The Last Pilgrims at Tinker Creek

Let's just talk about Annie Dillard's connections with writing and maps. Okay, so maybe she didn't mean to do it, but for all practical purposes, it was totally there.

"Landscape consists in the multiple, overlapping intricacies and forms that exist in a given space at a moment in time. Landscape is the texture of intricacy, and texture is my present subject. Intricacies of detail and varieties of form build up into textures," (139).

Umm.. Writing people.

"Think of a glove, a revolving globe on a stand. Think of a contour globe, whose mountain ranges cast shadows, whose continents rise in bas-relief above the oceans. But then: think of how it really is. These heights aren't just suggested; they're there. Pliny, who knew the world was round, figured that when it was all surveyed the earth would be seen to resemble in shape, not a sphere, but a pineapple, pricked by irregularities. WHen I think of walking across a continent I think of all the neighborhood hills, the tiny grades up which children drag their sleds. It is all so sculptured, three-dimensional, casting a shadow. What if you had an enormous globe in relief that was so huge it showed roads and houses-- a geological survey globe, a quarter of a mile to an inch -- of the whole world, and the ocean floor! Looking at it, you would know what had to be left out: the free-standing sculptural arrangement of furniture in rooms, the jumble of broken rock in a creek bed, tools in a box, labyrinthe ocean liners, the shape of snapdragons, walrus. Where is the one thing you care about on earth, the molding of one face? The relief globe couldn't begin to show trees, between whose overlapping boughs birds raise broods, or the furrows in bark, where whole creatures, creatures easily visible, live out their lives and call it world enough," (140).

In the same way that Dillard explains the limitations of the relief globe, I think of the limitations of language. I think of the limitations of an analysis, of a map, of a video, of an image. How do those limitations change, then, when you introduce multimodal texts? Are the limitations less, or just different? What parts of the world on the relief globe could we fill in? How might we think about forming the ideas of these details in our writing to create a better relief?

This text served well to feed into my Photo Essay for Digital Rhetorics. Maps, people. It's ALL IN THE MAPS. (Okay, not really, but seriously...)

The First Pilgrims at Tinker Creek

Chapters 1-7

Call me crazy, but I've spent an awful lot of time around creeks. I grew up on the Yellowstone River, with catfish holes and gumbo slides filling my siblings' and my summer with scraped knees, lost fishing rods, and sunburns. Behind our house, running from the prairie badlands to the river, was Harris Creek. It's murky waters, from the spillway of irrigation water from our farming community made for a redneck playground -- one where we could run under the old railroad bridge and hide our tackle boxes and snacks we had snuck out of the house. We made a fort of it -- running out of the yard, through the corn field and down the 1/2 mile stint to the railroad bridge, bare feet padding on the silt.

As a college student, I spend my summers doing riparian seasonal work for BLM, hiking water systems all over Eastern Montana. We walk over 250 miles of stream every summer, but that doesn't include the cross-country miles to get to the stream. I started learning county names with familiarity. Grass names, sedge families, rushes, snake types, thunderstorm indicators, and gas station jackpots. After three years, there became a point where people at BLM could list an allotment name and I could rattle off the systems. Riparian -- Non-Riparian. Proper Functioning Condition, Functioning At Risk, Non-Functioning. I could scan streams from the highway and make a plant list. I could pick up dirt and know whether it contained modeling or gleying. I learned the names of the streams, the types of birds, the tree names, the ranch names, the family politics.

I became so utterly familiar with the landscape of Eastern Montana that once I was out of the prairie, I was a fish out of water. The mountains became strange, with their dense trees, strange grasses, and crystal clear creek water. I missed the familiarity of cactus, sagebrush, and cow shit.

Reading Annie Dillard's first part of Pilgrim at Tinker Creek reminded me of my own sense of alienation from the landscape. At first, I felt a tourist to the land -- someone that would occupy it for only a short time before disappearing again. But, now, like Dillard begins to in the book, I feel like the sway of the grass is a movement of my arm -- the crack of thunder a sneeze from my chest.

