Ruminations, miscellany, and the quotidian, anthropologized amateurishly but with enthusiasm. Medicine, society, agency, will, responsibility, film, poetry, etc., etc., etc.
7.22.2011
Academics Pen Manifesto: "The End of Medical Anthropology in Canada?"
In February, a number of Canadian medican anthropologists signed off on a manifesto decrying the decline in funding for their discipline, which could dramatically undermine, as they rightly describe it, "one of the most vibrant, high-demand and policy-relevant health disciplines."
The Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council (SSHRC) has traditionally provided funding for medical anthropological research and training, but there is a perception that, for a health-oriented discipline, the funding mandate of SSHRC overlaps with that of the Canadian Institutes of Health Research (CIHR), which does invite applications from anthropologists whose work deals with "social, cultural, environmental and population health." However, CIHR has a demonstrably thin commitment to funding the sort of ethnographically-rich, socioculturally-centered work that anthropologists offer; instead, they tend to fund projects with more proximate and concrete consequences for the health of Canadians or domestic policy concerns (undermining the possibility of international fieldwork or collaboration, or comparative work). Their funding mandate and selection process simply isn't designed to accommodate anthropological work, while SSHRC's is - in the words of the manifesto writers, SSHRC has always understood that "health is inherently social and cultural."
For my own funding applications, I was very anxious - about whether SSHRC would reject my work as being under CIHR's mandate, and forward my application to CIHR, who would then reject it as being too socially-oriented. And this is the problem: medical anthropology's strength is that it straddles the humanities and the sciences. This prevents it from being wholly either, which is administratively awkward. But given the choice between funding from the one agency, which has a history of supporting long-term, theoretically broad, ethnographically rich and international projects, and funding from the other, which favors short-term, narrowly hypothesis-driven and domestic projects, it's clear which is best for our work and, by extension, the furthered understanding of social, cultural and individual health.
At any rate, the manifesto is here - The End of Medical Anthropology in Canada? - and I recommend reading it. It's a bit sad and a bit scary, particularly in that this shift in funding priorities reflects broader trends we're all familiar with. But it's a good read, and with a few big names signed off on it (incl. Margaret Lock and Sandra Hyde from my own alma mater), it's a very good start.
7.21.2011
Some Thoughts About Habit
"The great thing, then, in all education, is to make our nervous system our ally instead of our enemy. It is to fund and capitalize our acquisitions, and live at ease upon the interest of the fund. For this we must make automatic and habitual, as early as possible, as many useful actions as we can, and guard against growing into ways that are likely to be disadvantageous to us, as we should guard against the plague. The more of the details of our daily life we can hand over to the effortless custody of automatism the more our higher powers of mind will be set free for their own proper work.... If there be such daily duties not yet ingrained in any one of my readers, let him begin this very hour to set the matter right." (William James, "Habit," from Selected Papers on Philosophy.)I had a conversation yesterday about actions and character, running along the usual lines of "you are who you are" vs. "you are what you do." As is always the case when trying to talk of these things, whatever balance between the two apparent options we might have had was lost as slight disagreement led to dramatic opposition, and we were both reactively taking positions neither would probably want to defend. I hate watching a talk fumble, but there didn't seem to be a way out - once you enter into talk that cleaves between identity/actions, you can't pull them back together. There's very little language for it. (It becomes as impossible as not thinking about a white elephant just became. [Sorry for that.])
7.19.2011
Another O'Hara for an afternoon downtown
Heat-stricken, I offer this and only this as today's contribution - another beauty by Frank O'Hara, who unfortunately remains quite dead.
"Poem"
Light clarity avocado salad in the morning
after all the terrible things I do how amazing it is
to find forgiveness and love, not even forgiveness
since what is done is done and forgiveness isn't love
and love is love nothing can ever go wrong
though things can get irritating boring and dispensable
(in the imagination) but not really for love
though a block away you feel distant the mere presence changes
everything like a chemical dropped on a paper and all thoughts
disappear in a strange quiet excitement
I am sure of nothing but this, intensified by breathing
(1959)
7.18.2011
Degrees of degradation - love, bodies, blood and more! P1
Part 1 of 2, pending commentary sufficient to establish a relevant direction for the rest.
There is a scene in Yoshihiro Nishimura’s 2008 film Tokyo Gore Police in which the sadist villain, peering down twin gun barrels that have replaced his eyes, power drills into the shin bone of a screaming man strapped to a chair. This is followed by a scene of staggeringly extravagant gore, all in the back halls of a fetish club whose performers, genetically modified and mutated, include a snail woman with tentacle-mounted eyes and a breathing, heaving, flesh-and-bone chair, presumably sentient, though doomed to a chair's-life-long sentence of inner imprisonment à la Johnny Got His Gun.
There is a scene in Yoshihiro Nishimura’s 2008 film Tokyo Gore Police in which the sadist villain, peering down twin gun barrels that have replaced his eyes, power drills into the shin bone of a screaming man strapped to a chair. This is followed by a scene of staggeringly extravagant gore, all in the back halls of a fetish club whose performers, genetically modified and mutated, include a snail woman with tentacle-mounted eyes and a breathing, heaving, flesh-and-bone chair, presumably sentient, though doomed to a chair's-life-long sentence of inner imprisonment à la Johnny Got His Gun.
7.14.2011
The Neuroscience of Justice, or, the Tumour as Agent

Two poems about the barbed ineffable
This is quickly becoming the day of posting things I like. Don't blame me for having heart, reader. So, for your sympathy or amusement, a Babstock and a Millay.

