Performance and the Subject

Introduction



It is important to distinguish performance from performativity: the former presumes a subject, but the latter contests the very notion of the subject.
Judith Butler


The subject is a variable complex formation of discourse and power. One might argue that subject is impediment. For to be subject is to be someone else by dependence and tied to his own identity by a conjunction of ‘self’ and knowledge.
Stuart Hall.


The next question was - what makes planets go around the sun? At the time of Kepler some people answered this problem by saying that there were angels behind them beating their wings and pushing the planets around an orbit. As you will see, the answer is not very far from the truth. The only difference is that the angels sit in a different direction and their wings push inward. For me, it is a pity that Einstein's idea doesn't work. The reasonable thing just doesn't work.
Richard Feynman
















The starting point on the subject is that almost all philosophical orientations today, even if they strongly oppose each other, agree on some kind of basic anti-subjectivist stance. ‘The subject is ossifying’, although not yet a clamour has become a consensus view. The feeling is that the dynamism of the subject has exhausted itself and is now in terminal decline. Some suggest the subject, or self, if not dead, is in an ‘oxygen tent’ and we are beginning to become haunted by its gradual disappearance.1 Bearing in mind the tide of subjection we face round the clock; politics, education, consumerism, media, it could be confidently claimed ours is an age in which the individual subject is in increasing search of itself.

Yet it is a requisite of liberal, democratic politics to presuppose the existence of individual subjects. These citizen/subjects are deemed capable of reflective and critical distance from a possible course of action. They are also assumed to be equal to the task of taking and being charged with unique responsibility for those actions. Such democratic societies encourage unfettered, public debate in the belief that their subjects would be ultimately responsive to the force of better reasons and would act accordingly, i.e. at the polling booth. Yet throughout many contemporary social science and humanities disciplines, a widespread and deep scepticism about the possibility of such individual agency and such responsiveness reigns. It follows that such contemporary scepticism in regard to the subject must impact on notions of that currently highly esteemed concept of ‘performance’.

Certainly, ‘performance’ plays a major part in the election of our political leaders, Tony Blair has been described as ‘...a great performer’, (The Scotsman, 12th July, 2003).2 Indeed the choice for the ‘leader of the ‘free world’ has hinged on the performance of presidential candidates in television debates and this has been a constant since Nixon v Kennedy in the 1960s, now embedded in performance lore.3

(For acess to the complete work - email drpcheevers@yahoo.co.uk)

Why the Grass isn’t Green and the Sky isn’t Blue and your Blood is not Red.

You go through your school life with your English teachers (Bless) telling you what a Metaphor is - and for the rest of your days, it is more than likely; you will view metaphor as one, or all of the following:

a) Metaphor expresses similarities, used mainly in poetic flourish or by politician in rhetorical persuasion.
b) Metaphors occur when a word is allotted to not what it normally designates but to something else.
c) You are given to understand by the teachers that there are pre-existing similarities between what words normally designate.

So you leave school with a sense that metaphors are, well, kind of linguistically deviant - should have an ASBO wrapped round them for they are saying one thing while meaning another. Anyway shouldn’t language if used in its proper sense be literal. Eh well, no.
Follow me into my garden and I will endeavour to make my point...

(For access to full article email magazine)

I suppose we were just meant for each other - destined to meet.

All of us, find it hard to escape the attraction of lyricism, the fairytale, minstrels that enchanted universe of goblins and fairies so redolent in our Harry Pottterish world. For we live in a world of wall to wall media with its techno-tele-discursivity, telling us how to think and x factor techno-tele-iconicity telling us who to adore. Most of us just grin and bear these pathological aspects of modernity.

Why not be stoic anyway? because overhead there is lowering sky called seductive capitalism with its massive investment in the escapism of ‘luv’, from pop songs to women’s magazines downwards. Yes charismatic capitalism with its proselytising zeal that induces desire, the kind of purchasing desire that once induced must be sated. Does this apply to love. Does the discourse on love go unrecognised. Is love domination accepted?

“Our antennas were trembling at that first meeting. We both just knew it. It wasn;t tht long afterwadsthat we were married. Has the woman just unknowingly just triggered her dispositions and entered marriage as calculated submission?

I was talking to friends and associates about how they first met and I though this could be turned into a game show by say, Simon Bowel, he could stage it in a Roman amphitheatre
”We had such similar tastes in everything.” I stayed schtum, but the view that marriage between people with the same social characteristics, is a form of inbreeding floated across my mental screen.
“I don’t know what it was about him, I think it was his bearing. You know, the way he carried himself.” So he had performed his manly role well. “I don’t know... with her...it was the way she walked, her gait, the tilt of her head - she had played her, coquettish, demure female part well. Hearing this just strengthened my view that identity is performance.
“Something told me to go to the cafe that night with my friend, and that’s where we met. The moment I looked at him. I knew, I can’t put it into words...” Don’t worry others will, with their incomparably lucid evocation from Mills and Boon to chic lit, stretching into an infinity where all the trees have been used up.
“It wasn’t long before I was thinking of...well marriage really...the white dress, the ceremony, the full works. Never thought that would happen to me. Perhaps it was just fate that I met him that night.” “Perhaps it was” I acquiescd. Yes, amor fati, that love of fate, with its baggage of acceptance of the determined or predetermined course. Haven’t we all fallen for that one.

If you feel all this has a comic pedantry, part of some medieval fabliaux, you are on the right track. As these friends continued to recount the tale of their romance and subsequent marriage, a ghostly bearded figure like Hamlet’s father fleeted across my mind and in sonorous Darwinian tones boomed, “All these meeting are driven by biology.” Jesus, I thought, I will have to get a move on myself if I want to have children.
But I kept on interviewing the couples. So these couples told how they were in love, as they understood it. As their relationships intensified, they began to view the other as quasi divine creatures. Now they were on the magical island of love where there is full reciprocity. Where you entrust yourself to the other, and authorise the atonement of yourself to the other, A work of mutual recognition takes place, which Jean Paul Satre said makes you feel, ‘justified in existing’.

And this island is on a wondrous archipelago where you are just accepted with all your negative particularities and at your most contingent. Here in this love bliss, a state of disinteredness, based on the happiness of giving happiness. It is and inexhaustible reason for wonder. On this island of pure love, couples give themselves to each other, thereby excluding themselves from common circulation. Yet pure love, like art for art’s sake, is a relatively recent historical invention.

Some of the men talked to me of their ‘stag nights’ with misty reminiscence. As the tales of this strange male phenomeonon unfolded each sounded more and more like a bunch of Norse men with horns getting pissed in Ramsgate after a rocky landing in their long boats. So I went to one, as another of my. “I ‘m nearing 30 now,” of my friends ‘bit the dust’.
“She brought him to his knees.” “He was putty in her hands.”
Over the beer in the pub, they shook their heads. Yes, he had succumbed, hadn’t he, to that fatal attraction. Their words, in that male way, rang out like verdicts. “You’ll be next.” They said to me accusingly. “What me, never.”
“It was the pillow talk, wasn’t it?” The lads taunted him, the hooked one, the soon to be married. Yes, the forces that are suspected of working in the darkness, of binding men, of entrapping. The vagina dentata had struck again for men enfold and women ensnare, they didn’t say. But as they went on, tacitly branded the woman as a decadent voluptuary for stealing one of their mates. For this was a ‘stag nigh’ and these were men, and they were acting out the permanent dispositions that being masculine triggers and awakens.

As they reflected further how he had fallen madly in love with her, their laddish reflections, with their fixations to immaturity just serving to reinforce the androcentric mythology. Yes that fatal attraction affecting the social order of male dominance, embedded in our psyches from Aphrodite to Eve had worked it’s magic again, making them forget the obligation linked to their social dignity as men.

As they continued to muse not allowing for an instant, that they as men are invariably in a state of subterranean tension, like an enclave of negation. You know the weight of it just being men, and their anxiety about being men like some exotic peculiarities never spoken of and the resulting uncertainty leading to frantic circular investment in just achieving the target of being, well you know, a ‘man’.

When the landlord called time, afterwards, in that British way, there wasn’t a public toilet to be found, so it was down the alley to urinate against the wall. And this with much hearty laugher ended in a contest as to who could piss highest. It could have been a potency contest for 12 year olds. Alex won, but then he’s a fire man/fighter.

Then it was my turn, theres isn’t the space to tell you the whys and wherefores. But I do remember standing by her at the ceremony. How I had worked on my body in the gym, and she had worked too, to make herself trim and neat. Men do such gym things to make themselves bigger, women to make themselves smaller. .