While at times her lack of dialogue seemed monotonous, I think her writing functions well to discuss the very human presence we feel in nature.

Ebola and Government Funding: Though Completely Unrelated in this Context

   Two weeks ago, I spent the weekend with my sister and her family in Rapid City, South Dakota. Her husband, Justin, is a realtor. He is also a diva. Don't get me wrong -- I love Justin. We bond over the Denver Broncos, coffee, history and teasing my sister. We get along great. But when Justin gets sick, the world gets sick.

   It was in the preparation of Sunday morning breakfast that Justin stumbled into the kitchen, saying, "I feel like I'm going to violently throw up."

   Logically, I yelled, "GET AWAY FROM ME!"

   My sister said, "Honey, go back to bed."

   Justin stood in the doorway, unsure of what to do. Both comments were clear: Get away from us. So, he replies, staring at the floor, "The couple I showed the house to yesterday had flown through Dallas. Maybe I have Ebola."

   I glanced at my sister. He was joking, right?

   "Justin, go to bed," my sister shook her head, turning back to the Belgian Waffle Maker in front of her.

   I always wondered what type of people panicked about the media-hype of things such as Ebola. Apparently, he was standing in front of me, grasping his stomach and staring at the floor.

   Odd.


   Government funding. Everyone knows that it happens -- No one knows where exactly it comes from. I enjoyed the second piece, "The Crisis of Big Science." God knows i would spend 75 pounds on a an experiment to discover the atomic nucleus. Working for BLM the last few years, I have been completely frustrated with the idea behind federal funding. With it, it brings confusion, red tape, and rules. GAH.

   What I liked about this article was that it wasn't afraid to point out those funding difficulties. Let's talk about the elephant in the room. HOLLA.


 

Writing. What?

1) How did you used to see, and how do you now see, the relationship between writing and following rules? Do you associate rules more with one kind of writing or another, or not really think much about rules at all, or think about rules in all your writing? (Again, try to give me, if you can, how you thought about this when you entered college, and how you think about it now, and if your thinking hasn't changed, that's fine, just say so.) 

   When I entered college, there were two types of writing. There was the writing I did for school, which was dictated by rules and formats. I hated that writing. I felt suffocated by it. I didn't think there was a possibility to add creative insight to a school paper, because I was shot down by high school teachers when I tried that. The other type of writing was the writing I did on my own. This was creative writing. There were no rules. That was the binary of the school writing. I was doing everything at home that I wasn't allowed to do at school. 

   In my first two years at the University of Portland, everything was dictated by rules. Not just my writing. I think my writing reflected that. I tried to rebel -- to write things for myself that were raw and unrefined and full of "fuck" and angry. The things I did for school there were bland. I detested it. I felt like I wasn't allowed to write what I was thinking.

   Everything changed when I started school at MSU. Here was a place I was allowed to see that not all academic writing was dictated by rules. Through my classes, but especially my work at the Writing Center (most importantly, the conversations on writing that I was involved in there) I was enabled to see that all writing comes with some sort of rules. We have spelling and grammar, and citation formats and word counts. However, I realized this was a place that I could express myself in a balance of both worlds I used to create for myself. My academic writing could be creative. My creative writing could be academic. I wouldn't call them "rules." Instead, I think I would call them "examples," or "guidelines," because I refuse to prepare cookie-cutter work anymore. If I'm not learning anything from it -- and I'm not excited about what I'm writing -- why the hell would my professor and peers want to read it? I think there are different guidelines based on discourse, but I think that all of them are flexible, and are becoming more so every year. 

2) What did you and do you think is the role of personal opinion in writing? Is there writing that should be more personal and other that shouldn't be? Is there writing where opinion isn't allowed? Is there writing that should be as purely objective as possible, and if so, can/should that writing also be personal?

   Personal opinions are incredibly important in writing. After working in the Writing Center, I am absolutely determined to help writers that I talk with to understand that what they think and feel is important in what they are writing. There is a balance of authority that is played in writing -- You can't just provide a senseless argument with no facts or substance, only fueled by anger or affection. I think there is a place for personal opinion in the balance of writing tools. 

