IN HER INTRODUCTION TO THE EN GLISH INSTITUTE’S E- BOOK ON PERI- ODIZATION, THE EDITOR, VIRGINIA JACKSON, REMARKS ON THE ABILITY of its “digital format” to invite innovative ways of interacting with texts. Marshall Brown’s article in the book, for example, allows readers to hear Joseph Haydn’s music while they read nineteenth- century literature, giving them an immediate understanding of the musical metaphors Brown uses for describing literary history. Our contemporary presence and capabilities in the digital world, Brown suggests, may help us to understand periods as “linked episodes within the rolling !ood of time,” enabling what Jackson describes as “a literary historical process” that “is not progress but wave, not transcendence” but, as Brown writes, “the metrics and bar lines shaping the pulse of history’” (Jackson, par. 4). "e authors of On Periodization suggest a practice of periodization that allows for si- multaneities: “a new plane of historicity on which several tempo- ralities unfold at once” (Jackson, par. 4). "is conception of time is made possible by the present moment, the (relatively) new technolo- gies we have in our midst, through which this e- book is expressed. "is “new plane” of simultaneities re!ects the primacy of the present in that the technologies we use are actively shaping how we experi- ence literature and literary history (Martin 153–56). Furthermore, while chronological periodization can dis- embed events from their places, our process of reading rhizomically in the digital world may move us to reconsider the primacy of place. "e pulsing wave may leave us wanting, but as scholars includ- ing Stephanie Fitzgerald, Hillary Wyss, Timothy Powell, and Wai Chee Dimock have suggested, other metaphors may enable us to break the vexing boundaries and narratives of progress inherent in (or inherited from) the process of periodization. As Dimock notes, many people still assume that the linear division of time—repre- sented by minutes and hours, as well as periods and eras—is an onto- logical truth, as if time were “a measuring tape, with #xed segments” that by its own force permeates all spaces over which we impose it. LISA BROOKS is John L. Loeb Associate Professor of the Humanities at Harvard University and author of The Common Pot: The Recovery of Native Space in the Northeast (U of Minnesota P, 2008). theories and methodologies The Primacy of the Present, the Primacy of Place: Navigating the Spiral of History in the Digital World $%&' ()**+& [ P M L A ,-. [ © / -0 / 12 3 4 5 67859 : ; < :=><=5 < ? ?7 @A <3 A7: 7B < 6 59 A@ < ] However, in concert with many Indigenous studies scholars, Dimock questions that as- sumption, revealing that in other places be- yond the “Western world” “a very different ontology of time prevails.” For her, it is the image of the spiral, so prevalent in the litera- tures of the Americas, that is most compel- ling (2; see also Cohen, “New En gland” 315). This spiral is embedded in place(s) but revolves through layers of generations, re- newing itself with each new birth. It cannot be !xed but is constantly moving in three- dimensional, multilayered space. It allows for recurrence and return but also for trans- formation. Its origins lie in ancient worlds, but it moves through our own bodies in the present, perhaps with a sense of irony. As the Muskogee poet Joy Harjo writes, “[W] hen the mythic spiral of time turned its beaded head and saw what was going on, it snapped” (In Mad Love 54). While a romantic reading inherited from salvage ethnography might suggest that the spiral’s “beaded head” was cut o" by modernity, a reading inspired by recent Native literary criticism might see the spiral as a dancer who “snapped” her beaded head !ercely, suddenly directing her gaze to- ward the incredulous world swirling around her. The phrase implies a break, a need to pay attention, a need for considered analy- sis from the perspective of the spiral, which embraces simultaneity (Fitzgerald and Wyss 272; Womack, Red 250–51; Kolosov 47). As Dimock notes, scholars such as Bene- dict Anderson and Anthony Gibbons have ar- gued that the linear measurement of time is “a mark of modernity, linked to the rise of the nation- state and the rule of the mechanical clock” (2). However, as Linda Tuhiwai Smith points out, the “emplotment” of time may also be a mark of colonization, whereby the concept of “modernity” parallels the sweep- ing narratives of “civilization” and “prog- ress” (55; see also Powell, Weems, and Owle 4–5; Wishart 307). As Dimock