In Anima, Thom Yorke follows a trail that was set out for his soul when his European ancestors crossed paths in the great forest.
For this new audiovisual feast from Paul Thomas Anderson is fairy tale, folks, mark my words. And as a writer who has long explored the deep trails made across our psyches by the play of light and darkness since time immemorial, the idea of ancient tales with modern significance is something dear to my heart. This isn’t myth as falsehood, but myth as powerful storytelling, opening doors to our secret longings, our hidden hopes, our romantic selves.
So how does this modern mythmaking work? Well, where once wise old crones shared secrets beneath the wild spreading branches of an oak or elm, or curious children allowed themselves to become enchanted by the thrilling call of a songbird until they were lost in the forest, Yorke is drawn along this heartfelt tale by similar instincts. His character in this romance is on the scent of the chase, following a girl of his dreams, yearning to return her lunch case, which is as precious to him as any other form of lost treasure could be. By the time he has woken up on his crowded train, dodged countless commuters on crammed escalators, and faced other barriers to his distant love interest, Yorke is following the golden imperative of the mythic journey: the hero is inspired to set things right, by returning the case and maybe meeting someone to care about in the deal. The foes and barriers, the challenges to his path, the obstacles that threaten to derail the fruition of his dream … these are all inevitable in the hunt, or life is not being lived. The thorns cross the path, the villain stands in the way, the mountain must be climbed. Our goal may seem just out of reach, but it is in such a quest that we are reminded of our power, as Joseph Campbell so often reminded us.
But while the chase is timeless, the imagery of Anima reflects our new ‘natural environment’: the city. The opening, submerged in the subway, enfolds us within a train shooting along a tunnel, like a probe into our everyday underworld. We don’t want to over-analyze the film – as Martin Shaw wrote, the best stories remain dark around the edges, they leave us in mystery, grappling with our own inner truths and conflicts, unsure rather than overly confident in our self-knowledge. But the nodding of the commuters, Yorke included, seems to stand as the inevitable process of socialization, a dance we all join in order to get by, a way of being that lets us be in the world. Turning it into dance is the magic that art, in this case film, allows us – to settle into the truths of our lives while also making them part of a greater whole. We play the game, we know we play the game, but we know we are also more than this, that we come from a place of unlimited potential and ultimately we belong in that place, as much as we do here, in our world of limit and dissolution.
In this world, Yorke and Anderson play with the familiar while feeling out its edges. As soon as Yorke glimpses his Anima – a Jungian term for the feminine within – his otherwise tired character is opened out into new worlds of excitement, with the possibility that everyday life might not leave us flattened but invigorated; that something might change for the better, after all. The chase includes a classic flying dream sequence, as well as epic scenery, and Yorke’s character responds with passing episodes of passive acceptance, fleeting anger, playful exploration and hopeless resignation in turns. All of these human responses are bound within another mythic signalling: towards the wonder of awe. Can it be true? Is it real? The dream of Anima speaks of these gentle inner experiences, which we all know and hold dear but too often let slide along the rigmarole of modern life.
The eventual meeting, the reuniting of two lost souls who complement each other in the endless dance of being around being, rolling along a laneway wall, is a testament to the hope of our unquenchable longing. Anima draws us down and reminds us where we come from and where we belong. This is Home, a place we have sometimes forgotten is also a planet with limits, forests and lakes, seas and other creatures that need protecting.
Whatever parts of us face the world – our Persona to society, family and each other – find relief in the depths of Anima. Psyche, or mind; self, the individual, you person, the mind/body, your vehicle for getting by … that person seeks their dance partner beneath the surface, where she lives and breathes and waits for us to remember. Take the trip, again …
Geoff Berry wrote his PhD on the symbol of light, his MA on dreams and myths, and sings along similar themes with Melbourne post-punk band SEVERINS.
