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I want to think and write about the inconsistencies of self, how any self is already divided from itself in any number of ways, how “a self” is already a swarming multiplicity of partial selves, possible selves, who one is or can be or might be within any number of settings or relations. Perhaps part of what it means to be a self (I might also say “subject,” which implies more of a specific position within language and social relations, but I want to focus more on the “self,” here as one’s sense or experience of who or what it is that one is. Or made personal: the self as my sense or experience of who or what it is that I am. Or made relational: the self as your sense or who or what it is that you are…) is to always experience or understand that self in relation to such divisions, partialities, multiplicities, and inconsistencies. Some of what I am thinking is in response to reading Lauren Berlant and Lee Edelman’s Sex, Or the Unbearable. But it is also in response to or an extension of my own questions about identity, identification, how I come to try to know or recognize myself and extend that sense of recognition to social relations—how I try to extend the experience of recognition (which will always be in part misrecognition; it’s a matter of degree) to my experience of self in relation to others. It is in part bubbling out of a stew of family relations. It is groundwork for choreography that I’m developing. And it’s in response to something my best friend said to me from South Korea this morning.
Over the last two years, I have shifted my preferred pronouns to they, them, their. This was a development in the ongoing process of my gender, finding/making a place for myself in language where I felt like I could be recognized. By “recognized,” I mean something like “feel like I exist” or “feel like it is possible for me to exist.” To the extent that language is a device/system with which we not only name and navigate our world, but also structure our understandings of what our world—including ourselves—can mean, where “naming” and “meaning” also enables and constrains what can occur, what is allowed, what is unthinkable or foreclosed, how we are named or called and the meaning of how we are named or called shapes how we are positioned not only in words but also in the world that words organize. To be called “she” or “he” is to be categorized within a system of gender that operates on personal and political scales (the two are not mutually exclusive, the two are perhaps the same system perceived or framed at different sites and with different degrees). To be called “he” or “she” is to be cast within a role that is not of your making, a role in which your actions, your behavior, your body, your relationships, etc., are given some meanings and not others, some options and opportunities and not others. These roles and meanings are not entirely fixed nor are they consistent or stable across time, but neither are they infinitely flexible or fluid. Even when their parameters are malleable, these linguistic terms still demarcate a limited territory for what a person so called might be or become.
When I first encountered people who identify as genderqueer and use pronouns other than he or she, I felt like I glimpsed a space—in both language and in the world that is organized by language—or territory of possibilities for being/becoming that more closely coincided with how I perceived myself. This is not to say that such terms are identical to me or perfectly demarcate the contours of my lived experience of gender or personhood; no word or signifier is identical with that to which it refers. This difference—between lived experiences and the words with which we come to describe them, understand them, and attempt to know them—is an inescapable condition of language, and is integral to the kinds of ruptures, divisions, breaks, and displacements that I am thinking about in regards to the self. I think it may be true that in every application of language, there persists this simultaneous recognition and misrecognition, this gap between what something or someone is and the words with which they become known. This dual recognition and misrecognition is perhaps even more acute when it is our selves that are addressed or named in language, because as the self that is addressed, we have access to the felt sensations of being recognized and misrecognized in varying degrees; indeed, we come to know ourselves in part through such affective registries, the senses of ourselves that are animated by and within specific words. I’m not interested in narrating my own experience of gender in the perhaps familiar passages of trans narratives, the re-telling of “I’ve always known” or “I’ve known since I was a child” or the claims about who I “really am.” I think at least part of what holds my attention here is the degree to which the self in language always entails degrees of not-knowing, the ways in which any statements about any “real” or “authentic” self will be given in terms from which such a self is always divided. I believe it may be true that this relation to language, the ways in which it makes us both known and unknown, is a condition that we all endure to different degrees and with different sensitivities. What I can say about my own experience, which may be true for other people’s experiences as well, is that the degree to which I felt misrecognized by gendered terms such as “man” or “he” or even “gay” eventually acutely outweighed the degree to which I felt recognized by such terms; the [shifting] spaces that they demarcate in language and the world no longer felt like my home, and it’s possible that they never really did. Shifting the words with which I identify myself, to “genderqueer,” to “they,” to “queer” has been a process of aligning myself with [imperfect] terms with which I feel more recognized, words that demarcate spaces in which I feel like it is more possible for someone like me to exist. To identify as genderqueer is for me a claim that who I am does not have to fit within the binary categories of female or male, however flexible those categories might be(come). To identify as queer is for me to describe the capacity of my desires as deviating from persistent sexual norms, particularly those that would define desire within the limited frameworks of binary gender. And to identify with the pronouns they, them, and their is also to position myself outside of the gender binary, while also laying claim to the self as a singular multiplicity—which is intimately related to the realizations I am attempting to articulate here, the self as already more than one, a plurality within singularity.
