Stay close, this is about to get tricky...

There is no unfiltered reality.

Doug spoke these words a few weeks back, and they stuck with me.  If I attempt to unite Mishra, Wolf, and McCloud, it would be around the principle of mediation.  Everything is filtered, affected, changed, and situated; all knowledge depends on the reader, society, culture, and certainly numerous unknown factors to reach its actualization.   We live in a messy world, but excitement lies in the prospect of slowly unraveling one tangle at a time, going around in circles and through loops, until perhaps we unravel and understand just enough to wield it.  Reading these three authors I recognize there will always be more—more situations to analyze, more texts, more technologies, more people, etc.   Wisdom is not a status of complete comprehension and mastery, but rather the constant state of mindfulness and attention; someone who has seen enough to know that something new always hides around the bend, out of sight until you get there.  In conjunction, Mishra quotes: “We are most revealed in what we do not scrutinize” (p. 141).  So let’s do some looking.

On Mishra:

At this, my mind did a double-take: “While pictorial subject

matter is alien to written discourse, and requires a reduction to make it amenable to analysis, written subject matter can be iterated without any “gap” within the textual surface that analyzes it.” (p. 140).

What does it imply, that our analysis of image is almost always verbal?  Can we really “get at” the core of rhetorical images if our criticism always brings the pictorial back into the realm of language?  Are we losing another form of analysis?  I cannot say what, or how, just that when attempting to understand something, we can constrain it through the forms of comprehension we choose.  Wolf would seem to reinforce this, through the conversation on simulators.  “Computers that automatically inspect events are limited by the expectations of programmers.  Such systems can selectively suppress information or obscure unusual phenomena.” (p. 121).  If we consider our minds a form of simulator, reproducing and recreating the world “out there” for us “in here,” then certain aspects of our processing process (yes, no typo) can unknowingly constrain us, just like lines of code which expect a result can unwittingly filter out information not fitting its expectation.  Language comes with its own set of restrictions (and naturally, great benefits), and I wonder if we shouldn’t be practicing other forms of analyzing alongside the verbal. 

*Checks syllabus…sees photo essay.*  Perfect, that’s exactly what I mean.

McCloud writes, “Communication is only effective when we understand the forms that communication can take.” (p. 198).  So many languages circulate out there, from the language of technology to computer code to subtractive color to medical lingo.  And every language is weighted, bringing its own set of biases and assumptions to the conversation, implicit in its very constructions and jargon.  McCloud talks about the communication wall, that all expression is an attempt to reconcile the truth that we cannot communicate mind-to-mind.  So we create these different languages to attempt to communicate, such as the graphic novel.  But once an art or discourse is in motion, it often takes on its own life, and just like a simulator or computer code, starts acting somewhat on its own, outside our realm of control.

Which is "authentic?"  This...

And this is where we should pay attention—where, in our battle to communicate, something slipped our notice and became implicit, like a genre convention, an unspoken rule, an implied value, etc.   Anytime we make motions to communicate, we enter the abstract world that Wolf discusses, where words, images, simulations, etc. become approximations of “reality.”  Sometimes this approximation can be labeled “inauthentic” as in the case of color-coded anatomical diagrams, but what actually constitutes “authenticity?”  Is it the extent to which something reflects the experience, or the extent to which it reflects the current purpose, conventions, and social/academic situation?  

...or this?

Mishra throws a word out too often—“misconceptions.”  All these students have these awful misconceptions, I keep hearing in the text.  But then, Mishra seems to prove the opposite—that these "misconceptions” were gained through common imagery.  Can one really label something a “misconception” then, if it is a direct result of interacting with and observing, the result of experiencing?  What’s at stake is the master “concept,” what constitutes “reality.”  And as long as we keep viewing “reality” as a fixed nature we seek out, time and time again we will fall short, our codes unable to process the vast variety of experience that is.    

Crushin' on McCloud...

Last semester, I took Linda Karell’s Studies in Literary Genres, in which we read, researched, and wrote on graphic novels. As we studied McCloud, I soon knew that Understanding Comics is one of the most profound theory books to hit our generation. I was swept away by all that went on in the graphics, underneath my very nose, working rhetorical magic entirely unbeknownst to me. I was awestruck by the complexity of it all, the focus and intention comic artists poured into their medium, and the profound capacity of comics to portray what simple written word never could.

