in.

“I don’t think so..” I said. “It’s dirty and I’m wearing these things.”

“Oh no,” they assured me. “It’s quite okay to go on the water peddler wearing those things!”

I still wasn’t sure. Maybe I would look silly. It wasn’t as virile an activity as horse riding, where no matter what you did you still looked like you meant business.

So, I waited fifteen minutes and the children came to shore, hopped off their heavy slow contraption, leaving their marks of muddy footprints. So I clambered aboard with my sister, to peddle the waters, feeling awkward and wishing the vehicle I drove was gallant and could speed me through the sipping water and the mud.

Then after ten minutes or so of this, it was time to come in, for I was being signalled.

I parked the huge contraption on the shore, feeling apologetic that I was unable to enjoy more this expensive treat. I left my own muddy footprints on the giant monster, which looked abandoned and forlorn, water sapping up against its huge heels, trying, but never managing to purloin a soul.

I came back to my chair – making no comment. I sat down and waited as the ladies sipped their tea. The ladies had forgotten me, but after some time they remembered me again, enough to ask if I’d enjoyed the ride – which, being polite and seeing no good reason not to have enjoyed the paddle, I acknowledged that I had.

The ladies finished their tea, and finally we left.

African versus western systems of conduct

I’m a little hung over and yet I cannot be contained. So, what I want to try to talk about, despite my wool-encased brain cells, synapses nicely protected from each other by this fluffy textural encasements, is the moralities which we acquire through our cultural conditioning.

As a cultural bilingual, I’m capable of reading the implicit moral judgements hiding within at least two different cultural systems.

The elements which determine these two systems as being different are different valuations of “flow” and “individuality”.

The Implicit Morality of a system of cultural flow:

We operate as a group and the strong ones get extra moral kudos for carrying the weaker ones.

It is the group’s responsibility to maintain group morale.

Let the mood take you where it will. Evaluate the risks, and if they’re good enough, always go where the mood is taking you.

One day you’re up and the other person is down. The next day, you’re down and they’re up. Relating is a matter of give and take. You’re not expected to function predictably, like a machine, so don’t try. Be gracious to your fellow humans. Elevate their humanness as valuable – even in the presence of its fragility.

Merge with each other. Experiment taking on each other’s intellectual perspectives, trying them out for size. How does that feel? What can you learn from that which will benefit the group?

Make fun of the quirks of those you surrounds yourself with, as a way of showing them that you appreciate their idiosyncrasies, which you would not like to be without. Idiosyncrasies are a rare treat in a sharing and communal culture.

The Implicit Morality of a system of cultural individualism:

Your value is that you are an individual.

You are unpersuaded by your friends or by your social “equals”. Socially defined authorities hold greater power and value for you.

You believe that an individual should be uniformly competent at all times, and in all areas of life, since relying on others, particularly your “equals” (whom you would prefer to despise) is shameful.

You value rationality, not emotion, nor a feeling for the particular nature of events and circumstances – it is the apparently more “universal” quality of things which really engages you.

You believe that you have the potential to go anywhere, do anything, within the range of your naturally endowed capacities.

The various qualities of your personality and culturally heritage are considered not to have been bestowed through social conditioning, but to be “intrinsic” to your being.

You think of yourself in terms of “I’m not such-and-such a type of person…. I’m this other particular type of person!”

You become confused by those who move within a system of “flow”. You think they are trying to ridicule your most precious cultural package – your “individualism”. You recoil from them, feeling that you have been treated with contempt. Either you bite back as viciously as possible – or you hide.

You’d prefer not to believe that flowing types of human beings are actually possible.

How might members of these contrasting systems interact???

Conditioning

Is there a point in the continuum of human cultural and historical development wherein the meanings one generates start to draw their importance less from the concrete situations one is in, and more from a system of metaphysics which one carries around, inside one’s head?

Can human cultural history can be seen as a movement from naturalism fraught with the perils of religious superstition TOWARDS the dominance of “Meaningful” abstract ideas?

I think so.