And yet even these words are shifting signifiers, words with which I do not fully coincide, words that are not my invention, from which I am still already divided, and thus, in a sense, figured as divided from myself—the very self I attempt to name with such terms. Despite the degrees to which I feel recognized by such terms, they also mark ruptures between any self that I am and the circulation of those terms beyond myself, breakages between language and lived experience that cannot be mended. It is possible to claim that the self is as much this discontinuous series of ruptures between shifting, inconsistent parts from which it is tenuously composed as it is identifiable with any one seemingly stable, seemingly consistent part. In as much as I might identify myself with or as a particular word or person or personality or role, I must (or could) also identify myself with such ruptures, such divisions, such breaks, as well as my relation to such ruptures, divisions and breaks. I am such ruptures in that any self that I perceive myself to be is negotiated in and through and in relation to them, even if that relation is denial or disavowal. I could describe myself as those unnamed, unnameable gaps between my self and the words with which I identify myself—or the words with which I am identified by others—those fluctuating inconsistencies that I encounter within myself, those bursts of misrecognition where I see that I am not that word by which I am called or named, rather than attempting to utilize language in such a way that I feel myself more recognized by it. However, it remains difficult to persistently identify with such ruptures, such gaps, such breakages. To do so involves losing track of oneself, accepting the inadequacy of language even as that language organizes our lives and world, and identifying with an ineffability that is the outside of language, the Symbolic, what psychoanalysts might call the Real. Even as I acknowledge this inadequacy of language, an inadequacy that becomes the grounds through which a self persists, I remain attached to pursuing a recognizable self, a self that is more sufficiently (however imperfectly) approximated in language. Perhaps this is an effect of what Lacan called the mirror phase—staring into my own reflection, seeing an image of a body (that is also not identical to myself, that is also divided from the self that I am) and idealizing the impression of that person as a singular, whole, recognizable entity. Or perhaps it is an effect of language, the assumption of the Symbolic, in which words assume categorical entities, a thing or being to which a word can refer. Perhaps this is the tension between psychoanalysis and Deleuze, between the subject and the schizophrenic, between a world that compels the maintenance of a castrated subject as if it were whole and a world that fosters the surrender to a self as a series of positive processes and flows that never fully resolve into any consistency or whole. How can one live as a rupture? How do we bear our own divisions, breakages, and partiality?
I don’t have answers to this or a way to resolve these problems; in fact, I might be suspicious of any attempt to resolve what I perceive to be irresolvable. What I think I am attempting to describe here for myself is the ways in which language divides the self from itself. And because language—the words we use and the words that are used for us—shapes how we become the self that we are, we could say that such divisions are fundamental to the self. The self is not only divided but such ruptures and how we navigate them are the problematic origins of any self that we are.
This is not only a matter of language, although our relations to language provide an exemplary opportunity to contemplate our own divisions, partialities, and inconsistencies. We perhaps also experience this in our relations to others, the encounters through which we come to realize that however much my perception of myself and how others perceive me coincide at the position of my body, those perceptions remain invariably different. That difference—between how I perceive myself and how I am perceived by others—introduces another division, another rupture. It would be easy but short-sighted to suggest that how I perceive myself is somehow the “real me,” and how others perceive me is either accurate or inaccurate depending on its correspondence to how I perceive myself. I may maintain a privileged perspective of myself from the “inside” as it were, with access to a range of affective experiences that underscore my choices, my behavior, and my encounters with others, and such insights can be crucial for how I understand myself or choose who it is that I want to become. But who I am to others is no less real, if for no other reason than this: how I am perceived by others affects how they react towards me, shaping the ways that I can move through the world to varying degrees. How other people treat me based on their perceptions of me shapes my lived experience, which then becomes continuous with how I perceive myself. Whether or not I am conscious of the perceptions of others, I am always an experience for them as well as an experience for myself, and any encounter with an other can re-introduce that multiplicity, that division. In my encounter with you, I not only experience you as other than myself, as only ever partially knowable and opaque, but I experience myself in such ways through you. In as much as you are other than me, I see the me that you see as other than how I see myself; I come to know your partial experience and knowledge of me, and in doing so experience and know myself as limited and partial. You introduce me to myself in ways that are never fully familiar to me, and the me that you know is not the same as how I know myself. And so my encounter with you presents the distance between you and I, and that distance, that difference, is introduced into my self as part of how I am constituted in and through our encounter.