acknowledges, many colonized peoples retain alternative conceptions of time that share space, albeit unequally, with the ticking of the clock, an instrument that came to be known in the Western Abenaki language as papeezokwazik, “that thing which makes much noise and does nothing useful” (J. Bruchac 9; see also Laurent 290). It may be that in the digital “age,” if we choose to retain such a label, the measuring tape of time will become decreasingly useful and, perhaps, increasingly (self)destructive. This essay presents an opportunity to raise questions, to expose the “!ssures” that may open when the primacy of the present— that is, the possibilities of the digital world and the rise of Indigenous studies in global networks—is put in conversation with the primacy of place, particularly the “Ameri- can” landscape that many readers of this vol- ume now inhabit (Martin 154). What would it mean to privilege place when discussing periodization, to consider, as the geographer David Wishart does, that “period” and “re- gion” are deeply linked narratives? What dif- ferent shape might literary history take if we account for distinct conceptions of time that arise simultaneously from particular places? How might Indigenous methodologies help answer some of the vexing questions that lit- erary historians ponder in our present world? Literary history did not emerge on this continent when Christopher Columbus ar- rived in 1492. As Colin Ca l loway w rote, “What Columbus ‘discovered’ was not a ‘new world’ but another old world” (14; see also Anderson 286). Multiple forms of textualities emerged from this “old world,” literary me- dia deeply intertwined with oral narratives, which in the last several centuries have also taken the form of alphabetic print. David Cu- sick’s History of the Six Nations (1825), for ex- ample, is one of several alphabetic texts that recount the narratives of the Haudenosaunee (Iroquois) Confederacy, drawing on wampum belts, written accounts by Haudenosaunee scribes, and extended oral narratives relayed in the longhouse.1 Cusick allows for multiple 1 2 7 . 2 ] Lisa Brooks  t h e o r ie s a n d m e t h o d o lo g ie s reckonings of periodization in his narrative, even as he calls our attention to the recent- ness of Columbus’s voyage. For example, in telling the story of the “stonish giants,” he relates that this “invasion” of “the country” by a nation from the Mississippi River oc- curred “about two hundred and fifty win- ters since the people left the mountain,” or “perhaps about 1250 years before Columbus discovered the America[s] ” (20). !is account of an actual battle is layered with narratives about an ongoing, spiraling contest between "gures of the upper world of the sky and the lower world of the waters, which spread rhi- zomically into the past and future, as well as through networks that cross the continent. To interpret this one episode in Cusick ’s narrative with insight requires reading rhi- zomically within the extensive narratives of the Haudenosaunee Confederacy and the re- lated oral traditions and graphic media of the continent. Our intepretive travels would take us east to the Wabanaki coast, where petro- glyphs of the same "gures can be viewed in stone; west to the Mississippi, where iconog- raphy of the upper and lower worlds appears in pottery and earthworks; north to the An- ishinaabe country, where similar stories are mapped in birchbark scrolls; and south to Mesoamerica, where related narratives are carried in codices, sung in poetry, and in- scribed on painted walls (Brotherston; Mann; Mann and Fields; Quilter et al.; Reilly and Garber; Townsend and Sharp; Tedlock; Popol Vuh). We might be led to these places by con- temporary literature, tribal history, or “wam- pum chronicles” on the Web (Bonaparte). Scholars have only recently begun to turn their attention to the “wealth of literary me- dia” in the Americas and to the ways in which these media and their associated oral litera- tures might redirect our questions toward new interpretative possibilities (Brotherston 4). What will American literary history look like if we take seriously Indigenous frame- works for reckoning time and conceiving of literature? To place Cusick ’s narrative in what Roger Echo- Hawk terms “Ancient American history,” for example, we would be compelled to consider Haudenosaunee “epochs” as relayed in the longhouse, as Bar- bara Mann does, and, as Gordon Brotherston does, to consider the text’s relation to Quiché Mayan “worlds” and to the larger “Mother Corn era,” proposed by