Then the ceremony, we all need ceremony. I think of it now. The priest in his cassock, she in her silk dress that piece of clothing that like the priest’s cassock that neither prescribes or proscribes. And her minimal maquilage that denoted what? Allure. The cosmesis of it all, me in my first suit for yonks, which made me feel as if just I just had plastic surgery. What did the suit denote anyway, honour?

We took our vows in language effectively vowing to resolve our differences in non-coercive and non manipulative ways. And how would we manage to do that? Well we would use those twin transcending towers; we would be both rational and yes, reasonable. I mean if you want to achieve a consensual action you use the bargaining tools available to rational and thinking people

We vowed this both publicly and privately in the belief that these stubborn notions of rationality and reason would impose order on our chaotic manifold of impulses. Of course it is a given that in employing these two stale and obstinate notions they must be recognised de facto and unquestioning, for they are like objectivity, trans discursive and trans subjective. Now I think, how impotent and arbitrary is utopian thinking.
I remember those communicative signs, the ‘gifts and then there were the speeches.

Heavily male. Where innuendo snuck in, eh, tastefully of course.
Men with their speeches as if by their words they were magically been handed the skeptron, that Greek staff of bygone ages. And that by their just standing to speak there was some Godly call to order. There should be a sacralising separation, or so they thought. For men were about to speak, and they did so, by believing that they were drawing on external sources, words. But it was words that were drawing them in the linguistic sphere and just releasing the springs and pulleys that constitute male dispositions. Meanwhile, as I recall, the women watched, feminine, demure,coquettish.

I recall the mute suffering on the face of my Mediterranean mum giving her son away. There she was employing the means of the weak, the tearful outburst, as she squeezed the life out of a tiny laced white handkerchief. As people comforted her with mollifying words, or overly personal addresses of “Darling; or “Dear” or chucked her cheek, she was accepting of this sympa behaviour exemplify her marked propensity for self denigration.
Then there was the father-in-law, an Edwardian gentleman straight out of the pages of Virginia Woolf. I recalled how on the lawn afterwards he narrowed his eyes and looked to the horizon as if to say
‘You will understand one day.” The gloating of prophylactic prediction all over him. Yes, for this man who had deserted just about everybody, including three wives, all this was a kind of ludic illusion. He was at pains that you would remember his ‘ I told you so’ shots off the bow, while the retrospective triumph would be his. This man was always full of the pleasure of disillusioning. As if fitting to his male statutory loftiness he was an anthropologist but a pessimistic one. This man, for sure, would die standing, preferably by a crag of rock where in the future people would come to reflect by the cairn of rocks that was his monument to steadfast maleness. Or so he believed. He was a man alright, but prehistoric. His demeanour full of that totalising critique, like those experts hauled onto television couches, the intellectual theocracy giving out their critiques that reduce most to utter despair and defeatism. These latte literati, are an exploitative class of mediation and meaning who are unregulated, unmediated,

Then there was the Honeymoon in Venice, where we wandered past ‘Harry's Bar' and laughed uproariously. So here we were on our Honemoon in Venice, being in love was like a truce; love as the suspension of power relations, a deadly break in the natural order. A miraculous truce has taken place, where the dominant (male) seems dominated. And as if by magic male violence and coarseness has been stilled; civilized by stripping social relations of their brutality. We were in love, the state where couples lose themselves in each other in suspension of object and subject. It is a state where there is no temptation to dominate for one is blissfully beyond the alternatives of egoism and altruism and in this complicitious stage there is little need for the distortion of compromise.

But can the enchanted island of love endlessly threatened by the return of egoistic calculation be snatched from the icy waters of calculation, violence and self-interest. Years later I would recall those marriage vows - as if rationality and reason were free from illusion and self-deception, not as a pile of debris growing skywards.

Is love then, domination accepted, unrecognised. Has the woman entered marriage as calculated submission. Is her behaviour the complicity of the dominated? Was being in love the suspension of the dominant symbolic violence, or did it then become the extreme, the most subtle, the most invisible form of violence?

*(If you like this kind of thinking - then read
Pierre Bourdieu, I could not have written this without him).

Hell in fractured French

Hell, in Fractured French.
Like Alice he had fallen down a hole into a weird world. So this was it, finally had made it, to hell. But it was nothing like he had envisaged, none of that burning in eternal flames; no boiling tar when he asked for a cup of water; none of the Catholic indoctrination of his youth. In fact, strangely what he got was an offer of biscuits and tea and eh...sympathy. No, this was a different kind of hell.
This hell was a group who were talking about their experiences and all in fractured French which he strained to understand. I know it sounds like a gentle kind of hell, like some intermediate language group meeting up as a break from the tedium of knitting and bowls, but the hell was of it was, its subtlety.
For these people, you see, weren’t devils, no, no, they were good solid burghers, some educated, some not, and their horns only appeared when they talked delightedly of this incident or that which had struck them since they last met.
As the self congratulatory reportage of this item they had seen in the newspapers or they had seen on the television rolled out, the hell of it only became apparent when you asked, “How do you know that to be true?” And a more devilish side would show when they indignantly responded, “It was in the papers and on television”.
But being a new boy in hell, unwisely you would persist “...this thing you read about, this latest phenomenon, how do you know it is beautiful?” and you would get baleful looks. “It’s say so here, in this magazine.” “But beauty is a transitory thing, you know Rubinesque women in one century and stick thin models in another...” But the hellish futility of it, as they all smiled sympathetically at this new boy, would make the words die on your lips. ‘And why was all this being conveyed in lousy French?’ you wanted to scream but you knew you couldn’t for this nightmare was ruled over by civilised restraint. You were slow, but you were learning
You see this was a genteel hell, for you were allowed in a very courteous way to bring up what you wanted to say, “You know on the way down here I saw...” but when you would express sympathy for the demonstrators you had seen naively voicing their discontent at Lucifer’s gates, you were immediately pounced on for being a sympathiser with violence, and you knew for all eternity there would not be a recognition that the violence was coming from the other side. It was an awful feeling, just awful, that the violence of silence ruled here.
But come on, enough is enough, you wanted to scream at them all, ‘...all your reportage...on the television...in the newspapers, it is all virtual. Even the bloody language you use is virtual, even you, the subjects you so confidently think you are, it is all virtual.’ But you suppressed your scream because it would have been ridiculous in this genteel place where all they knew and would forever know was the virtual.
So with a mind wrenching clarity it dawned, here you had to play the polite game, the courteous exchange, for it was the only way, you were permitted to ask anything. So you would enquire in that hellishly civil way, “Well...eh what happens here, eh... in hell. You know what do you do with yourselves in the eh... evenings?” You had asked the right question, clever boy, for your polite enquiry brought about a communal glow of self satisfaction.
“Oh, you know, we watch the news on television, just to keep informed, you see, so as we know what is going on. Then most of us have a sherry or two on the balcony and read the newspapers. It’s lovely you see because all of our balconies face the sun.”
“Do they, really?”
And you would think of the occupants of those balconies; billions, trillions of them all facings the sun, all contentedly committing the blasphemy of thinking they could convert the unknown into the comfort of the known. And why is it all in fractured French?
Oh, what a future hell is this to be here for all eternity with human mermaids basking on their verandas in the sun, contentedly thinking they had straddled both worlds.

If you wish to find a message in a Godard film then Cherchez Le Pimp!

If You Want to Find the Message in a Godard Film,
then Cherchez le Pimp!

John Kriedl, Jean-Luc Godard Twayne Publishers (Boston 1980), reminds us
that in a study made of prostitution in France in the last days of the IV
Republic (1954-58), it was revealed that one out of every eighty Parisians
women were prostitutes. The prostitute can thus be seen as a protagonist of
French society. Accordingly, Jean-Luc Godard moved the prostitute to the
centre of his first five films.

Now if one goes to Godard¹s earlier film work Breathless, A Woman Is a
Woman, and The Little Soldier, we see the beginnings of a subjection of
women to a rigorous semiotics scrutiny. Godard¹s women appeared almost
extra-filmic, leaning out of his films, and as they did so, were subjected
to a rigorous, almost Gestapo-like questioning. Kriedl goes on to argue that
continuing this train in his film work, Godard introduced a technique for
analysing women that was a total break from all Hollywood convention; a
technique, Kriedl asserts, that borrows from sources as wide apart as
Umberto Eco, the TV Interview, and Russian Formalism.

This technique is called experimental semioticization, which means reducing
the character to a bunch of signifiers, stripped of any psychologism, and
making these signifiers belong to a class, concept or ism, such as
prostitution. This external semiotisation of a female character was a
technique totally new up to 1962 in France and 1968 in USA, which violated
all the character conventions pertaining to female images.

