Climate Change

Three Things Thursday: Hot and Cold Capitalism

On Tuesday, I was supposed to devote a couple hours reading the totally unreasonably amount of Thucydides that I assigned my Greek History class. Instead, I got sucked into Daniel Immerwahr’s brilliant article in Past & Present titled: “All That Is Solid Bursts into Flame: Capitalism and Fire in the Nineteenth-Century United States.” I blame Kostis Kourelis who has been for the last decade (at least) the source for almost all my distraction in my life).

Immerwahr argues that the shift from wood to concrete and steel in the US occurred later than in Europe owing in large part to the large amount of wood available on the American continent. This meant that the US continued to be susceptible to massive fires even as Europe had mandated more “pyrophobic” regulations. Moreover, accumulations of capital tended to attract these fires creating intense volatility as investments particularly in urban real estate, extractive industries, and other expressions of fast capitalism (19th century style!) including banks and other financial institutions where “paper” was currency. This is part of a larger conversation — played out in part in the pages of Past & Present — that seeks to understand the distinct character (which is not say “exceptionalism”) of America’s economic growth in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. 

1. Hot and Cold Capitalism. One of the key things that Immerwahr clarified in my mind is the difference between hot and cold capitalism. Immerwahr introduced me to the idea of “Cold Capitalism” which described as the rationalization of the market over the course of the 20th century (including various protections put in place not only through state regulation, but also through the development of new institutions designed to mitigate risk [e.g. insurance and presumably collusion or monopolistic practices, for example]). In contrast, “Hot Capitalism” involves practices and markets characterized by a high degree of volatility. For Immerwahr “hot capitalism” offers a delightfully literal way to describe the volatility that came from the US’s dependence on wood at the turn of the 20th century. In “hot capitalism,” market volatility creates conditions which allow for the rapid accumulation and dispersion of wealth. In general, hot capitalism is more democratic in that volatility prevented the accumulation of wealth in the hands of the few or, at very least, ensured that anyone who did accumulate wealth might also at risk of losing it.     

2. Progressivism and Catastrophism (feat. Ignatius Donnelly). One of the more interesting observations made in this article is the role that fire played in progressive fiction. In particular, Immerwahr notes that conflagrations were seen as a fitting way reset the market by destroying accumulated wealth, lowering the bar for entry into the market, and reinforcing economic and social equality. In volatile markets Lauren Berlant’s “cruel optimism,” gave way to a puncher’s chance. For progressives like Donnelly, fire was an ally. 

This is interesting for me because Donnelly’s two most famous works, Atlantis: The Antediluvian World (1882) and Ragnarok: The Age of Fire and Gravel (1883), present arguments for the cataclysmic destruction of an advanced civilization by flood and, then, by fire. The scene of catastrophic destruction forms the finally of his dystopian novel Caesar’s Column (1890) where a conflagration destroys the remains of New York at the conclusion of a violent revolt. In many ways, this destruction marks both the end of an oligarchic regime and the promise for a new future (both for the narrator and for the society whose end he witnesses). 

In other words, writing in the late 19th century Donnelly sees moments of catastrophic destruction as moments of abrupt leveling in society and in keeping with his larger progressive efforts to undermine the power of entrenched institutions and their collusion with capital.  

3. Disaster Capitalism and Breaking the System. Of course, the prospects and potential of “hot capitalism” is relevant in the 21st century world as we confront potentially unprecedented volatility brought about by climate change. It is clear, for example, that hurricanes in Florida and fires in Los Angeles have already tested the limits of “cold capitalist” institutions from federal relief agencies resources to insurance companies. In other words, just as the use of wood produced an environment of particular volatility surrounding (literally!) capital, today’s climate uncertainty might be doing the same.

One of the statements on our climate-change inflected future that has stuck with me the longest has been Amativ Ghosh’s quip that in the 21st century, the poor experience the future first. Ghosh’s observation seems to suggest that with the reemergence of hot capitalism there will be the kind of leveling that much like the conflagration at the end of Donnelly’s Caesar’s Column reduces the world to a common poverty.

In this view, Immerwahr gently challenges the view of “disaster capitalism” introduced most famously by Naomi Klein. For Klein, the wealthy and powerful promoted the shocks and catastrophes of disaster capitalism to undermine the social relationships among the working classes. This reduced their ability for collective resistance and make it easier for the wealthy to produce dependency. Immerwahr, however, noted that it was progressives (like Donnelly) and often the working class itself who saw fire as a way radically level the playing field. In other words, disasters — whether fires at the turn of the 20th century or climate induced disasters in the 21st — may well have benefited the poor. As evidence for this, Immerwahr shows how the wealthy sought to mitigate the destructive potential of fire both materially, by building in steel and concrete, and institutionally, by developing close ties with the state and financial apparatus designed to protect their investments (e.g. fire insurance). Indeed for the wealthy sought stability about all else and the poor embraced the radical contingency of wood (and perhaps even climate change) to afford them a puncher’s chance to escape their conditions.

Wreading Wednesday: Cooking Ware, Ruins, the Younger Fill, and Progress

I’ve had some time of the last couple weeks to slowly start to catch up on my reading. This means randomly flailing about and reading articles, books for next semester, parts of Didier Eribon’s Returning to Reims, and short stories from the latest Conjunctions.

So here goes my most recent reads:

Article the First

Theodoros K. Vasileiou and Athanasios K. Vionis, “Cooking pottery as indicator of resilience and change in Early Medieval Cyprus. An archaeometric approach” Archaeological and Anthropological Sciences (2024). The article is an expansive survey of Early Medieval cooking ware on Cyprus. Cooking pots have long been among the most common and most vexing kinds of pottery from Late Antique and Medieval Cyprus. Questions concerning the rise of hand made and slow wheel cooking pots, for example, intersect with efforts to understand wheel-made pottery made on the local and  regional level, especially the types made at Dhiorios in northwestern Cyprus. Vasileiou and Vionis survey the shape of pottery from five major sites and then compare petrographic samples to demonstrate that while shapes remain fairly consistent across the island, individual vessels showed differences in provenience and source material. It is noteworthy that many places showed a blend of regionally and locally produced vessels. This seems consistent with recent work at Paphos (see here for a brief comment on some of that work).