I see you seeing me and perhaps it isn’t anything you say but the way that you look at me that makes me feel that the person you are seeing is not me, or not entirely me, or not the same as the self that I can see. I feel you touch me or lie beside me, and feeling you feeling me makes me unfamiliar to myself; you are on the bed beside me, and yet the person that you are lying beside is never identical to how I feel myself lying there. I feel your touch as if from the inside, and yet you feel me from the outside, from my surfaces, and so I am divided, different from myself, dispersed from different directions and perspectives. You speak to me and you respond to the words I have said, and what you have understood from what I said is not at all what I intended, and so you respond to me but also to a stranger, to someone who is not the me that I know, and yet is the me that you address. Every encounter with another presents me to myself as other than myself; I come to know myself as a social being or becoming, and in that sociality, that relationality, I am multiplied and divided, never singular or fully one.
Earlier today my best friend described visiting another country as feeling as if she had lived her whole life there, when in fact she has lived most of her life in the U.S. How is it that we can come to feel as if we have lived entirely different lives? What is the situational alchemy through which it can seem that we are an entirely different person than we had known ourselves to be only days before? I don’t presume that this was what my friend meant in her description, but I have known that feeling, this feeling I am describing: I find myself somewhere, in some setting or context, and there it seems as if I could be or could have been someone else. Sometimes it can feel like coming home, as if: yes, this is where I have been all along, right here, and it was not until now that I realized it. I think I felt that way the first time I took a Butoh class, or when having sex with someone who touched me as if they already knew my body, or when walking around San Francisco for the first time on my own. It’s the kind of feeling that gives rise to mythologies of destiny, of soulmates, of past lives, the feeling that of all the places I’ve been and things that I’ve done, this is somehow more real, more timeless, more expansive than anything before. Perhaps what I’m describing is a kind of belonging or feeling recognized, a context or exchange in which parts of oneself that have never had a place come to have a place. Perhaps in those situations we feel more whole, more complete or more actualized. But of course any pleasure or satisfaction that we feel in such moments haunts and is haunted by the reality that we have known ourselves just as often—if not more so—as incomplete, and that incomplete self is no less me than the self I experience in those moments of relative fulfillment. We are both, these selves we experience as whole or complete, and these partial selves, and we have to live with that ambivalence.
And what of those moments when you do not recognize yourself? Rushing out the door for a meeting, glancing in the mirror to check your hair, locking eyes with your reflection, and that person seems to be a stranger. Waking up in someone else’s bed, pulling on your clothes, and asking yourself, “What am I doing? Who am I?” Reading something you wrote years earlier, recognizing the penmanship, but the thoughts articulated in the words so unfamiliar that they could have been written by someone else. Hearing yourself say something out loud, and feeling disassociated with your own voice or the words that you’re saying. In so many moments, we seem unfamiliar, strange, or distinct from who we know ourselves to be. How do we live with those moments? Some get compressed into the unconscious, swept away in order to maintain some consistent sense of ourselves. Others maybe become breaking points, breakdowns, breakups, falling apart, or giving up. I think it’s difficult to dwell in those moments in which we do not recognize ourselves; maybe at other times it can be delightful, surprising ourselves, revealing that we are more than we thought we were. In either case, as in language or encounters with others, even to ourselves, we can suddenly or gradually become different, multiple, divided, ruptured.
I am not writing towards a conclusion or a thesis. I don’t quite know where these musings will lead, except perhaps towards a greater appreciation for ourselves as multiplicities, the various dimensions through which we encounter our own difference, the mechanisms through which we manage our divisions and breakages in order to carry on, and some of the complexities of trying to achieve recognition and actualization when we are also unrecognizable and in some ways impossible both to others and ourselves.