Echo- Hawk, which encompasses the emergence of the Haude- nosaunee Great Law during the agricultural revolution and ties the narrative to the emer- gence of the Quiché nation as the “people of corn,” as related in the epic Popol Vuh. What would it mean to acknowledge that time does not necessarily roll over us like a #ood or a measuring tape? What if time also operates like a spiral? What would it mean to think in terms of “worlds” rather than “periods”? How might these alternative frameworks help us to work “creatively,” as Timothy Powell asks, to “free” American literary history “from the taxonomic grid of chronological time that commences with the moment of coloniza- tion?” (Powell, Weems, and Owle 8). Instead of answering these questions in full, I hope to raise possibilities, examples that might cause us to “snap” our heads and pay close attention to “what [is] going on” around us. Let me offer an example drawn from a place I have come to know well, Harvard Yard, at the time of the college’s origins, when the #edgling university was located just downriver from the Massachusett Saunk- skwa’s town of Missitekw.2 Here, in the pre- paratory school beside Harvard Hall and the Harvard Indian College, En glish and Indian students learned the “truth” about time from their primers, including Thomas Shepard’s Catechism. In answer to the question “How may it be proved that there is a God?” stu- dents would have repeated by rote, “From time, for we see that months come before years, and weeks before months, and dayes before weeks, and houres before dayes . . . and a minute of time before an hour, and there-  The Primacy of the Present, the Primacy of Place [ P M L A t h e o r ie s a n d m e t h o d o lo g ie s fore there must necessarily be some minute of time before the world began, & therefore a God who gave it this beginning.” !e primer relayed a tricky but potentially persuasive form of circular reasoning: the existence of linear, divided time was a fact of the world, and since it could presumably be observed by all humankind, the movement of time dem- onstrated the orderly vision of Jehovah and the world he created. !erefore, time was an a priori creation of the divinity, and the divin- ity could be witnessed in chronological time. Yet Wa mpa noag students li ke Ca leb Cheeshateaumuck and Joel Iacoomes, as well as En glish missionary students like Matthew Mayhew, would have read and recited a Wam- panoag version of the same question. “Oohgôk je korâmen neh átta Mandouh?” ‘How prove you that there is a God?’ the bilingual “Some Helps for the Indians” asked (Clark 343). Here Mandouh referred to an Algonquian conception of ambivalent, ambiguous power that moves through all beings. Among the rote answers o"ered by the text was the reply “there is Mandouh common to all men, nor is it changed by the changes of times; therefore it must arise from some light which is com- mon to all men” (Clark 344). !is depiction ref lected and reinforced the presence of an inde#nable spirit or “light” that inhabited a spiraling, spatialized conception of “deep time,” permeating all spaces and temporali- ties (M. Bruchac 56; see also Dimock 6; Pow- ell, Weems, and Owle 3; Silverman 26–28, 59). T he D a kot a nove l i s t (a nd Ha r v a rd alumna) Susan Power demonstrates a similar conception of layered time in her compelling short story “First Fruits,” based on the his- tory of the Harvard Indian College. Empha- sizing the primacy of place and the spiral of history, Powers creates a young protagonist steeped in Indigenous history who is seeking to understand a new, seemingly foreign place as a freshman at Harvard College. Although Georgiana Lorraine Shoestring, or “George,” occupies a contemporary moment, a place we share, she pursues a deep relationship with her predecessor, Caleb Cheeshateaumuck. She #nds herself “going out of my way, wan- dering behind Matthews Hall, to that spot where the Indian College once stood” every day, “looking for Caleb” (126). For her the history of the Indian College is an “elusive,” animated space that permeates old buildings and new friendships. George #nds her place at Harvard by imaginatively understanding Caleb’s, and, ultimately, it is writing that al- lows her to #nd “Caleb Cheeshateaumuck ’s elusive spirit” (131). Literature is the vehicle that enables her to travel. Her own writing carries her beyond Har vard ’s halls to Ca- leb’s home on the island of Noepe (Martha’s Vineyard), where his “spirit” has rejoined his family. In one of the most powerful passages in the