When I think about Edmonton through the lens of childhood, what I remember most is how often I thought of certain places as totally different from what they actually were. My backyard was transformed by imaginary geography. The rock box my backyard (it's like a sandbox, but with … rocks) was actually an entire house! The garage was a stable where kept our horses (if by horses you mean bikes, and at that age, I did). The soccer goalposts in the field by the local elementary school were the gates to a portal that would TRANSPORT YOU ACROSS SPACE AND TIME! A lot of childhood narratives don't just shape a place; sometimes they completely superimpose an imaginary place over it.
What strikes me about A Tourist's Guide to Glengarry is that the narrator Neil doesn't seem "imaginative" -- in a traditional sense, anyway. He's a very head-in-the-clouds sort of kid, but there's no fantastical embellishment in his story. There's no attempt to mythologise Glengarry -- to imagine it as someplace else (think: Alice Major's layering of Roman history), or just as something other than what it is. Instead, he's all about persistent, curious investigations of the fabric of life around him: he's fascinated by places of origin, by markers of difference, by lived experiences.
So we could maybe call A Tourist's Guide to Glengarry parochial, but not in a derogatory sense. As we discussed in class, the novel seems to make an argument for the importance of embeddedness: how place shapes your growth as an artist, and by extension, the value of "local" art. Neil's observations about Glengarry are suffused with this really subtle, quiet kind of love -- he sees and decodes everything with the kind of childhood innocence that confers significance on everything, no matter how "small" or "unimportant." So I'd say that Neil is imaginative: it's just a different kind of imagination, one more in line with de Certeau's appreciation of the everyday.
To be honest, I hadn't really thought about place and authorship before this term (this year I've been reading a lot of speculative fiction/scifi, which has a totally different set of rules when it comes to writing/decoding place), and I hadn't seen the value of this "embeddedness" before reading McGillis. I've always found a strong sense of place to be a bonus, not a necessity, but McGillis has me rethinking that position. My favourite book, The Logogryph, is actually by another local author, Thomas Wharton; I hadn't realised it before this week, but even though book is 95% fantastical metafiction, that last, essential 5% is a frame story which anchors the narrative, and it's all about places and pasts.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Thursday, March 17, 2011
desire lines
Nature in Edmonton's suburbs is kind of creepy.
It's corralled. It's mastered by human beings and strategically employed to create poor imitations of nature within the domain of culture. Park space is designated; trees are planted along a boulevard, spaced equidistantly; if you don't mow your lawn, your neighbours will hate you. I guess that this way of thinking implies that what we see as "nature" is, in cities, subsumed to the urban ecology.
As Mark Davis says, we are constantly expending energy to master nature and maintain our urban habitats, and "nature is constantly straining against its chains." Think about the millions of dollars the municipal government had to spend this year, post-snowfall(s), plowing the streets so that people could get around the city. David says that "the ability of a city's physical structure to organise and encode a stable social order depends on its capacity to master and manipulate nature," which I think can be translated, in this instance, into no streets = no urban traffic = social disruption = many problems in the everyday lives of people.
But if we collapse the nature/culture binary as Davis suggests and thinks of urban spaces and "nature" as the part of a single integrated system, nature and culture begin to interpenetrate, their interaction shaping the overall ecology. You can equate urban sprawl to weeds, or something like that -- they're both just structures which are attempting to follow the Darwinian rule and proliferate.
I've always been drawn to the idea of desire lines, at least 75% because it's such a poetic phrase. There's poetry in the concept, too. Desire lines are human-worn walking paths that disobey the rules laid down by urban organisational structures (roads, sidewalks) -- because desire paths are shortcuts, or more easily navigated, or maybe even more beautiful to walk. In winter they're particularly apparent because walkers wear down paths in the snow. Desire lines are beautiful to me because they represent two kinds of resistances, complicating the "wild nature"/"controlling culture" binary. Cities resist nature by setting out sidewalks and concrete and roads; then the inhabitants resist the city by carving out desire lines.
It's corralled. It's mastered by human beings and strategically employed to create poor imitations of nature within the domain of culture. Park space is designated; trees are planted along a boulevard, spaced equidistantly; if you don't mow your lawn, your neighbours will hate you. I guess that this way of thinking implies that what we see as "nature" is, in cities, subsumed to the urban ecology.
As Mark Davis says, we are constantly expending energy to master nature and maintain our urban habitats, and "nature is constantly straining against its chains." Think about the millions of dollars the municipal government had to spend this year, post-snowfall(s), plowing the streets so that people could get around the city. David says that "the ability of a city's physical structure to organise and encode a stable social order depends on its capacity to master and manipulate nature," which I think can be translated, in this instance, into no streets = no urban traffic = social disruption = many problems in the everyday lives of people.