   There are discourses in which personal opinion is often disregarded as "unnecessary." Stereotypically, I think of the math and sciences. But, this is a stigma around writing that we are beginning to push against and question. Writing is necessary in all disciplines -- and I think that with it, there is a necessity for personal opinion in those disciplines as well. The balance of tools used to create the writing may be different based on discourse, but the opinion is still present. 

   The objectivity of writing is most commonly associated with academia in my mind. I think of research papers, lab reports, etc. But I don't think that personal opinion need be absent from these modes of writing. Instead, I think that it may be a little more challenging to determine how opinion is balanced with that objectivity. But, it's still there. 

3) Are there places or scenes of writing that you associate more with the personal and opinion-based writing, and other scenes you associate more with objective and impersonal writing? If so, what are differences in those scenes -- what are they associated with?

   I think that when writing revolves around sociology and/or anthropology -- people, culture, etc -- it is generally thought to be more personal. When I think of the sciences and maths -- I think of writing as more objective and impersonal. These are the corners we have backed ourselves into when we discuss writing. We set up these discourses to be separate, when in reality, they all revolve around the same conversation about writing. They are more alike than we deemed them to be -- and it took us an awfully long time to realize that. 

   Now, though, I think the question lies with where we go from here. How do we continue to change this discussion on writing in the discourses? How do we break down the barriers we built ourselves, and help others to embrace the tools that writing has to offer? When you figure that out, be sure to fill me in.

   Hope this helps, Doug! 

Oh, Fuck. This Science Writing Thing Is Complicated.

I'm just going to leave this here.

   In my last post, I talked about my wish for the relationship between science and writing to be something we all acknowledge and hold hands over, possibly singing Kumbaya over, while roasting marshmallows on bunsen burners. (That was good -- you should have snorted there.) I see this theme continued in our readings for Tuesday.

   I think my dudes David Deutsch and Artur Ekert said it best in Beyond the Quantum Horizon, except I don't think they meant to say it in the way I immediately interpreted it. So often, I feel that no one wants to discuss the importance of writing outside of the humanities (this class doesn't count. We're all weirdos). It's like these dudes were saying:

"'If you think you understand [writing], then you don't.' 'You're not allowed to ask that question.'" (38). 

Well, lucky for those assholes, I'm not about to shut up anytime soon. The world needs to accept that a conversation about writing is not the plague. It's not going to kill you -- in fact, it won't even infect you. Writing is communication, interaction -- it's something that we do. We better get used to talking about it. If all else, I'll resort to tweeting about it. Maybe somebody will follow me then...

   Earle Holland claimed in Universities that a University Science Writer is basically a job blessed by the nectar of the Gods. If that's the case -- why are the people in the sciences in Universities so damn scared to say, "Hey, what's this writing thing?" Of course, I'm not so naive to think that no one in the sciences asks this. We are extremely fortunate for the individuals who do. What bothers me most about it is the cultural stigma around writing in these disciplines.

   My main lady, Elise Hancock, says in Ideas Into Words:

"The science writer and the scientist are allies, sharing a commitment to science and the public understanding thereof -- upon which depend future funding and essential political decisions. Each party brings special expertise to the table. The science writer knows how to translate science for the public, while the scientist knows the science," (45).

Preach it, sister. Preach it.

Excuse me, Sir -- Is this the church of Our Lord Christopher Pratt?

Found on the incredible:

If Andy Dwyer Quotes Were Motivational Posters

So, let's just go ahead and tackle Mr. Field Guide.

   Valid points from a plethora of knowledgable sources. These professors have been in the business a long time. However, I don't see how any of these tips on "Science Writing" differ from "writing." Take Blum's list for example -- I (try as shit to) employ each of those points in my writing -- I know for damn sure I use those very tools to help writers in the Writing Center. I think this is the point here:

Writing is important, dammit. 