story, George re$ects, “I was taught to believe that time is not a linear stream, but a hoop spinning forward like a wheel, where ever y t hing is connected a nd ever y t hing is eternal. In this cosmology, I am here be- cause Caleb came before me, and he was here in anticipation of me” (127). !is statement has proven potent, not only for the imagined Dakota student but also for countless Native people who have come through Harvard ’s halls, feeling a deep, if con$icted, connection to the young men who came before them and to the buried histories and descendant com- munities that continue to inhabit this place. Indeed, as George discovers, literature itself embodies the spiral of history. As Di- mock notes, “Literature is the home of non- standard space and time” (4; see also Cohen, “New England” 315). We love fiction for its ability to transport us to imagined places and times without requiring us to follow a strictly chronological path (Martin 155). So why are we compelled to contain literature within the bounds of literary periods? What would it mean to follow paths of intellectual kinship, moving through rhizomic networks of in$u- ence and inquiry? What would Web- based networks of literature look like?3 As Fitzgerald 1 2 7 . 2 ] Lisa Brooks  t h e o r ie s a n d m e t h o d o lo g ie s and Wyss suggest, we might adopt Robert Warrior’s model of “intellectual trade routes,” which already guides our readings of Native American literature, more broadly (Fitzgerald and Wyss 272; Warrior 181). !is process of reading rhizomically “across time,” common in Indigenous studies, enables us to apply the insights of the nineteenth- century Pe- quot author William Apess to contemporary questions of sovereignty, identity, and justice; or to see the ancient Pueblo story of Yellow Woman, as Leslie Silko does, moving through the life of a contemporary woman (Storyteller 55); or to read glyphs and their associated oral traditions as a “map to the next world,” in the words of Harjo’s poetic vision (“Map” 19). The digital world is moving in concert with Indigenous literary traditions, carrying us to a place where we are already reading with simultaneity across intellectual trade routes. Our students do this kind of lateral, rhizomic reading without pause. At least half the texts I assign in my courses are now accessible on the Web, and nearly every question my students pose as they are reading can be answered by pursuing a branch into the digital world. !ey can answer old questions about word de"ni- tions, historical context, author biography, or cultural frameworks instantaneously. !e questions that drove me to the library at 6:00 a.m. while I was in graduate school can now usually be answered, even at 3:00 a.m., by the Web. Texts as rare and fragile as the Eliot Bi- ble, which Caleb Cheeshateaumuck held in his hands, can be viewed as PDF "les. Places can be mapped and viewed by satellite on Google Maps. We can instantly communicate with each other, seeking answers to our most press- ing questions, by e-mail, Skype, or Facebook. Even a technophobe like me can appreciate the possibilities o#ered by the digital world. My students, as one thesis advisee explained to me, were born into this space. !ey do not know a world that is not wired. Sometimes, Web- based intellectual trade routes take us to places unimagined when we began. Some- times, they drive us to distraction. However, they are the reality of our world, perhaps part of the scenario that makes the spiral of time snap her beaded head, at the newness not of modernity but of the ancient networks of thinking renewed in innovative forms. Our globalized, digital world, as scholars including Matt Cohen (Networked Wilder- ness), Jerome McGann, and Walter Mignolo have suggested, may be more like the world in which Caleb lived than we realize. Further- more, as Timothy Powell demonstrates, this space offers “dynamic new possibilities for presenting stories from the Native American oral tradition,” a form not easily contained by “the logic of periodization” (Powell, Weems, and Owle 2). Just as the vehicle of writing enabled George Shoestring to "nd Caleb in an unexpected place, the vehicle of the Web enables us to create spaces for oral traditions that continue to live and evolve within Native communities. In “Native/ American Digital Storytelling,” an online essay that provides its readers with links to digital maps, Web sites, and digital video, Powell allows his readers to view and listen to Freeman Owle, a highly respected Eastern Cherokee storyteller, re- late