Not all Severins songs are about cosmic power, depth psychology, ecosoirituality, animism and the like. Some are about plumbing. The unrelenting pressures of parenthood, including showing loving kindness to children even when they are unravelling our patience faster than a kitten works over a ball of wool, only not so cute. The need to clean up after ourselves and take care of water. The desire to just get the job done, as best we can, and then put up our feet. You know, the everyday stuff we can all relate to (with a subtle message of the cosmic psyche business woven throughout – I can’t help myself 🙂
The big gig where we play this psychedelic post-punk indie art rock for the world, the album launch for the Severins vinyl record “Reconnect”, is coming soon.
Friday the 28th of June at the Northcote Social Club in Melbourne, Australia. If you’re there, be thrilled by a cosmic wondershow, a passionate call to arms for the ecospiritual rebellion, and a laugh, to be sure. Listen to all Severins songs and check out some film clips, including a new one and some archival footage of our sonic madness, here.
The Plug – lyrics
I wanna hold this water, Do I gotta? Yeah I oughta
But I got a screaming daughter, I gotta get my house in order
We used up all this water, Now it’s dirty and it’s sordid
The toys yeah they’re my daughter’s, I gotta sort this bricks and mortar
Coz it’s in and it’s out and it’s up and it’s down
It’s all over the shop and i’ve gone out and bought the wrong part
Now it’s swirling around, if I slide the blade under
I can take out the broken bit and then I can get some relief, yeah, and put up my feet
If I cut it too short then I’ve really mucked up
But if I leave it too long I’ll be doing this over again, yeah, all over again
Coz it’s in and it’s out and it’s up and it’s down
It’s all over the shop and i’ve gone out and bought the wrong part, again,
Initiation makes us into something we weren’t before. Successful ritual transforms our consciousness, expanding our minds beyond a little circle of desire and gratification, connecting us to the more-than-human world of nature all around us, the ecosystem we depend upon, the creatures who are our earthly kin, as well as connecting us to the spirit of life in the cosmos itself. This is what we used to get consistently in premodern society and what some people in more traditional societies, which are more resistant to the modern disease of disconnection, still get.
For those of us born into large-scale modernising cultures, religion tries to fill the gap, which is left as we turn away from this world of animistic life, but it gets so cold in those dusty halls and generally misses the meaty, gristly, blood-pumping point of the matter. That is, the living matter …
The best book I ever read on this subject was “Nature and Madness” by Paul Shepard. He pointed out what we had lost, how the turn towards technological domination of the planet came at such a great cost, as we allowed our initiation rituals to become severed from the word around us, and led by new types of elders, whose loyalties were to king and army rather than our fellow animals, our ancient homes in the forests and the mountains, the deserts and the seas. It’s a great book, but like my PhD on the meaning of light, it spends most of its time diagnosing the problem, leaving us to find solutions.
So I wrote this song, as a hint towards some things we could be doing to take our power back, as a signpost, a call to arms, an ecopoetic symbolic evocation of that world, as it calls us back to ourselves and to its living significance, within and without …
How do you feel in your body? Do you enjoy it? How does the way you move relate to the way your mind works? There’s no separation. Just as the universe is consciousness made manifest in physical reality – at least one kind of physical reality, which in itself is already insanely complex and diverse, let alone all the other possible dimensions lurking about within this one, or through intergalactic wormholes, or on the other side of a black hole, or laughing at everything from within black matter … so our bodies are consciousness, as countless messages sent from our pores, our internal organs, our senses and subtle perceptions. Our bodies make up consciousness, our minds feed off the physical sensations as well as the hopes and dreams within and all the infinite possibilities everywhere; but our minds can also roam endlessly, beyond physical limit and mortal frame.
Might as well enjoy it, hey? Walking should be a supreme pleasure. Being a self-aware primate, with the infinite potential of human consciousness – what an opportunity! Yet we too often allow the forces of socialisation to limit us. I’m an Aussie male, which means i have been entrained to keep myself pretty rigid; don’t dance with the hips (that’s ok for Latinos but not us) and definitely don’t walk with a rolling gait, as if you really enjoy it. Too gay! But I’m here to challenge the status quo, question the dominant paradigm, give it to the man (ooh that might be too close to the bone – ouch I’ve done it again!) … I’m here to Give It Some Mince! “Let the way that you move celebrate your life on Earth,” say I.
