Sunday, 10 March 2019

Rhizomes and Constellations

When I was a child, my mum used to complain about the bamboo in her garden. She would pull it up from one place, and it would pop up in another. No matter how much she tried to contain it, the complex underground system of roots was vast and unpredictable. The plant, of course, is a rhizome - a continuously growing subterranean system, connected through roots, nodes and buds - familiar to us through other plants too, such as couch grass, ferns, ginger, funghi and the humble buttercup.  My presentation to #BrewEdLeeds was about rhizomes, to a rhizome - as the Twitter network can be seen to operate in a similar way to bamboo. Individuals ('nodes') join together, intersect, connect, and at times emerge into the sunlight, blooming and flourishing - if only for a short time.  Attempts to 'pull them up' may be thwarted as people resist the institutional hierarchies that constrain them; unlikely, and chance connections may be made. A surprising symbiosis may be formed, as those on different sides of the educational fence come together - perhaps for a project of shared values like #BAMEed or #WomenEd.  The 'earth' around us in the Twittersphere may be fertile and provide good conditions for growth, or at other times prove toxic and kill off attempts at solidarity.  (Of course we cannot leave aside platform capitalism and the monetisation of our activities in this online space, but a desire to work in a spirit of affirmative ethics (Braidotti, 2013) encourages me to both critique and appreciate Twitter at the same time).

Rhizomatic processes challenge the notion of curriculum as enacted today in a call to teach 'the best that has been thought and said.' As Cormier (2008) states '...the rhizomatic viewpoint returns the concept of knowledge to its earliest roots. Suggesting that a distributed negotiation of knowledge can allow a community of people to legitimize the work they are doing among themselves and for each member of the group, the rhizomatic model dispenses with the need for external validation of knowledge, either by an expert or by a constructed curriculum. Knowledge can again be judged by the old standards of "I can" and "I recognize." If a given bit of information is recognized as useful to the community or proves itself able to do something, it can be counted as knowledge. The community, then, has the power to create knowledge within a given context and leave that knowledge as a new node connected to the rest of the network.'

Deleuze and Guattari resist the idea of concepts and metaphors in their writing; yet several years ago Lou Mycroft and I claimed the rhizome as a way of both making sense of our interconnected professional lives and the way in which education can be re-imagined for life in the twenty-first century.  The need for agency is pressing and apparent; as teachers leave the sector, students at all levels are instrumentalised and commodified, and frustrations emerge in wide-spread mental health issues.  By working nomadically, outside of formal hierarchies and through the energy of new projects and ideas, rhizomic emergences (just like weeds) can thrive both in wastelands and pristine gardens. They pay no heed to artificial boundaries of sectors, buildings, organisations and funding bodies (Mycroft and Sidebottom, 2018).

What can be done with a few people contributing a fiver and a few hours of their time never ceases to amaze me.  BrewEd, and movements like it, are nomadic in their resistance to the territorialisation of time and space; there is faciliation and guidance, but no centre.  Spin-offs, re-mixing, riffs and repeats are welcome and expected.  It is, however, worth paying heed to Deleuze and Guattari's (1987) warnings of 'reterratorialisation'; when the system works to bring back movements into majority lines, by a process of 'recoding.'   A central organising system, or incorporation of a movement would be examples of this. Think about how many times something spontaneous and fun has been ruined by overly zealous moves to systemise it, organise it or somehow make it better?

Constellations, in the artistic sense, are cross-disciplinary, mixed methods installations which draw together disparate artists, usually around a central theme. They are usually temporary; coming together to create something challenging, activist and often beautiful, with value emanating from the whole rather than the component parts. In a project-based constellation, we draw on the idea that the 'work is the institution' rather than the institution driving the work. By thinking nomadically, you are able to work to your own values - perhaps across multiple constellations at any one time. (Mycroft and Sidebottom, 2018).

Image: Tangled Mess by Paul Rodecker

Braidotti (2013) explores Spinozan principles of potentia and potestas, to help rhizomatic practitioners walk the tightrope of working differently in traditional spaces. Potestas is defined as ‘politics as usual’, meaning not (necessarily) party politics but the exercise of hierarchical power; conventionally defined as ‘leadership’. Potentia is a politics of hope (Mycroft and Weatherby, 2017), opening up spaces for thinking and working together differently. It contains within it the notion of ‘affirmation’, direct from Spinoza (Braidotti, 2016), which respects the history of standpoint politics, whilst at the same time encouraging a move beyond the places of pain that drive them, to a post-identitarian future.  Potentia alone sounds enticing, but we live in a world of power hierarchies where we need to temper the mix with potestas, in order to have any impact. (Mycroft and Sidebottom, 2018).