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This blog has been getting a lot more traffic than usual lately, which is thrilling. It is a space in which I share writing about dance/performance that I see and in which I draft out less formal writing about ideas that I’m considering within or alongside my primary scholarly/choreographic research. I also recently built an interactive CV website where you can find out more about my work: http://michaeljmorris.weebly.com
This piece of writing began as journaling, partially in response to having read and re-read Judith Butler’s article “Responses: Performative Reflections on Love and Commitment” (Women’s Studies Quarterly 39, No. 1/2 (Spring/Summer 2011), 236-239) this week, partially as a part of my ongoing pursuit of the question, “what is love?” which continues to be situated within the context of my living experiences of loving and being loved. These are rambling thoughts and questions, but they are the start of something that feels worth sharing.
To say “I love you” is to position myself within a particular speech act, a performative with a history of enunciation—a history both personal and in excess of my person—and to bring that history of enunciation to bear on and with/in the present situation in which that declaration is made. It positions the present in relation to that history of enunciation, bringing something of that history into the present, and directing the force of that performative history—the history of “I love you” having been said—into a present constitution of myself, to the degree that something of myself is within what I say.
But to offer this phrase, to say “I love you,” is also to add to this history of enunciation. The occasion on which I am moved to say “I love you” is also it seems to pose a question to this speech act: what of this present situation moves me to say “I love you,” and, having been moved to do so, what of this situation and movement illuminates something of what it is that I mean when I say these words? Indeed, since to say “I love you” positions myself and another as “I” and “you” in a manner of direct address, positions that might be assumed by any number of subjects, the present situation of enunciation might also be an occasion on which to ask why one—not only myself—might be moved to say these words.
To say “I love you,” to identify something that I recognize between you and I as “love,” raises more questions, questions that may not be answerable in the end:
What of this is “love”?
How might my recognition of this as love say something of what I believe or understand love to be?
In that this moment and the perspective it provides can be called new—a new that belongs to now and never before—and in that sense cannot be fully identical to any other occasion on which I have said “I love you”—or on which “I love you” has been said—or on which I have recognized something as love, how might this present present an amendment or modification of what I understand love to be?
More broadly, to the degree that all recognition is only partial recognition, because it relies upon a structure of time in which the present cannot be identical to the memories on which recognition is founded, recognition requires a partial revision of the memory of what came before. For instance, if I have come to recognize same-sex marriage as marriage, I have necessarily revised a certain previous [normative] understanding of what it meant to marry. Even in interpersonal situations, if I recognize you as my parent or sibling, I must in a partial sense overwrite or add to my existing memory of who you have been with who I now see you to be.
Questions about love have led the to questions about time and recognition, memory and language, the ways in which they structure and produce meaning…
Is there a way of thinking the meaning of love outside of these terms? I don’t think so.
So then, to love, or to recognize and identify an experience as love, involves a partial recognition that requires a revision of the terms through which that recognition was extended. To love—in the present and ongoingly—is to add to and in that sense revise some part of what love has meant and what makes love recognizable. Love then must remain open, at least in part, to such revision.
Does speaking in terms of recognition imply the possibility of mis-recognition? And if so, if to love or to call something love—as in the act of saying “I love you”—depends upon a process of recognition, then does it—must it—become necessary to inquire after the possibility of mis-recognizing or mis-identifying love? It seems that it is possible, looking back, to say, “I thought that was love, but I was wrong.”
To mis-recognize love would be to first recognize or believe oneself to recognize love, and then, afterwards, to realize that recognition to be somehow mistaken. But if recognition of love always involves some revision of the terms by which life is recognizable, then even in the case of what might become known as mis-recognition, such a revision of terms must have already taken place. What one might eventually come to no longer recognize as love will have already been added to what one has recognized as love; by what process would one undo such a revision of the terms by which love might be recognized after realizing one’s own mis-recognition?
Or: is it possible that love itself consists of this recognition, such that even when one might say, “I thought that was love, but I was wrong,” this does not negate, erase, or undo that initial recognition, which could then be said to have-been-love while no longer being recognized as love? Is it possible that what one might come to recognize as “not love” might continue to “have been love” if love is in part the experience of recognizing it as such?
Within these questions is also the question or concern regarding the reliability of the memories by which love comes to be recognized: when and how has one known or recognized love? What is the composition or consistency of how one has known love or what has been recognized as love? What were the conditions under which love was first or previously known, and how do those conditions structure what might or must then be recognized as love?