So if we search for a semantic meaning in a Godard film we rapidly find
information systems that tell us we are observing pimps and prostitutes.
Therefore we follow what narrative there is, until we see the prostitute
signifiers. These will also signify pimps and the signs we receive are
those giving the sense of prostitutes controlled by hidden pimps - in other
words, behind every prostitute is a hidden pimp.

Godard¹s semiotics on the sexual element of the prostitute/pimp
relationship, were of course just the codes and signs which pointed towards the real Mafia in our society. An illustration of this would be Godard¹s response to women undressing in his films. He stoutly defended this, and would point out that the real pimps in this area of our society are the ones who dress women. Taking this
Semiotic decoding a step further we find in Breathless that the Inspector is
the pimp of the law; yet, we also find that, even worse, by law is meant
(the real Mafiosa) the economic law. Therefore a successful decoding
process for the Godard film would necessarily take us through the following
steps:

1. Assume that each film will contain a prostitute and a pimp; evidence of
one is evidence of the other.

2. See that in an extension of the prostitute/pimp story, the pimp can be
the state or an agency of the state, and sexual prostitution will not be the
only signifier for the prostitute shown in the film. The signs showing the
pimp's control will stand for societal forced prostitution and will search
out what the character is really unwilling to do but does anyway.

3. Recognise that part of the prostitute/pimp story will have a
self-referential element that is Godard¹s self-criticism of his own, i.e.
deploring the artist (Godard) selling out to a capitalism.

4. Assume that the resolution to the story line of the film must happen
later, in real life, and that the film we saw is episodic, not final. Its
beginning happened before the film and its end will be found later, or, in
the next Godard film.

The pimp/prostitute relationship was one of Godard's bêtes noires and it
was through this device that he hoped to concentrate minds on larger social
issues.

"If Only your Daughter would Speak Up imore in the Classroom."

If Only your Daughter would ‘Speak Up in Class’.
We are attending a parents evening for our daughter (let’s call her Renata) and it is becoming worrying how each successive teacher laments if only our daughter would
“Speak up a little more in class. She is a confident girl but very quiet.”

Miffed we walk home querying each other is she really that quiet? Well if she is then who is to blame? Easy, of course it us, her parents.

So as parents when she has gone to bed we starts discussing this problem of Renata’s language, or lack of it in class. This is a child who luckily has no learning or speech difficulties. We try to think back on where if and where we might have gone wrong.

“Remember how demanding she used to be for those bedtime stories.” We recalled at about three she was already hungry for the strict rules that these bedtime stories must have a beginning, middle and an end. What we didn’t know - this would come later when I started some research into language - that there is a growing consensus in Western thought and science that we may understand ourselves and our world more deeply if we think in terms of patterns of relationships rather than of reified essences or entities. This pattern dependency seems strictly human for nothing like this obsession with extracting hidden patterns is seen in other animals. Interestingly this pattern-hunger isn’t limited to speech, people who cannot speak hunt down patterns in sign language.

So perhaps we were guilty for inculcating her with this fixation for extracting hidden patterns. Without knowing it we had brought her up as if we were from some strict sect called the Aristoleans for wasn’t he the guru of beginning middle and end.
“Me and my friends went ...”
“My friends and I...” Come on, admit it as parents we have all done it. Yes, blinded by doing the best for her, we were supine to the dangers as we took her through the gradual process of language normalisation. Yes, were bringing her up under the illusion that there was an entity out there, a kind of linguistic communism, and to prepare her for that world we were going to be strict grammarians.
A week has elapsed.
“But why hasn’t she the confidence to speak up in class.”
Flummoxed, we decide, “Let’s talk to her now.” “Oh she will just try to brazen it out.” “You don’t know what the classroom is like...the people who are chosen to speak when hands go up, and the nonsense they speak. It’s usually television references (we know she has been teased for not having a television) which the teachers can identify with... if ever I speak the other pupils are speaking at the same time, yet the teachers demand absolute silence when they speak, what’s the point?

And anyway...”
As our daughter continued to protest her right to remain silent in classroom debates, I thought again of that parent’s evening and of how we, the community, have passed authority to those teachers giving them the right to be bearers of the skeptron. (In Homer, the speaker holds the skeptron, which reminds the audience that they are in the presence of a discourse which merits belief and obedience). “...and some of the teachers they never stop speaking and if they ever do listen it’s the impatient nod of the head, as if they wished you would hurry up and get on with what you have to say so as they could start talking again.
“Condescending ...yeah?” “Oh stop using big words, Dad.”
So you give her a hug, wish her goodnight and leave it at that, but you go away feeling you must delve into this after all our daughter is in this language arena...maybe with her, it is just a simple matter of confidence.
Then you do a little research and you find that this ability to speak up is a little more nuanced that the touchy feely concept of confidence. For those who ‘speak up’ must feel they have the authority to do so and those who listen must feel the addresser has the power to make them listen. It would appear this power and authority is implicit in all linguistic communication.

As I dipped my toes further into research on language what was becoming uncomfortably apparent was my own laughably naive take on it. How culpable we had been as we immersed our daughter in language; like other caring parents we thought were inculcating her into the correct linguistic disciplines that would prepare her for life.

And how did we tackle this problem? Well, we brought our objectivity to bear on this very important task, how to use language. We did so as if we were lighthouse keepers splaying our searchlight on what might become turbulent linguistic waters. and 2) the main shortcoming of our hubristic objectivism, is that it fails to reflect rigorously on its own conditions of possibility. After all the lighthouse is in the sea, we cannot stand on a rock and observe objectively as if we were momentarily on the outside, we are all on the inside and there is no outsideYou see we thought we could bring our objectivity to language because it had an invariant core. But the problem with this assumption about language are twofold, 1) language does not have an invariant core, its only core, if you can call it that, is difference and difference is not a thing, it is not substantive But no one will tell them, and maybe they shouldn’t, that the snag with difference it cannot be reified, it is relational and therefore it does not exist in space or time.
.
The problem was as we instructed Renata more in the rules of language we were unable to grasp the structure we were elucidating. We thought we were just well, you know, preparing her for ‘life’ “After all, if you wish to communicate well then you will have to speak well,” – we didn’t say, “If you acquire the form and formalities of the language field, you will gain a kind of power; a symbolic power. We didn’t do this, simply, because we didn’t know. Yet, we have always been faintly aware that there was power in language but till the ‘Parents evening’ we were not aware that those who do not partake of this symbolic power contribute in a kind of silent but active complicity to their own subjection, There are sanctions if you speak up too much, and in our daughter’s case, too little.

As to language sanctions and censorships in schools, I thought of my own immigrant status of many years ago and of how I came to judge my Irish accent with such practical severity. I felt I was a deviant because of my accent. For in my day people speaking in dialects were instructed to collaborate in the destruction of their instrument of expression. Having a regional accent meant you did not measure up and were cast out into the limb of regionalism, which teachers and fellow pupils decried. For those who do not speak properly, are the least favoured to the negative sanctions of the scholastic market. Hence the silence and the hesitation which may overcome working class children like me, in what they deem to be official or formal occasions.

I did not want my daughter to grow up with that outsider sense of being alienated. So I delved deeper and as I did so it was being revealed that language is a process which arises out of an awareness of differences and such differences themselves mainly arise within a larger classificatory context, through unconscious processes pre-formed by linguistic categories, rather than through conscious processes performing rational procedures.

Pupils arrive So Renata and her classmate arrive at the awareness of the dissimilarities in language within a circumscribed cognitive domain, most of which has been formed unconsciously. The problem arises when Renata and her classmate, encouraged by the teachers, endeavour to pin down the butterfly of language. But let me get this right, when I speak I do so from a cognitive domain which has over aeons of time developed through evolutionary means and by which our world of experience is continuously yet unconsciously constructed, classified, and mapped. By this evolutionary process and through the recursive and circular causalities of language, this process we have has given rise to forms of awareness. So when the pupils put up their hands and cry ‘Miss, Miss, Miss, me Miss’ as they do so they have a proliferation of thought.
“See Miss, I am speaking up,”
However, as long as the thought "I am" persists, so will endless cycles of apperceptions, (past perceptions constituting our present perceptions)) conceptual proliferation and further apperceptions etc. keep spinning.
Talk about spinning, where am I? I have arrived at ‘Thoughts without a Thinker.’ Well I am not going to burden Renata with that one, I mean it is bloody destabilising to say the least, even as I think about it I can help but feel a touch of ontological vertigo. Perhaps that is why they don’t teach this sort of stuff on language.

