Purchasing Interwoven Wild: An Ecologist Loose in the Garden was, well, kind of wild, in an appropriated French saying sort of way.
I wandered into Shepherd Books for what I thought was the first time, and gave it the new-old-bookstore-once-over, careful to reign in my interest in the hopes of avoiding the over-zealous sales pitch—actually, this pitch applies to all manner of sales establishments; I just have more self-control in others—while paradoxically scrutinizing the shelves for the placement, division, and density of the environmental literature and science fiction, and was pleased to discover that though the SF wasn't immediately visible, the nature and travel writing was. Indeed, they took up the middle display, shiny utopian scenes of waterfalls and foreign countries juxtaposed against the post-1984 Carsonian pronouncements. I browsed idly through some of the authors and titles, just to get a sense of who was waiting patiently there and how the screening process at this particular location played out. I was late for a picnic at Beacon Hill Park, whose website is ironically utilitarian and decidedly unattractive (and who is pictured in the margin photos of this blog, actually), and had just stopped in to make good my longtime resolution to take a peek inside.
To my further delight, as I approached the shelved environmental creative nonfiction, I noticed that not only did the section on environmental literature spread out to the surrounding walls, but that books lay three deep in some places. One place in particular, for no immediately apparent reason, caught my eye. Compelled, I shifted through the two books ahead of it to pull out the aforementioned loose ecologist's gardening text.
I was already somewhat familiar with Don Gayton, and this text in particular, as he had come to English 478: A History of Nature Writing (syllabus hosted on Ecodemia) to chat about his latest work and its role among authors such as Henry David Thoreau, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Luther Standing Bear, and John Vaillant. His presentation was quite engaging, perhaps especially to those in the class from the sciences, perhaps to those from the arts, for both as examples of the extensions of their roles.
What was particularly strange about finding his book, though, was that I knew it was going to be there. Not in the store, not in the section—remember, I had never been there—but in that particular location, behind the two nameless books in front, on the middling shelf against the wall. I had already bought this book from this place with the intention of reading it, and I couldn't refuse.
It was pondering this already-seen on my way to the park, the precision of location, the clarity of detail, that inspired the project as it stands now.
Thanks, subconscious.
Friday, April 30, 2010
lifelabs, 1641 hillside avenue: going away to think
I'm going to start in an unlikely wood—and not the hundred-acre variety, either—LifeLabs in the Lansdowne Professional Centre. Here, I was waiting for some lab results to be processed and reading Scott Slovic's Going Away to Think: Engagement, Retreat, and Ecocritical Responsibility. It was a strange day, one in which absolutely every single out-of-house interaction went awkwardly awry.
After (questionably) helping a friend to move his couch into my Fernwood basement suite for active summer storage by opening the door just quickly enough to permit standing in the way, I was offered a ride down to the lab. Protesting politely against infringing on the driver—friend of my friend and still practically a stranger—was to no avail whatsoever. Instead, I managed to hopelessly confuse the poor girl and render myself entirely inarticulate, mumbling incoherent syllables of uncommunicable self-recrimination. Her look of mute concern at my tongue-twisted flailing served only to finally silence me as, practically fuscia, I climbed into the backseat and buckled my belt. So far, I was off to a good start.
After arriving at the lab, I was quickly prepared for my test and then sent to sit in the waiting room for half an hour. Having been warned about the wait the first two times I attempted to take this test, I brought Slovic with me to delve into his notions of bioregionalism, smugly imagining my composed inner monologue as evidence of staying home to think.
Slovic addresses bioregionalism, discussing the apparently inherent contradiction of ecocritics preaching ecological sustainability and the importance of the local by travelling all around the continent to present on these issues. He describes the ecocritical scholar's relationship to literary and inspirational "home" in response to Wendell Berry's admonition to stay there, claiming physical regionalism as "the quandary, the anxiety, of the place-conscious scholar. Should we wish to sustain our species on this planet, we must learn to live more lightly—to use fewer resources and trample less aggressively on this surprisingly delicate globe" (15). Slovic claims that "Berry pricks my conscience and leads me to consider the virtues of my travelling life and the possible virtues of a more sedentary, home-rooted life." But what is more interesting to me is how Slovic chooses to deal with this ethical confrontation, deciding
This observation of the importance of mindfulness, too, strikes a chord with my own interpretation of the role of ecocriticism more broadly. In a world necessarily concerned with and impacted by the concrete, physical realities of uneven population and resource distribution; air, water, land, sound, and aesthetic pollution; and in- and out-fighting between those working to suggest alternative actions and modes of consumption, it seems essential that we take the time to sit and think, think about what imaginings and their side effects brought us to where we are and are continuing to propel us where we seem to be going, think about how some of these imaginings might be ir- and reconciliable, and to think about how they might together reimagine sustainability that works and lasts, is dynamic and fluidly evolves to transcend confrontation in favour of interdisciplinary approaches that incorporate every aspect of our societal imagination.