My closing question to #BrewEdLeeds was - how can we work as rhizomes and constellations in order to gain agency and make change? One answer was that 50 people thinking, connecting, and raising money together in a pub on a Saturday is one way in which we're already doing exactly that.


Wednesday, 2 January 2019

Growth Rings

It was a year of words
So full, that some spilled over
To be corralled into formal shapes
others gravitating
to half-forgotten sediment
breaking down letter by letter,
fragments landing rich and fertile
covering the leaf litter words of rotten men
to re-emerge with the surprise of exclamation marks
punctuating shoots of joy.

A year of multiple rhythms
And odd ellipses of silence
three dots heavy with their own message
and closing doors of full stops.
Words infused by marching characters
softly changed as if brushed against pollen
rhizomic webs of reciprocity
appearing different in the slanting light
crystallising new perspectives.

If you mark the good years
with wide concentric rings
then this book should have gaps

For new pages
where you can see the grain, if you look hard enough
White and waiting
with ink soaking through like sap
a reminder;
We are here, We are here.

Sunday, 26 August 2018

Framing Alice

'Art does not wait for the human being to begin' (Deleuze and Guattari)

I'm walking along the River Nidd, down past the viaduct towards the water. I can still feel echoes of the past week in my body; the dull itch of a mosquito bite, the ache in my shoulder from carrying the 'Posthuman Glossary' through the streets of Utrecht, back and forth to lectures for five days.

I'm here to frame Alice. Up in the town is a small art gallery, run by a kind man and his wife, who I know will take care of her.  Alice is a painting, but she is more than a painting... she is a gift, a body without organs, a 'premonition that allowed itself to be depicted.'  After days of heavy bags and suitcases, her canvas body feels light in my hands. She's rolled up, and long, so that carrying her is awkward at first. I rest the canvas against my shoulder, and we wander together further downstream.

I didn't need to come this way, by the river, but I'm reluctant to head into town just yet. We stop at a cafe and I watch the river flowing by; punctuated by rowing boats and the odd rumble of trains across the stone arches fifty feet above the water.

'To become imperceptible oneself, to have dismantled love in order to become capable of loving. To have dismantled one's self in order finally to be alone and meet the true double at the other end of the line. A clandestine passenger on a motionless voyage. To paint oneself gray on gray.' (Deleuze and Guattari).

I was here, at this very cafe, twelve years ago today, and I'm wondering how I could have forgotten this fact. In days of techno-memories, everything commemorated, and a lingering digital afterglow, it's surprising it slipped my mind.  That day was very much like this one; clouds and warm sun but with a slight, barely perceptible chill which signalled the end of summer. I had been pregnant, and then, that day, I suddenly wasn't. What I was carrying was as light and material as Alice.

The scan had revealed what was a temporary spark of potential, a flicker that became imperceptible, matter in matter... and ultimately of no matter, on a bank holiday weekend when the hospitals were too full to take me. I came here to walk and wait, looking at the same river I'm next to now, except it isn't the same river of course, and I am not the same person I was back then.

'My wound existed before me; I was born to embody it.' Joe Bousquet

I'm walking up the hill to the art gallery now, and Alice is starting to feel awkward; I'm warm, and the canvas is scratching against my legs. I think about her journey, from Iran across Europe to here in North Yorkshire. As I enter the shop and hand her over, I wonder if she's tired.

I look forward to seeing her again.

'Alice Goes East' - Kamran Behrouz

Wednesday, 7 March 2018

The Ultimate Spring Cleaning Checklist

"Tip 1First, remove the items that don't belong." 

I'm a woman
And so it is time to clean.

I start by
sweeping out the cobwebs
that linger around my heart

Then prise out the dust-mice dreams
(some hiding stubbornly)
from beneath the cortex
and watch as they dissolve in daylight.

I gather the dopamine hits of fragmented messages
Lined up like dirty shot glasses
And scrub at the ground-in stains of digital detritus
Moving it all to a box marked Trash.

"Tip 2. Keep only what you need; the rest can find a new home."

