SpokenWeb Podcast

[Sound effect of crickets singing at night followed by the call of a crow] Naming is the way we’ve been taught to apprehend the world, but it might also have the effect of making us fear what we can’t name. This sound work is about the potential of not naming things to linger in uncertainty. It’s about listening through discomfort, tuning in to fear and surrendering to silence. [Cricket sounds stop]

Attempting not to name things with spoken words is, however, a contradictory project. I can’t escape language, so I try to let it exceed the meaning I expect of it. [Light percussion music fades in] The question I’m asking throughout this episode in exploring the limits of my understanding is: can not-knowing help us learn to live more justly in compromised worlds? Since in Western sciences, the paradigm of knowledge accumulation is coming to its limits when facing the conditions of global warming, can a posture recognizing the bounds of our understanding be more fruitful?

Because while we know a lot about climate change, we’re still unable to act and slow down its processes. This podcast is a sort of collage where I make associations between ideas, sounds and stories. Associations are the glue making sometimes seemingly disparate elements stick together. My hope in calling my process associative is to avoid the expectation that this podcast as a form of narrative should be linear: that is, made of a series of observations where one ideologically evolves into another to reveal a single, coherent meaning. Associations might be more about not knowing where the next idea will take us. [Music fades out]

I’ve associated both stories because of the effect of fear they describe and produce. I’ll talk about how fear can be created by acousmatic sounds and uncomfortable intimacy, as well as how we might attempt to tame fear through naming and interpretation.  [Calm electronic music begins]

While the first section is about narratives we could call apocalyptic, the stories of the second section are about surviving and healing after yet another apocalypse, the first being the decolonization of the Americas and the genocide of Indigenous peoples. [Music ends]

Does the voice you reach toward make you move your gaze? [Crickets singing and sound of footsteps] Does walking allow you to listen intently? Is music your favorite mood altering method? But also, how do you affect those sounds? How might your listening bring you to identify the sounds in a way that limits them? Dylan Robinson, xwélmexw writer of the Stó:lō people and author of the book, Hungry Listening, teaches me to be attentive to the ways in which I listen with hunger for meaning.

Rather than holding on to the Western imperative that, as Robinson writes, “all knowledge should be accessible at all times,” I attempt to sit with the limits of my understanding of Indigenous intelligence, voice, song, and stories. My limits can be heard in my imperfect pronunciation of the word xwélmexw, meaning “first nation person” in Halq’eméylem, but also in the fact that I access Indigenous knowledges, not through relations with Indigenous people, communities, lands, and waters, but through texts, and texts that I read in English, which is a colonial language.

Instrument means that mind and body like musical instruments and scientific instruments can be calibrated to perform a creative outcome or attend to certain phenomena. [Soft ominous music begins] Kortekallio writes, “the self instrument is tuned and tweaked in order to become more impressionable, that is, more receptable to the various effects of textural ecologies.” Or, in this case, to the effects of sonic ecologies, to the effects of sounds, beings, and environments relating to each other.

To become-instrument, I actively calibrate myself to become more resectable to the associations that might arise between sounds, stories, and concepts. [Music fades] While their association might become apparent to me, my understanding doesn’t exhaust the potential of these relations. [Eerie music begins] The association I make between the two first stories I will discuss in this episode is their interest in the affect of fear. Naming things can be a way to manage our fear of the unknown, to make it less threatening and more familiar. But, what if this fear of the unknown was indeed acquired because of language, because what we can’t name then becomes threatening? [Music ends]

[Strange sounds rapidly rise and fall]

Film theorist and composer Michel Chion explains that we’re engaged in causal listening when we ask: what is making a sound? What is the thing, object, being, or phenomenon, producing the sound, and where is its source located? [Dense eerie music begins] Causal listening or the ability to interpret sounds and identify their possible causes is both learned culturally and wired to our survival instinct. Instinctively we understand that loud noises almost always mean danger. But culturally we also learn to identify some loud noises as coming from unthreatening sources, and we’re thus able to respond to them accordingly. Music and drone fade out]

If I hear loud noise and it triggers fear in me, identifying its cause might bring my fear to dissolve. Naming, once again, is a way to regain a sense of control. [Pensive percussion with sirens begins] The horror film genre is one that attempts to elicit fear in its audience by using unnerving sound effects, but also by playing with the process of revealing a monstrous or threatening force which previously remained partially hidden. In the Western branch of the horror genre, film plots are generally built around this process of making known the unknown.

When I listen to Pulse’s sounds, I hear layers of complexity. [Birdsongs and sawing sounds overlaid begin] I hear layers of human, machine, element, and animal entanglements. I feel confusion and fear. So why do I like it so much? [Abrupt silence]  I tune into those entanglements and those feelings of discomfort, and I feel the excitement of knowing that there is more to the movie than what I understand, that there is more to the world than what I can experience. [Birdsongs and ominous music fade in and out] In Pulse, what travels both through circuits and through sounds are unsettling presences that exceed human understanding.

