Dear Edna Chekelelee,

We grew up near the same places—the same types of forests. Your stories help me remember those trees and the sayings people in my hometown had about protecting the Earth. That you would dedicate so much time and love into spreading knowledge about the Cherokee language to the next generations is beautiful. I am of the mindset that language is, in many ways, inseperable from the minds using it. Do you feel an ease of expression when speaking or writing in the Cherokee language? How important is it for children to learn it? Does it excite them?

I like the way you describe the natural moral awareness of pre-Columbian life. In your story “Jesus before Columbus Time” you say that “...God was in our hearts.” How has the colonial process influenced your culture's spiritual practices? Are they merely informed by Western ideas of salvation or are they a blend of multiple practices? I ask this because you outwardly show more respect for nature than would normally be found in a religious setting (at least those I've known).

In my class right now, we're discussing the process of cultural assimilation, colonialism, and ideological imperialism, and, seeing as you were forced to learn the language I've always spoken, I was wondering if you might have more to say on the effects of such systems. What keeps passion for respect and morality (and mortality for that matter) alive after so many terrible incidents of dehumanization?

Thanks so much for your time, and I really enjoyed reading your stories (though I'd rather have heard them, for sure!).

Sincerely,

Edward

On the Subject of Placing in Oral Narrative and the Larger "Web"

Reading Leslie Marmon Silko's essay "Language and Literature from a Pueblo Indian Perspective" in her collection of essays titled Yellow Woman and a Beauty of the Spirit, I was struck by a very interesting fact about indigenous storytelling:

"When the Badger clan people think of themselves, or when the Antelope people think of themselves, it is as people who are part of this story, and this is our place, and we fit into the very beginning..." (51)

While consuming different forms of media--movies, TV Shows, newspapers, and fiction, to name a few--I rarely feel as if the story being told is about me.  If I do, it's through a somewhat flaky projection of archetypal struggles.  I can identify with alienation as a human being, I can identify with loss, and I can identify with pleasure, but I can't quite live in the same world that I see in front of me (presented on a screen, in a newspaper or in a book).  I'm not familiar with the faces of its "rocks", or with the buildings in the background.  This is a scary by-product of what I see to be a societal emphasis on homogenized monoculture.

Honestly, I feel bad that we cannot concretely place ourselves within the stories our society produces for entertainment.  I cannot ask the television to hone in on my relation to the story being told; it's a one-way street. 

As far as this lack of intimate connection with story goes, it is worthy to mention Silko's analogy of the spider web and her assertions that "Viewers are as much a part of the landscape as the boulders they stand on" (27) and that "Connection with the spirit dimensions requires a figure or form that is all-inclusive" (29)

Which boulder are you?

Where is this all-inclusive form?

It's funny to think of how many borders have been influenced by geographical "constants".  Without the borders drawn, certain landmarks are still apparent, and some of those (like the Mississippi river and Appalachian mountains) serve to define state boundaries.  Does this acknowledgment of nature's constancy by colonial minds serve to strengthen the Western sense of control/mastery over the physical world?  Maybe this lack of a larger scope or understanding that all structures will change over large quantities of time is the exact reason Westerners still keen on colonial "manifest destiny" keep taking as much from the Earth as they can, building our homes and cities like they will last forever.

We build "permanent" structures in our society, but also build weapons to destroy everything (and then some).  What's the difference between the destruction of Dresden and the uninhabited pueblo ruins (refer to the following pictures and you're own knowledge)?  I don't know if I can rest upon one definitive differentiation.  Many factors are at work in each instance, I'm sure.

Aftermath of the bombing of Dresden

Anasazi pueblo ruins

In defense of Dresden's immolation, the allied forces claimed that they were attacking the German military infrastructure.  In our Western frame of "rational" thought, this suffices as a sound argument for the decimation of a predominately civilian populace.  According to Silko's interpretation of the Pueblo people however,

"Survival depended upon harmony and cooperation not only among human beings, but also among all things--the animate and the less animate, since rocks and mountains were known on occasion to move." (29)

Survival of what?  People, the human race, the Pueblo culture? I'd argue that the Pueblo are referring to humans in their most inclusive form, regardless of race or nationality, gender or language.  I agree with this message of compassion, considering one of the large factors in the growth of Nazi fascism was the outrageous (and almost insurmountable) debt placed on Germany at the end of World War I.  Everyone's a winner (though no one wins the jackpot) when cooperation is the fundamental virtue.  Silko illustrates these two colliding worldviews:

"Younger people, people my parents' age, seemed to look at the world in a more modern way.  The modern way included racism.  My physical appearance seemed not to matter to the old-time people.  They looked at the world very differently; a person's appearance and possessions did not matter nearly as much as a person's behavior.  For them, a person's value lies in how that person interacts with other people, how that person behaves toward the animals and the Earth." (61)

The pains of having an alien culture (fundamentally convinced of their "rightness") infringe upon this time-honored elucidation of connectedness to one's physical and spiritual landscape must be frustrating.  To stay true to the ancient traditions means to exist independently of "black" and "white" thought--independently of "yes" and "no", of "here" and "there".