One of the more vexing issues that we’ve discovered at Polis is the near absence of hand-made cooking pots in 6th and 7th century contexts. Those documented several years ago appear mainly to come from later contexts (or contexts that did not have secure stratigraphy), but their absence in the large assemblages from the 7th century suggest that they occur quite late at this site. It may be that this is because this site, much like the site at Pyla-Koutsopetria on the eastern part of the island, remains quite connected to regional and Mediterranean wide networks of exchange.

Article the Second

I was provoked by Mazen Iwaisi’s provocation in the latest issue of Archaeological Dialogues, “The Baptist Hospital in Gaza. Current ruins for future archaeologists?” While the topic of the article will provoke many people in many different ways, the most interesting point that Iwaisi makes about the ruined Baptist Hospital, which the Israeli military destroyed in the recent war, is when does it become a ruin and what does one DO with a ruin in the making. Does one set aside the ruins of the hospital as a memorial to the death of children and women as a result of war? Does one clean up the debris and study the ruins in retrospect much as Michael Shanks, David Platt, and Bill Rathje did with the debris from the World Trade Center attacks? Or is this another opportunity for salvage or “disaster” archaeology in the spirit of Richard Gould’s work?

The topic alone is adequate for this to constitute a provocation and in many ways the tragic situation in Israel and Palestine obscures the potency of the questions that Iwaisi is asking. I was reminded of walking around the site of a campus shooting with Noah Kaye when at Michigan State. When and how do places commemorate the dead when the wounds and the memories are still raw?

Article the Third

Anyone who thinks about the Late Roman invariably thinks of Claudio Vita‐Finz’s 1969 book The Mediterranean Valleys and his introduction of the term “the younger fill.” Vita‐Finz argued that this alluvial deposit common to Mediterranean valleys dated to Late Antiquity and appeared largely as a result of climate change which we now call the Late Antique Little Ice Age. John Bintliff’s recent article in Geoarchaeology (2024) titled “Mediterranean Valleys Revisited” considers recent discussions surrounding the deposition of sediments during the Holocene period. 

While this article is appropriately dense with citations and observations, the one thing that really stuck out of me was the description of the infilling of river deltas during the Late Roman period. Bintliff surveys the state of the field and observes that current consensus is that sea level rise in the Early and Middle Holocene disrupted the formation of river deltas as rivers deposited their sediments into marine environments rather than coast ones. As sea levels normalized at the end of the Middle Holocene, deltas began to reform and the coastal retreat ended. By Late Antiquity, the coastlines were pushing into the sea as the normal deposit of alluvium from Mediterranean valleys formed expanding river deltas. Ancient cities founded on the earlier coastlines, particular in Asia Minor, discovered their harbors were infilling and their coastal positions compromised by the end of antiquity.

Article the Fourth

Finally, I never stop being charmed by articles on the prairie ruins. I enjoyed James Flath and Robert Wardhaugh recent contribution to Great Plains Quarterly 44.1 (2024) titled “Following the Ruins: History and Memory in a Prairie Ghost Town.” The article doesn’t say much that’s new (much less profound) about prairie towns. Their discussion of Fielding, Saskatchewan could refer to any town on the northern plains of the US or Canada. What they do that makes this article worth reading is emphasize the sense of movement that dominates these seemingly static rural places. The coming and going of families, of businesses, and of churches in the town stress the dynamic precarity of these places situated at the very edge of progress. 

Three Article Thursday: Climate, Housing, and History

There’s an old saying: every story is about climate change, especially stories about climate change. I don’t know whether it’s true or not, but some days it feels pretty plausible. 

Over the last week, I’ve been slowly trying to get back into a more healthy habit of reading. I have a stack of stuff to read this spring for my classes and a stack of stuff to read for NDQ and The Digital Press, and this leaves me less time than I would like to try to read around in my fields. As a result, I’m going to try to focus some attention on article length works this winter and spring. I started this new strategy with three articles on top of my “to read” pile. They all happened to have some oblique relevance to the climate change narratives that are structuring so much reporting on our current cold snap.

Article the First

As soon as I saw the title “Fieldwork in an Increasingly Variable Climate: The Kites in Context Project 2023 Field Season” from the Journal of Field Archaeology, I knew that I wanted to read this article. The team of authors, Austin Chad Hill, Yorke M. Rowan, Ali Atallah Al-Hajj, Jennifer Feng, Joseph Harris, Blair Heidkamp, Morag M. Kersel, Megan Nishida and Amelie Schmücker, combine narrative with a photo essay to describe their experiences working in Jordan’s Black Desert during an exceptional rain event in the summer of 2023. They describe how two days of rain during the ordinarily dry summer months flooded their camp, disrupted their field work, and offered hints to how Neolithic groups managed to survive in now sparely inhabited Black Desert. 

The archaeology of archaeology has fascinated me and I’m particularly interested in understanding how climate conditions will shape field work practices in the Mediterranean. As temperatures and climate variability increase in the Mediterranean summer months, the key time for foreign research projects to work in the region, one wonders whether climate change might work to decolonize archaeological field projects by disrupting the season colonialism of foreign projects.   

Just to be clear, I’m not implying that the Kites in Context project is particularly colonial, but the dramatic story and photographs of their summer field work in 2023 makes it clear that climate change is already shaping their work.

Article the Second

Yesterday, I had a chance to chat with a reporter about the tensions between the need for workforce housing in North Dakota’s Bakken oil patch and the surge in evictions that occurred during the boom decade of the early 21st century. The impetus for this discussion was a recent article by Carl Gershenson, Olivia Jin, Jacob Haas and Matthew Desmond in the journal Society & Natural Resources titled “Fracking Evictions: Housing Instability in a Fossil Fuel Boomtown.” 

The article applies the concept of “resource curse” to domestic resource booms rather than formally colonized areas (typically in the global south). The notion of the resource curse posits that the presence of natural resources in a region actually slows economic growth in the longer term. Whether this is tied to deliberate strategies associated with the “development of under development” or the social byproduct of the “slow violence” associated with extractive industries more broadly is almost irrelevant. Gershenson not only argue evictions represent one way in which resource booms produce longer term social instability as evicted individuals often struggle to benefit from educational, employment, and health care opportunities even when the extraction of natural resources allows for greater investments in these areas. This largely follows Matthew Desmond’s work on evictions elsewhere.  