But then present day society would most often sacrifice the individual by disregarding the value of her concrete experiences, subjugating the apparent meanings of such experiences to the domination of the replicated patterns pertaining to symbolic, abstract order.

The central thrust of Nietzche’s writings entails a fight against this tendency of metaphysics whilst attempting to retain the best metaphysics has to offer (eg, a means out of the “logic” of communitarian religious dogma). Nietzsche wants to oppose the tendency to negate the meanings of concrete, actual experiences — a negation which would rob life of its heat and passion.

Sloganeering

I find the new slogan machines I have put on my site to be … almost quite hilarious. They seem … almost like a wildly inappropriate detournement. I’m quite happy with them! They arch an ambiguous line between serious intent and utter nonsense!

I also notice that ZONA BOY messed up by calling my blog “unsafesane” — in effect reversing the order of the words. In all seriousness, ZB, your name is a better one….

Although: I’d risk confusing people if I changed this blog to another hog, on a day like Jewsday.

kjahkjfdhakjhkfdhjkfd
sjdhfkdajhfjdfk!uaudu

Back to basics

There is the thorny issue of “guilt” and who experiences it.

Having been FORCED to turn my back on many elements of emotional life which I would have preferred to embrace wholeheartedly, I have certain issues of guilt, baby.

In effect much of life has been a devil’s choice, Sophie’s choice, if you will — do you choose the values you have been brought up with, preferring their sense of warm familiarity, the resonance of times of old, historical self-validation, or do you reject them because they have begun to be a stifling womb, a force of death, a quantity of values which can be used in the form of emotional blackmail, against you?

To give up much of what one has previously valued, and has been taught to value, in order to save oneself from a chronic sensation of wretchedness, overwhelming mind and body with sheer fatigue and hopelessness–Hard. Either embrace the old, familial values, effectively to make you die inside; or realise, slowly and assuredly that these costs are too high. I realised it in these terms of black and white.

The ultimatum given to me by family, to “embrace these values OR die, effectively, for they were pulling me more and more towards their grasp (with the status of a helpless child) was refused.

Yet such snatches at me, such violent tugs, continued, creating a war. Invasions even occurred — mostly of my territorial space, but there were also attempted invasions of my emotions, of my mind. No safety from parental emotional violence, no place to stay overnight, unless I was to swear that I’m a sinner on the Bible said my sister. It’s my place not yours.

Back to basics. My survival or my parents’ ideology. My freedom or my death.

I chose the former. I survived.

I had to clear out any sympathy within my mind for the old system, family loyalty or sympathy for parental immigrant status and loss.

I had to shut down my emotions and act only with my rational mind.

I did that in order simply to survive.

The psychology of readership

I first discovered the power of self-hypnosis writing my autobiography. I used it to take myself back to earlier life stages, and to try to attend to what exactly I might have been thinking, feeling, hearing and understanding.

I learned to do this back in time movement so well, after a time, that now or then I found that the childhood emotions I’d been accessing were “sticking” with me in my adult, conscious mind.  (Whilst taking casual courses at the university, I crossed a field on campus feeling like a child again, and thinking: “Gosh — I hope no adult sees me on this field, a place in which I shouldn’t be.)  So it was that I caught myself reflecting back through the adolescent trope, and amazed myself. Back was the child underneath all that had passed between now and then, the developed layers of adult thinking.

The autobiographical sections are highly realistic portrayals of how I and others of my age were, back then.   So successful was my entrance back into a childlike state to portray it, that many of the group members who read my prose began to treat me as if I was really at the level of maturity which I had been representing.

The kinds of responses I get always tell me a great deal about those who make their critiques.  Conservatives (male and female) tend to read “emotion” into my writing.   Others read their own dilemmas, giving me a clear and often poignant understanding of their own psychological structures.

But, let’s get back to the issue of self-hypnosis, which can be a useful writing technique, but also fun.  When I went skydiving, I again employed my powers to suggest to myself that the air below me, whether thin or empty, was in fact a lake of water, into which I’d make an easy dive! After about fifteen minutes or so of self-talk, I’d convinced myself that the air was in fact water.

