Woman Warrior

After finishing Kingston’s novel, I realize that I have never come to grips with the fact that I have been fortunate not to have faced the difficulties of immigration, among other things. I noticed a lot of similarities between Kingston and me, but I had to put everything in the perspective that she was growing up facing a culture that was foreign to her and her family, while I was born an assimilated member. The most striking of these was of Kingston’s reticence in class and to people in general, “A dumbness—a shame—still cracks my voice in two, even when I want to say ‘hello.’” (165) I know exactly what she is talking about—that cracking “dumbness”—when I try to squeak out a greeting or question in what I manufacture to be an anxious situation. As if one cue with my life, she notes that “A telephone call makes my throat bleed and takes up that day’s courage.” (165) I can’t begin to explain how much I despised making telephone calls to strangers when I was younger. But Kingston literally hit the nail on the head and described my anxiety regarding telecommunication perfectly.

It’s like we’re the same person![1]

The difference, however, is that Kingston’s shyness and anxiety is compounded by the fact that she grew up not knowing her culture and feeling foreign to those around her. I did not. Facing this reality puts my own struggle with communication in perspective. I did not have to try to be anything; I was already normal. Further, in her anecdote about how her mother forced her to ask the drugstore clerks to give her candy, Kingston says that her mother “thought she had the Druggist Ghosts a lesson in good manners.” (171) Once again, the awkward way in which she described herself doing this made me realize how difficult it would have been for me to be placed into a foreign setting: I am shy enough already. I would never be able to face the type of discrimination that immigrants did. Making Kingston’s plight even more apparent was her enjoyment of her extended bedstay when she got sick. “It was the best year and a half of my life. Nothing happened.” (182) Ask any of my friends and they will tell you how much I love doing absolutely nothing but hang around, sleep, eat, and watch tv. It is perhaps my favorite past time. But I do this to escape (far more than necessary, however) the hectic reality of being a student. Kingston did it because she didn’t have to face the difficulties of life in the United States.

I guess I realized that I was born and stayed in place that I could always call home. Kingston and other Asian immigrants did not have this luxury, stating that they felt they “don’t belong anywhere” (184) when facing the threat of deportation, feeling that they were being tricked by immigration services to turn themselves in. That statement reminded me very much of my freshman experience as a whole, now coming to close and leaving me in doubt more than ever of where it is that I belong. Also, it reminded me of a particular scene in Garden State.

Check 1:25 into this trailer.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u82n0e1mgmQ

Feeling lost himself, Zach Braff says “You know that point in your life when you realize the house you grew up in isn’t really your home anymore? That idea of home is gone.” (Garden State) For once, I do feel, however microcosmically, that I am in libmo, a place of now home. But unlike the immigrants Kingston shows us, I don’t have to try to be something I am not. Moon Orchid’s estranged husband says that he can’t take her back because he is “living like an American.” (153) I will thank my stars that I have only had to transition from Dallasite to Austinite, from high schooler to college kid, and not Chinese to American.

[1]http://daniel9012.files.wordpress.com/2008/11/talkingstory.gif

The Child Inside

The summer of 1996 was perhaps the most influential season of my life. It was that June that I became aware of the game of baseball when, for my friend’s 6th birthday, I sat on the first row behind the dugout of a Texas Rangers baseball game. As if knowing that I was a potential devotee to the sport, the home team recorded a then franchise record twenty something runs, and first basemen Will Clark emerged as my first hero after smashing what I remember being a 1,000,000 foot homerun into the second deck above right field. A boyish captivation with the majesty of baseball emerged on that night, later blossoming into the most defining attribute of my growing up.

The Rangers treated me nicely that summer, winning the American League West, and earning their first playoff berth in franchise history. On October 1, 1996, they squared off against the New York Yankees in their first ever postseason game. I remember exactly what happened in that game—where I was sitting, what I was eating, and looking back on it, how the events that took place on that night would cast a mold over the rest of my childhood. Watching the game with my brother and dad, the game started slowly when Juan Gonzalez sent a ball approximately six inches inside the left field foul-poll and two feet over the fence in the top of the fourth inning. Controversially deemed a homerun, my otherwise stoic father exploded out of his chair, drunk off the mirth of a hometown success, leaped and cackled about the room, and shouted, “Juan Gonzalez just hit a homerun in the playoffs!” Apparently unfazed by the excitement, I shot my father with a murderous glare in silent disapproval of his enthusiasm for the occurrence, instantaneously decapitating the boy who lived inside him, who crazed over the game of baseball. With just that look of disinterest from his sons, his zeal faded away.

Though my father would teach me everything he knew about the game that he loved, I never again saw such ecstasy in him because a sage stoicism had set in. Little did I know that against the warm background of that October sky, I had committed the most heinous of subtle crimes against my father—shunning the little boy inside him and killing a part of his personality. The memory of that night has been with me since it happened, but it was not until I got to college that I recognized the importance of its lessons. Coddled in a middle and high school environment where boys were free to be boys, I did not realize the significance of the whimsically playful and sensitive spirit natural to me because I had nothing else to compare it to, no parameters or boundaries, and I never had to put on the mask that every boy wears in front of a girl. But after coming to UT and to Plan II especially (seeing as how it is over 60% female), immediate and necessary adaptations were made, and I now realize how boyish I am and why I choose to be so. Sometimes immature, sometimes sensitive, but often energetic, always playful, and always looking for a ball and a person to play catch.

Perhaps the most striking change in college that has made me realize more about my nature is that a smaller percentage of people in the honors quad care about sports compared to my experience in high school. I have found myself itching for someone to talk with about the Stars’ playoff chances, craving a group of guys to play football with, and needing ten other players to form a soccer team. I have supplemented my free afternoons with games of ball and other general, boyish shenanigans. More times than not, every Tuesday and Thursday afternoon between the hours of 2 and 3:30, I can be found jumping around the quad, trying nothing more than to see how high I can get, or if I can clear the bushes by the Andrews steps. Something about the feeling of physical activity, of tossing a ball back and forth, of the wind in my face as I sprint, of my acceleration towards Earth after jumping from a step—something about all of these actions mindlessly and inexplicably make me happy.

But, alas, there is more to life, and more to me, than the capricious levity that I have described. Despite my passion for individualism, I realize that there is a time and place, and the child inside of me can only exist in certain situations. The hardest part of my college experience has been to quiet the calling of the boy inside, beckoning me to let him out and play. Society and academia have little room for 19-year-old boys. Particularly in the area of relationships have I had to send the child back to his room, into the labyrinth of my heart, in order to be mature enough to handle the problems that old teenagers create. But simultaneously, the boy has allowed me to view the world from the unscathed lens of innocence. Others have found his sensitivity and unselfishness endearing, and when I let him out, I have been able to forge some of the strongest friendships that I have ever had.