But if we collapse the nature/culture binary as Davis suggests and thinks of urban spaces and "nature" as the part of a single integrated system, nature and culture begin to interpenetrate, their interaction shaping the overall ecology. You can equate urban sprawl to weeds, or something like that -- they're both just structures which are attempting to follow the Darwinian rule and proliferate.
I've always been drawn to the idea of desire lines, at least 75% because it's such a poetic phrase. There's poetry in the concept, too. Desire lines are human-worn walking paths that disobey the rules laid down by urban organisational structures (roads, sidewalks) -- because desire paths are shortcuts, or more easily navigated, or maybe even more beautiful to walk. In winter they're particularly apparent because walkers wear down paths in the snow. Desire lines are beautiful to me because they represent two kinds of resistances, complicating the "wild nature"/"controlling culture" binary. Cities resist nature by setting out sidewalks and concrete and roads; then the inhabitants resist the city by carving out desire lines.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
a room without books is like a body without a soul
(The prompt from two weeks ago; written belatedly, thanks to sickness.)
I realised after I drafted this post that Robert discussed the exact same thing ... which I choose to interpret as good taste on both of our parts.
Anyway: I think the Edmonton Public Library is awesome.
The library was my first connection to the institutional machinery of The City. I've never been part of any community leagues; everything I know about the municipal government comes from the City section of the Edmonton Journal. But I've been going to the Whitemud Crossing library ever since it was in the basement of Southgate and I was young enough to be excited about getting stickers in the Summer Reading Club.
What I love about the library is its attitude towards knowledge and the community. If you think of librarians as gatekeepers of knowledge, they're the inviting, open, forward-thinking kind, not elitist cultural custodians who are trying to maintain their grip on power (yes, I am kind of thinking of the literary institution). The library is also forward-thinking in its attitudes towards texts: it's an institution which realises that in order to best provide knowledge to the people, it has to change and adapt. Instead of freaking out about the Kindle like the rest of the myopic publishing industry, which seems to exalt the codex as the holy grail/be-all-end-all of print technology, the library does things like add audiobooks and .epub repositories to their collection. These attitudes are well-reflected in the EPL website, which I'm pretty impressed with. It's one of the best-designed websites I've come across -- easy-to-use and actually functional.
The EPL branches aren't just repositories of knowledge; they're sites of community, which put an emphasis on public spaces. One of the library's functions is community programming, which I didn't find out about until I started looking around at all of the pamphlets and posters a couple of years ago: computer classes, poetry readings, book club nights, English conversation circles. At the Whitemud Crossing library, in the magazine section, there's a nice, quiet lounge area arranged in front of a fireplace; there are chairs and tables and carrels everywhere, in quieter areas and louder common areas.
I kind of love that the library is a space where I can go and check out the fifteen books I requested through the online hold system, and then trawl through the fantasy/sf section for half an hour, while my grandmother uses the free internet and reads Chinese newspapers. It's impressive when an institution is savvy enough to serve a varied population like that.
I realised after I drafted this post that Robert discussed the exact same thing ... which I choose to interpret as good taste on both of our parts.
Anyway: I think the Edmonton Public Library is awesome.
The library was my first connection to the institutional machinery of The City. I've never been part of any community leagues; everything I know about the municipal government comes from the City section of the Edmonton Journal. But I've been going to the Whitemud Crossing library ever since it was in the basement of Southgate and I was young enough to be excited about getting stickers in the Summer Reading Club.
What I love about the library is its attitude towards knowledge and the community. If you think of librarians as gatekeepers of knowledge, they're the inviting, open, forward-thinking kind, not elitist cultural custodians who are trying to maintain their grip on power (yes, I am kind of thinking of the literary institution). The library is also forward-thinking in its attitudes towards texts: it's an institution which realises that in order to best provide knowledge to the people, it has to change and adapt. Instead of freaking out about the Kindle like the rest of the myopic publishing industry, which seems to exalt the codex as the holy grail/be-all-end-all of print technology, the library does things like add audiobooks and .epub repositories to their collection. These attitudes are well-reflected in the EPL website, which I'm pretty impressed with. It's one of the best-designed websites I've come across -- easy-to-use and actually functional.
The EPL branches aren't just repositories of knowledge; they're sites of community, which put an emphasis on public spaces. One of the library's functions is community programming, which I didn't find out about until I started looking around at all of the pamphlets and posters a couple of years ago: computer classes, poetry readings, book club nights, English conversation circles. At the Whitemud Crossing library, in the magazine section, there's a nice, quiet lounge area arranged in front of a fireplace; there are chairs and tables and carrels everywhere, in quieter areas and louder common areas.