My exit from the plane was a breeze.







more on Autosuggestion

First we run directly up the greener field. We pass the boundaries of a fence, a little ridge of unevenness in the land, over the undulation. Now it is that we are faced with the sun’s fuller force. Grass withers here more quickly as it is often beaten down by heat. We traverse this field, too, and nonetheless. The distant shopping centre looms ahead, is bright and hostile. We appear to be approaching it, and then turn suddenly towards the right, running adjacent to it at a distance – making no more progress in nearness or fastness. We cut alongside the withered turf, the rhythm of our foot-beats carrying us. Suddenly, a swerve the right again, cut back along the wire fence. Here the ground is uneven and knees crack a little, a protest to foot-beats, so regular. A sharp turn to the left, a little shade looms under taller trees. The terrain is kinder, moister. Up ahead, a call to another turn, change sports fields, twist around the changing rooms upon the light green grass, trimmed, causing shudders in the right knee bone, a jarring numbness interrupting rhythm. Persisting still, up, up, over the plateau, slight but pressing, pressing up and down upon the legs, the calves, the inner thigh; the harsh sun crackling. Inner tremors crunch, wanting release. The hill jars upward. Lawnmower men suddenly: evil apparitions in my way, around my way, reminding me of work – there’s work to do. I stop to a walk. Work to do, work to do – a bad tempered thought. An evil thought, I lose my rhythm. Jarring, jarring, I allow the inelastic nature of the ground to pull, to stretch my tendon, stretch it, stretch it back to shape, to elasticity. Numbness pervades knees and thighs: I walk stick-legged. Heat! I approach the shadows. Try, around the bend, to raise more than a jog, as thigh-bone-rhythm carries me. I turn the corner, Mike it to my right. A race perhaps, fast jogger, trying to get into the motion, corner turning. Again, a jar. Right knee stiffens, almost recoils. Slowing pace, stop. Try the extended walk – again. The trees lure with their greenness on the near horizon. March. The heat is shallowing – the lure is moisture. I march. There is a rhythm in me, I will find my rhythm, under tree shadows. Up and down the crooked ground, the inelastic nature of my knee fibres. I slow, I swallow ridicule: Mike calls out that I’m acting like ” westerner” my own assaultive phrase thrown back at me. I repel the heat with sweat beads in reply. My feet trace a slow rhythm, so I slow into a walk. Once again, the harsh ground rips my tendons moving under me.

>You think that we are wired to learn empirically, from our own experience. But clearly much of our acculturation proceeds from language and that’s a peculiar kind of experience.

True. Much of our acculturation does proceed from language – but more specifically, from the behavioural patterns which we learn to associate with particular words and phrases. That is key. Nonetheless there would be no basis for adjusting the associative and connotative meanings that persist within language if we did not have a standpoint from outside of language from which to consider the effects that language often has on us! If language really did dominate our thinking entirely, as some suggest it does – then there would never be an instance when it was possible to object to the one in which someone uses language “offensively”. We would just acquiesce and say “that person said it, so it must be true!” So, on needs to create a dialectic out of different levels, such as “Langue” and “Parole”. Or levels of truth – could be more than a dialectic, rather a hierarchy. Whatever. And then the question is: who determines this hierarchy and its truthfulness?

>My sister tells the story of visiting a friend in a building with an elevator. Trying to make it an adventure she said, “Come on Christopher we’re going to take a ride in an elevator.” He immediately threw himself on the floor screaming “I don’t want to ride in an Alligator!”

Oh, c’mon, Jonah had a whale of a time!

>In some way or another I think we are wired for language, but how is that and in what ways?

>Bateson thought it was a lazy way of thinking to imagine patterns as fixed affairs, and rather better to imagine patterns “primarily as a dance of interacting parts and only secondarily pegged down by various sorts of physical limits and by those limits which organisms characteristically impose.”

