”They dream it and they’re going to sing it”. Judith Vander, Shoshone Ghost Dance Religion: Poetry Songs and Great Basin Context, 1997.
“Look Above, the Sky is Falling” wants to immerse, really, in a poetics. It will ally ‘geo-engineering’ as one in a line up of culprits, together with ‘radioactive oceans’ and carcinogenic polymers…” Quaint, superfluous “mankind” will dream of a deep space of future colonialism while species die, even as he is consuming himself. (Anthropophagia-- but the Tropicalistas wanted to eat culture, to claim it as one, against the inhumane State...) Impassioned, concerned, we are excoriated: ‘that is to say, humanity can no longer be taken as the solution to anything’. Still with respect to the attempt to correlate the ‘human’ with ‘multi-naturalism, who will intervene around definitions of what is human, in order to exclude badness, from whatever solutions to the problems of overpopulation and resource depletion? Is there a bliss-enclosure in South America, among the Yanomami or the Cashinawa? As I write, I play with a copper bracelet I bought at the standing stones of Avebury, at the gift shop. It was meant to cure aches by transfer from the local magic. Yet who may speak for these Yanomani or these Cashinawa? They may shop at Wal-Mart. Neves Marques suggests “to speak of worlds other than ours is not a case of difference in cultures, but difference in natures.” For whom is ‘ours’ ? Am I a Yanomami person? The same as, or no? What does it mean to speak of differences ‘in natures” ? Who can address this topic? Who writes who? Gayatri Spivak: “The world actually writes itself with the many-leveled, unfixable intricacy and openness of the work of literature.” Hans Arp: “Human qualities migrate through light and shadow… like flames and waves the dead and the living course through this world...”
Look up-sky falling: binaries-mourning // garbage-morass // shell-midden // bitch-agent // forced-bulb // lacerate-last// precinct-bitches // captcha-clemency // alienation-silencio // precinct-survival// night- mare // rapture-lot // dumpsters-singing //TSA-gates // scanner-receipts // despoiling-seas //macrobiotic-superphagia // Tesco-Tesla // Versace-largesse // hymning-psychopaths //melamine-subway // laboratory-sorrows // skulls-light // Beulah-Land // stoners-laugh// probiotics-sham//care-cages// pain-trade//genocide-tell // hope-other//. Are we stuck in the mud? Artist [Samara Golden] reflects on her installation at Frieze this year: “When I was really young there was a deep idealism in this country, one that was very critical of capitalist ideals as a route to happiness. Civil rights, nonviolent action, a deep hope for humankind—these were things that existed in my own idea of the world. In our current culture it seems like those ideals are quickly muddied, manipulated, and clouded over by the idea that success and money are more powerful than anything. I’m not being very articulate about it at the moment. The piece is just trying to open a door to this conversation, to give those thoughts a place to sit and be.”
What if you take the premise seriously, that the native cosmogony is righteous? What do you do to take back your land? What do you do to take back your soul? What do you do to take back your community? Leslie Marmon Silko’s monumental novel Almanac of the Dead from that even-now-mythic era of the early nineties, inspires research. The novel turns on the discovery of some supposedly ancient and authentic texts. The narrator has doubts. But are they? Authentic? Real? What did they prophecy? How could they be used? “This did not seem to be the ‘key’ to anything except one old woman’s madness.” The texts are nothing, or are they...? It still could matter that, but even then... the narrator pauses, and suddenly, with irony and sorrow, the affective landscape of desolation in the dark back rooms of Tucson and Phoenix imaginatively charges. “Quetzacoatl gathered the bones of the dead and sprinkled them with his own blood, and humanity was reborn.” (Silko, Almanac of the Dead,1991.)
Here we are together reading as the supercommunity. As we read we are standing, we are walking, we are moving among the dead. The dead are speaking to us, murmuring. With biblical Ezekiel in another valley of the bones, I wonder, “Shall these bones live?” And the bones are beginning to come to life. But how, by what action? The supercommunity gathers them and sprinkles them with its own ‘blood’, which is none other than its present live literature, these words we write together to each other now: this is our circulation, this is our heartbeat and our animas. Ghost Dance songs come into being, first by dreaming. As Judith Vander recalls, “In Great Basin myth there were no dividing lines in nature. Animals, plants, and rocks were all ‘people’. That is, they all spoke one language.’ Mario Ibarra, Jr. and Karla Diaz call out ‘slanguage‘ http://slanguagestudio.com/about/ Every writer and every artist, in this fashion, faces that fragment of a song, the bit of text, scrawled on a roadside concrete barrier, or in a dark bar at noon, on a not-even-trying-to-be-authentic cocktail napkin; or in Nature: Climate Change, to account from the paleo-microclimatologists in Greenland, scans the data on carbon sequestration in 900 BCE. Recognizing and reconnoitering these fragments, these are our DNA, these knowledges are in our bones, are our ghosts. As literature they are not just in us, these bits of dust, they constitute ‘us’. What do we make of ourselves? Are we the supercommunity no more than evidence or testimony from a dream or dreams dreamt by a narrator’s blind grandmother, now passed? Does consciousness of other cosmogonies itself bring into the social reality a ‘poetics of relation’ while reading the “Apocalypis” ? Are we going to dream it and then we are going to sing it? What song are we going to sing?