Carl Gershenson and company demonstrate that evictions went from being an exceedingly rare phenomena in Williston in North Dakota prior to the oil boom to a regular occurrence. Moreover, they were able to suggest that long-time residents of North Dakota experience more evictions than new residents. This plausibly suggests that we should associate evictions with the rise in rents which impacted local residents — presumably on lower or fixed incomes — more than new comers to the region whose salaries were more commensurate with the increasing housing costs.

The most fascinating thing about this article was the graph that showed how evictions increased in lockstep with the rate of oil production. How cool is that?

Article the Third

Finally, I have really enjoyed dipping into Nikolas Bakirtzis and Luca Zavagno, eds., The Routledge Handbook of the Byzantine City: From Justinian to Mehmet II (ca. 500 – ca.1500). Zavagno’s historiographic survey of work on the Byzantine City from Late Antiquity to the Late Byzantine period is a must read for anyone trying to navigate the tension between the city as a type of settlement with certain characteristics recognizable across time and culture and the city as a historical phenomenon. In some ways, this tension mimics the tension between continuity and change so familiar to scholars of the Late Roman, Early Medieval, and Early Byzantine periods. In other ways, it’s much more challenging because drifting toward “the only constant is change” renders opaque how changes reflected new social, political, and religious realities; on the other hand, an essentialized view of the city pulls us toward ahistorical readings of past which are equally unsatisfying.

Zavagno shows how historians and archaeologists have threaded this needle over the last 30 years. Significant for the theme of this post is that growing interest in the relationship between the environment and the city with particular attention being given to water management. If we think about cities as a particular manifestation of the Holocene climatic optimum, then climate and the distinctive environment conditions it fostered and urbanism are inseparable. Zavagno’s survey doesn’t necessarily point to this issue specifically, but rather is suggestive that future work on the Byzantine city will not only have to take into account the long history of the Holocene while also pointing in new directions which shows how the Byzantine city can contribute to conversations about urbanism and climate change in the contemporary world. 

More Thoughts on Recent Research in Pseudoarchaeological Practice

A few months ago, I wrote a post on a book project that is absolutely not what I’m working on right now. It is called “Recent Advances in Pseudoarchaeological Practice.” In my previous post, I outline some of the goals of this little book with I hoped would clock in at around 40,000 words and link together two rejected articles: one on Sun Ra and one on the Bakken as Babylon. 

The problem that I’ve been having is how do I connect these two articles. For a while, I had been thinking about returning to some of my piffling around with Philip K. Dick. I’ve also thought about being a bit more polemical in my defense of certain forms of pseudoarchaeology. Neither of these approaches have really helped me imagine a book that is less two random articles and more a cohesive argument.

On a long bike ride the other day, I came up with a solution this problem. At present I have three articles that explore and celebrate the concept of pseudoarchaeology. The first is my piece on Sun Ra, noted about, the second is my more speculative jawn on the Bakken as Babylon. The final piece is an article that I wrote with Kostis Kourelis on “Dream Archaeology” (which I submitted this fall). 

At this point, this book starts to come together. 

Chapter One: Sun Ra and Black Pseudoarchaeology. 

Chapter Two: Dream Archaeology and Excavating Spiritual Truth

Chapter Three: Global Babylon

Conclusion: Dis-Place-ment and Pseudoarchaeological Practice in the Anthropocene

The trajectory of the book then will start with the idea that in the hands of Black pseudoarchaeologists of the mid-20th century, arguments that Black people were the remnants of extraterrestrials who visited earth to transform human culture severed to center the transformative power of Black culture both in Africa and in the Atlantic World. In short, pseudoarchaeology leveraged the power of space age to imagine a global past consistent with the experience of global displacement introduced by both the slave trade and colonialism. 

The pseudoarchaeology of dreams in the first half of the 20th century, likewise represented an effort to universalize the particulars of archaeological practice. If archaeology as a discipline in the 20th century came to focus more intensely on localized phenomenon, pseudoarchaeology offered a universalizing alternative that recognized the spiritual realm and the unconscious world of dreams as revealing and informing local phenomena. While much of this kind of pseudoarchaeology has taken a back seat in recent times to pseudoarchaeology that favors the unconventional use of technology to reveal obfuscated, obscure, or subversive pasts, it nevertheless reveals a persistent 20th century interest in constructing mystical counter narratives to the particularistic and materialist world of conventional or establishment archaeology.

Obviously, my point isn’t to rehabilitate or even give a hearing to racist archaeology or pseudoarchaeology, but to urge us to consider what pseudoarchaeology has taught us in the past and what we can learn from it in the future especially as we confront existential global challenges that threaten to exceed the scope of conventional archaeology.

More on the Grand Forks Greenway

One of the down sides of struggling with work/life balance issues is that even the most mundane things that I do have the potential to slide from “life” to “work.” For example, volunteering on the Grand Forks Historic Preservation Commission as the Commission’s archaeologist has fueled my interest in the history and materiality of the city. Walking my dogs along the Grand Forks Greenway, has spurred me to think more carefully about how the Greenway and the Red River of the North shapes not only the city’s past, but also its present relationship with its surroundings.

Sometimes these two interests coincide, such as when I find myself collaborating with another commission member, Paul Conlon, on an integrity survey of the 1950s era flood mitigation features in the city. It appears that most of these features were removed during the construction of the far more substantial post-1997 flood walls. Despite this disappointing discovery, Paul’s research and my rumination have led made it hard for me to shake a potential paper idea especially as I walk the dogs on the Greenways scenic paths.

IMG 8378

Right now, the paper is still at the “slowly crystalizing idea stage” which means that I have a title: “Cold War, Consumer Culture, and Climate Change in a North Dakota City.”