And, just like in the extended analogy of the web, when one strand bends to the wind, the ripples are felt throughout the fragile silken fabric.  When one portion of colonial ideology (such as an organized "tribal" government or contractual agreements) weasels its way into the lives of those who previously existed in its absence, there will be ripples.  Sometimes they turn into tears, and usually when that happens, the spider just eats the web and... well, see for yourself:

The Act of Symbolic Interpretation

Cottonwood Tree Bark

Black Walnut Bark

Birch Bark

One of the most peaceful ways I've found to spend my time is this: gazing at tree bark, mosses, ferns, trout--all sorts of living organisms--and seeing the ways that their growth has created patterns.  The funny thing, however, is that there's never any easily identifiable pattern.  Sure, you can use a dichotomous key to classify said organism, but is it really as simple as this?

Where does this address the beautiful patterns and textures I find myself feeling and seeing on a daily basis?  Observe:


Reading "The Sacred Tree" has helped me ease out of this quest for immediate pattern identification and take time instead to look at all things as being a part of one large pattern.  My conclusion on this matter is that the Sacred Tree is meant to stand as an infinite source of symbolic content.  All the patterns of nature are apparent in it, and since we are a part of that same nature, similar processes manifest themselves in us as humans.  The act of seeking out these similarities is both enlightening and a form of self-reflection, serving as a personalized fountain of wisdom to guide one's existence.

The values I claimed to hold dear in class were truth, self-awareness, accountability, responsibility, and flexibility.  But I don't view truth as an achievable value--only as a guiding force that is itself reliant on self-awareness, accountability, responsibility, and flexibility.  The values I gleaned from "The Sacred Tree" include duality (or, better yet, balance), reflection, momentary existence, change, symbolic interpretation, respect, and activeness.

Of these, I realized that I had not incorporated respect and balance into my chart of values.  I was sort of saddened by those omissions, but then I realized that, in language's infinite symbolic connectivity, I had still managed to touch upon them.  Respect is related to responsibility--it's simply projected responsibility.  It's an outward acknowledgment of carbon-based similarity and connectivity.  And balance is related to accountability.  Accountability stems from cognates of terms used to express calculation and reckoning.  It's like trying not to bounce any moral checks, maintaining a karmic bank "in the black".

As far as my integration of the "Sacred Tree's" values go, the seed of potential has been sown and through this form of secular spirituality, the power of the world lies not in some unknowable God, but in the act of interpreting the patterns that have come into existence naturally.  I will continue to feel the bark and see the moss.

On the Subject of "Good" and "Bad"

A simple medicine wheel, capable of multifaceted symbolic projection while maintaining a unified structure.

It's obvious our class is perceiving much of the content in our course in vastly different ways. Some have developed a sort of micro-to-macro lens where the singular instances that Alexie (or other authors) narrate into story become symbolic of a larger struggle. I've heard opinions that are critical of both Alexie's appropriation of western literary forms and his poor use thereof.

All these responses make sense to their respective believers, but I would be ashamed if someone assumed that because of cultural similarities I had the same beliefs as those of my peers. It cannot be denied that there is "good" art and "bad" art, and I'm sure many people go to school for years so they can effectively nip artists existing outside the framework of "good" in the bud. But might I remind you that even our mechanisms for determining "good" and "bad" are a product of our culture--a culture not necessarily shared with all of human-kind, though based in a similar desire for effective expression.

How does a story impart its message? Is it through well-developed characters, structured plot events, historical accuracy, subversive disregard for reality, time, or meaning itself?

There's no simple answer, and I would have to say it's probably a combination of all of the above for Mr. Alexie. It's funny that it's such a "modern" form to strip linearity away from a story, but one cannot deny that in the process of telling a story, new details are remembered and added as needed and stories themselves are fluid, even after they've been printed. The act of interpretation is an important aspect of reading and with work ladened with symbolic content (such as that of Alexie's), it is the reader's decision to bring meaning into the equation.