However, drawn, Holmes like, I follow the trail. So in this evolutionary process of language the unconscious structuring of experience with its processual and interactive arising of things has taken place and this had imparted the cogency of human experience, with its deep sense of subjective coherence, which is this self, or this symbolic self. Yet where the self, one is cannot individuate a subject at all. It would appear the metaphysical subject is not an object of experience at all, but a way of indicating the overall structure of experience. It would appear that the evolutionary linguistification of human mental processes has given rise to a symbolic self, which is dependent upon the reflexive possibilities of language rather than reflecting the existence of the substantive.

From this standpoint, cognition, or how we perceive, is thus neither purely subjective nor wholly objective. Like a transaction that takes place between individuals, cognitive awareness occurs at the interface, the concomitance of a sense-organ and its correlative stimulus. Cognitive awareness does not reflects things, as they are, since what constitutes an ‘object’ is necessarily defined by the capacities of a particular sense organ; say the eye, and it is well to remember that the cognitive capacities of a sense organ are also correlatively defined by the kinds of stimuli that may impinge upon them. As Capra (1998, 220) points out, "...as it keeps interacting with its environment, a living organism will undergo a sequence of structural changes... an organism's structure at any point in its development is a record of its previous structural changes and...each structural change influences the organism's future behaviour."

Here we arrive at another problem in how we view language - stimuli are always impinging upon the sense organs, say the eye, giving rise to forms of cognitive awareness; and these processes continuously but subtly modulate the structures of these organs, which in turn influences their receptivity to subsequent stimuli. The two notions - that living entails continuous cognition and cognition entails continuous modification of living structures - introduces an important causal reciprocity between the structure of sense organs and the arising of cognitive awareness. These reciprocal processes take place not only at the micro level of cognition, but also at the macro level of evolution. Both evolutionary biology and the view of dependent arising articulate models of circular causality to describe how things come into being over the long term. Through this circular, recursive and evolutionary process we arrive at what we feel to be language, but is no more than difference.

So when I perceive something, say what I am typing on this screen now, I perceive difference; an empty screen, writing it out by hand, a proliferation of recursive and circular aperceptions. For all receipt of information is necessarily the receipt of difference. To even speak of perception is to necessarily speak of awareness of differences. Awareness of differences, however, cannot arise outside of a context, since differences occur between phenomena. An absolutely isolated object would be imperceptible, like say ‘real originality’ it is impossible, for how would we know it is was original if we had nothing to compare it to.
.
Contextual differences however, have no singular location. As Bateson (109) avers: "Difference, being of the nature of relationship, is not located in time or in space." Since awareness of differences arises contextually rather than independently, and is episodic rather than enduring, it has no substantive existence. Not being a substance, it neither comes nor goes anywhere. Differences have neither any actual substance nor any singular location; they are neither a something nor a nothing ontologically speaking. The differences we perceive or aperceive are to be regarded as the effects of the difference which preceded them." (Bateson, 121)

Circular causality, which classroom logic eschews, occurs in the form of recursive feedback processes, wherein the results of previous events serve as the basis for succeeding ones. The language we use refer to patterns of relationships, not properties of substances; to maps not territory; terra incognita not terra firma.
“But language must have come from somewhere, Dad?” I am beginning to talk to Renata about my new take on language.
“Well our linguistic capabilities didn’t spring fully formed from the mouth of the Gods.”
Our linguistic capabilities are part of the accumulative, constructive and interactive processes of evolution whereby cognitive processes condition living structures, which in turn condition further processes and so on. As symbolic communication dependently arose in early hominid species it became a powerful evolutionary force in its own right, radically and irrevocably changing the structures and processes of the human brain. This momentous change centred on an increasingly enlarged prefrontal cortex, where such symbolizing processes apparently occur. As language use and this ‘prefrontalisation’ mutually reinforced each other, the symbolic-linguistic mode of cognition that is dependent upon them came to dominate other, originally non-linguistic, processes. Human cognitive processes, even simple sensory ones, in other words, unavoidably arise in dependence upon our linguistified brain. Language, then, along with the systemic distinctions upon which it depends, is not something added on to human cognitive processes. Systemic symbolic thinking is constitutive of normal human cognitive processes. We live our lives in this shared virtual world. The doorway into this virtual world was opened to us alone by the evolution of language

"We cannot help but see the world in symbolic categorical terms," Deacon declares (416), "...dividing it up according to opposed features, and organizing our lives according to themes and narratives."

This linguistification of human cognitive processes thus represents a physiologically enstructured, dominating cognitive strategy characterized by compulsive yet creative recursivity, based upon words that are defined mutually and systemically, not independently or substantively, and whose ultimate meanings are conventional determined.

It is late at night, there is a moon out there reflecting its light on the back garden. A fox barks, I read on... it would seem the most deeply entrenched source of these recursive possibilities, which also doubles back to generate its own linguistically generated recursivity, is no doubt our sense of self as an enduring, experiencing agent. A fox barks, this is not the hour to be doubting the self. “This sense of self, however, derives its compelling cogency, it’s enduring and endearing allure, from the same social and linguistic matrix other words and symbols do. Like language, this symbolic self is a product of massive interdependency; like other relational phenomenon, it has no substantive existence in time or space. "It is a final irony," Deacon concludes (452),
“And if I do ‘speak up’ Dad, I know the teachers will only correct me, because they are kinds of ...instruments?” “Instrument of what?” “Well....instruments of correction, Have I got the right, Dad?”
School are not a language area for semantic freewheeling, without referring to anything in particular, they are in arena of formal rigour where linguistic norms are imposed. Through innumerable acts of correction, the educational system tend to produce the need for its own services as teachers consecrate legitimate language and conserve their monopoly in their labour of correction.

As parent we had never given a thought to the fact that the teachers were paid to teach codified language with authority for they were codified by grammarians, and their task is to encourage equivalences in a system of grammatical norms not to teach the evolutionary fact that we are the word made
Ends (2750 words)

Books researched and referred to:
Barash, David. 1979. The Whisperings Within: Evolution and the Origin of Human Nature. New York: Harper & Row.
Bateson, G. 1979. Mind and Nature: A Necessary Unity. New York: Bantam Books.
Capra, Fritjof. 1998. The Web of Life. New York: Anchor Books.
Carrithers, M. 1992. Why Humans Have Culture. New York: Oxford University Press.
Collins, S. 1982. Selfless Persons. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Deacon, T. W. 1997. The Symbolic Species: The Co-evolution of Language and the Brain. New York: W.W. Norton & Co.
Geertz, C. 1973. "The Impact of the Concept of Culture on the Concept of Man." The Interpretation of Cultures. New York: Basic Books.
Harland, Richard. 1987. Superstructuralism. London: Routledge.
Johansson, R.E.A. 1979. The Dynamic Psychology of Early Buddhism. London: Curzon Press.
Lakoff, G. and Mark Johnson. 1999. Philosophy in the Flesh: The Embodied Mind and its Challenge to Western Thought. New York: Basic Books.
Lewontin. R. 1983. "The organism as the subject and object of evolution." Scientia 118:63-82.
Lewontin, R. 2000. The Triple Helix: Genes, organism, environment. Cambridge: Harvard Univ. Press.
Oyama, S. 2000. The Ontogeny of Information. 2nd ed. Duke University Press.
Rappaport, R. 1999. Ritual and Religion in the Making of Humanity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Restak, R. 1994. The Modular Brain. New York: Touchstone Books.
Rose, S. 1997. Lifelines: Biology Beyond Determinism. New York: Oxford University Press.
Saussure, F. 1959. General Course in Linguistics, New York: The Philosophical Library.
Stern, D. G. 1995. Wittgenstein on Mind and Language. New York: Oxford University Press.
Tooby, J. and Leda Cosmides. 1992. "The Psychological Foundations of Culture." in Barkow, Cosmides, Tooby. 1992. The Adapted Mind: Evolutionary Psychology and the Generation of Culture. New York: Oxford University.
Varela, F., E. Thompson, and E. Rosch. 1991. The Embodied Mind: Cognitive Science and Human Experience. Cambridge, Mass.: MIT Press.
Waldron, W. 2000. "Beyond Nature/Nurture: Buddhism and Biology on Interdependence." Contemporary Buddhism. V.1, n. 2. Nov. 2000, pp. 199-226.
Wiener, N. The Human Use of Human Beings. (1950, 96).
Wittgenstein, L. 1975. Philosophical Remarks. Edited from his posthumous writings. Basil Blackwell.
****

Doing the Crane - How to Improve your Life by Standing on One Leg

Proprioceptors –the Sixth Sense

With a history of ankle sprains over my tennis playing career from junior onwards I hesitantly embarked on the advice of a physiotherapist – “Start retraining your proprioceptors.” “My what?” Disinclined as I was to start standing on one leg in the garden and have neighbours tut tutting “Oh look, he thinks he is a crane.” - I can now attest to the remarkable success of the physiotherapist’s advice. So what are proprioceptors and how could they help your tennis game or just improve your structural alignment, balance, gait, in your daily or for any athletic performance.