Academically, the boy inside affects me in the same way. At times, I find it almost impossible to work—children indeed have the worst time management. Midterms, papers, and exams are the bane of the child that sends him scurrying back to his room when there is no time to play. But as with relationships, the boy lets me be free. Recently, I have realized my love of the liberal arts and my distaste for the surgical exactitude of certain classes that leave a calculated, electric taste, like that of a battery. There is an ambience of hazard about the liberal arts that encourages the foolhardy, inquisitive mind to explore the depths of the human condition. Only with a delighted ignorance can a mind stomach the dark, depraved findings on the nature of man, and only with the gaudy dreams of a child can one hope to supplant this melancholy with a resolution greater than himself.

So it is because of the boy that I revel in the intellectual freedom of the liberal arts. I have even begun to question anyone’s desire to study any subject outside the liberal arts, without the intent of supplementation. Pure science majors confound me. And even more—business majors! Fittingly, was I to ask such students what their motivation is, I think I would find several answers centered around the word “career.” What does a boy care about a career? He doesn’t. And thus, I have arrived at the biggest change I have undergone since I came to UT. For a time in high school—a long time—I was professionally motivated. Hard work led to good grades which led to a better college which led to a better career potential. It is the simple path that many young people are influenced by. The strange thing is, then, that even in that cookie-cutter life plan, nuggets of truth can be found. I think that is why I do not look down on myself for once viewing education and even my life like that. Though it may sound contradictory, I do not look down on people who are still motivated by that; I am merely stumped because for the first time in my life, I really think I have figured something out. If not about life in general, I have learned it about myself. I no longer find that as motivation because it is too one-dimensional. It helped me get good grades in high school. It also helped me last semester. But it only helped with grades. Recently, and I mean very recently, I have realized that this is no longer all that I want. Our readings about ahimsa, Buddhism, and Jainism have led to me to put together everything we have talked about all year. And, as if in an epiphany that has been gradually occurring since I was born, I realize that I want to become a better person: I want to become something greater than myself. Those are vaguely worded goals because I have no idea what they mean exactly—I don’t think anyone does. For once, the OED is no help. I have lived so long only satisfying myself with the pride I could derive from working hard, making good grades, and other assorted achievements. But I realize now that all of those years I was missing something, and landing a six-figure job straight out of undergrad isn’t going to fill the void. And it is not that I ever thought that a career and money alone would solve my problems. But until now, I have never faced the reality that landing that job was all I could hope for, unless I found a new paradigm. Perhaps a greater form of compassion or some Western ahimsa is what I am trying to create—I don’t know. But only a child could dream such possibilities.

The Idiot Performance Reponse

My initial reaction to The Idiot was that I found myself analyzing the play in the same way that I analyze books for any literature class. I was entirely drawn in by the play, but because the matter of the story was so dense and introspective, I found it hard to focus on the performance itself, aside from the storyline and messages that it was trying to convey. In that sense, I found that the play did indeed reach me. Having read Dostoevsky before (although not this particular selection), I found myself relating once again to the bitter melancholy that flavors most of his pieces. The topics of the depravity of mankind, atheism, nihilism and religion, and social movement are all riveting discussions among themselves in an English class, but while stimulating, they are mind-drudgingly heavy, and ones that I try to reserve to English class alone. On that note, I found the play a little boring. I admit I was drawn in, but on a Saturday night, I am usually in the mood for something fun and intellectually shallow, whereas in this situation I was placed into the opposite.
Regardless, the show left me with emotions of melancholy and bitterness, like all great works of literature do. Perhaps the most striking difference between reading about this topics was seeing them acted out before my eyes. This was the most rewarding part of this performance from my perspective. Rather than forging the “as if” in my brain, I could see how the often futile nature of life affected the individual characters, and my mind was able to think about other things, not having to create an image for myself. The most stirring of these images were the expressions on Myshkin’s face. He represented the good man struggling through the tides of depravity and forlornness that affect that vast reaches of mankind. His face was constantly fighting back a childish smile, but when he faced the decisions that grew out of his multiple loves, the hard and cold nature of life was particularly evident in his crushed and defeated smile, yearning for a life in which all could be as good as he.
On that same note, I think the actor that played Myshkin stood out above the rest. In the beginning of the play, it seemed like he was forcing some sort of foolish ignorance of the world and its ways, but by the end of the play I realized that that is exactly what he was trying to convey: a confused, helpless, sick man trying to make good out of a stirring situation. After him, I think the actress that played Nastasya Filippovna stood out as the 2nd best in the show to me. The way she conveyed her character as a woman trying to make something better out of a life she knew she had lost any semblance of goodness.
I don’t know that I would recommend this play to my friend’s if they were looking for something to be entertained by. However, I would recommend this to someone in a dark, introspective mood, searching for higher answers. Disjointly, if there was one “problem” I had with the play, it was that it was very hard to keep track of the very Russian names, and so I found myself often confused by who was who.

Western, Social Ahimsa

Over the winter break, I found myself making a pledge to “not do mean things” to other people anymore. This promise to myself was based on the realization that almost all of the non-academic problems I dealt with in the first semester would have been almost entirely prevented had I made, for lack of a better word, nicer decisions.

Perhaps this nugget of kindergarten indeed transcends the age at which it is learned.[1]

Upon reading the second part of Siddhartha and the article on Ahimsa, I have realized that in order to achieve this “niceness” I have to learn the sense of spirituality that guides the novel’s protagnist, and all Buddhists and Jains in general. In describing the fundamental practice behind ahimsa, the article reads, “In the regeneration and divinization of man, the first step is to eliminate his beastly nature. The predominant trait in beasts is cruelty” (X224). Reading this, I realized that my desires to belittle, poke fun at, or chastise others are forms of cruelty, however righteous I might view them to be, and at that, are beastly. Taking this farther, it is true that “Man attains peace by injuring no living creature. There is one religion – the religion of love, of peace” (X224). This statement speaks to the universal spirituality that exists in all man. With or without faith or religion, by doing good or nice things, we feel better about ourselves—we are at peace.

However cliche, being at peace with oneself is one of the few attainable ideals in life.[2]

Reading the article further, I began to realize that Ahimsa is something I should strive for. No, this is not my vegetarian coming out party, but there are innumerable opportunities that I miss out on when it comes to practicing non-injury to other humans. The idea is not even far-fetched. Moreover, it is simply an extension of the pledge I made over the break, “It is extremely difficult to control such thoughts from the very beginning without having recourse to control of the body and speech first” (X226). But once the immediate urges of the body are contained, ahimsa can seep through the soul, and I can achieve my goal.