Whew. An eyeful, certainly. This hopelessly overwhelming series of phrases and clauses is of course a selectively reduced and incomplete assessment—it only just barely begins to olfactorially graze the edge of a single lupine on an immense mountainside shrouded in the potential of its nigh-spherical resting place—but we've got to start somewhere. Why not here, reading Slovic in the LifeLabs waiting room?
My technician, who was moving to Nanaimo and whom I had seen weekly in the fall for INR tests, directed me to room three.
"I've never been in this room before!" I said brightly, hoping to mitigate some of the unhappy patients she had received before me.
"Oh, my, I'm going to miss you, too!" she rejoined, much to my confusion. Baffled, I struggled to sort out how her answer applied. "But maybe you'll come and see me in Nanaimo, someday," she consoled me, and I gave up trying to think of a reconciling or self-explanatory response and smiled.
Well, one missed connection at a time, I suppose. Craigslist has it figured out; we need to start facilitating conversations, any way we can. And any time I start to feel like home has become too predictable, it kindly offers non-sequiturs to remind me that communication gets scrambled as soon as I step outside my door. Plus, I went all the way from the familiar waiting room to room three, unfamiliar in its own right, and then to an unintentionally alienated Nanaimo. There's plenty of work to do, literary studies, in reading, writing, re-reading, and re-writing our societies, one neighbourhood at a time.
After (questionably) helping a friend to move his couch into my Fernwood basement suite for active summer storage by opening the door just quickly enough to permit standing in the way, I was offered a ride down to the lab. Protesting politely against infringing on the driver—friend of my friend and still practically a stranger—was to no avail whatsoever. Instead, I managed to hopelessly confuse the poor girl and render myself entirely inarticulate, mumbling incoherent syllables of uncommunicable self-recrimination. Her look of mute concern at my tongue-twisted flailing served only to finally silence me as, practically fuscia, I climbed into the backseat and buckled my belt. So far, I was off to a good start.
After arriving at the lab, I was quickly prepared for my test and then sent to sit in the waiting room for half an hour. Having been warned about the wait the first two times I attempted to take this test, I brought Slovic with me to delve into his notions of bioregionalism, smugly imagining my composed inner monologue as evidence of staying home to think.
Slovic addresses bioregionalism, discussing the apparently inherent contradiction of ecocritics preaching ecological sustainability and the importance of the local by travelling all around the continent to present on these issues. He describes the ecocritical scholar's relationship to literary and inspirational "home" in response to Wendell Berry's admonition to stay there, claiming physical regionalism as "the quandary, the anxiety, of the place-conscious scholar. Should we wish to sustain our species on this planet, we must learn to live more lightly—to use fewer resources and trample less aggressively on this surprisingly delicate globe" (15). Slovic claims that "Berry pricks my conscience and leads me to consider the virtues of my travelling life and the possible virtues of a more sedentary, home-rooted life." But what is more interesting to me is how Slovic chooses to deal with this ethical confrontation, deciding
to take the poem as a prompt and point of departure for such meditations, not as an absolute statement of prohibition....The point is not to push everyone into a sudden immobility, but to nudge those of us who travel frequently to do so more mindfully, with more awareness of the costs of such a life to ourselves and to the planet.
This observation of the importance of mindfulness, too, strikes a chord with my own interpretation of the role of ecocriticism more broadly. In a world necessarily concerned with and impacted by the concrete, physical realities of uneven population and resource distribution; air, water, land, sound, and aesthetic pollution; and in- and out-fighting between those working to suggest alternative actions and modes of consumption, it seems essential that we take the time to sit and think, think about what imaginings and their side effects brought us to where we are and are continuing to propel us where we seem to be going, think about how some of these imaginings might be ir- and reconciliable, and to think about how they might together reimagine sustainability that works and lasts, is dynamic and fluidly evolves to transcend confrontation in favour of interdisciplinary approaches that incorporate every aspect of our societal imagination.
Whew. An eyeful, certainly. This hopelessly overwhelming series of phrases and clauses is of course a selectively reduced and incomplete assessment—it only just barely begins to olfactorially graze the edge of a single lupine on an immense mountainside shrouded in the potential of its nigh-spherical resting place—but we've got to start somewhere. Why not here, reading Slovic in the LifeLabs waiting room?
My technician, who was moving to Nanaimo and whom I had seen weekly in the fall for INR tests, directed me to room three.
"I've never been in this room before!" I said brightly, hoping to mitigate some of the unhappy patients she had received before me.
"Oh, my, I'm going to miss you, too!" she rejoined, much to my confusion. Baffled, I struggled to sort out how her answer applied. "But maybe you'll come and see me in Nanaimo, someday," she consoled me, and I gave up trying to think of a reconciling or self-explanatory response and smiled.