Proprioceptors - the sixth sense
Often referred to as the sixth sense, or third eye, the proprioceptor sensory system, one of the most important neurological systems of the body, is how your brain and body communicate effortlessly.

The proprioception sensory system indicates to the brain where various parts of the body are located in relation to each other. It's the sense that allows you to keep your eyes on the road while driving and knowing where your hands are on the steering wheel, as well as your foot on the accelerator. It's also the sense that allows you to play tennis with all those vagaries of movement and the various demands on the upper and lower body As we change direction on the court, side step, back pedal, stretch for an overhead, or race to the net, we use these proprioceptors to help us keep our balance.

Our sensory system and proprioceptors – the physiology:
Our sensory system is comprised of proprioreceptors in muscle tissue that monitor length, pressure, tension and noxious stimuli. Proprioceptors stimulate complex muscle spindles which then trigger a cascade of events that control fine body movements and coordination. Our everyday tasks such as walking are amazingly complex. Within the second that it takes to take one step, the brain is recruiting and orchestrating many different subcomponents of the leg to contact the ground, transfer energy from heel to and back up through the hip.


Why understanding proprioception is important: Proprioception plays an important role in keeping our bodies safe. It triggers the brain to send out immediate and unconscious adjustments to the muscles and joints in order to achieve movement and balance. While most of us take this sixth sense for granted, recognizing the functions and potential limitations of proprioception can by the key to preventing injuries and living a longer, healthier life.

Proprioceptors and the risk of injury: If your brain isn't adept at propriocepting, or your muscles are sluggish, you may fall and possibly get hurt. If you're an athlete, the risk of injury increases as the length of playing time increases, as fatigue significantly decreases your ability to balance. All too commonly, a twisted ankle happens without any contact, but just by landing wrong from a lunge or stretch for a volley or overhead. The appropriate muscles were incapable of contributing to proper proprioception because of fatigue.

How well are your proprioceptor senses functioning?
Try this: Stand up, balance on one foot and close your eyes. If you must immediately put your foot down or hands out to prevent falling, then your proprioceptors are not functioning properly.

Retraining your proprioceptors:
There are simple balancing exercises that might seem easy "on paper," but most of us require practice and time to learn and regain excellent proprioception.

* Using a nearby support or rail to hang on to, stand and balance on one leg for a minute. Without practice, most will fail at this simple task! This is a result of weakened proprioception.

* Get started on improving your proprioception by balancing on one foot. Begin with your shoes on and eyes open.

* As your balance starts to improve, close your eyes. (If you have trouble maintaining this posture for more than a few seconds with your eyes closed, do it in a doorway so you can reach out to prevent falling.)

* When you can balance easily for at least a minute, start doing the exercise with your shoes off. Again, build up with your eyes open and then closed. You can do this several times during the day. Because most people brush their teeth twice a day, this a great time to multitask and balance on one foot with your eyes closed.

The next level is to stand on a soft foam pad and bounce a tennis ball on the ground or toss it against a wall and catch it.

* As you continue to progress, use a BAPS board or balance board, which improve both your proprioception and your leg muscles' strength.

You can also incorporate proprioception exercises into your core strengthening programme.

* Balance on one foot with the knee slightly bent, take a soccer ball or, if you are advanced enough, a small medicine ball, and move the ball in four directions: over each shoulder, down to the opposite foot and then side to side.

At present I am injury-free and having convinced my neighbours that I have not morphed into a crane I am less self conscious when I stand on one leg in the back garden.. Hope I have convinced you. Good luck.

Bosco world: Is Sport no more than Bread and Circuses?

Bosco world: Is Sport no more than Bread and Circuses?: "Bosco world: Bosco world: Bosco world:: 'Bosco world: Bosco world:: Sunday 29th August 2010 I always thought 'sport' was no more than 'bread..."
I always thought 'sport' was no more than 'bread and circuses' Bur of late I have wondered, does playing tennis give one an insight into one's personality? (No need to highlight my use of 'one' I am sufficiently self-conscious about its use and its associations with Her Majesty).

Yesterday I played a female in a single's league challenge at my local club. All the time I was playing I was thinking I should be slamming her off the court I have superior stength etc. I won with the aid of some dubious line calls, on my part. Is that not pathetic? I feel that in itself is worth ten sessions at the analysts.

In the afternoon, I played a men's doubles, and the language from me would have singed the ears of a Norse warrior. On reflection I felt all that swearing was, how can I put it? Well... boorish, you know, in a John Lennon type way. A friend advises,
"But isn't this part of it, 'sport 'is a means to get rid of that...all that excess energy. I mean you weren't playing against the local Vicar, were you? "

Hold on, I've started thinking, tennis...who knows, it might be a window to the 'soul' Let you know after my next match. which I hope to win without relying on the aid of dubious line calls.

A Short History of Singing Teachers

Bosco world:




No name no pack drills; but I know a young classical singer... let’s call her, ‘Carmel’, well, she’s my daughter actually and she is now in her teens. A veritable Diva, her successes have been many, winning varied competitions and awards as her reputation increases, for she does have an exceptional gift – her voice. Naturally this has entailed countless singing lessons and a myriad of singing teachers. Yes, so what’s the beef?

Well, the beef is the dreadful realisation that has slowly dawned on us since Carmel started her singing lessons, aged 11. And the reality is this: that with singing teachers, encouragement, sympathy, empathy - all those ‘sensitive’ artefacts - all cease once you stop giving them money. That has been our dispiriting experience, from the very talented, grumpy, retired opera name, to the ageing Diva with an ego the size of La Scala; from the local schoolteacher with numerous over-friendly dogs, to the untalented singing teacher mysteriously ensconced at the Conservatoire; to the hippyish ‘mezzo’ at the local prep, ‘...think a bed of scudding clouds when you hit that note,’ do you ever feel you’re floating when you do that?’




But why change your singing teacher so often? Baldly put, what we consistently experienced was a dearth of ideas which after the introductory period resulted in repetition of earlier lessons.
However all these singing teachers had attributes of varying degrees, but one thing they all had strikingly in common was that once money stopped being exchanged, all communication ceased with our daughter.

I give you one example, the one that nearly brought us to our senses. ‘Hubert’ is a singing teacher with a good reputation, albeit local. His enthusiasm positively bubbles over, when we tentatively enquire if he would care to give singing lessons to our daughter? “It would be an honour, a great honour for me to teach her. etc.” The empathy and keenness continues. One can’t help being flattered. At this juncture to find a word for us proud parents to describe this singing teacher we have to turn to the language of Opera itself - compassione (sympathy) that’s it; simpatico, yes, truly simpatico.
“Oh, that’s wonderful, we’re so glad you can take her on. Now... can we ask how much?’
‘Now this might surprise you a little...’
‘Sorry the line is not very good. You did say £42 per hour?”
“Yes, I did, £42 per hour.”
‘Hmm.’
Does he know that we have three other small children and we are economically challenged? Surprisingly he does, we find out later.

But flattered we are indeed by his enthusiasm and so it’s agreed. So each week he comes to our house, where heating, lighting and a piano are provided for. Let’s call that £43 per week a lesson then. Yet, we are getting in return, are we not, enthusiasm on a positively grand scale for our daughter’s voice and it would appear an avowal of continuing loyalty. Indeed not just a singing teacher, but it would appear a friend for life.

Six months later we must move because of an economic need to downsize (a smaller not bigger house). So off we go with our four kids, including Diva. And naive as ever we say we must give Hubert our new address and phone number for I am sure he will want to keep in touch. Hubert is different from the other singing teachers.



We never heard from Hubert again, not even a Christmas card. The money has stopped and compassione? non venire a piangere da me!; you won't be getting any from me, Mate! (my translation.)

This story is symptomatic of our experience over a several year period of singing teachers. Continuity it appears is not a word in their training manuals. Magnanimous in our naivety we even contemplated at one point that in some subtle way they were trying to prepare one for the harsh competitive word of the classical singer. But seriously, is this just human nature, or is such behaviour peculiar to the singing teacher? (For example, an Irish dancing teacher has remained a friend even after we stopped handing over a mere £2.30 per lesson.)