I was poised— immensely impressed by the graphic genre, and spinning with all these great, deep, profound thoughts— then my roommates started making fun of me. While they sat,

studying molecular biology or fretting over bio-geo-engineering, I read Stitches, attentively analyzing its washed greys and blacks, the paint bleeding off the page, and the predominant silence throughout the graphic novel. These “comics” were more than Sunday funnies, more than colorful newspapers I recycle into wrapping paper—they were a sophisticated art, intricately designed and purposed to convey meaning, working within multiple dimensions to communicate numerous messages. But soon, too soon, my roommates teased me that my homework was all “reading comics,” or “another hard night of Batman.” They spoke with humor, of course, but also with naiveté, with implicit bias.

All my attempts to defend the genre’s complexity and depth were overpowered by their jesting, and I soon stopped my efforts to advocate for the craft, and took the teasing good-naturedly. I know, poor me. But my story of literary martyrdom isn’t the point. What is, is how McCloud points out the self-conscious nature of comic writers.

“For much of the century, the word “comics” has had such negative connotations that many of comics’ devoted practitioners have preferred to be known as “illustrators,” “commercial artists,” or at best, “cartoonists”! And so, comics’ low self-esteem is self-perpetuating! The historical perspective necessary to counteract comics’ negative image is obscured by that negativity.” (p. 18).

How often does this same attitude manifest in our use of digital rhetorics?  When do we find ourselves changing technological terms to sound more academic? “I uhhh…need to go write a discussion post, not you know, a blog, because uhhh….blogs obviously aren’t amazing tools we can use to participate in virtual, multi-modal conversations.  Obviously.”  The

Guts, pluck...always pushing social/literary conventions.

shame or self-consciousness we let be associated with digital writing, or any labels we accept that define the craft as less than pure art, only work against its mainstream acceptance and progression. The graphic novel genre, like many other forms of digital rhetoric, is revolutionary. It allows messages to be conveyed not only in content, but in form. We see what the author means, and enter into a rich interactive conversation with the text, as we lend it time, space, closure, and meaning. Over and over again, McCloud shows the power of compactness in graphics—much can be communicated in a single panel, like on page 99 where McCloud steps outside the his panel frame. Think just a second about the connotations of him moving outside the panel, and your mind should explode to questions of reality/fiction overlap, authority, genre expectations, innovation, postmodernism, and so forth. A single line drawn differently can drastically change an entire panel’s meaning.

Finally, I find it ironic that graphic novels get tossed aside as “mere comics,” something

childish and not intellectually stimulating or worth academic attention, when in fact the genre can affect their reader without the reader even being aware, making graphics a sly, smart, and sophisticated art—a “sleeper” sitting there quietly, not making a big show, but quietly working on your brain beyond your comprehension. Traditional critics attack rhetoric, saying it’s dishonest and manipulative, using pretty language or well-constructed prose to win over the reader.

The irony is, that the graphic novel works this same “manipulation,” but in spades.  An intensity of information affects the reader, making them think, feel, respond, and engage as their eyes scan the pages, but without texts like McCloud’s, we would likely not even consider what happens when our mind passes between the gutter. The rhetorical work of graphic, which walks around in "childish" clothing, actually works in powerful, almost secretive ways-- partly because few have taken to unearthing its inner workings.  A quiet strength, working beyond our levels of recognition.  The genre that is demeaned as being immature or simple may very well be even more complex, powerful, and able to toy with the reader—even more a deserved recipient of critical reading, attentive analysis, and integration into academic literary canons.

Without a Vaccum in Sight

That, I believe, is the purpose of Anne Wysocki and her colleagues (who are curiously omitted from the introduction): to reveal the situatedness of text, technology, and media, and through opening context-relations and bringing them to the forefront of consciousness and analysis, to empower writers and readers with agency to affect those situations.

She writes, “…agency and structure are interdependent.  We have agency, that is, insofar as we recognize how we are positioned by and hence can work with and within our particular historically-situated and contingent material structures…” (p. 10)  Wysocki draws a direct line between knowledge/understanding/awareness and the ability to act/change/affect.  We already know how to perform these types of analysis, she says, we just need to apply them purposefully and thoughtfully to “new media.”

In a word, awareness seems the mission.  “…our compositions only ever work within and as

Things that seem "neutral:" left to right,
horizontal  text. This would not be quite as funny,
 if you read/wrote using ancient Chinese characters
which often oriented vertically on the page.

part of other, already existing, structures and practices” Wysocki writes, adding that in order to find openings for change (and thus agency), we must be “attentive to what is old and hanging on (and hanging on, especially, quietly, in places that do not call attention to themselves.)” (p. 8)  Noticeably, Wysocki does not prescribe what those changes might be.  Yet the silence between her words, in which no obvious personal political/social agenda lies, has an agentive force of its own.  The reader or student recognizes that once they achieve this attentiveness, practicing the craft of analyzing texts for how they betray their relevant situation, the choice of what and how to change becomes their own.