If to love in the present requires that love remain partially open to revision, its correspondence to some previous experience requires that some parts of love remain consistent and made to persist. These stable or consistent parts of what has been known as love, that must persist in order for one to love, to go on loving and recognizing love, are likely highly individual—an individuality that gets obscured as soon as we call it “love,” a term which one neither invents nor to which one has exclusive access or use—and these individual, personal associations with what has been known as love constrain what love can then be.
The previous scenes, situations, and conditions in and through which one has known love must persist in order both for one to recognize love, and for one to retain a sense of having loved and been loved. They must persist in order to enable a possible future for love as well as a retention of a certain version of oneself, a self who has known love. These previous scenes and situations, the characteristics and experiences which one has previously known as love, must be reinscribed, recreated, and reconstituted in the present, in order to recognize this as love, and in order to recognize oneself as loving and being loved, and having loved and having been loved. This means that love requires the individual to reconstitute the past in the present, at least in part, enough so that the present might be called “love.” Where love has previously meant care and affection and support, for instance, this means that care and affection and support must be recreated and made to persist in the present. This also means that where love has meant injury or abuse, where injury or abuse have been previous recognized and identified as love, these conditions must also be recreated and made to persist. For the one who has experienced injury or abuse, and had these experiences called “love,” this one must insist—consciously or unconsciously—on recreating these scenes and conditions in order to go on experiencing what can be called love and in order to maintain a memory of having been loved and the possibility of being loved again. To do otherwise would risk revising one’s own history, one’s own constitution: it would allow for the possibility that one has not known love, that one has been unloved. To do so would mean that one does not know if one can be loved, or how one might recognize love otherwise.
But, again, if love must always remain partially open to revision, then love also becomes a situation in which histories of injury and abuse can be revised: not an erasure of having been, but an amendment of that having been love. This is some of the potential of love perhaps: its necessary partial openness allows that loving in the present might be how we rediscover what love can be, recognize when and how we have not loved or have not been loved, and intervene in patterns of behavior through which we insist on the persistence of injury and abuse in order to secure love. And possibly to heal.
This potential is not the entirety of love, as if one could speak of love’s entirety. While love might be an opportunity to address or revise one’s relation to one’s own past, it is of course also an opportunity to create what might become in one’s future. What we recognize as love in the present conditions what we might then recognize as love in the future. There are any number of ways through which love might be recognized, many of which do not require declaration. But to return to where I began, saying “I love you,” whatever else it might do, could provide an opportunity for intervening in what is recognized as love, what has been recognized as love, and what might then become recognizable as love.
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My blog had 210 hits today. I have no idea why. It’s a little overwhelming.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: emergent taxonomy, gender, love, nijinska, same-sex marriage, the body
We have reached the end of the quarter, my first quarter of grad school. I only had a minor postpartum meltdown last night, mourning the absence of so much that has filled my every minute for the last few months. My paper on Nijinsky and Nijinska is complete for now. It’s title is “The Negotiation of Gender in the Work of Nijinsky and Nijinska,” and comes in just over 25 pages. I cannot say that I think it is finished. I hope that I continue to let that material sort itself out in my mind, and that I can revisit the paper with more of my own thoughts/speculations/contributions to the dialogue of Nijinsky and Nijinska, rather than writing a paper that simply agree and disagrees with previous statements made by other scholars. So I see the paper as an ongoing affair, continuing to dance with these ghosts a bit.
One of the things that I was interested in coming out of this blog was new thought sparked by the juxtaposition of other thoughts, which is so evident in my “tag cloud” on the left. The big words are the ones that have been mentioned with more regularity, and so on. Today, the biggest words are Election, Gender, Nijinska, and Research, with Love and Yoga and Dance coming in next. Things I see when I look at the cloud:
-“Election” nestled between “Dance” and “Emergent Taxonomy;” what a beautiful implication, that somehow dance might contribute to the emergent (democratic) process that governs policy in our nation. It makes me think about the role of the body, the presence and intelligence of the body, governance of the body, laws that impose hierarchical concepts on the body (like, in New York, you have to have a permit if three or more people are dancing in a public space; or transfats being banned by the FDA; laws that restrict/prohibit specific sexual activities in certain parts of the country; etc.) The body is so intrinsic to the individual. We so frequently in our culture operate under a Cartesian understanding of the body as a machine which houses the mind or spirit, and yet the body is central to all experience. It is through the body that we are present in the world, it is through the body that we sense, perceive, know, decide. All of our thought processes begin in the body. So what does it say about a society that is supposed to operate out of a consensus of individuals that governing bodies impose restrictions on bodies? It is so much deeper than restricting action. It feels like censorship of the individual experience itself, that from which everything stems. And maybe it seems benign, but I am interested it how it even comes about, and what it might mean that a society allows that sort of governance. . .
