| thoughts from a cunning linguist | |
There's not been much time for blogging lately because all my brain cells have been devoted to doing more writing than I've done in a long time. I had to write a paper proposal and then a panel proposal for a conference next year in England this morning. I'm still working on the blog paper and I have a book review to finish by June 1. And tomorrow, a houseguest.
The houseguest is my best friend from my Masters days in London, Ontario. She's arriving for the "Congress." The Congress is short for the Congress of Humanities and Social Sciences, an umbrella group in Canada for all disciplines and "societies" in the country that belong to, essentially, the Arts. Each year at this time all these groups have their national conferences. For instance, the paper I'm writing about blogs will be part of a plenary session for hte Canadian Women's Studies Association--a panel that is being organized by the Disco Lassie.
The "Congress" is a new name though. Up until a couple of years ago, it was called the "Learned Societies" conference. It was generally acknowledged, by participants and commentators alike, that this was apretty pretentious name. As a result, everyone called it "The Stupids." The name has kind of stuck, the change notwithstanding. This year Canadian academics are making their yearly pilgrimmage to Halifax (the conference is held at a difference uniersity every year--this year it's Dalhousie).
Luckily, Dalhousie is just up the street from me, which means I haven't had to pay a fortune to attend the conference. But proximity may have its drawbacks. Last year the conference was Toronto and I (ahem) had a great time. Here's hoping the Congress arrives with its fair share of interesting participants and festivities. The writing spree may well require some post-presentation partying!
I have lived now with 5 male rooommates. And I have a question, perhaps the inverse of the "why do women use so much toilet tissue?" question. Here it is: why is that most men (a) not clean the bathroom on a regular basis and (b) when they do, do a half-assed job? My current roommate is the worst: I have had to issue him an "invitation" to clean the bathroom every time he has cleaned it since he moved in. So some weeks ago now, I decided: let's see how long it will take him to realize it's his turn. I have now cleaned the bathroom four times in a row--including the morning after one of his friends showed up here drunk after the bar and vomited all over the bathroom. The roommate showed up here shortly after and gave the bathroom what I call "a lick and a promise," but I still had to clean the thing before I could use it the next morning. Before he moved in, I said to him: "I'm not a neat freak, but I do want the bathroom to be cleaned every week." Not only has ne not done this, but he has no idea what it means to clean the bathroom. He uses paper towel, never washes the floor and usually leaves dirt behind him. My theory is that his mother has cleaned up after him all his life. But still, he's an adult. A wash cloth, a bucket of water, and a mop should not be foreign objects to him.
I left him a very frustrated note last night after I noticed yet another half-assed bathroom job and some paper towel in the waste basket. I feel like a real bitch pointing out how that the bathroom is not clean and listing all the things that have to be cleaned in a bathroom, but I'm not sure what else I could have done. (Then, just cuz I used to be Catholic, I felt guilty about it all not and didn't sleep very well!)
Even though this roommate has been the worst, all my other male roommates, as well as my brothers, have had versions of the same disease. Given that men seem to make bigger messes of toilets than women, why is it that they can go on without noticing the level of dirt? Or, if they notice it, why not do something about it!?
If you think my blog is rather sedate these days, it's because I'm too busy having fun in Maurice's blog. It's full of standard driving, elephant jokes, and lesbian commentary. And that's just one string. In that string, I've suggested that we have a contest for the best lesbian joke (the lesbian equivalent of an elephant joke). Feel free to post submissions here on the Burning Bush. Oh yeah, there's a prize--yet to be determined.
I'm happy to report that I can now lay my American Idleness to rest. Ruben Studdard has rightfully been crowned the winner. And Kimberley Locke, appearing in the finale, is still hot. All is right with the world. (As if.)
And, to boot, in a separate competition, the Ottawa Senators (the only Canadian team left in the Stanley Cup playoffs) staved off elimination. They were down 3 games to 1 (in a best of 7 series). Then they won the last game on home ice, only to find themselves still down 3-2 and playing against the New Jersey Devils in the Devils' home arena. So tonight, they evened the series and did so in overtime without home ice advantage. They get to play in Ottawa now for a chance to play in the Stanley Cup final. Woo hoo.