This section of Siddhartha parallels this topic perfectly. Unlike the first section in which Siddhartha seemed to be disconnected himself from the world around him, we now see the compassionate side of him. In fact, once being around Kamala and noticing the power of love, “He was happy, for he felt the need to be among people” (Hesse 50). His desire to feel love shows through in his quest to please Kamala, whom he goes out of his way to please, practicing only fasting, waiting, and thinking. Upon returning from the tasks which Kamala sent him out to do, Siddhartha comments that, “Most people, Kamala, are like a falling leaf that is blown and is turning around through the air, wavering and tumbling to the ground. But others, a few, are like stars: they go on a fixed course, no wind reaches them, and in themselves they have their law and their direction” (Hesse 70). I found this to be particularly applicaple to my promise to myself. Despite having made this pledge, I have found my mind taking advantage of my body and indeed injuring those around me. I am that falling leaf, and in order to practice some form of ahimsa I must become the star, applying the law of non-injury to at least the social part of my life.
I can take Siddhartha’s written words to Kamaswami to heart: “Writing is good, thinking is better. Intelligence is good, but patience is better” (Hesse 63).

Look before you leap: an aphorism for the wise, even Siddhartha.[3]

The article on ahimsa eventually discusses that the virtue as an ideal is unattainable, that “You have to destroy life in order to live” (X227). But as with all religions, compromises are to be made to support the human condition (after all, Jesus did die for us). Even in describing the life of a merchant, “Everyone takes, everyone gives, such is life” (Hesse 62).

Perhaps once my form of western-social-ahimsa succeeds, my problems will lessen, and I will be happier. And one step closer to Nirvana.

[1]http://z.about.com/d/crossstitch/1/7/7/Q/-/-/golden-rule.jpg
[2]http://www.thewip.net/contributors/peace-sign.jpg
[3]http://www.wordsellinc.com/wp-content/uploads/word-sell-cliff-diver.jpg

Buddhism

I do not relate to Eastern religion. That is it.

In the description of how Govinda Idolized Siddhartha, Hesse writes about how selfless and pleasing Siddhartha was to all those around him. He concludes, however, that Siddhartha didn’t bring himself joy; he didn’t please himself” (Hesse 7). Buddhism seems to seek a different form of asceticism than the Jains. Rather than practicing ahimsa out of compassion, Buddhists seek complete disconnection with the world, in a completely opposite manner, based on the self alone. Ironically, Govinda, though deferential to Siddhartha, points out this void of compassion when he realizes that Siddhartha has indeed left him, “’Siddartha!’ he exclaimed in a lamenting voice” (Hesse 32). One of his closest followers “laments” Siddhartha’s departure because achieving Nirvana is a singular act, perhaps a selfish one. But this could be recognition of the futility of life otherwise—an faith rooted in the same convolutions as western religions, but more extreme in its means and ends. When his father confronts Siddhartha about his perpetual meditation, he states “You will die, Siddhartha.” To which he replies, “I will die” (Hesse 13). I think Siddhartha’s blunt concession in his retort is perhaps the fundamental reason behind his somewhat peculiar goals. I suppose that I find them peculiar because, in all of life’s futility, why would I want to sever my connection with the one aspect of humanity that keeps me sane: companionship (or, more specifically, love). But once again, I find the answer in the father’s compliance, “If you have found blessedness in the woods, then come and teach me how to be blessed. If you find disappointment, then return once more and let us once again sacrifice to the gods together” (Hesse 14). Siddhartha’s choice is obvious, and it is one mystery that must be chalked up to the perplexing intricacies of the human heart and where it may lead its host, hence my choosing of this song.

Listen To Your Heart (Techno) - DHT


In his pursuing the cessation of existence with the tangible world, Siddhartha garners many questions from Govinda about how it might be possible or even desirable. His explanation is such, “It is flight from one’s being, it’s a brief escape out of the agony of self-existence, it’s a momentary anesthetic against the pain and meaninglessness of life” (Hesse 19). I find this obsession with disconnectivity entirely strange, but even among people of his culture, Siddhartha had different goals, “I don’t have any desire to walk on water. Let the old Samanas satisfy themselves with such trucks” (Hesse 26). Once Govinda and Siddhartha come upon the Buddha praying, they note that “His calm face was neither happy nor sad, it seemed to smile quietly and inwardly” (Hesse 29). The Buddha is described almost to have achieved a state of ignorance of the world around him, its futility and existence. I question my notion that which the Buddhist seeks is a state of blissful ignorance, but further in the text, I find no answer. In a revealing conversation with the Buddha, Siddhartha asks the revered one about his one uncertainty with his teachings: the disconnection of the ultimate goal from all life. Siddhartha exclaims, “But there is one thing which these lucid and honorable teachings do not contain: they do not contain the mystery of what the exalted one alone among hundreds of thousands has experienced for himself” (Heese 35). I find it empty, almost, that no explanation is available for the state of nirvana. I do believe that it is achievable for the most devout, but to what end? To a severance with the rest of the world. From my western perspective, that does not seem desirable.

There is something beautiful in the sense of companionship--something I do not want to relinquish. [1]

In “The Light of Asia” we see a different side to Buddhism than in the first part of Hesse’s novel. In this article, the sense of mercy and compassion of the Buddha is discussed, whereas it seems almost nonexistent in Hesse. However, the motivation behind Siddhartha’s goals in Hesse becomes more evident in this piece. After a long list describing the beauty of life, Arnold writes that “All things spoke peace and plenty, and the Prince saw and rejoiced. But, looking deep, he saw the thorns which grow upon this rose of life: How the swart peasant sweated for his wage, toiling for leave to live; and how he urged the great-eyed oxen through the flaming hours, goading their velvet flanks” (X241). In this case, the Buddha observes nothing but the toilsome cycle of punishment and agony that one being inflicts upon another, and his goals are better explained. But even then, to singularly displace oneself from the rest of the world, to achieve a state of Nirvana—these both seem far too extreme for me. There is little splendor in the imperfection of the cycle of mankind’s relationship to himself and to nature, but there is a well of joy to be gained from compassion, sympathy, love, and affection.

[1]https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL4kzzKTWEh8V-AOflWs5XTKI1hp6dpOHrbyk8DtnAVqSzBqbmHJpmlCjjoC2gI9nJ9Y6tyxqAkzBV6iacuscsHfvQNmex1h_EfGWsaFfqHpTkBLk3OakMGMC0rArlYX7ltxCGGocir1Q/s400/Companionship.bmp

East versus West

Perhaps the most telling example of difference between Western and Eastern thought on the subject of animal rights is given by Kipling. He describes an instance of the “Oriental tender mercy” in which a man feeds a tiger pieces of his own flesh. Kipling writes, “This may be heroic, but like many other illustrious examples of Oriental goodness, it is also absurd, and so remote from every possibility of ordinary life and conduct as to exert no practical influence as a lesson.” (X251)

The gap between east and west extends to all aspects of life. [1]

The choice of the word “absurd” is interesting considering how that is the absolute standard for many in Asia. This difference is derived from the fact that Western religions worship an intangible deity, whereas eastern faiths like Jainism and Hinduism look to animals to find symbols of power and beauty. In “Jainism and Ecology, we see a description of the Jainist mindset and how their practice of ahimsa (defined as absolute nonviolence) has a direct relation to their reverence for animals. Perhaps the most famous person to practice nonviolence is Mahatma Gandhi, “who combined love and nonviolence”(X231). Gandhi describes the virtue of ahimsa as a “means” and continues to say “In its positive form, ahimsa means the largest love, greatest charity”(X231). I must disagree with Gandhi. The keyword, here, however, is “positive” ahimsa. Simply, ahimsa for the sake of ahimsa is not love—it is a practice of nonviolence and nothing more. I would correct him to say that love (and compassion) for animals is the means and ahimsa follows as the end. From West to East, I think the lack of love because of different symbols of reverence accounts for Kipling referring to Oriental practices as “absurd.”