(All I could think about while reading Finkbeiner on pg 29. "But first, some background."

   I don't know why it takes people so long to figure that out. But, apparently, it isn't so for Science Writing until it appears in A Field Guide for Science Writers. *dramatic sigh. One of my favorite sections of this chapter was when John Wilkes describes an editor his students intern for saying, "'They're very smart, but if you ask them what time it is, they tell you how the watch works,'" (32). This in particular screamed, "Get to the fucking point in your Science News Brief, Kelsey." Okay, okay. I get it. 

   I enjoyed Wolpert's and Hardy's pieces, but I'm not going to talk about them here. I want to focus on the other pieces we were asked to read in "M". 

   That Carl Sagan -- he is a ballsy dude. In a very short piece, he touched on a lot of rather touchy subjects. (Apparently, I thought he was very touchy...) We've got civilization, the failures of the rising generations, economics, "ethnic or national prejudices" (240), Spirituality, and...you know...God (A touchy subject if there ever was one.) 

   After reading this, I wondered, "How the hell did he get away with me reading that without getting pissed?" First of all, that may largely be due to the fact that I agree with his statements -- especially the last one:

"The notion that science and spirituality are somehow mutually exclusive does a disservice to both." 

I think this is applicable not only to this topic, but what if we just...

"The notion that science and [writing] are somehow mutually exclusive does a disservice to both."

I'm just gonna leave that there.

The Zecha/Zeno Zoo of Narrative Paradigms and Rhetoric's Reality

Fuckin' rhetoric. Making me think and shit.


But, really.

These texts were a little difficult for me to wade through. This week, my mind is elsewhere, so I'll use that excuse, but after several reads, I began to make connections. Lucky for me, I was fortunate enough to spend way too many hours learning about Philosophy in Austria from two old, gnarly professors. It was there that I learned of Zeno's paradox concerning the arrow. (The arrow in flight is actually motionless, because at any given moment, it is occupying a space its own size that allows it to be considered at rest, even if at the end of those points it makes a line.) When Graves begins to discuss "the notion that light could be both a wave and a particle," (106) I immediately thought of good 'ole Dr. Zecha trying to illustrate Zeno's paradox in broken German/English -- Gerglish, if you will.

In this way, rhetoric (at least as I understood Graves to  say) is "both/and". It is a way (mode?) for writers to present new ideas for some, but/and a combination of all things that actually makes the new idea. It is both a wave and a particle. It is the motionless arrow in motion. (Can we please, please, find an excuse to watch Robin Hood? The Disney version? Or the one with dudes in tights? Any of them, really.)

As Graves quotes Stephen Hawking saying,

"A theory is a good theory if it is an elegant model, if it describes a wide class of observations, and if it predicts the results of new observations. Beyond that, it makes no sense to ask if it corresponds to reality, because we do not know what reality is independent of a theory."

That dude really knows what he is talking about.

I feel this way about a lot of the theories we read in classes, especially ones that have to do with Philosophy. For me, so much of these observations and conclusions based on them are reliant on the fact that the information provided is truth. However, they are merely theories, dude! It's all relative! It is dependent on your personal self -- your history and experiences,  your kairos, your everything-that-you-bring-to-the-table-you-are-reading-at.

Fisher brought to mind another part of this idea of relativity for me --

Fisher quotes Heidegger observing,

"We are a conversation...conversation and its unity support our existence."

But, what happens if the conversation isn't unified? What if we disagree? What if we don't always believe these theories that are shown to us?

If we turn to look at this Narrative Paradigm, if we agree with this theory that humans are indeed storytellers (I agree -- look at our oratory history, blah, blah, blah). Then Fisher must show us an elegant model (I think he tried?), a wide class of observations (HA! Very wide.) and it should predict the results of new observations. Fisher ends it for us with the idea of a quest -- that our narrative is not yet finished. That we are out searching for it -- and if we aren't out there, that we should be soon.

So, go find your story, you lazy son-or-daughter-of-a-homo-narrans.

I'm going to finish trying to make sense of these articles.