For the last number of days, I've been working on this paper I mentioned earlier in my blog--the one about women, warblogging, and feminist strategy. Blogs have been on my mind, in other words, even though I've neglected my own. Scholars of digitial culture, like Katherine Hayles in _How We Became Posthuman_, have suggested that we tend to treat digital sources as "information," content that is detached (or can be detached) from the bodies that produce it. She cites compelling examples, like scientists who hypothesize about downloading the human brain into a computer (as if the brain were itself simply a system of downloadable information). The history that Hayles presents seems to bear out her assertions (though, why wouldn't it? She gets to choose her own examples, of course). Nonetheless, I'm not inclined to disagree with her. For many centuries, thinking itself has been a disembodied activity (that old philosophical mind/body split). Why would it not be the case with digitized technology? The liberal humanist subject that we have inherited from philosophy has typically been an abstract, and, many have argued, white, middle class male--the ideal citizen, the image of whom has undergone rampant and, in many cases, well-deserved deconstruction. This deconstruction has often been of the mind/body binary opposition.
Now, being a Bush Whacker and all, I'm all for bodies and I'm all for discussing the significance of bodies to minds. However, I'm also very wary of the argument that simply restoring bodies (or a discussion of bodies) to discussions of the mind (digital or not) is an inherently good solution. I think many theorists have come to believe that human beings can be more diversely accounted for if we only acknowledge their bodies as being male/female/white/black, etc. I think that strategy is, at worst, misguided and and, at best, is misfiring. And I think discussions of the war in blogs bear this out.
Warblogging, it seems to be acknowledged in the meta discourse of warblogs themselves (see peaceblogs.org), was initially more dominantly an activity of the right. And in blogs of all political stripe, one can see the way the bodies of "women and children" are deployed, rhetorically, as propaganda. In any event, those who base their rationales for or against the war in feminist principles find themselves arguing not about feminism itself or even, I would say, about women. In short, left-wing feminists, in my opinion need to be able to utilize the rhetoric of the typical, abstract liberal humanist in order to argue effectively against right-wing justificiations for political and especially military action. They need not buy into it, but they need to inhabit it. The master's tools may not dismantle the master's house, but we may need to know the architecture of that house so that it can be renovated. Deconstruction in this sense has its limitations. To say that the citizens and people who will be affected by, vicitimized by, or "freed" by war are abstractions is no argument agains the war. It is a rhetorical analysis, not a pursuasion against policy.
What I'm arguing here is that even feminists still have a need for that abstraction called the liberal humanist subject--a need to use that subject as a rhetorical device.
One might say, well why are blogs any different from any other genre of critique? Why use blogs to make this point? Well, I think blogs are different because, to be circular about it, people believe there is a difference between online culture and print culture. There is the sense that people don't just use technology; rather, they append it to their bodies, making themselves cyborgs. In effect, the technology often uses them, so the argument goes. Whether we belive this to be true, this conceptualization of digital culture suggests that, in our imaginations at least, the body seems to be isolated from the mind in an extreme way. Further, a blog is (usually, but not always) the work of an individual. The blog is the lyric voice online, the most clear representation of "the individual" (in some cases, the liberal humanist subject) on the web. An online identity may be no less detached from one's body than a print author's pseudonym, in fact. But in our imaginations, the split seems more radical.
The emergence of "warblogs" themselves as a phenomenon also suggests that there is something about this genre of writing that enables people to express an opinion or provide an analysis in a forum that is both semi-public and semi-private. The blog makes a particular form of individual expression possible: even if that form is not a new genre, it does borrow interestingly from many conventional genres (the diary, the editorial, the daily log, etc). The blog constitutes a peculiar kind of speech act. Blogs therefore seem to be the voice of the disembodied subject that people associate with the internet and they also make the disembodied the subject the figure in whose name they speak in advancing the war.
Okay, I'm going to stop there, even though there's not final summary point. The body writing these disembodied blog thoughts is tired and needs some sleep before it can think through its argument to its logical end.
Tomorrow that the mind associated with that body might also learn to stop speaking inthe third-person.
Good night.
Most people I know simply love the summer. It's the sun, the heat, the beach, or outdoor sports. It's always something that inspires their summer swoons. I like the summer, too. I especially like the flowers and the smells and the people milling about. But somehow, I've always been more of an autumn or winter person. I like winter clothes (pants, sleeves, etc) and I like crisp air better. The only relic of summer I wish I could hold onto year-round would be my Birkenstock sandals. I guess it's like this: I like the sun, but I love the snow; I like the leaves on the tress, but I like them better on the ground; I like shedding my sweaters in the spring, but I like sweater weather in the fall more.