Now some might say – all those accepting realists of our post-industrial, post-modern society, that’s how it should be, for that is the harsh economic reality of it all in late capitalism. And to wish to see it differently is to indulge in sentimentality that is positively syrupy. And the monetary exchange is the concrete, indeed only foundation for the singing teacher-pupil relationship. Further, friends who have (sensibly?) got their teenage daughter focused on a career in computers argue, “If Vinny Jones could put bums on Royal Opera House seats, then Billy Budd he will be.”

However, post this and that as we may be, we are not yet post-human. And, call us sentimental if you will, but how over the years our parental yearnings have gone: “If only someone would take a genuine interest in her...you know ...someone that would really see her talent, a mentor, a benefactor, a patron...” - his/her reward being that our Carmel’s potential is realised. The searing pain of it when we found, over the years, that’s just not how it was going to be for us. These hopes and yearnings were chimeras; the stuff of dreams; the lore of fairy tale, Professor Higgins and Eliza Doolittle myth. Still, why can’t a singing teacher be more... well, truly simpatico?

For in honesty we worry about the long-term effect on our daughter. Has it coloured her view of human nature? Dealing with this anxiety I have philosophised ponderously, “You know, Carmel, human nature is not to be measured through singing teachers.” But I suppose the point of all this is, how is Carmel doing today? - for that’s what matters. Well, at the moment she’s looking for a singing teacher. “Yes, there’s one not far from here...I hear he’s very good and only charges...”

Largin Quinn Cartoon by Nuala Redmond

To Self-Help or not to Self-Help

Bosco world:

To Self-help or not to Self-help?

Researching for a Self-help book that you are writing does not justify you claiming to be an expert on the subject but it does allow you, after sufficient delving, to claim to be a conduit of information. Such as the fact that laboratory mice live twice as long in daylight as they do under artificial light. This is not pseudo science. Yet as I work on a book about the benefits of light to our daily lives. I realise it is becoming harder and harder to rebut the critics who deem the mushrooming array of anonymouses and its offshoot industry, Self- help books, to be just a synonym for ‘psychobabble’. For there is now a pejorative ring to the term ‘Self-help’, but is it justified?
Amongst the circle of people I know criticisms of the Self-help phenomenon are pretty vocal. “These days, you cope with the burden of your failings by redefining them. Smoking, stealing, having illicit sex, none of it is any longer your doing. Because you eradicate the problem by couching it in destigmatising language and ‘Hey Presto’ none of it is your responsibility, because guess what, you had an ‘illness’. We have been fed the disease model; drug abuse, sex addiction, compulsive eating, compulsive lying, compulsive shopping, compulsive gambling - now they are all deemed diseases.”
Then there was an uber sceptic friend of mine, over a recent lunch. “Even liberated women friends of mine are buying into ‘this’. What’s the latest ‘premenstrual syndrome’ and ‘postpartum depression?’ women are being conditioned to think of themselves as slaves to their hormonal governance. God Bless America for exporting their 12 step template. By the way if you are in healthy and loving relationship and you want to come on one of these more extremes self-help programmes, then you better start questioning that relationship, for you have to forsake this excessive or unhealthy concern for others - for in the twelve-step universe of self help, such excessive concern for one other person constitutes the pitiable emotional quagmire of co-dependency. And if you think that is rubbish then you are ‘in denial’. What Self-help has done is champions the selfish self.” With friends like these...
However you would have to agree that a 12 step victimisation template has seeped into our cultural consciousness. For AA, NA, OA, brand of mainstream victimisation will seek to explain to you that every human frailty is a function of some hardwired predisposition or inescapable social root. You have to forgive yourself for all those awful things you did, because you only did those beastly things because you were trapped by your makeup or environment. Anyway if you have failings, just dig deep enough for the fatalistic patterns in your personality and you will be afforded an acceptable rationalisation. For there will always be a guilty fault line to blame releasing you of any responsibility; “Grandfather was an alcoholic, Uncle Albert is as compulsive as a mountain rescue dog, and my grandmother... in fact all the females in my family ran to fat. No wonder I am putting on so much weight.”
Now my sceptical friend is asking me, “So what is all this guff about light?” “Well SAD, or seasonal affective disorder is an illness recognised by the World Health Organisation.” “What causes it?” “It is said to be caused by an imbalance between the hormone Melatonin and the neuro transmitter Serotonin. Melatonin is sometime referred as ‘the Hormone of Darkness’. It increases as we get sleepy at night. The yang of this yin is Serotonin: a neuro transmitter which has various functions including the regulation of mood, appetite, sleep, muscle contraction, and some cognitive functions including memory and appetite. An imbalance between the two is said to cause SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder). “So if our ‘Business Minister’ Lord Mandelson was a hormone he would be Melatonin,” she offers chirpily.
I endeavour to keep our conversation under the umbrella of science, so I say to her, “If I were to light a candle and put it one metre away from you it would produce one Lux of light. Lux is the term used to evaluate luminosity. The light bulb in the room (an environmental 40 watt) is giving out 400 Lux; on a gloomy day like this, if we were to go out for a walk now, we would immediately be getting 20,000 Lux.” “By just being in the daylight? Well, let’s get out there,” says my friend with new found enthusiasm, and we set off to explore the beneficence of nature.
We walk and look at the trees, the leafs are changing colour. The park we are walking in is by a school; students assemble in knots on the benches and grass. “Did you know there is less crime where there are green spaces.” “Is that a fact?” “Yes, it is.” I also remind her that there has been a massive change in the last century in how we live. There is 1440 minutes in the day, and it is approximated that one minute of that day is spent in the countryside. It is estimated now that we spend 95% of our time indoors. These days it is we live under artificial light practically ‘24/7’. We pass another school, it is a gloomy Victorian building and I think of research on light where students improve academically if placed near windows and if the room is generally lighter. There have been numerous studies done to verify this.
In the distance we see another architectural monstrosity, a prison. UK and US citizens seem to be desirous of this architecture of cruelty. For a prison is supposed to be a place of punishment; therefore, it should look like a place of punishment. Unlike in some Scandinavian countries where prisons are built with the intention of the inmates getting as much light as possible; the Swedes and Norwegian realising that imaginative use of light in design will cut future social costs. It would appear if you have less light you think differently about it. Once in Stockholm I saw a tough guy walk into a Bar, slap his kroner on the counter and say ‘Give me a beer and a light box.”
. “If we widen the parameters,” I said on leaving her at the Underground, “Self-help can be seen as lots of things. “Such as?” “Well, the Bible for instance, is that not a self-help manual?” “I don’t need help on bringing my soul nearer to God.” “Well, how about a book on improving your chess by bringing your pawns nearer your king, that’s self-help too.” She seems unconvinced
I leave her at the underground station and return home. It is getting darker; I have a desire to get home and pull up the covers - my hibernation mode kicking in. This hardwired feeling for us to hide away, is due to the hormonal changes from decreased light and temperature, So If you feel like retreating in the winter you are reacting to our animal urge to take cover and lie dormant. The problem with our current mode of dealing with our hardwired hibernation instinct – being seduced by a night in front of that giant blinking eye in the corner (television) is just a mode for piling on the ‘carbs’. Added to this is the amount of time we spend in cars and it is no wonder we have a problem with obesity. Simply put, we have got to get out more and on foot to get our daily dose of Lux.
I look up at the sky; there are rays of light shafting through the clouds. I think of the 16 year old Einstein out walking and wishing he could jump on one of those rays. So I am in good company as I contemplate another evening of research on light.
SAD Overcoming Seasonal Affective Disorder by Fiona Marshall and Dr Peter Cheevers is published by Sheldon Press.








SAD facts: SAD (Seasonal Affective Disorder) is recognised as an illness by the World Health Organisation
SAD symptoms: Lethargy, low self esteem and depression. The usual characteristics of recurrent winter depression include oversleeping, daytime fatigue, carbohydrate craving and weight gain. Additionally, there are the usual features of depression, especially decreased sexual interest, lethargy, hopelessness, suicidal thoughts, lack of interest in normal activities, and social withdrawal
Who does SAD affect? 10% of the population. Those living in Northern latitudes (Scandinavians) and those who live in the northern United States and Canada are eight times as likely to experience it as those living farther south. It affects woman more than men. Four times as many women develop it as men.
Patterns of SAD: Symptoms of winter SAD usually begin in October or November and subside in March or April. The most common characteristic of people with winter SAD is their reaction to changes in environmental light. Patients living at different latitudes note that their winter depressions are longer and more profound the farther north they live. Patients with SAD also report that their depression worsens or reappears whenever the weather is overcast at any time of the year, or if their indoor lighting is decreased.
Treatments for SAD: Phototherapy is commercially available in the form of light boxes, which are used for approximately 30 minutes daily. The light required must be of sufficient brightness, approximately 25 times as bright as a normal living room light. Contrary to prior theories, the light does not need to be actual daylight from the sun. It seems that it is quantity, not necessarily quality of light that matters in the light treatment of seasonal affective disorder. Light boxes are now freely available in stores and on the Internet. To be effective a light box must emit a minimum of 2500 Lux. Most All the light boxes emit 10000 Lux, giving the user an efficient and speedy treatment
SAD and the natural way: By far the most effective way to get rapid relief from SAD is to get more exposure to natural daylight. Not only is this the most effective treatment, it is also completely free!