I understand better now our practice of "love channeling." It is the basis of all compassion.[2]

The article then begins to discuss the cause of the ecological crisis from a Jainist perspective as a lack of spirituality and perpetuation of greed. Lily de Silva said, “We have to understand that pollution in the environment has been caused because there has been psychological pollution within ourselves” (X232). The “psychological pollution within ourselves” is the same as the absence of Love and reverence for animals in western thought. At some point, concern for the environment, for animals, and for all living things must come from the heart. From a western perspective, however, deeming this “pollution” seems somewhat condescending. In discussing the apparent idealism and hints of absurdity that taints Jainism from a western eye, the article discusses a situation when a disciple raises a concern about the natural tendency of human survival to cause suffering on some living things. Lord Mahavira’s response is simply, “If you are aware of all of your actions, and are careful about what you do in relation to other living things, you will develop spirituality and be in perfect harmony with the natural world” (X234). How is this at all a valid response to the disciple’s statement? It seems like a shirking of reality, revealing the unattainable idealism inherent in Jainism. While I respect the practice, Kipling hits the nail on the head: it is almost absurd to expect a wide range of humans to practice such ahimsa. Upon researching, as per Wikipedia, less than 1% of the Indian population (let alone the world’s) is Jain.

In the article “Man, Culture and Animals in India,” the institutions of the pinjrapole and goshala are described as places of sanctuary, so to speak, for cows. According to the article, the words “ahimsa paramo dharma” are written above the gateways to all pinjrapoles. Translating to “ahimsa is the greatest of religions,” according to the article, “In this aphorism is summed up the entire raison d’etre of pinjrapoles, for it is the extension of ahimsa and the related concept of jiv-daya (compassion for life) to embrace all animal life that accounts for the presence of the institutions in Inida today” (X266). Just like in Gandhi’s words, the virtue of ahimsa can only exist with a certain love or compassion that must inherent in one’s heart. Otherwise, ahimsa exists for ahimsa alone, futilely, as I said before. Perhaps the reason this love exists in Asian culture is because of the reverence shown toward animals, rather than believing in the intangible powers of theism. In discussing the reason behind the worship of animals, the article explains that “reverence for the bull as a symbol of masculinity and power” and “the cow, too, emerges as the symbol of a female deity” (X272). These animals are referred to as symbols because that is as closed to a deity as they can possibly come. I think that Jain, Hindu, and other Indian religious practices exist because of some faith that the followers have in the animal, just as those in the West have a faith in God. Either way, I call it a faith because it takes a certain feeling in the heart to submit to this sort of spirituality, and not everyone’s heart is in the same place.

The more I think about the topics in the class, the more I realize that, no matter what facts and opnions are discussed, what you feel in your heart is all that you are capable of. [3]

Reading this blog entry again, I realize how western my train of thought is. But I guess that makes sense.




[1]http://listverse.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/08/east-vs-west.jpg
[2]http://www.katyelliott.com/blog/uploaded_images/love_print-791839.jpg
[3]http://www.creativeartspaceforkids.org/store/images/Art-from-the-Heart-2.jpg

Hunting

As I read the required sections tonight, I arrived at the dichotomy of interminable deliberation that has placed my heart in the same conflict with itself, a war that has been waged since the beginning of last semester. Finding no answers to the complexities of the topics we discuss and trudging only deeper in the melancholic labyrinth of human emotion, I have found it easiest and most necessary to maintain my status quo.

More than a band: a state of equilibrium. [1]

On the one hand, in James Turner’s Reckoning the Beast, I am convinced that it is the natural way of things for man to be above beast. I do not intend this to sound cruel. In describing the treatment of animals in preindustrial England, Turner writes that, “these bloodied animals were probably not victims of cruelty. Cruelty implies a desire to inflict pain.”[X170C] I then contrast this with the words of Reverend Dr. Humphrey Primatt, “We may pretend to what religion we please; but Cruelty is atheism. We may make our boast of Christianity; but Cruelty is infidelity. We may trust to our orthodoxy; but cruelty is the worst of heresies.”[X170G] Turner mentions this quotation because Primatt was the foremost authority on the advancement of animal humanities in 18th century western thought. However, Turner first wrote that the animals were not “victims” of cruelty because the men who committed those acts did not know any better. It is ironic, then, to defend mankind in light of ignorance when he indeed is supposed to be the rational one, but I think our collective empathy has indeed blossomed only once scientific discoveries concerning the similarities between men an animals were made. Perhaps Reverend Dr. Primatt was making a fuss over nothing, overstating the assumption that maltreatment of animals is necessarily “cruelty.” But the most provocative quotation from this chapter was Turner’s description of this supposed lack of empathy: “No generalized humanitarianism evoked fellow feeling with the suffereings of the next village, much less the plight of total strangers fifty miles away. People who walked hand-in-hand with plague, famine, and dying children could ill afford to squander their affective capital on useless emotion.”[X170C] Presently, we do not face the same “plague and famine” of that time, but the latter statement rings the bell of priority. Genocide and AIDS in Africa, a collapsing economy in the US, interminable uneasiness regarding extremists in the Middle East, among other global problems beg the question of whether animal humanities deserves so much attention. Even once scientific discovery lead to the knowledge that man and beast did not differ so much, Turner mentions that, “It did animals little good to be recognized as distant cousins if man would not lift a hand to help closer relatives.”[X170D]. I have long been a proponent of the phrase “Listen to your heart.” And ultimately, you cannot forge a passion for animal humanities unless you have it in you. That is, no matter what you think is wrong or right, something within you must drive a passion to fix things, and in my case, I do not know that I possess it.

After reading that, I thought it was natural for me not to show concern for animal humanities. After all, we have ourselves to worry about. [1]

But George Orwell’s trial with the elephant struck a deeper chord: he mentioned the subject of my P1—individualism. In describing his situation, Orwell noted that he had no desire to kill the elephant that had caused havoc, only that he had to appease the crowd of 2000 that amassed around him: “The people expected it of me and I had got to do it; I could feel their two thousand wills pressing me forward, irresistibly.”[X221] This sentence immediately struck me as similar to one that I wrote in P3: “The “exposure” that I mention was not some sort of newfound physical contact with “people of color,” but rather a compression of my immediate needs and ideologies under the force of tens of thousands of new and different people on this campus. This is not to say my passion of individuality has collapsed, but I no longer assume that my ideas and viewpoints are right.” While it is not spot on, in that section I talk about the protection of an individual and not letting outside influences affect me too greatly. But George Orwell did. Mentioning how he had to conform to the natives’ wishes, “He wears a mask, and his face grows to fit it.”[X221] Orwell’s plight was that the crowd following him found it the natural process of things that the elephant get shot—much like my thoughts after reading turner that it is natural for man to be above animals, despite what “cruelties” he might see. But it is here that I realize that this assumption is conformity and thus an action that stifles what I once declared to be my greatest passion—individuality. The British imperialism forced Orwell to stick to the stereotype, to play the role of what he felt he was expected to and not what he wanted to.