Disheartened by the polarizing and marginalizing abilities of "good" and "bad", I'd like to beg those still struggling with the ease of immediate dismissal to reflect upon their value structures and all the thoughts that go into creating a framework for "good". I believe this is a battle we are all struggling with, and there's no definite winning strategy, but by analyzing one's own act of interpretation a greater work of art will appear in front of you. Or maybe not. Take a look at the wiki article on Bertolt Brecht's theories on drama as an explicitly defined representation of reality.

Normally I wouldn't be so direct, but "The Business of Fancydancing" did something to me emotionally, but it didn't quite finish.  The tears started slowly during Mouse's funeral then stopped again.  One or two drops, maybe.  I don't know what to be sad about yet, and I'm sick of crying about infinity--though I fear that that's the underlying cause.

 All this being said, do not be afraid to have an opinion; simply believe in it and back it up and understand your place in relation to the object studied.  Denial of any reference when interpreting art is a means of dismissing its value.  Sure, it saves you time, but time is not money, thank god.

To quote Seymour Polatkin's lover:

"I hate the poems that keep me awake, and I hate you because you wrote the poems that keep me awake."

Let's embrace insomnia.

I'd like to cast my vote for classifying Sherman Alexie as a "Post-Boringist"

Captivated by its beauty, Sherman Alexie speaks about the game of basketball.  He calls it jazz.  He talks about its improvisational choreography.  See for yourself:

"All you need is something resembling a ball and something resembling a hoop."

I bring this up because in class today I was completely baffled that the subject of classification was brought up.  In order for any piece of art to meet anyone's expectations of what that art should be, it should be viewed in a singular light.  We can acknowledge the "accretion" (to use the snappy word from today's class) of influence but if our goal is to see beauty we must focus on the beauty in front of us and not validity gained through the association of genre or style.

Post-genre, post-style, post-boring.

I say "post-boring" because to me Sherman Alexie is engaging the structure of the universe--of time, space, souls, memories, everything he can get his hands on.  Page 184 of "The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven:

"Give me a Cherry Slushie, too."

"What size?" he asked, relieved.

"Large," I said, and he turned his back to me to make the drink.  He realized his mistake but it was too late.  He stiffened, ready for the gunshot or the blow behind the ear.  When it didn't come, he turned back to me.

"I'm sorry," he said.  "What size did you say?" 

"Small," I said and changed the story.

"But I thought you said large."

"If you knew I wanted a large, then why did you ask me again?" I asked him and laughed.

This entire scene in the 7/11 is fantastic.  And I say "scene" deliberately--there is very much a visual and spatial dimension to Alexie's prose that helps to provide stability among the time shifts.  What do you think Alexie's trying to say about memory and security and paranoia... or slushies?  Personally, I think he's just allowing the accretion of mundanities to slowly weave themselves into a story.  I recall a Mark Twain quote:

"Truth is stranger than fiction, but it is because fiction is obliged to stick to possibilities; truth isn't."

Through the act of defining an object, you create a framework of possibilities for said object to stick to.  I feel as if this might be the reason as to why many "post-modern" authors don't proclaim themselves as such.  I'll end with a little slow-motion b-ball:

Apocalyptic Fantasy vs. Stable Flux

• In humanity's quest for salvation, many arguments have been posed regarding how we inhabit this planet.  Some foresee a rapture and seek affirmation of a perilous end of life on Earth, as evidenced by the existence of such organizations as Rapture Ready News.  Paul Maltby, in an essay discussing these topics, makes note of the popular Left Behind series and their depiction of ecological destruction as being synonymous with the righteous' ascension into heaven (121).  Maltby goes on to explain the rationale for certain "Bible-approved", anti-environmental dominionist theories: he outlines the stance of E. Calvin Beisner which incorporates statements found in Genesis proclaiming, "Man was not made for the Earth, but Earth for man." (122).
•  

Though there are outliers in both camps--those that encourage the environmental stewardship of God's creations and those that deny any involvement of God in Earthly affairs whatsoever--for the purpose of argument I'd like to point out these two interpretations of human entitlement:
Dominionism and what Maltby calls "Postmodern Ecology"

Since it seems we have all had some sort of contact with and/or knowledge of fundamentalist interpretations of the Bible, I'd like to talk more about this concept of "Postmodern Ecology" and its application in Native American Literature.

The Trial of Thomas Builds-the-Fire, from Sherman Alexie's "The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fistfight in Heaven"

Thomas, during his trial, recites many stories, from the perspective of different characters:

"I was a young pony..."
"My name was Qualchan..."
"My name was Wild Coyote..."