I kind of love that the library is a space where I can go and check out the fifteen books I requested through the online hold system, and then trawl through the fantasy/sf section for half an hour, while my grandmother uses the free internet and reads Chinese newspapers. It's impressive when an institution is savvy enough to serve a varied population like that.
Friday, March 11, 2011
if I didn't have a headache this post would have a title
To really fall in love with something, you have to know it.
I don't know Edmonton any better than I used to. I haven't had a chance to experience more of it yet. But my sense of the city, my feelings towards it? Different.
Studying texts of Edmonton and Edmonton-as-a-text have opened up the city to the possibility of signification. It's not like the city ever refused to signify. It's not artful enough for that. I just couldn't see it saying or being anything interesting, so I never tried to read it.
But now, the accumulation of texts around the referent of Edmonton intrigue me. I think of the concept of palimpsest, of multilayered, superimposed histories and memories, written over again and again but never quite erased, there to be read if you're willing to be patient, and squint a little. My main experience of an Edmonton text, before this course, was the Edmonton Journal: dry in the way that news reporting often is; on occasion kind of cheesy. But now I see the poetic dimension of Edmonton. This city can be home to vibrant subcultures, à la The Edmonton Queen. This city's history can be poeticised, the commonplace and the parochial overlaid with the grandiosity of Roman founding myths (see: Alice Major). I see the possibility of mythology and haunting in the everyday, which once seemed banal beyond rescue.
All of our creative cartography projects have got me thinking about maps, specifically about that Borges fable, Garret's favourite -- the map precedes the territory. I feel like my textual experience of Edmonton will soon outpace and supersede my actual experience of it, entering into the real of unmoored signifiers, of Baudrillardian simulation. Of course, it's not quite so literary and abstract and dire. All I need to do is revisit the referent.
And thanks to the course, now I have a map for how to do that. I want to see good drag, as recommended by Darrin Hagen. I want to explore shopping locally -- well, window-shopping locally, if I want to respect my bank account. I want to walk across the High-Level Bridge and try to give it a fair re-experience, after seeing Erica's map; I want to go hipster hunting (I don't really know how to extend that metaphor, but no hipsters will be harmed, I promise) on Whyte Avenue, thanks to Katie's.
So my plan for summer, basically, is this: I've stalked Edmonton for a couple of months. Now I'm going to date it.
I'll abuse crowdsourcing and end with an open question. Any more suggestions for things to do, places to see? Anything's welcome. Events? Your favourite spots? Places you think I might like? Places you think that everyone should like?
I don't know Edmonton any better than I used to. I haven't had a chance to experience more of it yet. But my sense of the city, my feelings towards it? Different.
Studying texts of Edmonton and Edmonton-as-a-text have opened up the city to the possibility of signification. It's not like the city ever refused to signify. It's not artful enough for that. I just couldn't see it saying or being anything interesting, so I never tried to read it.
But now, the accumulation of texts around the referent of Edmonton intrigue me. I think of the concept of palimpsest, of multilayered, superimposed histories and memories, written over again and again but never quite erased, there to be read if you're willing to be patient, and squint a little. My main experience of an Edmonton text, before this course, was the Edmonton Journal: dry in the way that news reporting often is; on occasion kind of cheesy. But now I see the poetic dimension of Edmonton. This city can be home to vibrant subcultures, à la The Edmonton Queen. This city's history can be poeticised, the commonplace and the parochial overlaid with the grandiosity of Roman founding myths (see: Alice Major). I see the possibility of mythology and haunting in the everyday, which once seemed banal beyond rescue.
All of our creative cartography projects have got me thinking about maps, specifically about that Borges fable, Garret's favourite -- the map precedes the territory. I feel like my textual experience of Edmonton will soon outpace and supersede my actual experience of it, entering into the real of unmoored signifiers, of Baudrillardian simulation. Of course, it's not quite so literary and abstract and dire. All I need to do is revisit the referent.
And thanks to the course, now I have a map for how to do that. I want to see good drag, as recommended by Darrin Hagen. I want to explore shopping locally -- well, window-shopping locally, if I want to respect my bank account. I want to walk across the High-Level Bridge and try to give it a fair re-experience, after seeing Erica's map; I want to go hipster hunting (I don't really know how to extend that metaphor, but no hipsters will be harmed, I promise) on Whyte Avenue, thanks to Katie's.
So my plan for summer, basically, is this: I've stalked Edmonton for a couple of months. Now I'm going to date it.
I'll abuse crowdsourcing and end with an open question. Any more suggestions for things to do, places to see? Anything's welcome. Events? Your favourite spots? Places you think I might like? Places you think that everyone should like?
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