The following blog concerns theoretical archaeology and aerobics - therefore:
(a) it makes no sense,
(b) it contains at least one image of someone disappearing up their own bum.
As we all know, every generation of archaeologist has embraced a unique way of keeping their tickers ticketty-boo. Keeping fit has always been the name of the game - I remember well the exercise regime we espoused during the blue-ribbon yesterdays of Culture-Historical archaeology, it involved myself and my chums filling our Webley and Scott revolvers up to the gunwales with bullets and blasting the living shit out of any cattle who had a problem with our normative model of culture (which was all of them.) Then as twilight approached we hightailed it inside a stately home and ravished a Duchess - or Duke - depending on how many cows we had plugged that day.
It was sheer heaven . . .
Then, one fateful Sunday, we shot a Bishop for a laugh and all our weapons were confiscated, after that all the fun went out of our exercise . . . so I drifted off and in 1970 joined a 'New Archaeology', Processual basketball group. . .
Truth be told I found it very unusual. These people had rules, they had guidelines and they demanded data every time a ball went through a hoop. Rather dull really, AND there was a bit too much nudity in the dressing room afterwards for my liking . . . AND, to cap it all, when I suggested we all wander out and find a stately home they accused me of being obsessed with diffusion. I assured them all I had on my mind was 'bumping uglies' but they wouldn't listen . . .
So in the 1980s I moved on and joined a Post-Processual Yoga group where I was advised to attend wearing only a sackcloth. Which I did, despite the bedamnable draughts. The lesson began with our instuctor (although he claimed he was an instructuralist) telling us to adopt the 'desk-based academic' pose. That was reasonably easy (fig.1) - the fingers extended as if typing, the eyes staring blankly towards a dilated pension.
After that the game was afoot and we tried out the 'mumbo jumbo' pose (fig. 2) -head inverted so our words came out backwards and meaningless, the hands dangling, evincing nothing.
At this point our instructor ordered us into the 'humanocentric' posture (fig. 3). I have to admit my back did a wobbler and this led to the instructor furiously accusing me of rank subjectivity.
Finally, with the aid of a dollop of snake-oil, we adopted the 'suspension of disbelief' pose (fig.4). In this dark fragrant position foregrounded cosmologies danced before my eyes as I became one with myself and the universe, everything seemed possible as the Gods of materialities swam before my eyes and questioned what I was seeking . .
. . . and I answered . . .
'My old Webley revolvers, a dozen sacred cows and a Duchess please.'
Yoga my arse!
So there you have it. To summarise my thesis, I suppose the Culture-Historical school of archaeology had guns and fun, the Processualists were a bit dull (but at least they had balls) and the Post-Processualists? ahem . . . I refer you to fig.4 again (now I can sit back and enjoy the death threats rolling in.)
Allow me to stitch a final 'experimental' cartoon into the fine tapestry of this blog:
Until next week my liver spotted quadrillions!