****

On Showing your First Film

Bosco world:



You’ve finished the making of your film. It’s yours and it’s something very deep and personal. In fact, it’s your very bloody marrow. May’be this film will be just the making of me. Or, just a mo’; might it all have been just an exercise in ego?

And anyway, isn’t fame just a crude striving after immortality? Rubbish to all that, this film is your essence on celluloid. And now it is time to let the world see your work. But mustn’t rush, let’s just tread carefully after all, it is your first film.

Children first; my kids. Trenchant critics they may be, but nonetheless fair, yes tough but fair. They seem to like it, and as you watch them, presumably lost in admiration for their Dad, you recall the difficulty of making the thing; the initial dithering where you begin to feel you are morphing into Gordon Brown. Then someone I know gives it to me straight from the shoulder, “Just do it, man. Grab the moment.” “Crede quod habes, et habes,” ups my better half. “What does that mean.” “Believe that you have it, and you do.” Offers my nobler half; she’s a good woman but I do wish she would stop throwing these Latin quotations at me.

More dithering and just because that ‘do it’ chap came from California.
My children appear to be enjoying it. You look at the actors you have chosen - up there on the screen. God bless them.

Finding them was not easy, it was very easy. You place an ad’- it doesn’t really matter where. Could be a notice pinned to a tree in Sherwood Forest - the actor’s network will find it and spread the word. As actors mail shots begin to deluge you, you begin to wonder is there really that many adults prepared to work for nothing to ‘further their careers’; aren’t these difficult times?

The photos keep pouring in and some of them are well, gosh, striking but the actors who arrive for the casting are nothing like their photos. Why is that? You have to marvel at the wonders of photographic lighting. My children have finished watching the film and although two of them are still knee high to a grasshopper, such unadulterated critical faculties are a not to be dismissed benchmark. They express their approval and I feel that I have captured the under ten market.

Now timidly, hesitantly, you dare to show it to adults. Friends first, at least they will let you down gently. The film ends, let’s call her, ‘Linda’ speaks, “...you know it’s interesting, as I watching it I thought...that’s what we should do with our homes videos, Anthony, give them more of a professional look.” Your ‘home videos’! This is a serious bloody film; my life's blood went into this. The husband gives me a haiku like - “Keep it up.” Keep what up? This is what happens to people who leave the city to live in the country, they turn into turnips, I rue bitterly.

Next I show it to a more philosophical friend. She advises me to be a bit more pagan about it all. ‘Pagan you say?’, “Yes pagan, let it go, release your clenched fist hold on it and let it take wing from your open palm. Let it fly, it will eventually finds its own level.” “Right, let it fly.” Hold on, it’s not a bloody bird, it’s a film. No wonder the one successful thing she has ever written was a novella set in the 70s.
More friends,urbane Londoners,cosmopolitan to their bloody Islington fingertips. “Good” they say, “Well-done you”, in tones of such sophistication that I want to move back to Hackney right now. The kids will love it, I am partnered out of it. “Aren’t you getting a bit carried away with all this? And besides isn’t ‘Well done, you’ profoundly patronising, don't they realise we are in a post-Colonial age?.”
“No, no, I don’t think... look, they are leaving.”
“Liked the film” throws the metropolitan friend from his departing Saab. The way he said it, with some people you don’t have to embellish. I knew exactly what he meant, and to me it was a profound aesthetic insight, on a par with say a Mallarmé aperçu. Bit over the top that perhaps. Still, I am on to something here, as far as I am concerned, the London market has spoken.

Confidence rising, now to the professionals. Albert first, a straight talking Mancunian, been in the ‘biz’ for years. A real ‘pro’. You will get it straight for Albert, I wait and wait and eventually he comes back, “Yeah, yeah ...well...” This inability to formulate simple words is indeed high praise from Albert. I think of how they wait for the Pope’s election. So will it be black smoke, grey, or white? Go on Albert I am in St. Peter’s Square and agog with anticipation.
"Yeah...well it’s not rubbish, is it?”
“God bless you Albert and while I am at it God bless all of Manchester, Eeh aye addio...”
‘Why are you singing Dad?’ “We are moving to Manchester, my darling.” “Why Dad?” “Why? Because it’s real, that’s why, because the people from there are real...”

I decide I will start sending copies off to all and sundry.
Yet faint praise is a meagre meal when eroded by the voracious appetite of self doubt. And I hesitate; it needs showing before I commit myself to over saturating the market. I will send it to that academic friend of mine; she teaches Film Studies. She rings back, “Hmm”.
What does ‘Hmm’ mean? Would I be interested in showing the film to her students.
“Yes, yes, of course...I would.” Mustn’t sound too enthusiastic.

My first public showing; Film students, the ‘pros’ of the future. The perfect appreciation society. I arrive and the students help me to set up. I must say they seem very sympathetic; this augurs well. The film starts running I am nervous, for are not these the Soderbergh's and Almodóvar’s of the future? But didn’t Albert say ‘yeah’.
The film ends and I wait. I must say I do feel a bit dizzy, for goodness sake, that’s panic. Now pack it in. “Take a seat out front, Peter.” I’m not sure my legs are up to this, Good God, have I lost the power of my limbs. For goodness sake, pull yourself together and pack it in. I make it to the chair and I am now sitting facing this phalanx of the future film industry. The silence is excruciating. I have faced some longuers in my time at dinner tables and social gathering but never one that makes you feel that you now have a deep insight into infinity.

This is deeply painful,I am feeling a sense of weightlessness and I start fantasing that I have wandered into a convention of mediums, and at any moment I am going to hear, “I see a Roger, there is Roger trying to get into touch.” But no, just silence. What are they, Trappist monks? Then they lay in. “I have to say,’ ups a bespectacled all intense, ‘I really found this film almost unwatchable. Then ponderously, “...now my reasons for saying that are...’


It gets worse, I am not sure I am hearing this. But it continues with all the ferocity of drug dealer’s dogs. I look across at my Doctor friend, she wears a benign half smile, that can’t be pride, can it? What’s she been teaching them ‘scorched earth criticism’. Now another impossible young looking sprog chimes in; to rescue? no, it’s just to chew at the morsel left sitting in front of him. If I need a support group I will know not to come here. He finishes and I know I have lost the under ten market.

My Doctor friend intervenes. “Anything positive, all getting a tad overly critical.” A ‘tad’? The response of stillness and quiet would be appropriate in a monastery, but in this situation it’s like a CIA torture technique for it just sears into your pscyhyie. With the help of a couple of female students oozing pity for me, I clumsily gather my equipment and beat a hasty retreat. Where is that pub? Jesus Christ, there must be a pub round here.

Now I bitterly regret having shown it. How degrading. It was a mistake to be encouraged by ‘Alby; I mean all he said was ‘Yeah’. How naive of me. And I have sent it out to so many people. Made a right arse of myself. And now the film is coming back with cryptic self-publishing notes. I’m angry, very angry, cant they see that what is not happening in this film is just as important as what's happening, What's these people’s motto anyway? ‘Above all, show no enthusiasm.;

My daughters look at me, “...well Dad; they have never erected a statue for a critic, have they?” Where did she get that from? I am consoled perhaps all these critics are just a bundle of biases held together by spurious taste. They all seem so sure they can drive the car but do they know the bloody way. Ah well, at least my children liked it.

On the Other Side of the World

Bosco world:

Summer Madness
Jaysus, it was hot that summer in Dublin, hot enough for murder. “Bollocksing boiling, if you ask me,” said Sean, struggling to peel off his leathers. “If I had come of that ting,” he eyed his motorbike I would have skidded to Ballyfermot, that’s how much I’m sweating.” He looked cross at the wooden scaffolding, “Is that where they are, under there.” Kit, the other man, nodded. Now the two men and the teenage boy alongside them stood in the back garden looking at the wooden scaffolding. “It must be the heat makes them breed so much.” Kit turned, walked quickly to the chicken run, opened the wire netting gate, removed the covering tarpaulin; picked up the corpse and returned to them.
“Look!” “Mhurdering bastards.”
The victim in Kit’s hand, it might be said, had been caught in evolution's trap. For flightless birds in the face of the predator can only squawk in their terror and then, like man's early attempts to fly, perform a ridiculous blustering to get off the ground. Post this mad fluster of feathers for lift-off; exhausted they are returned by gravity to terra firma to stand defenceless against one of nature's brute offspring, the rat. But retaliation was in the stifling air

For the trio of avengers were in the back yard of a council estate house in Crumlin, Dublin, and they were seeking the murderers of the burnished gold biddy that now lay limp and inert in Kit’s hand. Now they turned to survey the chicken ‘run’.