Punk rock or not, conforming is good—only when you want it to happen.[2]

And so, I am left once again at intersection I have found so familiar this year: not knowing what to think. But, what is this? Poetry gives me an answer, an absolute, an ultimatum. Looking up at the vulture in orbit of his self, Robinson Jeffers convinces me that I will never hunt: “But how beautiful he looked, gliding down on those great sails; how beautiful he looked, veering away in the sea-light over the precipice. I tell you solemnly that I was sorry to have disappointed him. To be eaten by that beak and become a part of him, to share those wings and those eyes—what a sublime end of one’s body.”[X216] The destruction of beauty like that will never strike me as a sport—no matter how natural it seems.

[1]http://www.raw-tcsd.com/status%20quo263.jpg
[2]http://blog.chrisworfolk.com/wp-content/uploads/2006/10/foodchain.gif
[3]http://www.forrightorwrong.net/Shirt%20Pics/conformity-zoom.jpg

A God-fearing people

The View - Modest Mouse

The chorus to the song goes: “As life gets longer, awful feels softer, and it feels pretty soft to me. And if it takes shit to make bliss, well I feel pretty blissfully."[1] Isaac Brock, the vocalist and writer for the band, having endured drug addiction, a single, abusive, and neglecting mother and lacking any semblance of what I will call “childhood” has born the brunt of it. Life is not beautiful without pain, and in that case, he states “he would rather never ever even see beauty again.” By all definitions, Isaac Brock was full of fear.

Though Isaac Brock is not quite a Christian, his lyrics reflect the struggles of life that we all face.[2]

It was, by Aristotle’s definition, not until 9th grade that I became an intellectual—that I realized the perpetual fear that we all must live in. In my freshman year Ancient and Medieval History and Religion class, I asked the question, rhetorically, “Why did God create evil?” I asked that question because it reflects the futility, the fear, the discord, and the misery that exists in life. We were exploring the conception of world religions, and the struggles that the “framers” (the title does not do them justice) of these religions faced. Like Hopkins writes in God's Grandeur, “The world is charged with the Grandeur of God.”[3] So, let me ask it again, why did God create evil—or in that case, why did he create anything bad?

Life would be less uneasy if little bastards weren't running around.[4]

The best explanation that can be given to an unanswerable question can be found in Blake's The Shepherd: “He is watchful while they are in peace, For they know when their shepherd is nigh.”[5] The higher being knows of something that the lower does not. This is the quintessence of fear itself: we don’t fear until we have perspective. Knowing of something greater, the shepherd watches over the herd to protect them, and his power is felt. Further, Blake writes in On Another's Sorrow, “Can I see another’s woe, And not be in sorrow too?”[6] Lessons can be learned from fear, and the primary of these is compassion. Like Dana wrote, compassion is derived from fear. Compassion is, according to the OED, very similar to sympathy, and where does the term sympathy appear? The sympathetic imagination. We can not help with what we have no experience with. I am taking Fundamentals of Acting this semester, and one of the primary tools for an actor in analyzing a scene is not only identifying an essential action or an objective, but applying what they in the biz call an “As if.” That is, “I am going to act this out, as if that happened to me.” Where “this” refers to the objective in the scene, and “that” refers to a prior event that the actor can draw experience from.

Who would have thought compassion is a form of acting?[7]

In Harrigan’s story, “The Tiger is God,” we see an embodiment of God’s omnipotence in the animal. As an observer of Miguel at the zoo mentioned, “He had an intent to kill.”[8] But Miguel was left there for a reason. Perhaps less than an embodiment, the tiger is a manifestation of God’s goals for mankind. Fear is the most powerful of feelings—one that brings all living things together. Consider it an act of hazing. Fraternities do it, however cruelly, to force an undividing brotherhood among their pledges. Hazing practices like that are forbidden, perhaps because of the authorities using it to play God, so to speak. I will now search for shelter, fearing the almighty hand of God reaching down from the heavens and smiting me for saying that His instilling of fear into all living creatures is an act of hazing, so to speak. That being said, “To what end would we destroy the tiger?”[9] The animal was put here to kill and to inspire fear because of God’s need for us to fear him. Christian, Atheist, or Agnostic, you sure as hell better fear God because regardless of what you believe, there is a psychotic, perpetual inkling of “what if?” that exists in all of our hearts—every single one of us. Like Hopkins writes in Hurrahing in Harvest, "I walk, I lift up, I lift up heart, eyes, Down all that glory in the heavens to glean our savior."[12] If nothing else, that fear exists because of our lack of understanding, our fear of the unknown and our mystification with the glory of the sky, space, and heavens above. Indeed, “The Tiger is God,”[10] because we need something to derive our fear and compassion from. So, Tiger in Blake's The Tiger, “Did he who make the lamb make thee?”[11]

Yes.

[1]http://www.lyricsondemand.com/soundtracks/o/oclyrics/theviewlyrics.html
[2]http://www.snow.edu/kage/assets/modest_mouse.jpg
[3]Hopkins 164
[4]http://www.satanspace.com/gallery/albums/satanic/dead-evil-dolly-with-pentagram-on-head.jpg
[5]Blake 140
[6]Blake 142
[7]http://www.midatlanticarts.org/images/acting_company.jpg
[8]Harrigan 151
[9]Harrigan 153
[10]Harrigan 155
[11]Blake 146
[12] Hopkins 166

P3

Like Whitman, “I am large. I contain multitudes.” We all are. Each of us has a unique blend of characteristics acting like an array of colors on a palate then used to adorn the tiles that piece together the vibrant mosaic of the individual. The purples, yellows, and browns mingle and scintillate as the beauty of the creation of the artwork of character swells more so than in the banality of the colors themselves. This mosaic of character then becomes a singular tile to be placed in the greater artistry of society.

The result.

I wrote about my passion for individualism in P1 and expressed its leadership vision in terms of belief in others. Underlying the passion and leadership vision are the virtues of patience, compassion, and emotional intelligence, among others. But the most important virtue of all these is tolerance. Without tolerance, the individual is stifled. Uniqueness and originality must subscribe to whatever an authority will tolerate, and, as if working in reverse order, that authority rips apart the artwork tile by tile, destroying the mosaic and its beauty, leaving only the tawdry remnants of single colors.

Far more mundane than the picture above.

With it, we can remove ourselves from the artwork that we create and observe the harmony of the spectrum of individuals, noting the areas of visual satisfaction and reveling in the splendor of imperfection. With an eye keen to acceptance and tolerant of all styles, mixtures, beliefs, and colors, the brilliance of the individual and the expression of my leadership vision can flourish.