[Ominous soundscape from Pulse play]

Intimacy is the sense of having other presences “under one skin,” explains Morton. [Eerie strings continue] Global warming gets under my skin and in my lungs when I breathe the summer air in Montreal. An air heavy with the small particles from the smoke caused by forest fires intensified by global warming. In Pulse, Ryosuke, a university student, experiences intimacy when gesturing to put his hands on the shoulders of a ghost in the hope that they will encounter no resistance, that they will traverse the ghost’s body, that it’s immateriality will convince him that the ghost doesn’t exist. But Ryosuke’s hands stop when they touch the spectre’s shoulders, which they can’t traverse. [Sound bite of object shattering]

[Soundscapes from Pulse are superimposed with sirens] Pulse ends on an apocalyptic vision of Tokyo burning. The city is deserted by the protagonists and a few other humans that are leaving on a ship to try to find a place on earth the virus hasn’t infected yet. While the end of the film is also the end of the world, the story remains open because the film resists a single overarching interpretation. The story remains open because of the non-human presences traversing its soundtrack.

I have associated the following stories because they all offer a representation of a weapon which Western powers have called a “test.” [Music fades out] We could define a test as an experiment which is carried out to establish the performance of something before it is taken into its intended use. The word “test” can be used to sustain a binary between the fictional world, where the test is performed, and the real world, where the tested thing will be used. Following Morton, I tune into the materiality of nuclear bombing by listening to a recording of the Caste Bravo nuclear weapon “test” that was launched on Bikini Atoll in the Marshall Islands in 1954 by the US Army. [Drone sound fades in and out] Timothy Morton writes, “Words fail to describe the horror with which I heard the first few seconds. I had to tear the headphones off my head.” [Sound effect of someone tearing their headphones off] [Silence] What is maybe even more horrific than the sound of the explosion itself is the seconds of silence preceding it.

[Dense silence that lasts too long for comfort, from the recording of the Bravo “test” followed by the explosion]

[Eerie music fades in]

Inhuman geologist, Kathryn Yusoff writes, “The fallout coated Marshallese bodies, ground, trees, breadfruit, coconuts, crabs, fish, and water.” The islanders were returned to the islands to study them as what was called fallout “collectors.” Human and non-human islanders were taken to be instruments serving to record the effects of such “tests” on human life and Pacific Island ecologies. But Yusoff reminds me that there is no such thing as a nuclear “test.” [Music ends]

The Marshall Islands are not a laboratory and the islanders are not “test” subjects, but people still living in radioactive intimacies causing high rates of leukemia, neoplasm, and thyroid cancers. [Tense electronic music beings] When the US army describes the dropping of nuclear bombs on the Marshall Islands as a form of “test,” the islands are constituted as a sort of fictional world whose destruction is not real. “Test” is a way of naming a form of nuclear colonialism and warfare. It derealizes the life of Pacific Islanders and constructs this ecosystem as a fictional world. The military can get a practice before having to perform in the real world. [Music ends] In her poem anointed…

There’s another shell story. Made of concrete, this one is supposed to shield the islanders from the toxicity of nuclear waste collected and dumped in a crater two decades after the end of the “testing.” There’s another weapon that calls itself a “test” and needs stories to weave an alternative discourse to the one of warfare, conquest, and colonization.

The novel’s protagonist was telling Sedna’s story before being interrupted by the intrusive memory of seismic testing. “Sedna is the sea goddess that came before Christianity.” Seismic testing is the technique used by companies to survey the Arctic Ocean for oil. Airguns are fired into the water from a boat. How the sound waves bounce back up from the ocean floor is captured by the ship sensors to be analyzed for indications of possible oil layers. Airguns are blasted every 15 seconds every hour of the day for several months. [Eerie string music begins] They produce sounds that can reach 230 decibels at close range. That’s louder than a jumbo jet and sound travels faster and further on the water.

[Dense electronic music starts] 150 decibels can rupture a human ear and anything over 80 decibels means reduced intellectual capacity, slow digestion, altered diction, accelerated breathing, and heartbeat, as well as symptoms of neurosis such as anxiety and depression. Music fades out]

So when those extremely loud sounds traverse the arctic ocean, they hit creatures living in the waters, including marine mammals that use sound to communicate such as narwhals, belugas, whales and seals. [Music with harsh percussion begins] Narwhals have been disoriented by disturbing sounds in an area where there was seismic testing going on. They changed their migration patterns and found themselves stuck under thick sea ice where they drowned. [Music ends]

I couldn’t find sounds of seismic testing on the internet, so I tune into this silence and to what it means. Do narwhals belugas, whales and seals hear a deafening ringing in their ears after airgun shootings and before they can hear nothing else? Do the calves miss their parents’ voices? Are marine mammals deaf so that I can listen to silence induced by noise reduction on my oil soaked headphones connected to my oil soaked computer in a warm library, thanks to heating oil, rendered even more cozy by oil soaked noise absorbing carpets? [Silence]