I sort the memories into piles
Some no longer fit
Or fell from fashion years ago
No charity shop will take them
With their 'flammable' labels
(But a few I'll save
to show my daughter
when she's old enough to understand).

I touch up the paint
on my face
Polish my skin
Straighten the soft furnishing of my hair
And work til the fresh blank life
Feels clean and clear as the last snowfall of winter.

Saturday, 30 December 2017

Juno and the Book

The Book was three weeks overdue. Juno found herself running with it to the library, seized with sudden guilt, just before closing time on Friday afternoon. The State had tightened up their renewals policy after the new loans scheme proved so popular that the Books were starting to run out. As she ran, she wondered how a reading programme intended to build empathy and understanding through the ‘celebration of difference’ had ended up being a bit of a bun fight.  There was now a three month waiting list for the most popular titles, and even the older books were usually checked out by lunchtime.

“Can I renew it – please?” Juno smiled hopefully at the librarian.  The older woman was clearly embracing her role; she’d put together the classic librarian assemblage, from the pinze nez and bun, to the cardigan and sensible shoes. It wasn’t uncommon for people to dress in costumes which reflected the roles of bygone days (roles known back then as ‘jobs’) - from those times when labour was a commodity, and someone else decided what you were worth.  During her run to the library Juno had seen a waitress, a park-keeper, and more randomly, someone dressed as a priest.  Uniforms of all kinds were banned now, but strangely people still loved to dress up and look like each other. The imposition of difference had ironically resulted in resistance through similarity.   Caught up in the librarian/wayward lender scenario, and the pleasure in acting it out, Juno half-expected to be shushed at this point.  But the building itself was anything but quiet.  Most of the noise, it seemed, came from the Books themselves, and she could hear a low rumble of conversation echoing through the vaulted atrium. Clearly the chatter hadn’t been successfully confined to the sound-proof reading rooms.

True to form, the librarian looked exasperated. “There’s already a waiting list – and this is your third renewal.  What are you doing with it, for heaven’s sake? Memorising every word?”
Juno considered the woman in front of her for a moment before fixing on a strategy. This was a person who clearly loved stories; you had to, to toil all day for nothing in a place like this. 
“I really need to know the ending. Just one more day?”

They’d burnt all the analogue books just before the revolution of 2021. It was during that strange time of interregnum – while the world was dying and waiting to be reborn. A time full of dark words from powerful and dangerous men, foolhardy, arrogant and incredibly self-assured. If there was a mood that Juno remembered from that time – and she couldn’t remember much – it was utter self-belief in the face of obvious untruths.  Not just from leaders, but manifested through denial on a massive human scale; everyone seemingly blind to the world around them - a world that was rapidly falling apart.   Old fuels disappeared quickly, but that wasn’t the only reason they burnt the books.  In the pain of loss and shame, and a desire for new priorities and collective renewal, it seemed best to obliterate the past and just start all over again. 

Back in her apartment, Juno ran her finger down the Book’s spine.  When you joined the library you had to sign a long list of terms and conditions in order to receive your card; it wasn’t like the loan system she remembered as a child.  There had been a bit of misuse of the Books; people using them like the old-fashioned dating app Tinder, taking out things they liked the look of and browsing with no intent to read them properly.  Juno had been guilty of this too for a while, but told herself it was just natural curiosity.  The rules now stated that there was to be no intimate touching of the books, other than the necessary functions of handling them.  But she’d broken the rules twice already with this one.  How could you really immerse yourself in a story unless you held it closely – felt its weight, buried yourself in its scent? 

Juno’s latest book was called Malthe. He came from Denmark originally, and she loved his contrariness.  Malthe dressed conservatively, but beneath the shirts and pressed trousers were numerous tattoos - words overlapping across his skin, so that reading him became much more than just an auditory experience.  The slimness of his hips disguised a love of pastries, and he would smoke cigarettes on the balcony straight after the five mile runs he took every day. Juno loved to hear the strange words of his country and tales of old customs, from days before the removal of borders and the emergence of One Nation.  He told of his life in Nyvhavn, describing the rows of coloured houses stretching down from Kingens Nytorv along the harbourside.  He shared the stories of Hans Christian Anderson, and of other lesser-known traditions and folk-tales, and spoke of the power of  ‘faelleskaab’ – togetherness, belonging and community; not only was it a different time, but it felt like a different world.