I almost chose to write about tolerance in my P1. I am glad I did not because the more I unfold the vision of my projects, the more logical and real they become. I have always thought of myself as a person particularly tolerant of all types of people, beliefs, and lifestyles. I did grow up in an affluent neighborhood, and I did attend a predominantly white private school. Still, the student body was close to 40% “people of color,” according to the school’s website. I lived in a bubble, but I recognized that I did. Understanding was not something I lacked—rather, it was something preached to me. I grew up very tolerant of the idea of different types of people, but it was not until I came to UT that I had to practice this tolerance as exposure became the reality rather than that “idea.”

The “exposure” that I mention was not some sort of newfound physical contact with “people of color,” but rather a compression of my immediate needs and ideologies under the force of tens of thousands of new and different people on this campus. This is not to say my passion of individuality has collapsed due to this pressure, but I no longer assume that my idea or viewpoint is right. I used to stride with a mental grandiosity, imperial in the mind of Brian that I possessed some righteous image of reality compared to others. Now, I tiptoe in resolute affirmation of my self but with respectful deference to the 65,000 other worldviews that float in the heads of those on campus walking with me.

A perfect example of the need for tolerance is in this course, on the subject of animal rights. When we first began discussing the topic, I took it to be some sort of insult to my intelligence that we had to discuss the rights and feelings of lesser beings. I had a self-righteous opinion on the subject: that I would continue to eat meat and not care and everyone else should because that is the natural way for a species at the top of the food chain.

This was, sadly, my outlook on vegetarianism.

Since then, perturbed by the images of Earthlings and affected by the words of our in-class activists, I have become much more open to the subject. My practice of eating meat has not changed, but my view on the topic has. I think this is a perfect example of virtue that the framers of the university ethics requirement want to instill. Tolerance has allowed me to digest the opinions of others and synthesize useful concepts for myself, not only rounding my knowledge, but also deriving within me a higher standard of ethics for the treatment of animals.

In trying to create a new self, tolerance is synonymous with the willingness to accept facts and opinions. Open-mindedness, one might say. It is a practice that is vital to the liberal arts, as this type of education is one that builds not a particular skill or knowledge, but hammers into us a critical thought process of progressivism. Without an open mind, it is impossible to grasp the values of the liberal arts, and without tolerance, it is impossible to have that open mind. With a mind open and permeable to the infinite influences of our surroundings, tolerance leads not to a science of diffusion letting in only those facts that it wants to, but a permanent equilibrium with the knowledge and ethics of the world. So it is not just the ability to tolerate different opinions in a classroom that underlies the acceptance of each individual, but also the ability to tolerate lifestyles, religious beliefs, and worldviews.

Perhaps the most telling event regarding my capacity for tolerance is my rapidly developing relationship with one of my closest friends. He is my antithesis. Our lifestyles, hobbies, and academic interests intersect only at our similar tastes in music. He recycles everything possible and eats organic food. I stuff my face with processed chicken and discard most items into the garbage. Transcending political ideology, he is liberal, and I am conservative. But the most striking difference is that he is bisexual, and I am not.

His influence has shattered paradigms that I once considered to be indestructible bulwarks of my personality, constructed to weather the opposing viewpoints of my enemies and to endure the constant battering of idealism that I wanted no part in. I began sorting plastics and papers and removed bottle caps deemed unworthy of reuse. I have discovered a fondness of banana chips, vegetable crisps, and herbal teas. My perspective on relationships has changed from trying to entertain ad nauseam to showing concern for the well being of my friends. But my lifestyle has changed in these ways because I found them to be beneficial and healthy—I could tolerate these differences easily because they were viewpoints I could agree with and understand. Crossing the border of heterosexuality is not, however, something that I can relate to or want to change. This internal skirmish of coming face to face with a lifestyle that seems so foreign to me has been the greatest test of my tolerance. Bisexuality or homosexuality, unlike recycling, is not something that I can begin to practice because it is so remote from my personality. My struggle with this reality has not been difficult. Rather, it has been strange. I do not look down upon him with bigoted eyes, but I am squeamish when the subject comes up: it makes me uncomfortable. That lack of comfort is something that I must eliminate in order to rightfully practice the virtue of tolerance.

A leader is nothing without tolerance. At some point it might seem easiest for leaders to look upon their subjects with a disdainful apathy toward their differences, but those differences are the base colors that create our mosaic. Tolerance is not about ignorance of differences but about celebration of them. The spectrum worldviews occur throughout humanity because of unique life experiences that effect only individuals. Intolerance of these stifles the potential for beauty when every individual casts his or her unique shade on the greater artistry of society.

For my future as a leader, I plan to advance my capacity for tolerance, just as I do everyday confronting the nature of the different people around me—particularly for that of sexuality. Because I cannot feel the same emotions or think in the same paradigm as another does not mean I cannot tolerate the opinions and ideas stemming from those differences. I have found the practice of tolerance to be a battle against the self, perhaps one that muffles the cacophony of my individual against another but creates out of every unique characteristic a series of lyrics that hums in a harmony more beautiful than any note alone. The catch, however, is that every note must be its own, and not a mimicry of another, in order to advance the passion of the individual that spawns this need for tolerance.




Word Count: 1418

Soul Power

The crux of “Animal Humanities” is that, according to Garrard, “The study of the relations between animals and humans in the humanities is split between philosophical consideration of animal rights and cultural analysis of the representation of animals.” [1] He goes on to make the argument that this “cultural analysis” of animals as beings incapable of reason is not a legitimate reason for their maltreatment. Animals are lesser beings than humans. I think that is painfully obvious even to the most diehard of vegans. Arguments around that do not exist. But that is part of Garrard’s point: just because it can’t reason like a human does not mean that any sentient being should be denied the basic, unalienable rights of ethical treatment.

This thing is too damn cute to torture. [2]

The topic of animal humanities relates in similar ways to both environmentalism and Jainism. Unlike Judaism and Christianity, “The Buddhists and Jains do not depend upon God, but the whole force of their religion is directed to the central truth in every religion that each person needs to remake himself or herself in the image of the divine ideal.” [3] Rather than living life by the mandates of God, Jainists relate to the mandate of the earth, the spirit of life. The religion relates to animal humanities because at heart, both ideas are about fairness. The justification for the spirit and the right to live for all beings—conscious or not, as far as Jains go—is the only way of life. Environmentalism is founded upon a similar ideal, “Environmental ethics, on the other hand, places far less emphasis on the individual organism, but demands moral consideration for inanimate things such as rivers and mountains, assuming pain and suffering to be a part of nature.” [4] While it differs from Jainism in its philosophy that suffering is natural, Environmentalism and Jainism are both spawned from the paradigm of the omnipresence of the earth.