If I had to start to write the paper today, rather than, say, work on my syllabi for the spring semester, I’d start the paper with an overview of recent work on the environmental history of rivers with special attention to the goals of mid-century hydraulic programs such as the Pick-Sloan as well as more local initiatives designed to both protect communities and to provide water for recreation and irrigation. For the local situation, Kathleen Brokke’s dissertation will be an invaluable guide. She touches on the role of suburban sprawl and the growing desire for burgeoning urban communities to harness local rivers for recreation, but her work remains an expansive view of Red River region rather than an intensive one. Moreover, it appears that she doesn’t connect suburban sprawl of the 1950s, ‘60s, and ‘70s to the region’s growing role in the Cold War. 

My goal with this imagined research wouldn’t be to re-produce Brokke’s expansive environmental history of the Red River, but to zero in on the relationship between the river and the city of Grand Forks. In particular, I’d be interested in understanding how efforts to control the Red River in Grand Forks in the 1950s emerged alongside the transformation of the city itself as it grew into its post-war form and its growing role as an important regional “front” in the Cold War. The vulnerability of Grand Forks to flooding should be understood in the context of the construction of the Grand Forks Air Force base in the 1950s, the expansion of the University of North Dakota in part due to its capacity to harness federal grants and to serve military veterans, and the influx of new residents drawn to the city by its post-war amenities and opportunities.

The Cold War, post-war consumer culture, and the long-term, geological history of the Red River provides three key vectors for understanding not only the history of Grand Forks, but also the form that this investment in controlling the flow of the Red River took. As I’ve noted a few times in the past, the form of the post-1997 flood walls themselves speak both to long-standing attitudes toward natural forces especially on the Great Plains and the role that the Army Corps of Engineers plays in attempting to exert control over “nature” in these contexts. 

This opens our work to a fourth vector that I would love for our article to explore. This vector would foreground the role of landscapes of control in the “late-modern” world. I have this idea that it might be a way to interrogate attitudes toward the Anthropocene. This is immediately relevant to the situation of the Grand Forks on the Red River of the North as six of the ten worst floods in history have occurred in the 21st century. More than that, the flood control systems put in place after the 1997-flood offer a visible, daily reminder of the separation, or even alienation, of humans from their natural environment. A subtle paper might observe that the flood walls, which evoke military fortifications, offer only on perspective on the relationship between the town and the river. Less visible, but every bit as important is the network of pipes and pumping stations that not only connect the city to the river for drinking water and the disposal of run off, but also prevent the river from reclaiming these same connections to flood the city. In other words, the very landscape of flood control in the city emphasizes the need to protect the community from the river itself while hiding away the deeply interconnected relationship between the city and the water. 

The flood walls, of course, contribute in strikingly visible ways to the modern ontological distinctions that locate in separate categories the “natural” and the “cultural,” “human,” or “man-made.” Scholars who have engaged with the Anthropocene as not only a term useful for defining a new geological epoch shaped by human actions, but also an ontological challenge to the view that human activities represent a separate category from the affairs of nature. The challenge of contemporary, anthropogenic climate change, then, is a direct critique of the Grand Forks flood walls themselves and their militarized station dividing the unruly power of the Red River of the North, for the neatly organized settlement of Grand Forks.

It strikes me, then, that post-war efforts to harness rivers and to control the flooding in Grand Forks offers a particularly compelling example of the way in which mid-century consumer culture created new landscapes that sought to reify the division between humans and nature by making visible the power of humanity to bring it under control. To be clear, the post-war generation was not the first to do this—gardens culture, for example, long celebrated the ability of individuals to present nature in aesthetically, economically, and politically productive ways— but the mid-20th century marked the first time that humans could manipulate the landscape on such a massive scale. Archaeologists of these decades refer to this capacity as a hallmark of supermodernity in which nowhere on earth escapes the human intervention. No expression of this is more dramatic than the ability to spit the atom. This capability plays a key role in the creation of Cold War landscapes in the American West. These landscapes not only relied on the atomic power of the post-war “military-industrial-academic” complex for its national relevance, but also demonstrated how the confidence unleashed by the atomic age could introduce new levels of prosperity and security for at least some Americans and some of their allies.

Of course, the promises of prosperity and security appear increasingly illusory in light of growing evidence for climate change. Perhaps here is where the efforts to control the flow of the Red River through Grand Forks offer the most poignant or even useful metaphor. The division between the town and the natural spaces of the Greenway, while compelling in our daily lives where it is easy (and even necessary) to imagine nature held at arm’s length, is no more absolute than the collapsing ontological division between humanity and the wider relational network in which we live on Earth. 

Three Things Thursday: Dark Heritage, Sports, and Funding Archaeology

For a long time, I resisted the idea that Thursdays were the new Fridays. After all, I still got up and went to work on Fridays so Thursdays just seemed like Thursdays to me. In fact, Fridays and Wednesdays also often seemed like Thursdays too. Thursdays are weird that way.

Recently, however, I’ve started to feel more and more relieved when I make it to Thursday evening (or even Thursday morning) knowing that most of week is behind me and I just need to keep doing what I’m doing and I should be able to bring myself in for a successful landing. 

In the spirit of that, I offer a few musings on this unapologetically random Three Things Thursday.

Thing the First

A couple people on my social media feeds posted links to an article by Suzie Thomas titled ““Dark” Heritage? Nudging the Discussion” from Heritage & Society. (H/t to Morag Kersel for sending along a copy of this article!).

I’m generally drawn to discussion of dark tourism and dark heritage partly because of my work in the Bakken Oil Patch for which my colleague Bret Weber and I produced a tourist guide. I remain pretty proud of this book particularly because I feel like it was one of the few times when I put my penchant for more experimental ways of thinking or talking about the landscape into something as substantial as a peer reviewed book.

One of the things that emerged from my efforts in this book is a more expansive view of both tourism and heritage. Thomas’s article on Dark Heritage and its association with violence focused on attitudes toward World War II remains in Finnish Lapland. We need not associate violence exclusively with warfare, however, and as we become more and more aware of the violence associated with climate change in the 21st century, it is tempting to expand the concept of “Dark” Heritage to encompass heritage associated with the slow violence of climate change on a global level.

