Or that that friend is an anthropologist, and responds accordingly.
What a Brown Recluse Spider Has Taught Me by Alma Gottlieb
After having recently received a venomous bite by a brown recluse spider in NYC, I’ve spent some time researching my arachnid attacker and discovering how to recover from the poisonous attack. Along the way, I’ve learned some life lessons.
Puzzlingly, few anthropologists have put that fundamental human experience front and center. True, some scholars discuss pain in investigating particular topics such as childbirth, endometriosis and acupuncture. But to date, the 48 sections and interest groups contained within the American Anthropological Association (with foci ranging from visual anthropology, music, and museums to agriculture, corporations, and tourism) do not include a group focusing on pain. In a rundown of some perspectives on pain from peoples around the world, anthropologist Mary Free has crafted a superb opening for an anthropological approach to pain. The brown recluse spider that deposited its poison in my leg this past weekend has suggested to me: it may be time for a new subdiscipline–the anthropology of pain.
Anthropologists: We have explored how plenty of other somatic experiences are influenced by factors beyond biology. Pregnancy and childbirth, menstruation, diseases from cancer to mental illness, and sports from walking to basketball have all claimed our attention. Yet, we live in a world of many people who experience pain routinely or even chronically. And when we’re not actively suffering from pain, we may spend much time thinking back on past episodes with amazement that we survived . . . or anticipating future episodes with dread.
To read the whole essay, click here
For many years, I’ve fantasied about getting a funky vacant lot in Santa Fe and turning it into a poetry and sculpture garden as a kind of outsider art folly.
I’m getting closer–and may have actually found a lot. At least I know what the garbage receptacles will look like. This charming design from Butchart Gardens in Victoria, BC.
Visitors like to sign a guest book. The same urge can lead to defacing graffiti. Interestingly, some installations have had the foresight to forestall this.
At Carhenge–there is a place to sign:
So too at more serious memorials.
For example: The sculptress Yael Ben-Artzi, has dedictaed this work of art on the first anniversary of the assassination of Prime Minister, Yitzhak Rabin. 16 basalt rocks from the Golan Heights are sunk in the ground and signify Rabin’s roots and his bond with the land. The stones placed at different heights, symbolize the political and social earthquake that Israel has undergone with this brutal murder.
Graffiti, written by participants of the Peace Support Rally, on the night of the murder, and Israelis who in days that followed came to the place, are still displayed at the site. It has since become a place to come to for remembrance and for mourning. One can not remain indifferent when passing by the sunken basalt rocks in the pavement.
And in Mexico City, the Memorial for the Victims of Violence allows visitors to write on the slabs:
On a more ephemeral local level, the Secret Art & Poetry Trail installed by Maternal Mitochondria is about to come down, as it was just for the summer. One unsolved issue–visitors started signing each piece along the trail, and some red ink bled through in the monsoon rains. In the future, we need to make the sign in scroll clearer.
It’s been a wonderful season for me for poetry chapbooks. First “Lama Mountain” came out from Red Bird Press and now “The Electric Palm Tree” from Flutter Press!
The poems–and essay–in The Electric Palm Tree were written several years ago at Center for Land Use Interpretation in Wendover, Utah.
WHERE AM I?
In a landscape pitted and mined. At the edge of three million acres of the military’s bombing range. Where bombs are buried in undocumented locations. Where I can see old munitions mounds spreading out over the landscape like the ancient Mississippian city of Cahokia. Craters. Historic aircraft. A landscape big enough to lose a plane or a bomb in. A landscape that seems to make people want to drive really fast, crash into things, and blow them up.
On the boundary between Wendover, Utah and West Wendover, which is Nevada, and which sports casinos and strip clubs.
This isn’t exactly Walden Pond.
READERS– you can purchase this at: http://www.lulu.com/shop/miriam-sagan/the-electric-palm-tree/paperback/product-23288795.html
I am also giving away FREE REVIEW COPIES. You can have one to review on your blog, e-zine, magazine, or even something short on Lulu’s site under the book. Write me at email@example.com to request a copy.
Flutter Press is a micro publisher, which caught my attention. It has its roots in the small press movement of the 1970’s and 1980’s, but the technology is much prettier and faster than the stapled chapbooks of the day. I’ve been watching this for a while–seeing who can make something small and beautiful–so appropriate for poetry. Editor Sandy Benitez is of a new generation, and has created a simple and elegantly sustainable way to work. The press charges a reading fee–very modest by today’s standards–and if accepted Benitez works with the author on design and cover. The author gets books at a discount and royalties. They’ve got a nice list. My book had exactly the feeling I was looking for–an old deco-ish neon sign feeling–of a motel in the desert.
When I was an editor at Fish Drum Magazine with founder Robert Winson the mag and chapbooks were published off of a rather erratic household budget. Using pod totally sidesteps this–the publisher has no outlay beyond time, editing, and designing. Granted this is quite a bit, but most small press editors do it for love in any case. I’m working to bring the publishing arm of Miriam’s Well more consciously into a micro publisher mode.
Eclipse watchers were irresistibly drawn here in Alliance, Nebraska. Even we started making jokes about sacrificing virgins. I could deconstruct this outsider art as a homage to abandoned cars on the plains, but it is just plain fun.
I’m afraid I’ve been thinking about evil. Recent events in this country have seen to that. But evil—or the devil—isn’t very central in Judaism. As far as I know, the devil appears only in Job, and there is seen doing what the devil does best—walking around on earth, and stirring up trouble. Then the devil and God make a bet about Job. But throughout, at least from my perspective, the devil is seen as subsidiary to God, even a part of God. For in Hebrew the word Satan simply means adversary.
But Milton and Mick Jagger aren’t the only ones who have some sympathy for the devil. The great I.B. Singer goes into quite a bit of detail about this personage in his short story “The Gentleman from Cracow”—a tale which has fascinated me ever since I read it as a teenager.
In a classic set-up, a suave outsider comes to town. He lends money, encourages orgies, and before much time has passed the formerly pious villagers are partying full out. Every kind of vice prevails.
Singer writes: “And then the gentleman from Cracow revealed his true identity. He was no longer the young man the villagers had welcomed, he was a creature covered with scales, with an eye in his chest, and on his forehead a horn that rotated at great speed. His arms were covered with hair, thorns, and elflocks, and his tail was a mass of live serpents; for he was none other than Ketev Mriri, Chief of the Devils.”
Vanishing as suddenly as he arrived, the devil leaves the villages embarrassed, ashamed, shocked, and horrified. Only the pious rabbi hasn’t been taken in—but he is a pretty ineffectual fellow. So…what happened?
Singer seems to say that evil—or, a more classic Jewish way of putting it—the inclination to do evil—comes from within and without. Those villagers would never have gone berserk on their own. But the tendency to bad behavior was inherent, or latent. And then, like a match to deadwood (or, dare I say it, a racist president to the KKK and neo-Nazis) the outside influence corrupts everything.
Are Singer’s villagers punished in the end? Not really. In an odd but thought provoking twist Singer cites the “kindness of the Jews” as the reason that neighboring villages help out and restore the community. Surely at the end of “Gentleman” Singer isn’t proposing that Jews—or humanity in general—is basically kind. Rather there is a balance here, with the inclination to do good.
The pious rabbi’s grave shines a beacon of light. Life returns to normal. The devil has gone back to the big city and left our village alone.
Let’s hope so.