More than God, in many eyes, this object is our source or life.[5]

The inklings of early vegetarianism, outside of the Buddhist and Jainist viewpoints, originated from a similar worldview, “It was linked with two other ideas; the wider of the two forbade all killing and hence opposed murder, strife and war, while at the heart of the philosophy was a belief in metempsychosis, or the transmigration of souls.” [6] Metempsychosis, while not explicitly mentioned in the other passages, is a key statute in the ethos driving all of these paradigms. The soul, rather than the intellect, the brain, or the heart, is responsible for the right of deliverance for all beings. And rightfully so—even according to my view of animal humanities. I am still not a vegetarian—perhaps it is because I believe in the natural pain and suffering of living things—but I believe in the rights of the soul or the spirit of a living being. I think this intrinsic right shows itself in the need for companionship, as Isidore states, “I mean, before they came here I could stand it, being alone in the building. But now it’s changed. You can’t go back, he thought. You can’t go from people to nonpeople.” [7] Loneliness is an interminable, tenacious enemy. The constant struggle amid the self is only exacerbated by the morose lack of juncture, of connection, of companionship between two beings. The compounding dolor of singularity is testament to the ambiance of the soul and the reason for the consideration of all beings, rational or not.

[1]98
[2]http://www.worth1000.com/entries/318000/318081FLNK_w.jpg
[3]96
[4]99-100
[5]http://www.spacetoday.org/images/SolSys/Earth/EarthBlueMarbleWestTerra.jpg
[6]110
[7]Dick, 204

The primitive

When I consider how much I have evolved from some primitive stage to what I hope resembles an adult stage, the first influence I think of is that of the principle of equilibrium, especially as it applies to economics. The price of some good, for example, adjusts to its point of equilibrium based on the desires of the producers and the consumers. A price too high yields a supply that exceeds a demand. A price too low, vice versa. Using this line of thought, I do not think that “Civilization is so to speak a lack of faith, a human laziness, a willingness to accept the perceptions and decisions of others in place of your own.” [1] Perhaps it is not another’s decision but a mutual decision of the majority. I do not model my living after anyone else, but my living is not so dissimilar to the average college student, I will assume. I admit that the subtle influence of the greater people has impacted me, but I have found no reason to stray orthogonally to that path. Rather, I relish in the supposition that I have achieved (or am perpetually striving to achieve) some level of obliquity that renders me content.

Not quite parallel and not quite orthogonal. A healthy medium, one might say. [2]

At the same time, the primitive is provocative, if not haunting. I think Snyder waxes romantic on the side of the primitive, giving it far too much credit and neglecting many realities that twinkle under my economic, conservatively-colored lens. Apparently, “Something is always eating at the American heart like acid: it is the knowledge of what we have done to our continent, and to the American Indian.” [3] While the butchering and rape of the natives to this country is unsettling, the damage done to the land itself is less so. Especially from an economic standpoint: nature, or the primitive in a general sense, will be preserved once the cost (physical and spiritual) of its destruction exceeds the benefit of its product. Snyder further states that primitive cultures have “knowledge of connection and responsibility which amounts to a spiritual ascesis for the whole community.” [4] At first, I wanted to chastise him for claiming we are responsible for some sort of preservation, but I think we do owe responsibility to nature and I think we are responsible. This responsibility kicks in, once again, when the nature of economics allows, but mankind has more of an appreciation for its primitive that Snyder gives us credit for.

Sometimes I don't think this gets enough credit for what it is capable of. [5]

Speaking economically, Snyder does mention something important that I have neglected so far: “Economics…must learn the rules of the greater realm.”[6] Economy is driven by self-interest, and often the interests of the collective self often conflict with the interests of the whole. It is the principle of equilibrium that we will find some point to balance both of those interests, but it is frighteningly obvious that this point is not ideally located.

After reading Tyler’s entry, I realize possibly the most important aspect of the primitive—companionship. Vegging is kickass and one of my favorite past times. But it does indeed get old after a very short time. Why? Because it is so singular. Sometimes company goes a long way. A close friend or even a stranger can alleviate the pangs of loneliness. Even an android feels the same way, “’You don’t have any friends. You’re a lot worse than I saw you this morning; it’s because—‘ ‘I have friends…Or I had. Seven of them. That was to start with, but now the bounty hunters have had time to get to work.” [7] Though I haven’t explicitly mentioned it, interdependence and coexistence are fundamentals of the human condition, even from an economic viewpoint. These are both facets of emotional intelligence, and thus emotional intelligence is something that an android possesses.

Where would I be without them?

Honestly, I do not yearn for the primitive. Rather, I thrive in this economic setting that I have described, and I do not want it to change. The emotional battles I fight every day—that everyone fights everyday—are sometimes taxing, but I attribute that to the complexities of adulthood and thus a divergence from the primitive. Although I just wrote that I do not want a change to the primitive, I do not deny that perhaps, a change to the primitive would best suit me—all of us.


[1]Gary Snyder, “Poetry and the Primitive: Notes on Poetry as an Ecological Survival Technique,” X52
[2]http://www.postaudio.co.uk/education/acoustics/room_images/oblique.png
[3]Gary Snyder, “Poetry and the Primitive: Notes on Poetry as an Ecological Survival Technique,” X49
[4]Gary Snyder, “Poetry and the Primitive: Notes on Poetry as an Ecological Survival Technique,” X49
[5]http://www.ipmc.cnrs.fr/~duprat/neurophysiology/images/brain2.jpg
[6]Gary Snyder, “Poetry and the Primitive: Notes on Poetry as an Ecological Survival Technique,” X53
[7]Philip K. Dick, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, 147
[8]http://www2.warnerbros.com/friendstv/img/friends_index.jpg

Who am I?

I think the catch of this argument is not whether all animals deserve equal consideration, nor that humans should feel sympathy to other species. In fact, the question is of humanity, and how far it should extend. The definition of humanity is, “The character or quality of being humane.” [1] Humane is defined as being “marked by sympathy with and consideration for the needs and distresses of others.”[2]

In the opening of Dick, we see one of the most obvious animalistic traits of the human condition: “I just want to sit here on the bed and stare at the floor.” [3] Iran’s desire to vegetate is a natural response in any living organism, I think. It is instinct, to have the want to do nothing, to shut off, and to be ignorant. I note cows grazing and cats napping—what are they doing? The answer is nothing. Is that not ideal? Perhaps that is what separates humans from all other species—we get too tied up in things.

Looks pretty sweet to me

Yes, I am an animal, I think that is the first and perhaps the only admission I can make. But unless I connect with another animal, I am not going to give a shit about it. Humans, even. Genocide and poverty flood Africa, but I still resist the ebbing tide of pity, pulling me to the other side of the ocean to do something about it. A little girl is kidnapped and found dead in Florida. “Horrible,” I say, but after the brief moment of imagining the same thing happening to someone I know and care about, sympathy escapes me. Selfishness defines the natural way of animals. Selflessness, altruism, sacrifice—all of these inhibit the process of evolution by natural selection and species are left weaker because of it. Derrida writes about his relationship with his cat that, “Nothing can ever take away from me the certainty that what we have here is an existence that refuses to be conceptualized. And a mortal existence, for from the moment that it has a name, its name survives it.”[4] Compassion, sympathy, feelings—these can all exist once a connection has been made. But remotely, this bond cannot exist, and a trans-species gap spans far greater than any ocean.