Now you all know what I’m talking about: walking. Walking like you mean it. Mince in Aussie slang is a kind of homophobic insult; it means waltzing about like a fancy pansy, probably with a limp wrist … but what if it feels good? When you get into your primate body and move about as if you mean it, you might find yourself using some muscles and moves that feel right, yet look … different. But if you are going to be true to what you are – “consciously evolving stardust, rising up out of the earth” – then you need to “front up in your body”, beyond socialised fears and tensions, so that we can “get a sense of our embodiment, as a part of the self-aware universe.” Coz “we’re living in an unrepeatable moment right now. Right Now!”
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Put some bounce into the way that you cross that floor
Yeah give it some mince
Feel your way into your body and let’s explore
Give it some mince
Pump that walk, yeah
Let the way that you move celebrate your life on earth …
And give it some mince
Front up in your body, yeah
Give it some mince
Walk that talk
Get some pep into the way that you cross that floor
Yeah give it some mince
Sense the way that your body opens out through your pores
And give it some mince
Pump that walk, yeah
Let the way that you move celebrate your life on earth …
And give it some mince
Front up in your body, yeah
Consciously evolving stardust
Rising up out of the earth
Get a sense of your embodiment
As a part of the self-aware universe
And give it some mince!
Front up in your body, yeah
We’re living in an unrepeatable moment, right now
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Animists like me believe the world is alive. It goes beyond an intellectual idea, but it’s more than just a feeling, too; many traditions from around the world recognise the possibility that consciousness flows through the universe, that intelligence is a property of the physical world. It shows in the way animals are born to move, knowing what to look for in their environment and where to go from birth, even across the planet sometimes, then back to breeding grounds regardless of the ebbs and flows of their life and without maps or signs. At its most primal, the intelligence of life is expressed in the way that plant life lifts out of soil and trust its face towards the sun, even that way tides shift in accord with lunar movements.
Taken to its logical conclusion – even though some people, trapped in ‘the iron cage of reason,’ as German sociologist Max Weber, called it, think that logic has nothing to do with it – this means that the planet is alive. This is what most traditional societies understood, native Australian populations included. More scientists now claim that “The Earth is Just As Alive As You Are”, following the controversial Gaia Hypothesis made famous by James Lovelock and Lynn Margulis. The sticking point was always sentience; does the Earth want to give birth to and sustain life, or does it just happen by coincidence? As Climate Scientist Professor Will Steffen explained to me during the filming of Nature Calling pilot episode, it’s not necessary to be so concerned about this that we either embrace or dismiss Gaia: we live on one earth system, where everything is connected and everything matters.
This is a neat piece of writing by Ferris Jabr, of the New York Times.
Here’s a song that accepts this perspective and dances its truth, out in the open, with intuition and the poetry of the earth built in. As Will has long said, we need the humanities and the social sciences, including psychologists and media analysts, to change human behaviour in accord with the requirements made of us by runaway, anthropogenic climate change. Songs of the Earth are part of this response; inspiring tunes that make us think in new ways or align with our wishes for a safe and flourishing planetary home. Planetary Rumpus, by my band Severins, brings animism alive in a modern sense; it is informed by scientific thinking sparked with Nietzsche’s idea of Dionysian frenzy, asking us to drop into that realm with all of our senses intact – and the recognition that we need a new compass for these wild and changing times.
Planetary Rumpus expresses the instinctual drive within, our genetic coding, which we feel surging through our bodies and veins like a double helix rising out of the primordial soup towards the heavens. It asks us to feel the sun on our skins at dawn as if we are being awoken to a brand new day, as if sunrise were a ritual of rebirth and another chance at realising the great fortune of our lives, as consciously self-aware primates on a living planet … this is the archetypal music of the cosmic serpent in our double helix DNA body/minds, right now. Turn it up and let rip.
