By drawing this parallel, I do not mean to invoke a mystic indigeneity that stands in contrast to the European temporality informing colonial politics. Time was just as political, and frankly just as colonial, for the Aztecs as it was for the Spanish. To call Aztec time cyclical is to call attention to the fact that, unlike the Mayan long-count calendar, the Aztec calendar lingers in the xiuhmolpilli. It repeats instead of progressing. To call that cyclicity erratic is to call attention to the ample documentary and monumental evidence suggesting that Aztecs understood themselves as political actors not beholden to the ideology of their calendar. Time was flexible for them, in other words, and not nearly as fatalistic as it may initially appear.
There are many things scholars do not understand about Aztec timekeeping, such as when the Aztec day began, or how the Aztecs understood hours, for example. Because the Aztecs appear to have used no clocks, sundials, or other timekeeping devices, their time, observes Hassig, “was task focused, inherently contextual, and thus necessarily elastic” (36). He grants, moreover, that many archival sources pertaining to the calendar contradict each other (35). A certain amount of temporal pliability is to be expected, then, in studies of any Mesoamerican culture, but the Aztecs appear to have directly and purposefully manipulated time.
The archives describe, as one would expect, the moving of important events such as military or trading expeditions to more providential days, but birthdays and other fixed occurrences were often changed as well, suggesting, as Hassig argues, that ordinary Aztecs saw the divinatory powers of the calendar as avoidable (36). Aztec leaders went beyond changing their relationship to the calendar; they manipulated time itself by, as Hassig describes, occasionally double counting days (38) and moving the New Fire ceremony, which marked the end of one xiuhmolpilli and the beginning of another (39). The Sun Stone itself stands as monumental evidence of one of the Aztecs’ most significant temporal changes: the stone indicates the existence of a fifth sun, or world, in contradistinction to the four suns accepted beyond the Valley of Mexico, a change that Hassig suggests was made to both assert Aztec political authority and explain the fact that the world did not end when the tonalpohualli suggested it should have (65). These deliberate alterations suggest that the calendar controlled neither Aztec belief nor action, and, moreover, that they understood time as a political tool.
Calendars are inherently political. As Hassig argues, “political concerns create the calendar, manipulate it, and use it for practical purposes” (71). It is a commonplace to set Aztec cycles against the Mayan long-count, but the Aztecs bound their calendar rounds and enumerated events in chronicles that indicate linear notions of time. This suggests, as Hassig asserts, that the calendar did not necessarily condition Aztec belief so much as it served political purposes in helping to regulate tributes across the empire (123). Hassig argues further that contemporary notions of Aztec time are a legacy of Spanish friars who, concerned about the ways Aztec ritual overlapped with Catholic, placed outsized emphasis on its cyclicity at the expense of its linearity. “Modern theoretical biases have reinforced this inheritance from the colonial perspective,” Hassig concludes (162).
Despite the colonial emphasis on Aztec cyclicity, I maintain that the Sun Stone presents a resistant lingering by rendering time as a fungible site of political resistance and aggression. The Aztecs engaged in both: they used their calendar to control their outlying tributaries, and indigenous timekeeping persisted well into the colonial period, with many early records indicating European and native dates (Hassig 140). The Sun Stone paves my way into Gilb as an impenetrable object that defamiliarizes and denaturalizes time. The Sun Stone makes the visceral, colonial politics of time fleetingly visible, much like Pancho Villa’s death mask in one of Gilb’s early short stories.
In his story “The Death Mask of Pancho Villa” (1993), an unnamed narrator is roused from bed in the middle of the night by his friend Gabe. The narrator, who has not seen Gabe for a while, is surprised by Gabe’s visit and wonders at the mysterious stranger Gabe has with him. Román Ortíz, Gabe explains, possesses one of three existing death masks of Pancho Villa, whose memorabilia the narrator collects.2 Ortíz plans to take the mask to Moscow, where the journalist John Reed, who wrote Insurgent Mexico (1914) about his four months traveling with Villa, is buried. Gabe wants the narrator to come see the mask, but the narrator, who must work the next day, declines. Before leaving, Gabe and Ortíz drink some beers and smoke a joint with the narrator, who, at the end of the story, is left wondering why Gabe really came to see him and why he, the narrator, refused to play along.
Like much of Gilb’s fiction, “The Death Mask of Pancho Villa” is short on plot; it has no clear conflict and no resolution, circulating instead around questions concerning the relationship between the human body and historical narrative. The painfully self-conscious narrator wonders about his vulnerable, aging body in relation to Villa’s mask and the history it symbolizes, while the story itself posits the corporeal trace of the mask against the textual trace of Reed’s history. “Death Mask” asks us to consider whether body or text conveys greater historical truth, or whether, as Mel Chen argues, language functions as an “embodied condensation of social, cultural, and political life” (Animacies 13). In “Death Mask,” that is, like Villa’s mask, body and text operate as congruent, corporeal forms of knowledge.
The whole of Gilb’s oeuvre can be read as an extended investigation of this relationship between body and text, and yet it is not common to read Gilb as making interventions in philosophical debates about meaning and ontology. He is certainly well known, and well received as a Chicanx chronicler of Mexican American lives on the border, having published two novels and several short story collections. Bridget Kevane’s very favorable review in the New York Times of Gilb’s most recent short story collection describes a narrator’s “struggles with his Chicano identity.” Peter Donahue, moreover, reads The Last Known Residence of Mickey Acuña, Gilb’s 1994 novel, as the drama of Mickey Acuña’s coming to terms with his own cultural identity (33). Readings of Gilb tend to follow this pattern, paying scant attention to Gilb’s philosophical explorations of the body, time, language, and what it means to know.
But that is exactly what I am interested in here. In particular, I am interested in how, for Gilb, knowing is not opposed to feeling, and what that non-opposition means for reading Chicanx literature and writings by people of color more broadly. Embodied experience is a chief concern in Gilb’s writing, but he does not depict it in antagonistic relation to language or cognition. Quite the contrary, the subject in this chapter’s epigraph knows—he does not feel—something in his bones. Affective experiences, like those of the narrator in “Death Mask,” have value for Gilb, but that value is neither ideological nor post-ideological. That is, Gilb’s fiction seems to argue that physical feelings do not represent some truth about racial experience, nor do they offer a way to transcend the ideologies of race.
Feeling is not the domain of a post-racial utopia in Gilb’s writing. His work foregrounds ethnic experience and is characterized by an intense, almost playful attention to language. Yet stories like “Death Mask” do not suggest that feeling exists apart from language or that race is discursive. Conversely, we might read Gilb as suggesting that race constitutes language, that words, as Mel Chen describes them in Animacies, “complexly pulse through bodies (live or dead), rendering their effects in feeling and active response” (54). Such a view as Gilb’s and Chen’s relies on an understanding of feeling far removed from theories of affect articulated by Brian Massumi and his followers, anti-intentionalists who believe that our feelings are precognitive and can thus potentially liberate political subjects from their ideological confines.3
Massumi’s