Gee, the more I write the more I think I'll have to ask Maurice if we can still be friends!
For the last four hours, the power has been out in my neighbourhood. It's amazing how much buzzing we become accustomed to as part of our idea of "silence." With no power, there was also no computer humming, no refrigerator buzzing, no fountain dribbling (yes, you'll be surprised to know, as I was myself, that I have a fountain in my house, a birthday present from an old and dear friend who made it from her own bare hands.) The sound of all those things not running was quite eerie. Further, there was no opportunity to listen to music or the radio, no way to cook food or get a shower. So I got to read the paper and read a little more a book I have to review for a journal. But reading the paper just wasn't the same. Usually my Saturday savouring of the Globe and Mail is a guilty pleasure, something I take time that I shouldn't be taking to do. Today, it was there to do because of all the other things I couldn't do. Very strange.
And oddly, I've felt like a prisoner in my own apartment, even though I live downtown in a city that's pretty bustling on a Saturday. I did get up and go the the market (Halifax has a wonderful Saturday morning Farmer's Market), but that's something you can do beforeyou shower and get ready for the day. I've been waiting, not so patiently, for the electricty to come back on so I can shower, eat something good, and get on with the day.
And what a day it is! Finally, we are getting spring and warm temperatures. I think it's time to leave the house to enjoy the sunny day and all its other sounds.
But what a very weird day so far.
Today marks the fifth day in a row that I've been to the gym. To back up, it's not like this is a new thing just this week. After a significant hiatus (about a year and a half), I returned to the gymafter having been summoned by the She-Woman on the morning of my 30th birthday. So it's not like I stopped going or anything since that time. But five days in a row is a personal best. Usually I go three in a row, or occasionally four, but never five until today. (How did I celebrate? I bought a new pair of gym shorts, since some of my old ones have holes and I am a lousy seamstress.)
I've come to think of going to the gym more as psychological than physical training and on two different levels: one, it's training the mind to keep going to the gym, training it to get into the habit; and two, it's training the mind to keep pushing even when specific gym activities are hard. I guess this second one is like training the mind to be "the little engine that could ." I suppose overall it's about connecting the physical work of activity to the psychological work of pushing what appear to be physical limitations. (That damn mind body split--gotta heal the rift. In my case, there's been a gaping abyss.) The training seems to be working, at least this week!
Now if only I could bottle that and sell it to the part of my brain that is responsible for my dissertation.
On Saturday night, Maurice and I dined with The Grand Poobah of Culinary Delights in honour of his birthday. The Queen of Sheba is currently away doing research and visiting family, so she, unfortunately, was unable to take her usual place at the head of the table. (Maurice did us the honour of temporarily taking over her seat, though it must be noted that the Queen remains unrivaled in her ability to command the court.) Also present were some others, who, to this point, have been absent from our sub-blogosphere: the Art Mistress, the Handyman, and the Sheltoid Feminist (all handles are subject to change, pending review). As you might imagine, the food was terrible and a bad time was had by all. No liquor was consumed and smoking on the premises was prohibited.
Well all those Canadians who want us to be more American now have their very own bigot/mascot. Elsie Wayne, Deputy Leader of our "Progressive" Conservatives covered herself in glory today by slamming gays and lesbians. The following is an excerpt from a CBC news story (available at www.cbc.ca)
"Wayne told CBC Newsworld on Friday that she has gay friends, and respects them. 'They don't come out and they don't ask us to redefine the definition of marriage,' Wayne said. 'They don't even talk about that.'
The veteran Tory member of Parliament was under fire for comments she made about gay marriage during debate on Thursday in the House of Commons.
'Why do they have to be out here in the public, always debating that they want to call it marriage? Why are they in parades? Why are men dressed up as women on floats?' she said.
"If they are going to live together, go live together and shut up about it.'"
Let it be known that I am no fan of gay marriage or any kind of marriage for that matter. So I don't care if Wayne wants to slam debates about marriage. Let it also be known that I am no fan of Elsie Wayne. But I do have to thank her for something, the same thing that I'd thank Rick Santorum for: for acknowledging that bigotry is not just a characteristic of the far-right in North America; it reaches into the leadership of right-wing parties.
I am a big fan of plain language. And for once, whatever we might say about Santorum and Wayne, finally there are people who have the guts to confirm what right wing thinkers either espouse or absorb as part of being conservative. They either hate gays and lesbians or must make peace with those who do. Finally the right owns up to its prejudice.