-I see the three big words of “Election” “Gender” and “Nijinska.” I could (did?) write a small book on the subject of Nijinska and gender right now . . . but relating it to “election” (which today is representing the democratic process, the process of government coming out of decisions made by masses, people casting votes and their laws and leaders coming up out of that process. . . maybe it’s just because it is right above “emergent taxonomy” but democracy is intended to be emergent) . . . Nijinska’s two most significant works were Les Noches (which you can see videos of in a previous post) and Les Biches (of which only accounts remain). Both were profound social commentaries on gender, the former an examination of the oppression that was (is?) intrinsic to the institution of marriage, specifically in peasant Russia, the latter which protested gender roles by radically reconstructing and redefining them in a vibrant cast of characters that addressed a range of social taboos, including narcissism, voyeurism, lesbianism, gender ambiguity, group sex, etc.
My first thought from this juxtaposition has to do with same-sex marriage in this country. This is an issue that should not get quiet. I think about Prop. 8 and how America is systematically outlawing (but thankfully not without avid resistance) marriage between individuals of the same sex. And I think about Nijinska’s commentary on marriage in Les Noches, how the individuals were simply swept away by the tide of social expectation, in which marriage had nothing to do with love, mutuality of feeling, or even the individuals involved. Instead, marriages were arranged by families in order to provide the groom’s family with a new worker, the bride. So much more severe is the oppression of the bride, who is stripped from her family, her mother, and handed over to her “new” family. But the oppression is no respecter of gender, because desire of the groom is also discounted. he becomes merely the vehicle through which to expand the family, by adding a bride and, by implication in the ballet’s last image, the wedding bed, children.
I can’t help but draw connections between Nijinska’s perception and representation of marriage, and the perception/representation of marriage in America today. Inversely, America seems to say that the ‘oppression’ of marriage is a respecter of gender, because it is an oppression of exclusion based on gender. It somehow maintains a disconnection from love, mutuality of feeling, and the individuals. Likely married heterosexual couples would disagree. They would say that do love one another, that it was by their own election to marry and to consecrate their relationship in this institution. I would ask them to recognize that while that may be true, clearly that is not the reason they are married, because our country is legislatively stating that those factors are not enough to be married. To married you must before all else be a man and a woman; that remains the essential component. You can be married without love, without mutuality of feelings, or likely even without the election to such state by the individuals in involved (I think of couples who get married to please their parents, or out of pressure by their spouse, etc.). In looking at the role of gender in the decisions being made in our country through the lens of Nijinska, I have to say I am a bit startled. Her piece was staged in 1923 in Europe. How bizarre that despite all of our social progress, connections can still be made between the society, marriage, and treatment of gender then to now.
-I see “Love” situated right in the middle of the list . . . and it seems simple to see an ideal portrait of all that surrounds it as an emanation of this central concern. Love in our listening. Love in our research. Love in our art and the appreciation of/participation in the art of others. Love in the Art Lab. Love in our elections, our democracy emerging from love rather than discrimination and hate. Love in our dance, our collaboration, our choreography. Love in our anxiety. Love in our marriage. Love in our technology. In our Yoga.
Clearly that is an ideal. It raises the question from where do all these things emanate? What is situated at “the heart of things,” as it were? What are the underlying values that we are privileging in the work we do, the way we work, the things we research, the kind of nation we are building? As we participate in emergent processes, what is it we bring to that field of potentialities, and from where do our contributions come from?
I think these are good thoughts, good connections here at the end of the quarter. New ideas arising out of the ideas that have been catalogued here.
Lastly, check out the new blogs in my blog role. An array of different voices, mostly my colleagues, each with a different approach to blogging, with spectacular ideas to contribute to your own emergent taxonomy today.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: coco loupe, kazuo ohno, love art lab, meredith monk, pauline oliveros, Yoga
I just added a smattering of new links to my sidebar. These are mostly various sources of inspiration for me and my work- mostly artists and arts organizations, as well as complimentary physical practices.
I hope you take a look.