In this context, then, perhaps our work in the Bakken represents a tentative step toward a “Dark” Heritage of the Anthropocene. When we consider this in relation to the emerging discipline of the archaeology of the contemporary world, it becomes hard to escape both the collapse of perspectives offered by both the study of heritage and archaeology, and the suffusing of this muddied discipline with concerns for various forms of violence on the global scale. The archaeology of areas like the Bakken contribute directly to how we understand the process and violence of global climate change on a local level

Thing the Second

It’s baseball season and it’s also politics season with both the playoffs underway and the midterm elections looming. This has gotten me thinking about how the two situations leverage our partisan attitudes and world views to intensify the experiences. For sports fans and voters, the outcome of a particular election or series represents the confirmation of a particular understanding of the world. At its best, these scenarios become classic conflicts of good versus evil; at their worst, a political victory by our opponents challenges our faith in human goodness in the same way that a victory by the Mets would. 

As I mulled the parallels between political and sporting partisans, I thought back to Robert Coover’s book, The Universal Baseball Association, Inc., J. Henry Waugh, Prop., which I read a few years ago and very much enjoyed. The set up for the novel is J. Henry Waugh created a fictional baseball league whose outcomes and game play were based on dice throws. Henry had played the game for over 50 seasons and had become quite attached to the finely crafted reality that this league embodied. This all broke down, however, when a rising star was struck and killed by a hit ball. This was not only a profoundly unexpected outcome, but one that caused Henry’s fantasy world of the Universal Baseball Association and real world of his career, personal relationships, and daily life blur in ways that make the reader more and more uneasy.

It’s really a remarkable book that offers particularly compelling insights into our contemporary political situation. As the finely crafted worlds of political partisans and pundits have become increasingly vouchsafed by the statistical realities of the ballot box, many people are finding it harder and harder to discern the difference between the world that politics creates and the world in which we have to live day to day. 

As a commentary on this, I’ve started to think about creating a website that celebrates the victories of my favorite teams. Rather than following the action in the NBA or the NFL with an eye toward the real outcomes of games, I would create a narrative where readers could follow a teams ups and down confident in the knowledge that their team will prevail in the end. 

Thing the Third

Finally, as readers of this blog invariably know, it is becoming more and more challenging to generate funding to support archaeological work both for US based projects and on a global scale. As a result, scholars are turning to unconventional and innovative ways to generate the funds needed both to study the past, but also to ensure that students have a chance to learn about the discipline of archaeology and places, people, and communities that it studies and benefits.

Along these lines, check out the innovative work done by The Boğsak Center for Archaeology and Heritage in Rough Cilicia. They’re doing good, but hard grassroots archaeological development focused (appropriately enough) on quarries in this region and they’re looking for donations to allow them to continue to document, study, and present their work.

Check out what they’ve done so far here.

And since I know some readers of this blog have a soft spot for hard places like Rough Cilicia, considering helping this remarkably team out here.

Writing Wednesday: Some Fragments

I’m juggling a few projects lately and that always keeps me on my toes and excited to get to work in the morning.

Right now, I’m working with Rachael Kiddey to edit the inaugural volume in the CHAT book series. It’s a collection of papers from festivalCHAT which was an online conference held in 2020. I’m also finishing a book review that’s probably due October 1, and most importantly, I’m finishing revisions on a paper that I wrote about the “Bakken Babylon” for a special section to appear next year in Near Eastern Archaeology on the archaeology of climate change.

One of the critiques of this paper was that it was a bit hard to understand what I was trying to do. While I saw this as a feature, the editors of the special section suggested that it might be understood as a “bug” by the audience of NEA who might not expect a contribution that blurs the line between fiction and criticism. This was a fair observation and I decided to add an introductory paragraph that sets up a bit more explicitly what I was trying to do.

Here’s the new introduction and this introduction is followed by a link to the paper as it now stands.

This article is an experiment. Its origins are in my decades of work in the Bakken oil patch of western North Dakota and my nearly two decades of field work in the Near East, primarily Cyprus, although this work is more clearly influenced by the former than the latter. During our time writing and thinking about the Bakken, we recognized similarities between the materiality of extractive industries in North Dakota and in the contemporary Near East. In some cases, the same companies operated in both places, such as Haliburton and Schlumberger. In other cases, the same individuals worked in both places and recognized the similarities in modular force housing and daily routines. The similarities between extractive industries in both places paralleled the global reach of contemporary climate change. This understanding encouraged us to consider whether modern geographies that support the borders of nation states, our understanding of regional practices and the discipline of archaeology itself impaired our ability to imagine climate change on a global scale. Archaeologists have already contributed to multi-site approaches designed to trace the impact of climate change in different regional contexts. While comparative and multi-site approaches to provide windows into the history and impact of climate change, they often remained linked to regional narratives and economic and demographic networks informed by traditional political geographies.

This paper will explore the potential for more “planetary” approaches to understanding climate change which complicate and obscure modern geography. In fact, this article will embrace certain aspects of the fictional universe imagined in Reza Negarestani’s philosophical novel, Cyclonopedia, which follow the trail of an Iranian archaeologist, Dr. Hamid Parsani, who located oil at the center of a radical cosmology with roots in Near Eastern antiquity. This wildly speculative and painfully obscure text provides a kind of sandbox to where I combine some of my experience in the Bakken with a planetary view of Babylon informed as much by Bruno Latour and Dipesh Chakrabarty view of planet approaches to climate change as the recent fictional works in speculative realism. The goal of this article is less a clear method or even a roughly defined approach and more of an inducement to more radical ways of thinking necessary to understand the industrial landscapes of the contemporary Bakken and Near East within the planetary history and consequences of the looming climate catastrophe.

Here’s a link to Bakken Babylon, part 1 and Bakken Babylon, part 2.

Bakken Babylon, Part 2

Yesterday I posted the first part of an article that I have written about the Bakken as Babylon. It’s for a special section in Near Eastern Archaeology dedicated to the archaeology of climate change and edited by Omur Harmansah and Katie Kearns. In my post yesterday I’ve included links to earlier drafts of this piece. 

