musings on a central brain...

It is difficult for me to talk about a central brain at this stage of the semester because I seem to have no brain at all (or maybe I have reached a higher state of emptiness? Er, I doubt it somehow...)

Anyway, I'd like to congratulate myself for learning enough this semester to understand what our esteemed professor was writing about; I'd like to congratulate our esteemed professor for writing so clearly on a topic that poses some central questions that I have to negotiate for probably the rest of my professional life. Now that I am finishing my paper, I'd like to pick up on one of the "challenges to an ecological theory of composing" (200):

"If complex systems are not controlled by a central "brain" or processor, how do some agents - particular readers, writers or texts, for instance - come to have a greater influence on such systems and why?" (200)

Now here's a thorny question. My own paper (were there time to rewrite it) would focus on this very topic. My particular area is historical in nature, so the recovery of an ecological environment is almost impossible (before tomorrow at 5pm, at any rate). Shore would argue that we focus on culture and the symbolic realm because of the legacy of Victorian ideas of evolution. I would amend this argument to say this: cultural historians focus on the level of symbol because that's all they have, in many cases. To develop an ecological network can ever only be incomplete when it comes to historical texts. Yet, if a cultural historian is to be honest, he or she must look for some "central brain" that pushes through the culture, particularly in charged atmospheres (colonial Ireland being my particular hotbed of intrigue). If you introduce power structures into the equation, it is REALLY difficult for me to say that a particular cultural form is ecological in nature when a central brain like the English colonial system is coming down on the historical situation like a ton of bricks.

Of course, in my paper I have said that my topic is ecological in nature. And I believe it. But to argue that I have literally had to leave 700 years of colonial history out of my 15 pages. If I got into that quagmire, you probably wouldn't see me for the next decade, and I would probably be waving to you from the bottom of a whisky bottle.

I suppose that I see a chasm between the theory and putting it into practice when there is an absolutely overwhelming psychic trauma going on in a culture and there is very little chance of creating a genuine ecological situation because the information is simply not available. Even if you look at something ecologically in such a charged atmosphere, then the charged atmosphere will inevitably win, and somehow the symbolic argument and the ecological will end up looking the same, ie colonialism was bad, bad, bad, and you can see that everywhere in the culture.

I know that this totally simplistic. But as I said, I have no brain at this stage of the semester. Now, where IS that whisky bottle...?

Explanations

I, too, enjoyed the way Dr. Syverson’s book tied together the works we have been reading It gives the course a pleasant sense of completion. What I found most helpful about the book was the way in which it modeled a method of applying the material we’ve been reading to a different field. I found the “ecological matrix” on page 23 especially useful, for I think it provides a good way of organizing other writing in English using this material.

I don’t know about other fields, but I think that for any kind of study of writers, be it in composition studies, literature/cultural studies, or rhetoric, I think the complex systems model provides a good theoretical tool for examining what (I believe) has long been a folk understanding of writers and writing that lacked any sort of theoretical credibility. Very few people would admit that in all cases writing was a simple matter of someone sitting down and tossing off perfect prose or balanced and lyrical verse. The inability of theorists to understand why writing was so hard, why it was difficult to teach, why it seemed like so few people were good at it, gave rise to theories that turned writers into solitary geniuses, who were somehow more capable, more intelligent, or more blessed than the rest of us. The known complexity of writing situations (and the complex results we get when we attempt to write) has privileged these interpretations because there was no other theory that could explain why some writers were successful and others were not.

Rhetorical studies are a good example of this phenomena. Since its inception, the primary function of rhetoric has been training speakers (now writers) how to create effective texts. To this end many manuals in rhetoric providing copious examples of “good” writing have been given to students in order to scaffold their understanding of composition. But, still some writers were much “better” than others, and Aristotle’s lists of topoi or psychological analysis of audiences could not explain why different writers could follow the same rules and produce texts that were successful and unsuccessful.

In these situations, failure was seen to be faulty application of the rules, a deficiency of the speaker, or a lack of skill on his or her part that led to imperfection. Rarely was the question of why a “good” text produced poor results asked. Complexity theory, as in Dr. Syverson’s matrix, provides a method to explain the success and failure of “good” or “correct” writing through its focus on emergence and embodiment, as well as the social and physical settings of the writing situation.

Diversification

The Santa Fe Instituted is interested in more than just Economics and Physics.

The Backstory: Last night, since I was slightly ahead on my coursework, I decided to spend some time relaxing with a little pleasure reading. In actuality, I was under a little pressure to do some pleasure reading, because the book I had intended to read leisurely over the break, Cormac McCarthy's new novel No Country for Old Men, had been recalled by some kind soul, and I had to have it read by next Tuesday. A cynical person might wonder how the library and this person (no doubt someone who has a serious paper due on 20th Century Southern Authors in the New Millennium) had conspired to turn my pleasure reading into an assignment with a due date, but I am not cynical, so I dutifully grabbed the book on the way to bed, determined to knock off a few chapters before sleep.

This particular assignment wasn’t that horrible, really, because I like McCarthy, and I have been wanting to check out his new book for a while. Even though I’m not studying literature, it seemed wise to get away from the Waldrop’s of this world and indulge a few whims and personal interests every now and then.

And lo and behold, what should I see on the dedication page but this:

“The author would like to express his appreciation to the Santa Fe Institute for his long association and his four-year residence.”

They’re everywhere.