I hear Wysocki encouraging professors to teach their students not what to think, but how to think. She hints at the implications of this empowerment, by discussing the notion of responsibility in writing. “Technologies are not responsible for texts,”  she writes, “we are, within the limitations of what different technologies afford.” (p. 19)  Later, again she includes: “I hope we teach a generosity towards the positions that others produce…and that through our readings we can help each other achieve positions that are the most responsibly produced we can.” (p. 23)  Power and control entwine and propagate themselves in language, constantly reinforcing messages of capitalism, the literate elite, consumerism, and so forth.  Unraveling those messages and examining their contents gives the reader power.  This potential of power, the ability to recognize and change situations through discourse, must also come with checks and balances, and thus the discussion of responsibility.  What does responsibility look like in rhetoric?  A conversation too long for here, but a worthy one none the less.

Materiality...

Another beauty of Writing New Media is the discussion of embodiment, materiality.  Wysocki expertly shows how texts, and our manners of producing them, become material products of their lived environments, situated within specific historical junctions.  Too often we regard writing (and the authority it carries thereof) as non-physical and use its perceived bodiless-ness to justify drawing lines between the academic/personal, rational/emotional, even male/female.  She writes of “materiality effacement,” when texts work to not show their physical nature.  These are the ones to watch out for, the ones that will carry rich meaning.  We do this “material defacement” to politicians, doctors, academics, too.  When you read that Obama might smoke, the public goes, “what?”  Prominent figures are built up as bodiless, ruling symbols excluded from the infirmities of physical nature—something on which we can depend, seemingly exempt from human fallibilities.   

Connected, connected, Wysocki breathes throughout her text—everything is always jointed, laced in, dependant and contingent on something else.  There is no text in a vacuum, no intention-less writing.  Everything is always written at the stake of something else.  Thus asking, “who’s power and control is at stake in this text?” becomes a highly valuable form of analyzing.

Finally, I cannot conclude without an respectful nod to her discussion of identity.  If we are

"New technologies are always designed out of existing technologies
and out of existing material economies, patterns, and habits...
 our compositions only ever work within and  as part of other, already
existing, structures and practices." (p. 8)

seeking after anything, in all our explorations of knowledge, our writing and our discussion, the reason we put astronauts on the moon and decipher quantum physics, and argue about rhetoric and ways of knowing, is it not to discover ourselves?  Wysocki stages the analysis of “new media” as a mirror, revealing the disposition and location of our being (as both a noun and verb) in that moment.  Quoting Stuart Hall, “we therefore occupy our identities very retrospectively: having produced them, we then know who we are.” (p. 20)  Quite perfectly, she brings a discussion of the self in line with a commentary on knowledge as a whole: there is no static, unified self that precedes our work, and through working we discover it, but rather: “the work makes visible to us what and where we are at that time.”  From here, we can “try on” positions, constantly moving in this dynamic relationship, until we find satisfaction.

Popular culture may say we “are,” we “exist,” and we apply ourselves to problems and situations the way one might apply a layer of paint, or a piece of clothing. But rhetoric views the self as amorphous, constantly changing in response to the environment and the texts with which we engage.  So be aware of that change—become (verb) intentionally.

On Situatedness and Margin Tats

Note: apparently, this semester I lack syllabus "literacy."  I recently realized I read both Wysocki and Johnson-Eilola rather than the piece Wysocki & Johnson-Eilola.  Having just finished reading their joint production (quite enriched by previously reading them singularly), this stands out: 

"...we could describe literacy not as a monolithic term but as a cloud of sometimes contradictory nexus points among different positions. Literacy can be seen not as a skill but a process of situating and resituating representations in social places" (p. 367).  Nicely put. I think the accepted standard of alphabetical language and books as the core measure of communication works detrimentally to delimit what exactly we can learn, value, etc.  I also appreciated W/JE's conversion of power in play, and the ability to control society through making one form of communication accepted as "neutral."  Motivated ideologies which masquerade as neutral wield invisible weapons causing people to blindly accept them as the norm, never questioning their authority or omnipotence.  What could we learn if we did not treat language as the essential underpinning of all understanding?

Well, those were some involved readings.  My mind oscillates between recognizing streams of connection between all three pieces, and identifying the distinctive voices and messages each offers.  I feel like the above abstract person...only not quite so puckered-up.  Since all discourse is truly conversation, what follows is a scattered collection of my responses, or what you would experience were you to approach me in the International Coffee Traders right now, and ask the always-dangerous question: "what did you think of the readings?"