As is so often the case with academic writing, this piece is less finished than it is done, but I do hope that it is somewhere in the grey region between thought provoking and entertaining… 

Bakken Babylon (part 2)

Dustism

There was ample motivation to take even more unconventional approaches to understanding the contemporary Bakken oil patch in relation to contemporary climate change. Human created climate change is transforming our world. Extreme weather, rising sea levels, and faltering seasonal patterns are already producing droughts, flooding, and massively destructive storms that capture headlines for their economic and human costs. Less visible, but every bit as significant, is the slow violence inflicted on the other living things on the plant as we accelerate toward an inevitable series of mass extinction events (Nixon 2011). With the existential consequences to anthropogenic climate change well known, it is more than appropriate for archaeology to shift toward understanding planetary networks of agents and situations that created increasingly violent climatic conditions. Thinking about the wide range of agents acting on a planetary level provides us with some insight into how geography and cartography can appear increasingly fluid against the backdrop of planetary crisis.

A brief digression on dustism, a term introduced in Negarstani’s Cyclonopedia, provides a chance to understand how Parsani’s view of material and agency create the affordances required to make the Bakken and Babylon interchangeable. Parsani understood “dustism” as “the earth’s clandestine autonomy” which converts and subverts solar energy, or solar capitalism, into swirling, eddying, and irresistible clouds of matter that resist human control. Parsani argued, perhaps spuriously, that dust in Middle Eastern religions is pure and immaculate and its only when it begins to coalesce and clump that it becomes “an abomination.” This abomination in Parsani’s convoluted cosmology merges the autonomy of the earth with the fluidity of material to produce a mess. This mess — mud, oil, foaming muck — fertilizes the world and supports production, growth, and creation even as the sun continuously seeks to dry it out and return it to inert purity of dust. In this formulation dustism provides a framework that Bradley Fest understands to support a system of hyperobjects including dust and oil which exist beyond the temporal and spatial scale of human existence (Fest 2016). In Parsani’s narrative, the viscosity of oil allows it to become the narrator as it binds the disparate power of dust which seeks to continuously revert to its primordial and timeless form.

This is obviously obscure, but dustism is useful for understanding an archaeology of contemporary climate change. It embodies the “radical materialism” (Boscagli 2014) necessary for apprehending systems that operate in ways that remain unpredictable. Dustism and dust itself, like oil, lubricates the narratives that connects North Dakota’s Bakken to Babylon. The ubiquity of dust in the Bakken has, of course, attracted scientific research. One the one hand, the Bakken and Three Forks deposits of shale oil likely represent organic material trapped beneath thin layers of sand deposited by Quaternary dust storms. In contemporary North Dakota, truck traffic creates billowing dust clouds that mark the path of the region’s straight section line roads. Research during the height of the oil boom documented the impact of dust associated with oil development on vegetation, including crops, near roads as well as working conditions in a region long characterized as having three season: snow, mud, and dust.

Dust does not just operate at the scale of geological time and the contemporary in North Dakota. Dust serves as a historical link between the Bakken and the Middle East. For example, Frank Jungers, the North Dakota born Aramco (Arabian-American Oil Company) executive started his memoir which tells the story of his journey to Saudi Arabia and his future career, on his family’s Regent, North Dakota farm amid the swirling storms of the 1930s dust bowl (Jungers 2014). He compares the dust that ended his North Dakota childhood and sent him west to Oregon to the dust of Arabian deserts and framed his career in the oil industry. As Parsani would say: from dust to dust.

A parallel trajectory appears in Wallace Stegner’s semi-autobiographical novel, The Big Rock Candy Mountain (1943), which opens in North Dakota. Stegner spent part of his childhood in North Dakota on the edges of the future Bakken oil patch. The novel’s main character, Elsa, described the main street of the town of Hardanger as “a river of fine powder.” Dust punctuates the early pages of the novel and defines the forlorn town, the hard ground of the North Dakota prairie, and the footsteps of Elsa’s future husband, Bo Mason, at the baseball diamond. Whether Stegner deliberately anticipated Parsani’s concept of “dustism” or not remains unclear, but the appearance of dust early in the novel emphasizes Elsa purity and innocence. Stegner seems to understand dusts’ ability to transition from pure to toxic after a stranger offering to pay for his drink in gold dust inspires Bo Mason to embark on his nomadic journey throughout the American West in search of wealth and status. Dust is more than a metaphor in Stegner’s fictional town or in Junger’s life, and is as ubiquitous a feature in the Bakken oil patch as in Parsani’s Babylon.

For Jungers and Parsani and as we will see, Stegner, the combination of dust and oil contribute to the formation of self-organizing assemblages. These assemblages are global in scale and draw both human and non-human actors into their orbits. They also accelerate a kind of persistent nomadism that both reflects the geopolitical instability created by global climate change and relies on the mobility of populations that coalesce around the tension between dust and oil. Parsani recognizes the petro-nomads who travel from oil well to oil well drawn by oil. To their number, we might add another North Dakotan and Aramco executive, Thomas Barger whose journey from North Dakota to the Arabian peninsula in the 1930s and then from desert outpost to desert outpost likewise followed the lure of oil (Barger 2000). In the 20th and 21st century Bakken the petro-nomads likewise coalesced around the sources of oil and sought to navigate the dust from rural byways, agricultural harvests, and droughts that seems constantly to escape control. It is worth noting that there has been an outpouring of recent scholarship on dust in the Bakken that seems to appear as if to resist or even challenge the flow of oil and the arrival of the petro-nomads.

Petro-Nomadism

Stegner’s The Big Rock Candy Mountain tells the story of Bo Mason’s nomadic search for prosperity and the American dream and offers a framework for his account of the discover of oil in Saudi Arabia: Discovery! The Search for Arabian Oil. (Salameh 2019; Vitalis 2007) The American oil company Aramco funded Stegner’s work in 1956 as an effort to promote an image of the company as a force for development in the Middle East and as a harbinger of new forms of hegemony that relied less on old models of military or diplomatic imperialism and more on the promotion the mutual, if asymmetrical, benefits of capitalism. By the mid-1950s, Stegner had established himself as a sensitive interpreter of the arid landscapes of the American West, and in 1954 had published his classic account of John Wesley Powell’s expedition down the Colorado River and through the Grand Canyon. These credentials appealed to Aramco executives who enticed Stegner to write a literary history of the discovery of oil in the Arabian peninsula. 