Well, one missed connection at a time, I suppose. Craigslist has it figured out; we need to start facilitating conversations, any way we can. And any time I start to feel like home has become too predictable, it kindly offers non-sequiturs to remind me that communication gets scrambled as soon as I step outside my door. Plus, I went all the way from the familiar waiting room to room three, unfamiliar in its own right, and then to an unintentionally alienated Nanaimo. There's plenty of work to do, literary studies, in reading, writing, re-reading, and re-writing our societies, one neighbourhood at a time.
Thursday, April 29, 2010
the project
Though "a very good place to start," I find the very beginning is often redefined by its conclusion, so this post will likely grow and change as much as the rest of the blog itself. For now, introductions: I'm a brand new University of Victoria "alumnus," prepared with my shining, as-yet nonexistent English B.A., and it's summer. In the past, I've had classes to keep me reading and focused through the summers, and preparation for the following semester was enforcedly harried and short.
This, year, though, I'm moving to Calgary to start my M.A. in English, and I've got a lot to read before I get there. Further, I've been in Victoria for four years and seen not much more of Vancouver Island than the Victoria Zen Centre's Zendo in Sooke, B.C. and the overwhelming array of fabulous used book stores in Sidney, B.C. But there's a lot more of the island to explore—indeed, even in Victoria there are places like my front yard which, until the last week or so, I had spent no time in.
Now, I propose rectifying this situation (which is quite at odds with someone whose claimed academic interest in ecocriticism and regional studies implies a larger interest in the environments of regions physically and as written) by using sustainable transportation methods to get to local places I have and haven't been and read environmental literature and nonfiction there. Rather than reviews, I will post reflections, inspired by as-yet unsolidified aspects of these experiences. Whether I'm writing about the literature, the spaces, the literature in these spaces, or the trips to and from, I'll at least be confronting ecocriticism's role in the environment.
Fellow students and non-academics alike are always a bit stymied by the concept of ecocriticism when I mention it in passing. One memorable response stumped me (pun not originally intended): "What, do you just hate trees or something? Point out all their flaws?" It stumped me because, contrary to my initial reaction, I realized that this assumption wasn't entirely wrong—I spend a fair amount of my time criticizing the way trees are represented, and flowers, oceans and rivers, non-human and human animals. I do point out their flaws, insofar as I try to identify the potentially environmentally hazardous assumptions contained in their descriptions. I read to find how these assumptions are produced and reproduced in the hopes of eventually identifying ways in which they can be changed so that sustainability becomes, problematic punned cliche aside, second nature. Scott Slovic characterizes the role of ecocriticism as "contextualization and synthesis" (Going Away to Think 34). He writes of his experience hiking and writing with nature writer Rick Bass that he "stood back and watched Rick watch the world." I like this characterization. For this project, I'll watch Scott watch Rick watch the world, and try to watch Naomi watching Scott watching Rick watch the world around my home.
Instead of going away to think, I'll stick around here and read.
This, year, though, I'm moving to Calgary to start my M.A. in English, and I've got a lot to read before I get there. Further, I've been in Victoria for four years and seen not much more of Vancouver Island than the Victoria Zen Centre's Zendo in Sooke, B.C. and the overwhelming array of fabulous used book stores in Sidney, B.C. But there's a lot more of the island to explore—indeed, even in Victoria there are places like my front yard which, until the last week or so, I had spent no time in.
Now, I propose rectifying this situation (which is quite at odds with someone whose claimed academic interest in ecocriticism and regional studies implies a larger interest in the environments of regions physically and as written) by using sustainable transportation methods to get to local places I have and haven't been and read environmental literature and nonfiction there. Rather than reviews, I will post reflections, inspired by as-yet unsolidified aspects of these experiences. Whether I'm writing about the literature, the spaces, the literature in these spaces, or the trips to and from, I'll at least be confronting ecocriticism's role in the environment.
Fellow students and non-academics alike are always a bit stymied by the concept of ecocriticism when I mention it in passing. One memorable response stumped me (pun not originally intended): "What, do you just hate trees or something? Point out all their flaws?" It stumped me because, contrary to my initial reaction, I realized that this assumption wasn't entirely wrong—I spend a fair amount of my time criticizing the way trees are represented, and flowers, oceans and rivers, non-human and human animals. I do point out their flaws, insofar as I try to identify the potentially environmentally hazardous assumptions contained in their descriptions. I read to find how these assumptions are produced and reproduced in the hopes of eventually identifying ways in which they can be changed so that sustainability becomes, problematic punned cliche aside, second nature. Scott Slovic characterizes the role of ecocriticism as "contextualization and synthesis" (Going Away to Think 34). He writes of his experience hiking and writing with nature writer Rick Bass that he "stood back and watched Rick watch the world." I like this characterization. For this project, I'll watch Scott watch Rick watch the world, and try to watch Naomi watching Scott watching Rick watch the world around my home.
Instead of going away to think, I'll stick around here and read.
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