Wayne's comments have struck a cord here also because Canada suffers from its defining mythology of niceness. What Wayne says offends our sense of propriety more than our sense of morality. Niceness and politness are so insidious that they prevents us from naming prejudice as such. In that sense, in proclaiming their prejudices, both Santorum and Wayne finally call themselves the spades they are.
All I have to say is this: Kimberley Locke is way hot. It's down to three and I'm still an addict. What can I say? And what the hell will I do on Tuesday nights when American Idol is over?!
Why is breast cancer the public women's issue par excellence? Even Canada's national banks are on side, with CIBC selling pins and sponsoring The Run for the Cure.
Now first, let me be clear: I'm not against breast cancer research AT ALL. I do think the research is limited (how many studies do you think are designed to figure out if lesbians are at higher risk of breast cancer than hterosexual women?). But I'm all in favour of the research that is being done.
What I wonder about is why this is the most visible women's health issue? Why the commodification of one disease?
One of the most disturbing effects of the focus on breast cancer is that many younger women are now being encouraged to get mammograms. At the union conference I attended last weekend, one woman got up and told all the young women to go have a mammogram. She was an authoritative speaker, this woman. I wonder how many of the younger women are about to follow her advice. Vigilance and breast self-exams are good, I think, since they enable women to check regularly for, well, irregularities in breast tissue. But pumping yourself full of radiation at a young age seems to me to be fraught with problems, too.
Can this type of prevention not be undermining its own potential benefits?
And what about other "female" diseases? How much research funding are they getting?
What, in the end, is the effect of advertising on disease management and on healthy solutions? Perhaps we are fixated too much on that Great Maternal Breast, as if the health of the breast itself were symbolic of the health/disease of our family values.
God knows, Bush Whackers love their breasts. But perhaps we need to to be weaned off, just a little, so as to gain some perspective.
Good-byes have to be the oddest things. At their worst (or best, depending on your perspective), they are fraught with anxiety, sadness, and sometimes even eagerness for reunion--all at once. But the oddest kind of good-bye is the good-bye you say to someone to whom you aren't really close. It leaves an odd feeling in the stomach. It's not sadness (because the person is leaving); nor is it regret (because you wish you'd been closer to the person). It's just the oddness of finality. And aren't we conditioned to resist finality and to mourn any relationship that has had some good in it, even if the goodness was not substantial enough to be significant? Perhaps it's also the oddness of not really knowing whether it's true that you won't see the person again. It will be a crap shoot: you don't know that you will indeed keep in touch. You also don't know for sure that you won't. Maybe it's that unpredictabilty as it relates to your own behaviour that produces the weirdness. What a strange psychological space.
One of the things that struck me throughout my weekend in Stellarton was the frankness with which people would discuss smoking. The conference facilitators would casually tell people that if they wanted to take a break to use the washroom or have a smoke, that this was the time to do it. The phrase "have a smoke" was used quite freely. It jumped out at me because I can't rememeber the last time I noticed anyone who was officially in charge of anything being so casual about mentioning smoking. It's become taboo to do so.
It's impossible not to know these days that "smoking is bad for you." The propaganda is everywhere and is supported increasingly by legislation. We're told it's also supported by research. I don't disbelieve the research. I have a long-time smoking mother who bears out the ill effects of long-term smoking. Her chronic cough is one the reasons I have chosen not to smoke myself.
But the way smoking is becoming both stigmatized and policed is quite frightening. There was a time when smoking was a sign of luxury and a mark of sophisitication. This is no more. Instead, smokers often get depicted as villains in films and generally have the reputation of being subtle murderers (poisoning the entire world with second-hand smoke). This is crazy. Smoking is not just portrayed as a health rish; it is heralded as a moral issue. For no other issue do we blame people for making themselves sick. Even a drunk driver who arrives in an Emergency Room after causing an accident gets less judgmental treatment than a smoker who arrives at a doctor's with lung cancer.
And smoking is a very peculiar workplace issue. It affects many working class people in particular ways.
Now, for instance, as I learned in Stellarton, employers can lurk around bathroom stalls and spy on employees to ensure that they do not smoke in bathrooms. Some employers can also insist (a) that no employee leave the premises of a workplace for the duration of a shift (usually 8 hours) and (b) that no smoking can occur on those premises.