There were no stipulations about what you should do when you took a book out, so Juno used her imagination. She read Malthe everywhere; on the train, walking through the park, sitting on benches in the bustling squares, while the people around them bartered and traded.  At night she dreamt of travelling, to visit the places of which he spoke so eloquently. It was loneliness probably – or that’s what Juno told herself – along with the power of Malthe’s story-telling. She’d read an article years ago, about people who were sexually attracted to intelligence. His words moved her so much that when she closed her eyes she could see them dance in all their strangeness, enveloping her in such a way that made her body seemed to vibrate with the echoes of them.  It was very much like the virtual reality games that had been so popular in the days when actual reality got too much to bear. She had a strange sense that Malthe’s words might actually be written on his bones, or borne along on his blood cells.  She wanted to feel him inside her too, but Malthe told her laughingly that he wasn’t ‘that kind of a book’.

That she only had one last day with the Book felt desperately unfair. A loans system should rightly reflect the length of time you actually needed to read something; although if she was honest, Juno knew she could have kept Malthe for a year and still not understood or absorbed everything he had to say.  She’d planned a long walk and a picnic lunch, but for some reason Malthe seemed to want to stay near the apartment.  He was unusually reticient too, responding to Juno’s questions with counter-queries and empty pauses, which she ended up filling.  It took her until lunchtime to realise that this time, she was the one being read.

And once the reading started, the stories rushed back to her in a flood. Tales of childhood, of lost words and phrases, descriptions of food, of friends and pasttimes... and of growing up on a coast where the sea still lapped the shore and you could walk on sand rather than plastic.  Of games that she would play with friends in the street, and of the libraries with real paper books in.

Later, back at the library, Juno signed a new library card.  She hadn’t noticed before, but the phrase on the back read Veritas Liberabit Vos.  Malthe had told her the same – that the truth will set you free – when he convinced her that it was time to tell her own story.  Smiling, and brimful of words, she handed him back, and checked herself in.

Wednesday, 9 August 2017

How easy it is

How easy it is 
To hold your hand,
and talk of love.

Not the love
thrown as accusation
Or sharp as a cat's claw
that catches on my clothes
And is hard to shift
(as loose threads are never
entirely smoothed away)

But instead love as
the touch on a shoulder
A shy hello at a bus stop 
A father hearing 
'Your son is doing well'
The fleeting permanence 
of a footprint in plaster
A reassuring glance,
and the way I count your freckles 
or the pebbles on a beach
(the result is just the same)
The tilt of the heart 
like waves rolling over the horizon
to let the next, and the next, and the next
roll in behind

I hold your hand,
and talk of love,
and how easy it is.

Saturday, 20 May 2017

On hope, ethics and uncertainty - or what my holiday reading taught me

On holiday recently I read a few books that made me reflect on my own way of being in the world. Unless we're religious (and often even then) I get a sense that we don't often consider our own personal philosophies of life; we might look for quick fixes through self-help books, or seek out new ways to make us happy (yoga, meditation, travel, therapy*) but a deep examination of values and ethics isn't really the 'in' thing. Alongside our personal struggles, and intrinsically connected with these, there are of course the massive global issues; immigration, technological change, future of work, climate change, and so on. Proper consideration of these challenges requires us to engage in ethical, moral and philosophical debates, yet the political, like the personal, is usually distilled into soundbites or simple solutions, or worse, denied in a fog of 'post-truth'.

In my teaching I encourage new educators to consider the place of personal values, morals and ethics in everything they do, and this is usually through processes of reflective practice. Reflection (done well) encourages us to consider our own reactions to events, and prevents us tumbling repeatedly into situations and relying on old convictions or beliefs that may not actually serve us any longer.  We can be led by the heart or the head when we act, but rarely examine which or why.  Sadly, when we leave teacher training behind, reflective practice is often forgotten too.  I chose a number of holiday books which I hoped would help me to get back into this space.**

My thinking has been shaped most recently by posthuman and nomadic thinking (Braidotti, 2013).   Braidotti draws heavily on the writings of Baruch Spinoza, the Dutch philosopher who was a lens grinder and social outcast for much of his life. His book, Ethics, makes readers question their most basic assumptions about life, truth, religion, politics and science. It is his emphasis on affirmative action and our need to act ethically that has been forefront in my mind recently as I attempt to navigate this post-truth, neo-liberalist, individualised world.  So my first reading choice was Looking for Spinoza: Joy, Sorrow and the Feeling Brain by Antonio Damasio.   This book is a fascinating blend of philosophy and neuro-science which supports Spinoza's rejection of the mind/body split through recent scientific research. It examines the notion of 'emotions' and recent discoveries which prove that they are literally embodied in our brain chemistry, physical responses and muscle memory.  'Feelings' are our response to emotion, and it is how we interpret and act on these that can be pivotal to our survival and interaction with others.