That is a vast body to cross and one that I won’t.

I think the second admission to make is that I am a bastard. But is that not the human, nay, the animal condition? To be selfish except when selfless actions can make us feel happy? In Dick, Rick remarks that not caring for animals is “a crime and anti-empathetic.”[5] Empathy rather than sympathy is used for a reason, whether or not we are to be defined as animals, we are at least a different species. Sympathy does not apply. We see further in Dick’s work the treatment of a “lesser” being: “After all, if a chickenhead could fathom Latin he would cease to be a chickenhead.” John Isidore is regarded as a “special” because of the “distorted genes which he carried.” [6] Though he is human, his inferiority is microcosmic of the greater chasm between our species and others. I find it a fair criterion that if a species of animal can fathom Latin, then that species should be granted the same rights as ours. But even then, I don’t know that I would feel sympathy for it. Sympathy is defined by, “An affinity between certain things, by virtue of which they are similarly or correspondingly affected by the same influence.”[7] As a human, the similarity is negated. We synthesize emotions from individual experiences. In fact, emotions in the broadest sense are only compared once they are arbitrarily named, so I find it impossible to believe that even among humans some sort of “sympathetic imagination” can exist, let alone from human to cow or dog.

This is a human, yet not one person in this class has a structure exactly like this. As this discrepancy is physical, imagine the emotional discrepancy.

Derrida brings up the argument that this gap is closing as we come to new realizations about ourselves and all animals, “It is all too evident that in the course of the last two centuries these traditional forms of treatment of the animal have been turned upside down by the joint developments of zoological, ethological, biological and genetic forms of knowledge…” [8]. More than anything else, we have realized how close we are to the animal, using the denomination in the broadest since. Our genomes are so similar, in many cases our structures are almost identical, and in all we rely on calories and oxygen (among other things) to get us through the day. But despite this, there is a difference so staggering that we don’t readily identify with the name animal. It is a broader nominal designation that we fall under, but it is not our most distinct. We are animals, but first we are humans. A chimp, for instance, is an animal to us first, and a chimp to us second.

Finally, Bentham asks, “Can they suffer?” They do—we all do. Sometimes the question is not whether the line crosses at the “faculty of discourse,” [9] but whether it is our responsibility to take every modicum of sufferance into account. I don’t think that it is, but then again, I am a bastard.

[1]definition of “humanity”, Oxford English Dictionary, X37
[2]definition of “humane”, Oxford English Dictionary, X36
[3] Philip K. Dick, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, 7

[4]Jacques Derrida, “The Animal That Therefore I Am (Following),” X25
[5]Philip K. Dick, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, 13
[6]Philip K. Dick, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?, 19
[7]definition of “sympathy”, Oxford English Dictionary, X43
[8]Jacques Derrida, “The Animal That Therefore I Am (Following),” X30
[9]Jeremy Bentham, “the Principles of Morals and Legislation”, X47

Pictures:
[1]http://www.fondosescritorio.net/wallpapers/Dibujos-Animados/Garfield/Garfield-06.jpg
[2]http://graphics.stanford.edu/courses/cs348b-competition/cs348b-01/ocean_scenes/ocean2.gif
[3]http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/2/2a/Human_skeleton_back.svg/350px-Human_skeleton_back.svg.png

Darwin V. Tennyson

Tears In Heaven - Eric Clapton

I am not a Christian though I was raised one. I am not an atheist because I believe in God. But I am hardly at odds with my faith and my spirituality. I think that because I am so engaged in the stuff of youth that I mostly neglect the topics of religion, of science versus religion, and of spirituality. Deliberation of the struggle has not been absent in the pathos of my mind, but I name the emotion pathos for a very specific reason. I fear the futility of life because of my belief in science, but I refuse to submit to a void of purpose.

[1] A bleak ending, and not one I want to see.

Tennyson’s lyrics pluck a chord on the strings of my heart, and its sound is of dissonance: “Be near me when I fade away,/ To point the term of human strife,/And on the low dark verge of life/The twilight of eternal day.” [2] From his other words, it is clear that Tennyson is a proponent of evolution, but at the same time is a man of faith: “I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope,/And gather dust and chaff, and call/ To what I feel is Lord of all,/ And faintly trust the larger hope.” [3] He acknowledges the fragility of faith in the face of the beast of science but questions the validity of his letting go. Why should we let go of what we believe in, even if science tells us otherwise? It is not always about a belief in the bible or strict adherence to the rigidity of the form of faith, but there exists some ambience of hazard in a birth devoid of spirituality. Tennyson’s plight (and mine) becomes relevant in Kansas’s lyrics, “All we do crumbles to the ground, though we refuse to see. Dust in the Wind. All we are is dust in the wind.” [4] In the absence of some greater faith we are dust, ultimately.

This doesn’t look to appealing for my soul to inhabit for eternity. [5]

But I find solace in this mess. Lionel Stevenson, in his explanation of the struggle of poets like Tennyson, writes, “The intelligent controlling deity succumbed to blind forces functioning mechanically.” [6] I ask, can’t a controlling deity be responsible for and not “succumb to” these forces? Today, a poet faces even graver revelations of science, but I like to think a poet still goes to church. Stevenson further points out the struggle, “And if no god existed, nature was but a vast machine indifferent to the sufferings of living beings.” [7] But still, compassion exists. Everywhere. While science becomes an even more fluent tongue in the modern vernacular, faith is not lacking worldwide.

Compassion is driven by something more than science.
[8]

My solution is such: remain unconscious to the orthogonal. I will always believe in a greater purpose, but not necessarily a particular faith. I do believe in a supreme being, and I always will. At best, you could call me a deist. Or, at least a spiritualized atheist who, though nominally ironic, believes in some sort of god. Something greater does control the waves and particles of this all, but I am not sure what it is. When I listen to Eric Clapton, I refuse to believe that wavelengths, frequencies, and vibrations are responsible for the evocation of emotion, for the spirit that irrevocably exists in the sound. There is something more, and I not only sympathize with but agree with Tennyson’s stance on this sort of spiritual evolutionism. Darwin’s theories are irrefutable, but they do not call for a destruction of the spirit.

[1] http://www.artistic-license-inc.com/b2b/pics/Black_Galaxy_Granite_Tile.jpg
[2] 9
[3] 9
[4]14
[5]http://911research.wtc7.net/wtc/evidence/docs/nt_dust_aerial2c.jpg
[6]Lionel Stevenson, “Darwin among the Poets,” Darwin 653
[7] Lionel Stevenson, “Darwin among the Poets,” Darwin 654
[8]http://www.smhcsf.org/images/img_compassion365b.jpg