>He presents that “a story is a little knot or complex of that species of connectedness which we call relevance.” And he thought that people thought in terms of stories. Nothing has meaning unless it is seen in some context.

“Stories” play a similar role for him to that which I appoint “ideology”. Yet whether or not a particular story has the power to persuade us at all – I attribute feelings of potency or otherwise to our cultural unconscious.

Bateson again:

>It is surely the case that the brain contains no material objects other than its own channels and switchways and its own metabolic supplies and that all this material hardware never enters the narratives of mind. Thought can be about pigs or coconuts, but there are no pigs or coconuts in the brain; and in mind, there are no neurons, only ideas of pigs and coconuts.There is a complemetary relationship between things and our ideas of things, but the thing is not the idea. Nevertheless people have all sorts of confusions mistaking ideas for the things themselves.
>People do often think inductively from data to hypotheses, but we also test hypotheses against knowledge deductively from fundamentals of science, mathematics, philosophy. While I have no doubt that people commonly use these strategies, it seems to me an open question whether we are “wired” for them or whether they are artifacts of our use of language.

I’m employing Damasio (a neurologist who has some theories about the way the mind works) to suggest that we are “wired” to learn about our environmental conditions through trial and error. Maybe we just learn some general principles about risk (which might be what he is suggesting) or maybe we do learn more about the specific features of our environments, giving us a gauge of risk and benefit with an environment (what my introspection about cultural differences tells me). In any case, I think it is from personal experience that we generally derive the information which underlies most of our decision-making, on a day to day basis. And, even when we look to science, mathematics or politics, we usually nonetheless make the final decisions based on our “guts” – that is, if we are talking about day to day life. Therefore it is our “gut” which is most important. And we derive “gut experience” not from magic or from thin air, nor from genius, but from lived experience (as the main component of instinctive knowledge).

You wrote:

>>Rather than valuing empirical experiences and trying to make sense of them, westerners are inclined to draw meaning from a state of being which has been cut off (castrated) from the real world. They revel in the imaginative realm of bogeymen and women — psychological projections and shadows of historical truths. “Colonialism” — something which cannot even be viscerally grasped by these psychological castrates — is just such a bogeyman.It seems to me you’re saying that people should be more “natural.” I’m not sure what that means, but I tend to agree.

Yes, the above paragraph (and your response to it) is key. It has, also, to do with the realm of language and behaviour (believe it or not). If people are indeed trained (as I suggest) not to pay attention to their personal feelings because (pejoratively) they are “subjective”, then what predominates is group think – which has certain destructive features. One of its most destructive aspects is that it tends not to be connected to the concrete realm of personal experience – it flies above this, and is often wildly speculative (due to the lack of empirical grounding).


>Bateson “Most of us have lost that sense of unity of the biosphere and humanity which would bind us and reassure us all with an affirmation of beauty.”

>Now I think you might protest that Bateson is going too “mythic” here and you’re sick to death of myths; especially that one about white colonials that lead people to treat you ill. And of course you hate the various myths that promote various species of sexism as well. But think it’s wrong to dismiss Bateson as a mystic because his ideas about holism, the pattern that connects, are always mapped to scientific fundamentals, in particular natural selection. He may be wildly off base, but nevertheless the rigor and formalism which he applied to ideas about communication inform it.

No, I think he is stating a certain truism in all likelihood. There is a lack of appreciation of the whole dimension of things (it is compartmentalised). This also seems to concur with a disregard for aesthetics in many ways, in the contemporary world.

>Over at Feral Scholar, http://stangoff.com/ he recently did a series on Engels & Gender. I doubt I understood much of it. But reading it reminded me of a book by Ivan Illich, “Gender.” And it reminds me of your points in re Zizek and modernity. Illich pints out that before the industrial age that people lived highly gendered lives. That the relationship was complementary. Modern economic systems need workers and work tends towards gender neutrality. This changes the relationship between men and women toward competitiveness.

I disagree with the implications of such an overwhelming mechanical determination – although I do think that modern economic systems have SOME effect in the sense suggested.