two signi"cant Cherokee narratives in a contemporary setting, the teller surrounded by books. Owle’s account is not le$ to stand on its own, as an artifact of Cherokee culture. Rather, Powell demonstrates through his analysis the complexity of oral traditions and their operation within multiple temporalities. For example, Powell ’s analysis reveals how Owle’s story of the Great Buzzard and the origin of Cherokee medicinal knowledge use a mode he calls “ancient present tense,” both “going back to the beginning of time” and occurring in the moment of telling (Pow- ell, Weems, and Owle 10; see also Basso 6, 33; Connelly 75). Powell demonstrates that gaining knowledge through interpretation is an ongoing process. The story does not simply relate how an object of knowledge was acquired; rather, it functions as a vehicle  The Primacy of the Present, the Primacy of Place [ P M L A t h e o r ie s a n d m e t h o d o lo g ie s for transmitting knowledge. Furthermore, that knowledge is not contained within the bounds of the story, captured in a book or YouTube clip, but is developed in contempo- rary Wolf Clan women’s interaction with the narrative, as well as with the plants and peo- ple through which the knowledge is practiced in a particular place. Interpretation occurs in multiple media—digital, oral, land- based, material—and through the intimacy inher- ent in the relationship between a healer and her kin. Just as the story operates in multiple temporalities, there are also multiple layers of access and interpretation. Oral traditions such as this story, Powell maintains, “provide a glimpse of vast temporal vistas or what might be called deep American literary history” (Powell, Weems, and Owle 2). “Instead of forcing native story telling into a rigid linear time frame of western ‘history,’” as some anthologies have attempted to do, assum- ing all oral traditions belong to the period be- fore colonization, Powell theorizes “alternative forms of temporality,” which move through Native oral traditions and “more accurately ac- count for the deep time and nonlinear move- ments of indigenous poetics.” His aspiration is that the “critique” and analysis he o"ers, in conversation with tribal historians, elders, and scholars, will “contribute to the ongoing pro- cess of recognizing the Native/ American oral tradition as a point of origin for American lit- erary history” (Powell, Weems, and Owle 3). #is is quite di"erent from proposing that Na- tive American origin stories be included as part of or precursor to American literary history. In this work, Powell suggests a new path for mapping American literary history, a spiraling cycle of emergence in an old place. Like Silko’s character Tayo in Ceremony, he calls American literary history to move through and acknowl- edge its own colonization and the colonization of the land, in order to emerge with new eyes into an old, but always transforming, space. Powell also performs “digital storytell- ing” by leading us through the digital world to the “site” of the Cherokee Nation, where we can view an image of Kituwah, the Cherokee Mother Town, and the “home” page of the contemporary nation, while we are listen- ing to Owle’s telling of the “Kituhwa Mound Story” (Powell, Weems, and Owle 15–16). As Eric Gary Anderson notes, “#e early and the contemporary are close enough to touch and are powerfully intertwined” in such “narrated places” (281). Kituwah is simultaneously the place where the nation and its “laws” emerged, where its oral traditions were inscribed, and from which its national $re was renewed and redistributed every year. It is also the site of contemporary contests. As recently as 2010, the ancient mound was threatened by the planned development of a Duke Energy sub- station.4 Just as they used the printing press to disseminate news and arguments against Removal during the nineteenth century, the Cherokee Nation used the Web to communi- cate with tribal citizens and the general public, stirring opposition to the project, the digi- tal world o"ering new technology to expose threats to the community and its motherland. #e nation is located at once in the deep, ex- tending layers of Kituwah, in Oklahoma and North Carolina, and in the networks of the digital world. With the technology of the Web, Powell’s essay puts us in Cherokee space; like a glyph, the image of Kituwah makes us hold the land and its stories, ancient and contem- porary, in our mind, our wired present spiral- ing us back to the primacy of place. In his essay “#e Presence of Early Native Studies,” Anderson writes, “Known, lived, remembered, and living, the land is quite literally the grounds of Native knowledge, literacy, and textualities” (281). Likewise, in- stead of “theorizing ‘America’ as an ideology or a nation,” Powell seeks to “look beyond the topynym” of “America” to consider a “liter- ary history of the land” (Powell, Weems, and Owle 3). #us, rather than think of American literature as a corpus centering around the emergence of the political body of the United 1 2 7 . 