Ken Babstock - "Carrying Someone Else's Infant Past a Cow in a Field near Marmora, Ont."
Summer gnats colonized her molasses black eyes, her flicking,
conical ears. She moaned, a badly tuned
tuba, and tassels of ick dripped
from her black-
on-pink nostrils like strings of weed sap. Waking from a rhythmic
nap in my arm, you wobbled your head upright
and stared at the great hanging skin-
bag, teats, dry-docked
hull of her ribs, anvil head, and the chocolate calm in her eyes
that gazed back as I carried you closer, wading
through goldenrod, mulleins, thistle
all artfully bent
clear of your soft exposed feet. Ants worried the punky
tops of knotted fence posts, and caution flags
of gossamer and milkweed fluff
marked each rust-twist
of barb, but that was all that divided you and her. I felt briefly
happy to be prop, peripheral in this exchange,
this unfolding bundle of knowing that
was you in
an overgrown ditch where the air swelled, shaking itself dry
in the sumac. What was I shown that I haven't retained?
What peered back long before the cracked
bell of its name
came sounding off a tongue's hammer and fenced it forever? Know
that it happened, though - you were a drooling lump
of living in the verdant riddle. That heifer
remembers
nothing of you. Let chicory, later in life, be bothersome blue
asterisks footnoting one empty, unrecoverable
hour of your early and
strange.
Edna St. Vincent Millay - "Assault"
I
I had forgotten how the frogs must sound
After a year of silence, else I think
I should not so have ventured forth alone
At dusk upon this unfrequented road.
II
I am waylaid by Beauty. Who will walk
Between me and the crying of the frogs?
Oh, savage Beauty, suffer me to pass,
That am a timid woman, on her way
From one house to another!
[I hope this isn't copyright infringement; with authors duly credited, if you find fault with this, kindly go suck an egg.]
O'Hara's "A Step Away From Them"
Lovely poem by Frank O'Hara. I post this because I'm working this week in Toronto's sun-steeped downtown and it is scorching and bright, which brought the below to mind. Though at 12:40 I'll be packing Babstock, not Riverdy.
A STEP AWAY FROM THEM
It's my lunch hour, so I go
for a walk among the hum-colored
cabs. First, down the sidewalk
where laborers feed their dirty
glistening torsos sandwiches
and Coca-Cola, with yellow helmets
on. They protect them from falling
bricks, I guess. Then onto the
avenue where skirts are flipping
above heels and blow up over
grates. The sun is hot, but the
cabs stir up the air. I look
at bargains in wristwatches. There
are cats playing in sawdust.
On
to Times Square, where the sign
blows smoke over my head, and higher
the waterfall pours lightly. A
Negro stands in a doorway with a
toothpick, languorously agitating.
A blonde chorus girl clicks: he
smiles and rubs his chin. Everything
suddenly honks: it is 12:40 of
a Thursday.
Neon in daylight is a
great pleasure, as Edwin Denby would
write, as are light bulbs in daylight.
I stop for a cheeseburger at JULIET'S
CORNER. Giulietta Masina, wife of
Federico Fellini, è bell' attrice.
And chocolate malted. A lady in
foxes on such a day puts her poodle
in a cab.
There are several Puerto
Ricans on the avenue today, which
makes it beautiful and warm. First
Bunny died, then John Latouche,
then Jackson Pollock. But is the
earth as full as life was full, of them?
And one has eaten and one walks,
past the magazines with nudes
and the posters for BULLFIGHT and
the Manhattan Storage Warehouse,
which they'll soon tear down. I
used to think they had the Armory
Show there.
A glass of papaya juice
and back to work. My heart is in my
pocket, it is Poems by Pierre Reverdy.
[1956]
7.13.2011
Taking Them at their Word

Am posting a paper written a while ago, which I think raises some useful questions about agency while also exploring the limits of traditional approaches to Alcoholics Anonymous and similar mutual-help groups. If you think of A. A. as a "Christian" group or "cult," you're likely drawing conclusions based on their creedal conventions - that is, their repeated statements of belonging, or higher powers, etc. Things are, as always, not nearly so simple. This one runs a bit long, but I'm just happy to throw it out there.
7.12.2011
Psychiatric caricature and Luhrmann's "Of Two Minds"
Seems appropriate to start with the caveat that this is meant to be a personal exercise, rather than any sort of public presentation - I'm trying to get some ideas straight, and writing online somehow seems less of a confrontation with the abyss than writing in a journal. If you're reading this, be charitable, but know that commentary or discussion about any of it would most certainly help in whatever secret enterprise of mine this feeds.
The book - a multi-site ethnography drawing on fieldwork in medical schools, psychiatric residency programs, in-patient treatment institutions, and hospitals - deservedly won both the Victor Turner Prize for Ethnographic Writing and the Boyer Prize for Psychological Anthropology. It traces the origins of the gulf between the psychodynamic and the biomedical models of mental suffering and psychiatric treatment, as well as the ascendance of the latter as "managed care" insurance programs came to dominate the funding of mental health interventions (and, as a result, to leverage decreases in time, cost and consistency of care). I won't synopsize further; rather, I'd like to stress the subtlety and respect (albeit critical) with which she treats her subject matter.
With the above said, and with two hours left in this, my second day as a temporary receptionist in Toronto, I'll begin with some rambling about psychiatric suspicion and Tanya Luhrmann's fantastic book "Of Two Minds: The Growing Disorder in American Psychiatry" (available here).

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