On Fisher, this stood out: 
"The actualization of the rational world paradigm...depends on a form of society that permits, if not requires, participation of qualified persons in public decision-making.  It further demands a citizenry that shares a common language, general adherence to the values of the states, information relevant to the questions that confront the community to be arbitrated by argument, and an understanding of argumentative issues and the various forms of reasoning and their appropriate assessment" (p. 378).  Advocates of the rational world paradigm will argue that the narrative paradigm (and homo rhetoricus) is too "situated" to be valid.  That is, because "truth" in that worldview is dependent on the environment, remains constantly relevant, and does not exist as a separate omnipotent entity, it cannot therefore possibly be a stable way of viewing knowledge or interaction.  But, as Fisher notes, even the rational world paradigm is highly situated and contingent on specific social structures to survive and function. The rational world paradigm needs a social context-- a group of intermingling narratives, in order to exist.  HAH!  Narrative paradigm: 1; rational paradigm: 0.

Also, as Fisher writes on narrative: "...stories we tell ourselves and each other to establish a meaningful life world...stories means to give order to human experience and to induce others to dwell in them to establish ways of living in common..." (p.381)  I recently finished a piece by Jana Sequoya called How(!) is an Indian? in which she discussed the inclusion of Native American literature into destroy meaning only gained through narrative interaction, it seems the latter cannot be right.  If through one lens, both paradigms can exist, but through the other, only one can survive, it seems obvious that we accept the paradigm with the least collateral damage, that allows the greatest amount of meaning making.  

our American literature canon.  In her text, she discusses how, as traditionally oral narratives are translated into written, consumable, text for the general public, meaning is inevitably lost.  How can a translator or editor effectively integrate war drums, or dancing, or color, or the scent of burning herbs, into a written "reproduction" of an oral narrative?  As I hear Fisher's argument about the rational versus narrative paradigm, it seems that the rational world paradigm would argue that the Native American stories should be translated for the enrichment of literature, the furthering of cultural knowledge, all that jazz.  But in doing so, the translation process inevitably destroys the original meaning of the stories, which can only be conveyed in their narrative context.  Seeing how the  narrative world paradigm "does not so much deny what has gone before as it subsumes it" (p. 376), but the rational world paradigm can 

Thoughts on Wysocki: 
"Each aspect...involves choice" (p. 132).  To me, that fragmented quote encapsulates the entire text.  As I went through the examples, I was struck by how traditional academic essay formats reflect the very tenets which "rational" meaning making teaches.  Unchanging lines of simple, identical text void of color or diversity do not compel the reader to consider the context of the piece.  Instead, the reader receives the unconscious message that context is irrelevant, and only the non-physical ideas, the concepts or theories addressed within matter.  Even margins imply that the text's meaning is easily encapsulated, existing as a stand-alone entity and not worthy of critical analysis on the situatedness of the piece.  The format of parallel lines, each page mirroring the others, makes the reader disregard materiality and temporality.  We become lost in the lofty ideas, and forget to make connections, to consider the author's narrative paradigm and contextual intent-- we forget the author breathes, hurts, longs, laughs, and importantly, wants. 

The opposite of this subtle indoctrination is easily witnessed in the Johnson-Eilola piece.  While they made compelling points and asked evocative questions about authorship, consumerism, and our "rights" to ideas (can we even have "intellectual property" if all knowledge is simply reconstruction?), I want to instead note the hilarious and meaningful difference that Doug's margin notes made.  When Doug assigns an article, I implicitly read trustingly.  Presumably, he would not assign something he absolutely disagreed with, or thought was bullshit.  Doug is the equivalent of Robin Williams' "rip it out!" and while I read critically, I generally assume that our assigned texts have a good meaning.  But, Johnson and Eilola's margins were tattooed with responses like, "Exceptionally poor transition" or, responding to a point, "not really."  Others include, "NO: IN ORDER TO earn money. That's what he's missing throughout here," or my personal favorite, "Hypertext is linear text - BAH!"  My reading experience was affected by Doug's constant interaction with the piece.  The text no longer stood stable and apart, an entity simply "being," but became a moving, changing, piece of writing as his words inevitably changed its meaning.  Whatever the "rationalists" wanted to convey through traditional essay format of nicely encapsulated knowledge was blasted to bits by the interactive, relational act of picking up a pen and marking those margins.  

Almost in agreement, Johnson and Eilola write: "...Texts no longer function as discrete objects, but as contingent, fragmented objects in circulation, as elements within constantly configured and shifting networks" (p. 208).