My second read was The Path by Michael Puett, and I was surprised to find echoes of the same themes. This book offers a guide to 'living well' and encourages us to 'rethink the concepts of our lives...behaving in ways that bring about real change.'  It is more philosophy than self-help fortunately, and based largely on the principles of Daoism. Like Braidotti's call to 'think global, act local' it asks us to focus on daily moments rather than worrying about the big stuff.  The overarching question here is, 'How are you living your life, on a daily basis?'

Puett's thinkers (including Confucius and Zhuangzi) see the world as a series of fragmented and messy encounters - their view is that a need to bring order to this complexity is one of our greatest sources of pain and frustration.  Yet, rather than simply 'going with the flow' or accepting uncertainty (often the mantra of mindfulness practices) we are taught here to hone and refine our responses to every day situations. This is still mindfulness but in an active sense; taking notice of our instinctive responses and then refining them, with propriety.

The book suggests that the idea of living with complexity and uncertainty is challenging and counter-cultural. We take comfort in binary thinking; in the security of being on one side or another, perhaps still programmed for earlier, tribal times. We feel safe in our separateness from nature and anything 'non-human' and seek out spaces where there is one truth and lines are clearly drawn.  Old, familiar behaviours and the affirmation of echo chambers can feel as comfortable and reassuring as an old cardigan, but like old clothes at some point they stop suiting us.

Puett suggests that making change and sloughing off old ways of being is best done through the use of ritual. In this context it means acting 'as if'; taking on roles that are different from our usual ones and constructing new ways of being in the world.  We are usually saddled with beliefs about our personalities and traits, seeing them as fixed and static ('I'm an introvert'; 'I've got a quick temper','I don't like change.') We fix the traits of others too, based on our past experience of them and their own assertions about themselves. This polarised thinking can harden assumptions and make us repeat the same arguments time and time again.  What if we take on a new role though, and act differently next time around?  For example, how might I act the next time I argue with my sister, if my actions were no longer based on the belief that I was always stubborn and that she only thought about herself?  The idea of acting 'as if' is echoed in the Spinozan idea of 'potensia' - soft power, which I talk more about here.  It is affirmative, hopeful and asks the question 'and why not?'  (Of course, the ultimate 'as if' is the phrase 'I love you' which we repeat with hope, despite the fact that it is impossible to love every part of every person, all of the time). Puett invites us to act with others in 'what could happen if..?' interventions; actions which require humility and the ability to admit that the behaviours that always served you all in the past are no longer useful.

My last book, Rebecca Solnitt's Hope in the Dark is an inspiring read for anyone already jaded by the General Election.  It reminds us that change isn't linear; a forward progressive march, but more a 'crab scuttling sideways'. Again, the emphasis is on embracing uncertainty and having an understanding that change, when it comes, can happen in unexpected ways.

I would commend all of these books as a way to question and explore accepted truths about the human condition.  They invite us to act in a way that opens up a constellation of different possibilities; but also require hard questioning of ourselves and continual examination of our feelings and reactions.  There is in each an acceptance that we are fallible, but an overwhelming sense of a journey filled with potential, if we choose to seek it out. As Solnit states:

'Hope locates itself in the premises that we don't know what will happen and that in the spaciousness of uncertainty is room to act. When you recognize uncertainty, you recognise that you may be able to influence the outcomes - you alone or you in concert with a few dozen or several million others.'

*I'm guilty of all of these

**I did have some fun too, honest :)

Braidotti, R. (2013). The Posthuman. Cambridge: Polity Press.
Damasio, A. (2004). Looking for Spinoza: Joy, Sorrow, and the Feeling Brain. London: Vintage Press.
Puett, M. (2016). The Path: What Chinese Philosophers Tell Us About The Good Life. New York: Simon and Schuster.
Solnit, R. (2016). Hope in the Dark: Untold Histories, Wild Possibilities. Chicago: Haymarket.