Smoking is an addiction. Is it not a form of torture to confine an employee in a "cold turkey" withdrawal fashion? It's not as if a person chooses to smoke for the first time. all over again, each time she has a cigaratte.
The thing about this group of employees at the conference is that most are working class people. They work blue-collar jobs (in fish plants, factories, dockyards, airport runways and garages). A large percentage of them are smokers. It's not that they don't know any better. They get the same cigarette packages and see the same television ads as everyone else.
I find it very curious, though, that the discourse circulating among blue-collar workers readily acknowledges the fact that people smoke. They don't pussy-foot around it. But they also don't celebrate it. They point out that some employers put incentives in place to help them quit. They talk freely about how often they've tried to quit themselves. But what they neve do is assume that a smoker is a "bad person." Now isn't that remarkably humane? Imagine treating a health risk as a health risk and not a moral disorder.
Well my weekend in Stellarton did not live up to its town's name. Not even the Heather could provide some kitschy relief. The conference was thoroughly disappointing. (For all of you waiting with bated breathe to hear the bush-whacking score, I'll say only this: I have never seen so many unattractive people assembled in one room.)
But worse, the conference organizers seemed not to know what they were doing. Sessions were thrown together in a haphazard fashion, seemingly based on what someone might have experienced at a conference elsewhere, but never really with a particular goal. Further, all sessions were held in the basement of the "motor hotel," leaving me feeling very much like a vampire who never got exposed to the sunlight.
This is not to say that the people at the conference were not interesting. It's just that we never really got to hear much of the interesting stuff. I do have some observations to make about stuff like the class politics of smoking and the cult-like status of breast cancer as the women's issue par excellence. But I'll spare you those details for tonight and save them for future blogs.
I will, however, share the not-so-concealed secret of the Heather: the sign lies. It boasts fabulous food. There is none. And the service is awful--a disgrace to small town, friendly service everywhere. But once you check in, you can't escape exposure to either: they do make you walk through the dining room to get to your room. Now how weird is that?
Well, my hair has weathered being slept on (quite nicely, in fact) and now my attention turns to packing for a weekend away from home and away from my computer. (I think I'm an addict. Three days seems like a long time not to be online!)
This weekend I head to (drum roll, please) the thriving metropolis of Stellarton, Nova Scotia and the Heather "Motor Hotel"--that one had me laughing for a while. Did we not invent the term "motel" to avoid just such monstrosities of signage? (Anyway, check it out at www.heatherhotel.ca.)
Now the Heather has a secret, I'm told. No, it's not that the hotel has a lovely view of the TransCanada highway, though this is true. Hence the "motor" part, I suppose. (I can hear it now: the "Traffic Lullabye.") No, the Heather--smack-down on the Highway in Eastern Nova Scotia in the heart of Sobey-land ("Sobey's is a grocery conglomerate whose first family hails from Stellarton) and the "rural Nova Scotia" alleged to have elected our premier, John Hamm and his Conservative goverment--this Heather is suppsed to be a pretty progressive place. Unions hold their conventions and meetings there regularly. AND, it seems that Pictou County, in which Stellarton is found, has a pretty thriving queer scene: lots of gays and lesbians. Women's dances are even held at the Heather! (Could I be so lucky?)
Indeed, my trip this weekend combines the best of all those worlds (at least theoretically): I'm going for the Nova Scotia Federation of Labour's Women's Conference.
Will it be a bush-whacking weekend? Ah, probably not. But stay tuned... I get back on Sunday with an exclusive expose of the "Motor Hotel."
Well, move over Cher: the Bush Whacker has had her hair ironed! What fun! I went to have the lawn mower thrown at my mop this afternoon. I was starting to look like Cousin It, there, folks--my stylist almost didn't recognize me. I wasn't the whacker of bushes: I was the walking bush. (Not a word!)
Now the dilemma: do I invest in one of those irons for my house? My hair is pretty cool, I must admit--for today. It's called the hair dresser's magic touch. I've just never been femme enough to have that touch or inclined enough to spend hours on my hair, even if I did. The question is: if I did purchase just a contraption, would I be able to use it? And, if I had the capability, would I actually then spend the time to use it? Decisions, decisions. Would this mean I have an inner femme, dying to break free? (For the record, no, my hair is hardly femme-y: you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear, my dears.) But is the act of spending long periods of time on one's hair--and by long, I mean more than 7 minutes--a "femme" thing?
This is the exisential dilemma that emerges from ironing one's hair. Beware the hair iron, my friends.