Among the characters featured in Discovery! was Thomas Barger. Barger grew up in Linton, North Dakota and studied geology at the University of North Dakota. After graduation, he set out to Saudi Arabia in 1938 where he worked for Standard Oil and Aramco as a geologist. During this time, his team embraced life as petro-nomads and he traded the dust of small town Linton for the dust of the Arabian desert. The results of his nomadism was a version of the proverbial Big Rock Candy Mountain of Stegner’s great American novel: the massive Ghawar oil field which has accounted for nearly 50% of Aramco’s oil production. Barger goes on to become the CEO of Aramco in the 1960s and paved the way for another North Dakotan, Frank Jungers, whose dusty childhood in North Dakota led him to serve as president and CEO of the company from 1971 to 1978. The connection between North Dakota and the world’s largest oil company may well be coincidental, but the development of the Bakken oil patch certainly presented a shadowy parallel to the situation in the Middle East. While the 1970s boom in North Dakota almost certainly represented a response to the 1970s OPEC embargo which sought to penalize countries who supported Israel in the 1973 Yom Kippur War. The 1950s North Dakota boom was likely stimulated by nationalization of the Iranian and Iraqi oil industries in the early 1950s and growing demands by the Saudi government to share profits and control over Aramco profits. 

A peripatetic, petro-nomad, Thomas Barger anticipates the recursive arrival of the contemporary Bakken nomad who came to Western North Dakota in the second decade of the 21st century to develop its oil fields. Parsani’s Middle Eastern petro-nomads point to the rise in late-20th-century nomadism on a global scale critiqued in the US as “nomadland” and globally marked by the proliferation of camps and detention centers. A critical engagement with Parsani’s dustism and petro-nomadism, historical connections, and the capacity of oil to create viscous new geographies sustains the conflation of North Dakota with the Middle East and perhaps more specifically Babylon. The planetary distribution of oil and dust supports the entanglement of North Dakota’s oil industry with the oil industry in the Middle East. Oil and dust bind the arid landscape of the Northern Plains to the oil rich formations of the Persian Gulf. Oil lubricates the movement of dust-covered petro-nomads and the narratives the we tell about them.

Conclusion

Dr. Hamid Parsani’s talk proposed new forms of geography that leveraged new forms of narrative lubricated by the oil, traced by petro-nomads, and saturated with dust. These new ways of thinking about the relationship between oil and space reflects the planetary scale of contemporary petroculture and informs how we approach history and archaeology. These new narratives break down the modern geographies that structure archaeology and define regions such as the Near East. In its place have are emerging new geographies where once distinct places disappear, shift, and superimpose themselves amid a contemporary cartography of climatic crisis. To confront this condition, archaeology as a discipline has to continue to embrace its global remit and work itself out of the regional silos that support conventional narratives. As climate change in the past and in the present represents a matter of existential concern, it seems apparent that archaeology must investigate more thoroughly the kind of spatial transpositions proposed by Dr. Parsani’s unconventional talk. If the Bakken was Babylon, even for a brief period at the height of its oil boom, then it provides an unexpected window in the viscous reality of contemporary planetary change.

Bakken Babylon, Part 1

I know that I’m late today, but I’m working on a deadline that has already passed. The deadline is a for a short paper that I started to put together in the spring and like so many projects of mine lingered in the queue until slightly after the last minute.

The good news is that the paper is mostly done and, in my humble assessment, fun. It is called “Bakken Babylon” (or something like that). You can read my false starts and stumbles here and here.

But below is the first part of the draft that I’ve settled upon. Part two will drop tomorrow!

Bakken Babylon

Introduction

At a conference convened in Fargo, North Dakota at l’Institut pour l’étude du Dakota du Nord several years ago, the controversial Iranian academic Dr. Hamid Parsani presented a provocative paper titled “What if the Bakken is Babylon?” In it, he opined that global climate change confirmed an obscure theory that his research had pointed toward many years before: the Bakken oil patch in Western North Dakota and Babylon shared more than the same first and last letters of their names. Dr. Parsani indicated that a careful reading of Reza Negarestani’s Cyclonopedia (2008) revealed that oil itself had the capacity to lubricate modern narratives including those constructed in contemporary cartography: “The cartography of oil as an omnipresent entity narrates the dynamics of planetary events. Oil is the undercurrent of all narrations, not only the political but also that of the ethics of life on earth.” This echoed the growing recognition that modern human culture is a form of petroculture, and this suffuses our geography, history, and imaginations. Our dependence on fossil fuels and their connection with contemporary climate change provokes new ways of thinking about the past, the present, and the future.

This article is an effort to explore the capacity of oil to fuel, pun intended, ”petropunk” interpretations of the Bakken informed by the geographical theories proposed by radical cartographers such as Renee Gladman (2017) and China Mieville (2009). Their works have concerned themselves with certain cartographic irregularities where two or more places exist simultaneously in the same space or, alternately, places themselves have become completely unmoored from their spatial coordinates. In some cases, populations have simply adapted to these situations such as the situation in Beszel/Ul Quoma where the residents of two cities superimposed on one another have simply learned to “unsee” one another during their everyday lives and the state otherwise maintains the spatial boundaries that persist between places associated with one or the other city. In the case of Ravicka, the occasional tendency of places to become dislodged from their spatial coordinates entirely has led to the development of state entities tasked with documenting these situations. Dr. Parsani’s work proposed that the proliferation of oil over the last century has introduced new geographic possibilities lubricated by the viscous globalism of fossil fuels which simultaneously reinforced certain political, cultural, and topographic boundaries while dissolving them. In this situation Babylon and the Bakken despite the differences between their locations in the historical narratives that support conventional political geographies have become so thoroughly elided to be indistinguishable in many ways.

