Confessions of a Knife

I have not spent any of my recent time working with my fieldnotes, just looking for some gainful employment. I must confess, however, that I have been on several occasions since my return to the temples, and not without some blasphemous intentions.

Before I list my sins, shove some Žižek in your head; it's been bouncing around the blogs I read:

It is unlikely that the financial meltdown of 2008 will function as a blessing in disguise, the awakening from a dream, the sobering reminder that we live in the reality of global capitalism. It all depends on how it will be symbolised, on what ideological interpretation or story will impose itself and determine the general perception of the crisis. When the normal run of things is traumatically interrupted, the field is open for a ‘discursive’ ideological competition. In Germany in the late 1920s, Hitler won the competition to determine which narrative would explain the reasons for the crisis of the Weimar Republic and the way out of it; in France in 1940 Maréchal Pétain’s narrative won in the contest to find the reasons for the French defeat. Consequently, to put it in old-fashioned Marxist terms, the main task of the ruling ideology in the present crisis is to impose a narrative that will not put the blame for the meltdown on the global capitalist system as such, but on its deviations – lax regulation, the corruption of big financial institutions etc.

Having given myself a few days to readjust to the imperial mise-en-scène, I decided to pop in on a few friends at the local cinema. They suggested that I watch Zack and Miri Make a Porno, and I did... not for Kevin Smith's sake, but to shock myself back into local hipster culture. It was somewhat amusing but had Smith's telltale falsely honest relationships and characters smothered throughout. I left with the usual feeling: that I had been entertained, but betrayed and manipulated. People might say that the film should just be enjoyed; I say then you will walk away with unquestioned assumptions and a little duller for it. People might say that the relationships and characters in the film aren't meant to be honest, that they are exaggerated to the point of absurdity; I say that you have become too dull and must avoid popular culture for several months. In the meantime read Cassavetes on Cassavetes. Some might even say that the relationships and characters are honest... I don't know what I should say to you then; it is too late. I sound like a real jerk, don't I? I suppose it's just my anger at myself for watching bad film. And my militant training at the brutal, merciless hands of The Prince of Kings.

Grandma's a Witch

Raymond Fisman, a professor at Columbia University, told a recent seminar: “In Meatu, there are veritable witch epidemics now and again – certainly any time there is a bad crop year. Witches are the scapegoat of first resort. He suggested that “witches” were killed to make resources stretch farther. “Who are you going to knock off? You want the person who is the greatest consumer of household resources relative to that which they produce . . . it turns out that it’s grandma.”

That being from an article on witch-hunts in India's Assam and West Bengal, where there have been about 750 witch-killings in the last five years. Considering the current state of the economy, I think we all know what needs to be done on Thanksgiving.

Parricide aside, I am assembling my fieldnotes from India and hope to soon have here for you a reflection on my experiences and attempts at ethnographic methodology. I must balance this work with my job-search, however, which has proved fruitless thus far. Contract-killing has taken quite a hit in the downturn, and as such I have not found any postings in the papers or even craigslist. However, my application to the School of the Americas has been accepted with a full scholarship! I guess I'm at a crossroads...

Malabar Blues

Some final thoughts before setting off to Munnar. Keep all limbs inside the vehicle at all times, if you want to keep them at all. There is a copy of The Fountainhead mocking me from the bookshelf in the internet cafe, nestled between two Noam Chomsky books; Dawkins looms above them. I saw a North Indian intellectual yesterday or the day before wearing a blue scarf and red Chomsky shirt. At Cherai Beach a giant hammer and sickle was chalked across the road, next to a giant lotus flower. Scores of men young and old come there to stare and call out to Western women in their bathing suits.

Asharof helped me out again last night, when I left my camera's memory card at the internet cafe. After introducing me to more of his family he drove me back in his piece of junk rickshaw, wiping the rain off with some dirty newspaper (was he a little drunk?). He didn't charge me, but told me instead that "God knows what is in your heart." He is currently jobless, not for lack of willingness (his programming skills can't compete with youth), but because Kerala is communist he has a roof over his head and food to eat. We gave each other our most profound wishes and parted ways; he will send me a Christmas card.

When we went south to the backwaters the other day, I saw some petrol tankers labeled "Highly Inflammable."

How did I end up in India? How did I end up studying Indian philosophy, religion, culture, and history? How did I end up at Towson University? Where the hell do I go from here? How will I ever think again that comfort is worth the theft of natural resources and the mass murder of millions? How could I ever believe again that war is anything but war against children? How can I ever again be confused about who the real enemy is?

The whole financial collapse thing was going on right before I left the U.S. I've been trying to keep up with it from overseas... It seems that we are nationalizing our banking system. How many times does history need to repeat itself? Don't people realize what's really going on? It's not like we didn't see this coming, but... Maybe soon it will be enough to mobilize the angry middle class, i.e. to make the guards realize that they're expendable and on the same side as the prisoners, as Howard Zinn put it.