2 ] Lisa Brooks  t h e o r ie s a n d m e t h o d o lo g ie s States, we might consider the vast landscape of textualities that have emerged from this land. To do this, we will need to develop new old modes and methods of interpretation. A major aspect of this education will in- volve acknowledging the land that marks the “grounds” of knowledge and the “nations” where “t he Ancient Word ” has been “ in- scribed” and “implanted” (Popul Vuh 63). If we wish to follow Harjo’s map into “the next world,” we will need to turn our attention not only to textual media but also to map texts in- scribed in place, whether the “Storied Walls” of Mesoamerica and the southwest, the mnemonic petroglyphs carved on rock along great water- ways, or the striking mounds and sculptures built from earth, “achievements in science and aesthetics on a monumental scale,” all of which are deeply intertwined with oral traditions and contemporary literature (Allen 808).5 "e safe- guarding of places like Kituwah is necessary to protect not only the sovereignty and historical heritage of the Cherokee Nation but also the ar- chives of the land. Such earthworks may, as the literary scholar Chad Allen suggests, represent “a still readable form of indigenous writing— not simply on the land but literally through the medium of the land itself—toward nothing less than imagination of possible renewal” (Allen 808; see also Hedge Coke). As many contem- porary Native writers, such as Silko, Louise Erdrich, Allison Hedge Coke, and Harjo, have noted, the land itself can operate as a living text map, steering our ability to navigate an ever- changing world (Silko, “Interior and Exterior Landscapes” 32). Along with the Web, texts, petroglyphs, and wampum belts, the land is part of the “spiral on the road of knowledge” (Harjo, “Map” 20). Like Harjo’s readers, we will have to read a “map printed with the blood of history” and to navigate by our “mother’s voice,” but together we might, as Harjo urges, “make our own map” and emerge into a new old world, spiraling in place (“Map”). NOTES 1. The longhouse of the Haudenosaunee or Iroquois Confederacy represents the longstanding, complex gover- nance system of the confederacy; the geographic space of Haudenosaunee territory; and the physical structure in which councils and ceremonies have traditionally been held. 2. "is Saunkskwa, or female leader, was known also as “Squa Sachem” and “the Massachusett Queen.” "e towns of Cambridge and Charlestown were established with her consent, and she reserved lands for herself and her people on the west side of Mystic Ponds. See, e.g., Paige 383; Shurtle# 254, 394; Frothingham 35–36. 3. "e Rossetti Archive (www .rossettiarchive .org), an online database providing access to all of Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s textual and pictorial works, is an early, compel- ling answer to that question, although it still relies on tra- ditional periodization for part of its organizing principle. For more on the development of the archive, see McGann. 4. Even as I was rereading Powell’s essay, published in 2006, the digital world took me to articles from 2010 about the potential development near Kituwah mound (McKie; Carpenter). "is experience exempli$es the kind of rhizomic reading in which we are constantly engaged. "e crisis was resolved through negotiations between the Eastern Band of the Cherokee and Duke Energy of the Carolinas, which led to the selection of an alternative site for the substation. 5. See, e.g., Womack, Drowning; Erdrich, Books and Tracks; Hedge Coke. See also Allen on Hedge Coke’s Blood Run; Womack, Red, on Harjo and the tie snake; Fitzgerald and Wyss on Erdrich’s Tracks; Quilter et al. WORKS CITED Allen, Chadwick. “Serpentine Figures, Sinuous Relations: "ematic Geometry in Allison Hedge Coke’s Blood Run.” American Literature 82.4 (2010): 807–34. Print. Anderson, Eric Gar y. “The Presence of Early Native Studies: A Response to Stephanie Fitzgerald and Hil- ary E. 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