As you suggested, language remains a determinant factor as well. But language is neutral apart from behaviour. So, when behaviour in the workplace suggests that women are not to be treated as intelligent and self-determining creatures, this begins to have an effect in the material realm. When such values eventually take hold through language, women will not be able to assert themselves with any dignity, and will be treated like shit. Only this sort of treatment will itself be announced as “dignity” (not shit). “We are respecting you by disrespecting you!” is the rhetorical refrain of those who have the monopoly on power. When language and behaviour coincide, this “normalises” behaviour (even abusive behaviour) , so that nothing appears to be off kilter – at the level of ideology. However, pathology and pain proliferate under such circumstances. Such a society will require a great number of people – but mostly its victims – to repress their knowledge of their own empirical experiences. (Just in order to survive!)

>Illich suggest that the modern economic paradigm neuters female and male sex. He writes, “Economic existence and gender might be literally incomparable.”

Nah. We still have the symbolic domain!

>I don’t think too many people read Illich’s book, but many of those who did hated it.

>I keep introducing other sources rather than state my own opinions, that’s kind of irritating. It’s not like I assume you’ll rush out and read them and even less you’ll bring away from them what I do. If you do go to Feral Scholar be sure to click on the title of the Engels & Gender posts so you’ll go to the pages. I’m not adept at reading scholarship steeped in Marxism, but they’re good posts.

>The reason I bring up Feral Scholar and Illich is because I’m curious about your views on gender; whether and how our biological sex shapes our experiences and whether and how those are related to our perception of gender.

I think gender is a conditioned experience. There are certain inherent tendencies too – vitalised (in every sense) women and devitalised men.

I think that those who really have the hardest time with gender are those who have adopted very narrowly defined symbolic notions about gender. Such people have lost touch with the ability to have their own personal experiences and the ability to learn and develop from them. They need “truths” which appear to come from higher sources (even “Divine” sources) to quell their pain and anti-naturalism. Many of them embrace “Nietzsche”.

Big Numbers and No Misandry here

Zizek, philosophy, the cultural Unconscious.

I think that the nature of cultural consciousness is a very difficult nut to crack. Unconscious guilt-feelings are something to explore, but I’m sure you see that as an explanation they’re problematic. First of all there is the problem of saying what the collective unconscious is–especially if you’re interested in making whatever it is fit with your materialist commitments. Second guilt has obvious meanings on it’s face, but fleshing out what guilt is leads to some very difficult terrain.

REPLY***All true. What I’m interested in is perhaps anecdotal examples which elucidate the nature of such guilt feelings….
What I sense about the modernist and postmodernist west is that in some significant ways it doesn’t interface with reality in any powerfully dialectical sort of way. This is similar to what I said before about empiricism — most people seem unable to learn a great deal from their own personal experiences. It is as if their experiences have been “barred” from them. I think that Zizek calls this the “barred I”. He is in the psychoanalytic tradition….
Zizek implies that we all need to be “castrated” in order to take our places within society. Well, almost all. Zizek comes from a more old fashioned society, where there are stronger gender distinctions, so he sees some significant differences between the psyches of men and women. Men are the ones who need to be “castrated” — to lose their individual power in order to take on a social role. Women cannot lose their power for Zizek — they are the ultimate “subjects”, because they are not required to undergo “castration” in order to become “objective”. So, he has turned Freud on his head a bit — with regard to Freud’s misogyny. Still, I don’t really like his attempt at innovation — it doesn’t seem to give a real political solution to the politics of gender issues… in my view. Nietzsche produces a better offer: To have one’s cake of Civilisation and to eat it too (be natural and in Nature).

Zizek leaves women in an “uncivilised” state, aesthetically appealing to him perhaps, but thoroughly inefficacious.
In any case, what I am really getting at, is that the condition for “adaptation” to the western world and its mores WAS (and to some degree still is) the requirement of giving up one’s subjectivity — especially, I would say, one’s inclination to pay close attention to one’s personal experiences, and to draw reasonable empirical conclusions from them, about one’s world and one’s place in it. To me, that is the real meaning of “castration”. One becomes an objective “thing” — something like a cog in the economic machine, if you will — by losing one’s power to treat one’s own perceptions with any real respect. Thus, the downside of Modernism. (I don’t think Postmodernism has gone really far to solve this problem, although it has tried.)