Hardly the response I get...if only people recognized how I'm changing the Interwebs as they know it.

I cannot conclude this nicely, but will note that my recognition of blogging as changing the fabric of search engines, even by just billionth of amounts, is pretty freaking awesome.  

Introduction Video

And here I am.

The Double Take

It is 7:31 a.m. I am halfway through my first cup of coffee. I hope this makes coherent sense (or is that redundant?)

I first read Baron’s Pixels to Pencils, freshman year of college in Doug Down’s WRIT 205 Introduction to Writing Studies class. I believe it was the first piece he assigned. My eighteen-year-old brain struggled to remain focused through eighteen pages of text, but I finished impressed with the idea that writing was, and always will be, technology.

Reading it the second time required less concerted focus, but naturally, I have read many more scholarly articles since freshman year, and grown my repertoire of understanding and comprehension around those types of pieces. But like I was saying, an eighteen I was stunned and excited at how technology would affect language, how our discourse would change alongside technology.

Now, as I read Baron’s essay, I find myself less surprised when considering the digital influence on writing, perhaps because the digital revolution is full-swing in process, and I both spectate and play on its field. I am both consumer and producer of digital texts, and the question, “will technology shape writing?” carries an obvious “yes.”

A child of the nineties, I grew up concurrent with computer development. I remember how I convinced my mother that drafting by a computer was better than drafting by hand, and how my youngest brother learned to type his name before writing it out by hand. I also find it humorous that original keyboards were designed to slow the typist down, whereas I value typing for its ability to keep up with my speed of thought. But Baron retains more pre-technology experience, and thus can rightly question technology’s influence, but to the current generation, computers have always been an inherit element of the writing process.

I find it humorous that proponents of “traditional writing” revere the style as something pure or unmediated, when Baron clearly points out that, “…so far as we know, writing itself begins not as speech transcription but as a relatively restricted and obscure record-keeping shorthand” (p.19) The first texts were probably similar to acronyms that teenagers get bashed for using; shorthand, simple, with agreed-upon meanings. The Sumerians used LOL and IKR; that is exactly what I am saying.

People tend to react, shy away, from anything alien, but everything is alien at some point, even the pencil, as Baron illustrates. Interestingly, it seems that as technology progresses, it increasingly mirrors our physical interaction with the world, a sophisticated “return to the basics.” Touch screens are designed to replicate our physical understandings—thumb down on a page, it slides down. Spread the screen with your fingers, and it zooms in. Technology is at once distinctly separated from the physical world of interaction, and right alongside it.

I see technology rapidly included in all aspects of writing, from brain-mapping software that promotes idea-generation to Word Processing that automatically starts noticing the writer’s textual characteristics, and tries to assist (like auto-numbering, auto-headers, etc.) To me, the looming question is: what effect does this influence have?

For one, we produce more text. Anyone can hop on blogspot.com, create a blog, and start clickety-clacketing away their hopes and dreams, their opinions, pictures of their abnormally photogenic lunch, and so forth. Textual production rapidly increased, because technology enables us to write with speed and efficiency, and we can easily self-publish. More ideas are circulating, and when something neat or novel comes along, the cyber crowd pushes it viral. People experience sudden fame, due to everything from uploading heart-rending covers of popular music to epicallycrashing while running on a treadmill. The language we use also changed – terms like “viral,” “spam,” “outgoing,” “loading,” “memory,” “buffering,” even “search” took on very different connotations. We also use written text more than voiced communication. Calling someone has become somewhat intrusive; sending a text is more polite. Technology also allowed the integration of multi-modality into everyday conversation, take Snap Chat for example. Although overlooked or discredited, Snap Chat offers a very distinct type of communication, where short phrases are accompanied by facial expressions. Those who use it become proficient in writing concisely, and using their expression to communicate. Technology certainly shapes communication, and it is really remarkable.

Downsides certainly exist, like children spending large amounts of time online and forgetting about all the wonderful dirt and leaves outside to explore. There is also cyber bullying, the permanence of the internet’s memory (that photo posted online will always be online), the increase in pornography, and so forth.

But, I dare say, the benefits outweigh the downsides. Technology allowed Stephen Hawing to write A Brief History of Time, among others. Just as Thoreau (my auto correct just changed his name to “Thorough;” oh the implications of technology not knowing its history) could have stabbed someone with his nice, sharp, pencil, so I can get online via my laptop and blast that classmate who annoys me, via social media. I think too often we create technology like Frankensteinian monsters, inventing that which soon moves outside our control. As always, the weapon is only as dangerous, detrimental, or beneficial as its user (and in our case, the collective user of society at large.)