Apart from biddies, there used to be pullets here; broilers, roosters, and cockerels; now each morning all Kit or Rory or one of the other children would find was another one or two of their hens lying there, broken and inert, their effulgent gold already losing lustre. Patrick, the family cockerel, and a handful of his biddy wives were all that remained of the strutting Bantams.

Rats had found a roof over their subterranean world under Kit’s wooden scaffolding. He had, in effect, built a summer house for them. Now that he was building contracting more, the wooden poles and planks were piled up on one side of the garden. It was from under this canopy the rats emerged those warm nights, to perform their murderous missions.

It had been the family's wire-haired terrier, Murphy, who had alerted Kit by his constant pawing at the ground. “There's a nest of them in there, under the wood, maybe many nests now, “Kit had speculated before asserting. “We’ve got to do something about this.”

So it was on this sweltering day that the children of the household and the neighbours now gathered for the spectacle, clambering over each other to get a better look. Rapt, they watched as the now wellington booted figures of Sean, Kit and Rory continued to move scaffolding. What they witnessed with the odd shudder was one or two furry animals darting with extraordinary speed from one protective wooden roof to another.

But now ‘Murphy’, was quickly under the wood, yapping and pawing furiously and a huge rat was out, completely exposed; desperate for cover in its panicked, darting runs, it hit the wire netting so hard that it bounced back, propelling itself into a somersault as it did so.

"Look! Look!" screamed the children as they saw the rat make its mad, daring diagonal run towards the house. The three wellington-booted men were after it with shovels, all missing as with whirring speed the rat darted for cover. "Don’t lean too far out of that window,” one of the men cried, looking up to the watching kids.

The children were straining at the open window as they peered down; to see that the rat had gone to ground and was in the waste water hole but it could descend no further for the hole had a protective sieve. They could see its crown just above the parapet as it crouched and hugged its trench; its head just seen peeking over the parapet, as if this was its Somme.
“Let the dog loose.”
Uncle Sean went quickly to release ‘Mixer’, who took off towards the drain as if unleashed to heaven. Its escape barred, the rat emerged in a flash and sped back towards the centre directly into the path of its pursuer. There was a cloud of dust as the rat was snapped up at neck and Mixer could be seen, his yelps stilled by his mouthful of grizzle. Patrick and his remaining family, all gold, green, bronze and silver shimmering in the sun, seemed to strut out their delight and goose-stepped their victory up and down the run.

The children watched this flurry of skin and teeth, the revulsion growing in them as Mixer obediently pranced over to Uncle Sean, and coached with a few pats, dropped the rat by their feet. "Right, first victim of the day. And not short of a meal by the look of him," said Sean.

Most of the scaffolding had now been removed and it showed a terrain that was pockmarked with a maze of burrow like small holes. Unbeknownst to the men, by removing the scaffolding they had caused a strange event to occur. Below in the subterranean world of these eerily bright animals, something had happened. Kit, Sean and Rory had inadvertently removed the visual clues of the rat. Now, the strong sunlight fell differently on the entry to the many holes below that dotted the ground. And it is by cues outside the rat run, rather than inside which guides rats; once spatial cues are removed, such as light, or patterns from a criss-cross of wooden spars, rats are literally lost.

What is it about rats? For even now, on the other side of the world, in Californian sunshine, rats were being put on wheels above a rising water environment and these animals armed with a disturbing intelligence knew that if they came off the treadmill they would drown. So there were many 'wows' and 'gees' when white coated Angelinos found that sewer rats gave up the struggle in minutes where as laboratory rats used to the good life of clean straw laboured on the treadmill as if was a hedonistic lifeline. Thus, through science, are we caused to think of futility and environment? “Next up, we should devise an experiment to see if these little guys have sense of humour. That would be neat,”

The dogs, Mixer and Murphy were becoming impossible to restrain, their piercing yelps increasing in volume as they pawed and nosed furiously at the earth. Shouts of instruction from Kit rang out as the sweating men endeavoured to restrain the dogs, Sean with two arms around Mixer’s neck as he tore at the hole, Rory tugging Murphy away.
"Help him!" came from Kit, as he held the now leashed Mixer. The resisting dogs were now tied to wooden stanchions. “Get the tin cans,” Kit yelled.
Rory and Sean rushed to the hut beside the chicken run and were out again almost instantly, Sean holding a cardboard box full of round grey rag balls and Rory a large tin can in either hand. Damp patches showed beneath their arms, their faces gleaming with perspiration. Sean now hurriedly started placing the rag balls by each hole. Rory trailing him poured the liquid from the can onto each until every rag ball was completely doused.
"Quick, the matches, where’s the matches?” ‘Here’ Rory threw the box of matches to his father. “Go to each end of the garden and get ready to set the dogs loose when I say.”

Kit then set about lighting each rag ball. As soon as the rag balls were ignited they were given a firm kick by a wellington boot down the appropriate hole. "Now!"In unison with the command came the release of the dogs and the hurried lighting of the remaining rag balls. The first of the panic-stricken rats emerged. The awed silence of the spectators was almost audible. A chaos of sound screeched out; men; dogs; the rats desperate, their doomed squeaks peeps coming up to the onlookers. The smoke from the balls mingled with the heat haze, making the smell on that torrid day, foul.

Some of the rats were felled by murderous blows of metal shovels on their heads. Those who escaped were now seen desperately trying to crawl up the wire netting at the side of the garden. Their wood covered Dardanelles gone, some had now gathered in a threatened group in the comer of the garden to await. All who were not taking part felt their flesh creep as they compulsively eyed the happenings.
"Uncle Sean, on the shovel!"
The warning came from the window up above. A rat was crawling up the shovel handle. Sean distractedly looking up for one confused second and then in a flurry shook the rat off and blood was seen on one the men for the first time.

The spectators noted Murphy was not up to Mixer, the bitch. At times, it seemed the black and grey furry things would converge on the dog as Murphy, less experienced, darted madly to and fro. Meanwhile, Mixer, her white coat making the loud marks on her legs clearly visible, was harrying away. One rat had managed to raise itself on to its hindquarters and stick on the dog’s buttocks, its teeth embedded.

"Kit, quick, look at Mixer," Kathleen shouted, opening the kitchen window a slit."Close that window," shouted Kit as he rushed off to the dog, kicking a couple of rats on the way, one thumping not far from the just closed window. "Close that bloody window!" In almost the same instant he lashed out at the dog’s hindquarters. Mixer was sent dizzily reeling by the kick, his persecutor instantly dead. The men now regrouped at the centre of the garden, their blows less furious by this time and aimed mainly at the rats writhed in dying paroxysms. Through this mayhem the sun blazed down on the rat’s suffering

Now there was a pause; the two men and the boy surveyed their work, wiping their brows. At the corner of the garden the few remaining rats cowered up against the netting in terrified assembly. While the dogs stood obediently by their masters, their enthusiasm flagging, willing now rather than eager.
"A cornered rat, always beware of cornered rat."
The small army steeled itself, then with a rush and bolstering war cry of shouting and curses, attacked. The two dogs were there before them. Amid human shouts of vengeful ferocity, came the animal mixture of barking, yelping, squealing and peeping. The rats had nowhere to go. But the sheer instinct of survival forced them to attack, in darting forays. The final act of the drama had an almost balletic quality. The men, tired now, appeared to move in slow motion as the pests were splattered in halves on the wire netting and the dogs hopped and danced into the air from bitten paws. And then it was over, the finale being posted by Kit as he crooked himself exhausted over the supporting shovel.
"Alright, alright," he panted, signalling victory.

There was an eruption of applause from the adjoining garden of the Kelly’s. Kit looked up, and declare to God, the Pruntys too were all leaning out of their windows and applauding. In embarrassed acknowledgement, Kit gave a royal wave of his shovel before turning to his assistants.
"You're a brave lad, isn't he Sean?" "Aye, a right soldier," Sean congratulated.

The trio now stood surveying this cemetery for rats. Rory, bespattered with sweat, looked up at his father. “It’s a strange thing Dad, but I feel a bit sorry for them.”