But – how does this relate to the collective unconscious of a particular culture’s guilt feelings? — Well, in quite a specific way, as it happens. That which counts for nothing is an individual’s own experience with racism or racist abuses. For the most part these tend not to be taken into account very much. Rather than valuing empirical experiences and trying to make sense of them, westerners are inclined to draw meaning from a state of being which has been cut off (castrated) from the real world. They revel in the imaginative realm of bogeymen and women — psychological projections and shadows of historical truths. “Colonialism” — something which cannot even be viscerally grasped by these psychological castrates — is just such a bogeyman. As are those who appear to represent it — not by any actions, or anything tangible, empirical or real in any sense — but by something more mysterious and ethereal in western consciousness

It Lurks

It lurks like a bat on a windshield, waiting for me to employ it in some fashion; its neck extended, is imploring. Its ugly squat body, a lump to be dragged from room to room. I’ll have to face it sooner or later. I’ll have to pull it around, protesting, its enlarged voice box with its aerated scream, making me sigh…………..
So instead, I hide in the computer room, writing this note, buying myself time. I will not venture out into the lounge room, having to step over its dead weight, reminding me that material things will always get me, in the end — when not vacuuming, it is the dishes, or the dust on surfaces, the mud on walls around the lightswitches, the spiders in the back-yard, the longer I wait, the more these grow in size and weight, exerting their subtle pressure, creating a crust around my brain, refusing to let thoughts develop that are not of a cleanliness oriented nature.

I sit and wait: It won’t be too long now before I make my move. My mind is ready and made up. I think that I can do this, I really can.

After all, that odds are I will win — the vacuum cleaner will expect defeat from me after I take control.

We’ll both be tired eventually but the final results will be for new cleanliness pressures to retreat — far enough, for glorious thoughts to grow and grow inside my head. No problem really. Thousands of people vacuum every day. And I? I can be one of them, if only, if only I am STRONG!

http://unsanesafe.blogspot.com/

Snapped up — dogs holy numba!

The “Seven” Meme

A. Seven things to do before I die
1. Skydive again
2. SCUBA-dive again.
3. Visit Africa and grow a mealie field (corn)
4. Make people I care about feel good
5. Go for a gallop across a long meadow
6. Enhance the metaphysical appeal of a simpler lifestyle
7. Put a poisoned arrow though the heart of conformity.

B. Seven things I cannot do
1. Accept the status quo
2. Enjoy the company of people who don’t put anything at stake (Mikey came all the way from the US to meet me, which I deeply admire…)
3. Eat cake without this triggering multiple food insensitivities.
4. Take petty rule-mongering-authority-types very seriously (I believe this to be a feature of my African, thick-skinned acculturation)
5. Enjoy perpetually noisy environments (understatement!!).
6. Overlook the appearance of stupidity.
7. Lower my standards for decent human behaviour.

C. Seven things that attract me …
1. Daring – any time, any place
2. Harmonious people, who do not have “issues”, but can still relate to deep concepts
3. The lightness of a cool breeze.
4. A black, black night, without any moon
5. Complete quiet, solitude
6. Men: sharpness, flexibility and resilience
7. Women: fearlessness, intellectual flexibility and resilience

D. Seven things I say most often
1. You’re an asshead!
2. I remember when….
3. Get over it, you asshead!.
4. So, what is it you like about me?
5. I’m hungry
6. I’m tired.
7. Can you make me something…?

E. Seven books that I love
1. Thus Spoke Zarathustra
2. Beyond Good and Evil
3. Speculum of the Other Woman
4. Dialectic of Enlightenment.
5. A Mouth Sweeter than Salt
6. Hunger (Knut Hamsun)
7. Heart of Darkness (Conrad)