[Watery sounds and eerie ambient music begin] When Tagaq’s protagonist wants to tell Sedna to keep her treasures from greedy companies practicing seismic testing in the Arctic, the protagonist is not proposing a form of symbolic reading of Sedna’s story. Sedna is not a character in a fantasy world who would be valuable only if she symbolized a real person, event, or phenomenon in the real world. Sedna is an-other-than-human being living in the protagonist’s world. And the categories of real and fantasy here represent a Western rationalist reading that dismisses Indigenous ways of knowing. Tagaq’s protagonist interacts with Sedna’s story and other Inuit stories to remind us as writes…

Natanine, Clyde River’s mayor, explains that the community needs seals, narwhals, whales, and fish. The community and its mayor took the seismic “testing” companies to court to oppose their activities on Inuit land. In 2017, they won their case in the Supreme Court of Canada, which forbade further testing underground that Inuit treaty rights were disregarded, Inuit people inadequately consulted, and their relationship to marine animals dismissed. [Pensive percussion music begins] When companies performing seismic “testing” fail to consider how it will affect seals and other marine animals, the colonial worldview where animals are subordinate forms of life, whose bodies are killable and available to human use is given priority.

[Eerie music fades in] Tagaq’s story is told through a web of Indigenous perspectives. It is a collaborative work that she weaves with her band, community, ancestors, animal and mineral neighbors, with Inuit songs and worldviews, and stories like Sedna’s story and that of Arqsarnic, the Northern Lights. It is what Justice would call “stories that heal.” They contrast those healing stories with the colonial story of “Indigenous deficiency,” which has been told too many times to mask settler’s guilt and shame. [Music ends] According to this colonial story, many Indigenous people are suffering from poverty, homelessness, and addiction, not because of intergenerational trauma caused by colonization and genocide, but because Indigenous individuals supposedly lack in “character or biology or intellect.”

Humans are also animals, animals take erotic forms and attract humans. Predators are also prey. Spirits leave and come back to their bodies; bodies are shapeshifters.  [Music fades] Listening to Tanya Tagaq’s amazing audiobook Split Tooth late at night, day after day, her soft rhythmic voice began to feel like a haunting. Her “S” sounds were encircling my limbs like tendrils and I started reading my own work with the cadence of her voice.[Dark pensive music begins] I’m even doing it now.

Tagaq reveals harsh realities and traumatic events with a soft voice and a juvenile tone. [Dark music ends followed by playful music] The voice that she shares with the protagonist seems to me at times childlike, and at times wise and old, and sometimes mischievous and even cruel. Her voice goes from one to the other with only the slightest variation in tone, rhythm, or pace. [Music stops]

I can’t separate the hero from the villain in Tagaq’s story, and this brings me to reflect on my own position as a white settler. I too am neither simply innocent nor guilty in the ongoing colonial story. I am implicated in the conditions creating trauma and violence in Indigenous communities, and me and my ancestors have benefited from colonial systems. Attending to the discomfort I feel when faced with the ambiguity of Tagaq’s characters helps me sit with the discomfort I feel when reflecting on my own position. I hope that this emotional engagement can help me be more accountable.  [Pensive music fades out]

Stories might allow us to walk that thin line between knowing too much and knowing too little. While humans of the 21st century know a lot about global warming, we seem to be unable to act. If rational knowledges, facts don’t bring action, can I turn towards unknowing? [Music intensifies and ends] [Soundscape from Pulse fades in and out] Pulse’s strange sounds like Letao’s and Sedna’s story are not exhausted by any symbolic reading I might make of them. I manage, in the understanding I have of them, a space for feeling nervous, a space not to name things or to cultivate distrust in the names I give.  [Eerie music begins]

The sounds in Pulse like the stories in Anointed and Split Tooth are palimpsestic, layers sedimented one over the other, like the layers of soil saturated with plutonium on the Marshall Islands, like the strata of oil, gas, and sedimentary rock in the ocean bed, like the layers of bodies infiltrated by strontium90, like levels of memories, practices, and knowledges collected in stories. [ Nadège’s voice echoes] There must be more to this. [Music fades out]

[Soft electronic music fades in] Thank you for listening. Voices are from Hannah McGregor, Stacey Copeland, Lulu Miller, Daniel Justice, Kathy Jetñil-Kijiner and Tanya Tagaq. Music is from Tom Bonheur, merci Tom, and from Blue Dot Sessions. Soundscapes are from Pulse directed by Kiyoshi Kurosawa with music by Takefumi Haketa. The recording of the Castle Bravo “test” is from JLiat’s website. Additional sounds from RadioLab, and Anointed, a film by Dan Lin and Kathy Jetñil-Kijiner. Thank you. [Electronic music fades out]