This has significant consequences, of course, for our understanding of global warming, climate change, and archaeological interventions designed to understand the past, present, and future of these processes. Parsani’s paper began with the familiar refrain that the place of Babylon had become unmoored by antiquity and this unmooring became all the more visible during the events of the two Iraq wars. As Erin Runions has shown these wars combined figurative and literal concepts of Babylon to inspire messianic and popular support for the US invasion (2014). The opulence and immorality associated with Hebrew Bible’s description of the Neo-Assyrian city of Babylon on the Euphrates River in central Iraq which was the site of the Babylonian Exile, had become secondary to the imposing figure of the Whore of Babylon whose appearance in the Book of Revelation indicated that the place of Babylon has already broken free from its spatial confines and occupied Rome and Jerusalem. The appearance of a beast with ten horns and seven heads at the end of days would destroy the whore of Babylon and reduce its city.

By the 21st century, Babylon had taken on many guises. It had become the handmaiden of modernity, capitalism, and political violence, on the one hand, and, on the other hand, a kind of messianic metaphor for the force of evil in the world. Thus, in the Iraq War, the moralizing and messianic message found a home in the stories of the abuses of Saddam Hussain’s Bathist government in Iraq and this further wrenched the place of Babylon free from its Mesopotamian origins. That Babylon would end up in Western North Dakota, in the Bakken oil patch of all places, is neither completely unexpected nor entirely implausible.

Bablyon

There is only one explicit reference to Babylon in the Bakken: Williston is called the Babylon of the Bakken in Gary Sernovitz’s book on the “shale revolution” (2016). The connection between Babylon and the Bakken evokes a larger discourse of Babylon that is global in scope. The coincidence between the excavations at Babylon and elsewhere in the Near East and the emergence of industrial capitalism in the late 18th century produced what Nick Mirzoeff has called “Babylonian Modernity” (2005). For Mirzoeff, Babylonian Modernity represents the decadence, alienation, and complexity that exists at the heart of the modern experience. As early as the 19th century Babylon became a metaphor for rapidly expanding, industrial, urban metropolises such as London or New York City. It also stood in Black Christianity and Caribbean Rastafarianism as the place of exile and separation from Zion. The global displacement and alienation experienced by Black communities in the Americas made possible the development of the modern, globalized economy. In this context, Babylon embodied forces of colonialism, capitalism, and the state which sought to preserve economic and racial inequality in the name of political stability. Thus, Babylon could represent, on the one hand, the oppressive forces of the state and capital which sought to control the labor of displaced Afro-Caribbean and Black workers and the unfettered and dystopian results of unfettered modernity on the other. Critics like Mirzoeff and Runions who have traced the significance of Babylon in contemporary political discourse, however, recognize that despite Babylon’s modern guise, it is not entirely free from its ancient past. The First and Second Gulf Wars and US occupation of Iraq brought the literal site Babylon to our living rooms with stories of the looting of antiquities set against regular reports of human violence and skyrocketing price of oil.

In the context of a global Babylon, Parsani’s paper may seem unnecessarily specific in its effort to connect a spatially displaced Babylon specifically to the Bakken. That said, it is hard to deny that Bakken oil boom certainly evoked images of an American Babylon in the media. Media attention focused on the sudden wealth acquired by oil workers as well as the risks that they undertook doing the dangerous work of drilling, fracking, and transporting oil. The regular media attention to strip clubs, drug use and abuse, Ponzi schemes, and environmental abuses of the Bakken contributed to a view of the region as a zone of unchecked capitalism and immorality (Caraher and Weber 2014). The viscous fluidity of oil carried Babylon to the Bakken and hint at the origins of new cartographies and familiar moral narratives. It encouraged us to drill deeper into the narratives, cartographies, geographies, and chronologies that connect Babylon in its many forms to the modern Bakken. Parsani’s paper seemed to induce us to see these displaced places as key objects of study to understand the planetary consequences and history of contemporary climate change.

Three Things Thursday: Pollen, Climate, and Grass

Today will be a hectic day toward the end of a hectic week. As we enter the “frog days” of summer, I think I’m feeling the start of the fall semester looming. 

As a result, all I have this morning is a very short three things Thursday, but maybe there’s a bit of thematic unity that extends across my posts this week!

Thing the First

My long time collaborator and friend, Dimitri Nakassis, sent some of his WARP colleagues a link to “Mid-late Holocene vegetation history of the Argive Plain (Peloponnese, Greece) as inferred from a pollen record from ancient Lake Lerna” by Cristiano Vignola, Martina Hättestrand, Anton Bonnier, Martin Finné, Adam Izdebski, Christos Katrantsiotis, Katerina Kouli, Georgios C. Liakopoulos, Elin Norström, Maria Papadaki, Nichola A. Strandberg, Erika Weiberg, and Alessia Masi in PLOS One.

As the title suggests, this article reports on the analysis of pollen in cores taken from bed of the now-drained Lerna Lake. It’s pretty technical, but offers a very readable “Interpretation and Discussion” section which offers some perspectives that while not entirely unsurprising are nevertheless useful: 

“During the Early Byzantine period from ca. 1480 to 1120 BP (470–830 CE) the increasing percentage and influx values of Pinus and Quercus robur type evidence the expansion of both pinewoods and oakwoods in the Lerna pollen catchment area. The Olea curve displays a severe drop and PI significantly increases, together with Artemisia, Cichorieae and Plantago undiff…pollen and archaeological data point out a reduced human pressure in the uplands and a more local food production in the plain, where olive groves contracted and pasturelands expanded following the collapse of the Eastern Roman control on the Balkans.”  

Thing the Second

It’s pretty rare that I’ll link to a book published by Springer on this blog, but I’ll make an (open access) exception today. I’m very much looking forward to reading Perspectives on Public Policy in Societal-Environmental Crises: What the Future Needs from History edited by Adam Izdebski, John Haldon, and Piotr Filipkowski.

The book, as its title suggests, look directly toward the relationship between environmental policy and history. More importantly, this book uses quite a few examples from Greece and the Medieval period, and includes chapters relating to how we narrate and tell stories about environmental history. I’m looking forward to checking this out over the next few days.

Thing the Third

As promised, this is a short post today, and the final thing for this “three thing Thursday” is a link to an essay by Judith Fetterley called “In Praise of Grass” which appeared last year in NDQ.  

It’s a brilliant little reminder that our lawns are both living things and vibrant ecosystems even if they’re very much cultivated by humans.