All of these stories exist in a vacuum of linearity.  In this sense, Alexie's prose allows us to explore a broader range of human awareness and timelessness.  Though not particularly addressing the subject of ecology, the destructive nature of some of the battle scenes described by Thomas point to the destructive capabilities of mankind.

Bringing Herzog's "Cave of Forgotten Dreams" back from my last post, I'll end with a couple points about some aboriginal art that I found beautiful and astounding.  1) this art was traditionally viewed by dancing flame, thus giving the painted animals the illusion (or reality) of movement and 2) some of these paintings were collective efforts by peoples existing thousands of years apart.
 

There is no depiction of apocalyptic doom.

• 
  
• 1.
• Title: Fundamentalist Dominion, Postmodern Ecology
• Author(s): Paul Maltby
• Source: Ethics and the Environment, Vol. 13, No. 2 (Fall, 2008), pp. 119-141
• Publisher(s): Indiana University Press
• Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/40339162
• Abstract: Christian fundamentalist dominionism is susceptible to a conventional ecological critique; that is to say, one framed in scientific-environmentalist terms of its unsustainability as a practice, given nature's finite resources and the fragility of ecosystems. Alternatively, a postmodern ecological critique has the conceptual tools to contest dominionism at the level of its discursive transactions, that is to say, the narrative frames and interpretive methods through which fundamentalists have constructed their understanding of the natural world. I shall suggest how postmodernism enables critical standpoints which, collectively, open a second front in an engagement with the dominionist model of humanity's relationship to nature.

Early Human Awareness of the Continuity of Life and Werner Herzog's "Cave of Forgotten Dreams"

I just finished watching Werner Herzog's documentary Cave of Forgotten Dreams (Netflix link for those of you with a subscription at your disposal) on the Chauvet Cave's ancient human rock art.  I'm a huge fan of Herzog's film-making style, primarily his exploration of the spiritual connection among humans and animals alike.  I'd seen his documentary on Antarctica, Encounters at the End of the World, and was blown away by one scene in which a scientist describes the strange behavior of some penguins.  Every once and a while, it seems, a penguin will walk toward mainland until its death.

These are the sort of fascinating details that Herzog pulls from those he interviews.  In "Cave of Forgotten Dreams" Herzog shows us paintings depicting rhinoceros, ibex, cave bears, cave lions, and horses in the hollow of a long-sealed cave.  Amidst the crystalline ripples of calcite lay the bones of animals dead for ages.  The imagery is seriously more surreal than anything my imagination could conjure.  Though this is not the state the cave was in when early humans came to the region in southern France, the calcite has preserved the delicate charcoal lines drawn by human hands--some of the pictures dating thousands of years apart.

The 8-legged animals in some of the pictures evoke a motion and depth hard to imagine exist only on  a stationary, 3-dimensional surface.  These pictures were viewed by light of torch.  The pictures would dance.

This flux of charcoal--an acknowledgment of movement--a sort of emphasis on fluidity and expression, but also of minimalist opportunism is quite striking:

Many generations of human existence were spanned in some of the depictions.  They blend fascinatingly, sometimes showing the author's unique style, but who are we to know their specific creator?

I imagine a sort of prehistoric, graffitied, charcoal version of La Danse by Matisse:

Included in the art's dimensions, however, are the walls of the caves themselves.  This incorporation of environment has an architectural element reminiscent of some modern architecture by Antonio Gaudi, such as his Porta Miralles:

 

The similarities end soon, however; when we realize that these cave drawings are works of art built upon centuries of human existence remembered in images, it becomes apparent this is not the sort of art or creation that can be captured or replicated in a moment.  It is, in essence, built over time and in accordance to the medium on which it exists: the surface of the Earth.  This incorporation of the chaotic nature of existence into one's art matches what would seem to be a heightened awareness of the aesthetic qualities present in the immediate world and earthen/geological structures that early humans had.

This timelessness of existence reminds me of our class discussion on Tuesday, I think it was--about the difficulties in interpreting the Native American sense of continuity and cycle.  Native American cultures--those existing before contact with the English language for sure, and I'd hope many since--also had a style of rock art (following 2 photos are from the most excellent rock art blog):

Art to me has always been about expressing ideals of balance or aesthetic form, and this rock art truly embodies these fundamentals.  I'll end with a paraphrase from the Herzog documentary: at the end of the film, a story is conveyed about an ethnographer who asks an aboriginal painter why he paints.  The painter responds that it is not him that is painting--that it is the spirit or something outside oneself that is creating all those beautiful forms.