the freaks

Sometime last year around the holidays my school abided with its tradition to put on a Talent Show. You know, the kind where students sign up to do embarrassing things in front of each other, like play the latest emo song on guitar, recite jokes that include lines like "oh to be Jung again", and I don't know, do a shirtless dance of male pudge jiggle. This is the point at which the gay guys rolled their eyes, grabbed their complimentary glasses of white wine, and went to sit on the railing looking at the sunset over the Bay. This straight-boy humor was not for them, and I will admit in having joined them in the renunciation.

This outrageous event also provided students with goody bags filled with candy, coupons to nearby coffee shops (quite useful, actually!), and a $5 gift card to Barnes & Noble. Not that the latter in any way makes up for the thousands of dollars we spend in loans to the institution, but I'll welcome anything to put even the slightest dent in my school book orders that often carelessly exceed hundreds of dollars. So I stuck the gift card in my wallet fully intending to use it in the fall.

However, as fall came and I was once again ordering my stack of textbooks, I somehow felt sad about using this gift money on such a trivial purchase. This poor $5 amount would be swallowed effortlessly by the beast that would be my textbook order. I wanted to get my money's worth, so to speak; I wanted to spend it on something useful and enjoyable.

So I logged onto the Barnes & Noble website, searching for the books on my pleasure-reading list, and came across The Daily Coyote. For a while now I've been intrigued by this story of a girl and her coyote, and I've wanted to read this book ever since it came out. And let me tell you, this was $5 well spent!

Which brings me to the real point of this post. In the very first chapter, as Shreve Stockton (the author) is introducing herself and putting her character into perspective, she references a passage from Salman Rushdie's The Ground Beneath Her Feet. Something about "those born not belonging". And as I've been a fan of Salman Rushdie's fantastical writing, with his themes of artists and vagabonds, people misplaced and people searching, I looked up that passage and here it is (bear with me and my choices of long-winded writers; yes, this is all one paragraph):

"For a long while I have believed--this is perhaps my version of Sir Darius Xerxes Cama's belief in a fourth function of outsideness--that in every generation there are a few souls, call them lucky or cursed, who are simply born not belonging, who come into the world semi-detached, in you like, without strong affiliation to family or location or nation or race; that there may even be millions, billions of such souls, as many non-belongers as belongers, perhaps; that, in sum, the phenomenon may be as "natural" a manifestation of human nature as its opposite, but one that has been mostly frustrated, throughout human history, by lack of opportunity. And not only by that: for those who value stability, who fear transience, uncertainty, change, have erected a powerful system of stigmas and taboos against rootlessness, that disruptive, anti-social force, so that we mostly conform, we pretend to be motivated by loyalties and solidarities we do not really feel, we hide our secret identities beneath the false skins of those identities which bear the belongers' seal of approval. But the truth leaks out in our dreams; alone in our beds (because we are all alone at night, even if we do not sleep by ourselves), we soar, we fly, we flee. And in the waking dreams our societies permit, in our myths, our arts, our songs, we celebrate the non-belongers, the different ones, the outlaws, the freaks. What we forbid ourselves we pay good money to watch, in a playhouse or movie theatre, or to read about between the secret covers of a book. Our libraries, our palaces of entertainment tell the truth. The tramp, the assassin, the rebel, the thief, the mutant, the outcast, the delinquent, the devil, the sinner, the traveller, the gangster, the runner, the mask: if we did not recognize in them our least-fulfilled needs, we would not invent them over and over again, in every place, in every language, in every time."

So yeah. At least it's nice to know that there are others like me, always migrating and always adjusting to the times and to the surroundings.

We may be misunderstood, but we really are the constants of this fleeting world.

ridiculous

My mind, it does funky things.

Like when I recently picked up a long-forgotten book, one I thought was mine, off my bookshelf and saw an old friend's name written in tiny letters in the upper right-hand corner of the opening page, I felt punched in the stomach. I started having the dreams again. Dreams that ruminate on our then-connection and haunt me all day afterward.

Thankfully these dreams have over the years lessened in intensity. They went from depicting our (again, then-) soulmateness in a way that left me with an aching heart in the morning to cordial camaraderie that just turns me wistful. They've even recently included a priest collar, which I think is a step in the right direction?

I realized this book was given to me sometime around 8 years ago, and holy shit, time flies. A lot has happened in those years, of course, for both of us, and dammit, it is time to let go.

I am trying to understand here, what it is that I am holding on to. An idealistic image of love imprinted on my youthful impressionable brain? The true qualities of a really awesome person? The way I liked myself in that particular time period of my life?

Most importantly, it hurts that we are no longer part of the same movement, no longer marching side-by-side toward a great goal. We were both little punks back then, trying to find something anything in and out of ourselves that made sense. Now, I still retain a large part of that identity: a bohemian vagabond without roots and never good at playing by the rules. Whereas he? He found a family, settled for a brotherhood, for belonging, and will now be protected, safe, and taken care of. It's still a radical decision, given modern values, but it borders on a more conservative conformity, one I can't totally understand. I should be happy for him, but I just terribly miss the raucous friendship of our past.

on being a vegetarian

So, it looks like I'm really doing this.

It wasn't isn't an easy decision by any means. And as with every major transition in life, it is not without a sense of loss. I'm a carnivore to the fullest: I love my mash and sausages, I love meatloaf or a glazed ham, I love my BLTs and Reubens. I love any kind of deli or grilled meat. I have spent the last week lamenting and mentally going through menu items that I will no longer enjoy. The times we have eaten out, I've scanned the vegetarian options, looking if this is something I could truly and honestly endure.

(These options actually haven't been all bad: falafel sandwiches, baked potato and vegetarian chili, salads, fries, bean burritos, various versions of pastas and stir-fries, etc. It probably helps living in an area that is very conducive to this lifestyle.)

What I think also helps though, is that as soon as I really made up my mind about this, as soon as I connected the dots in my head and made a certain kind of commitment, I haven't even really craved meat that much. Any time now that I am presented with a meat option, I think back to my reasons for not eating it, and any appetite for it just goes away.

And these reasons, as I've mentioned before, have largely been formulated through The Unbearable Lightness of Being. It's just that the author's arguments stay away from the modern industry-is-evil rhetoric, to which I am sort of numb at this point. And this is probably partly why these arguments were still able to affect me this much. And since he articulates himself better (albeit at times rather long-windedly (not that I am any better today)) than I can, I will share a few influential paragraphs:

"Be that as it may, Tereza continued on her path, and, watching her heifers rub against one another, she thought what nice animals they were. Calm, guileless, and sometimes childishly animated, they looked like fat fifty-year-olds pretending they were fourteen. There was nothing more touching than cows at play. Tereza took pleasure in their antics and could not help thinking (it is an idea that kept coming back to her during her two years in the country) that man is as much a parasite on the cow as the tapeworm is on man: We have sucked their udders like leeches. "Man the cow parasite" is probably how non-man defines man in his zoology books.


Now, we may treat this definition as a joke and dismiss it with a condescending laugh. But since Tereza took it seriously, she found herself in a prevarious position: her ideas were dangerous and distanced her from the rest of mankind. Even though Genesis says that God gave man dominion over all animals, we can also construe it to mean that He merely entrusted them to man's care. Man was not the planet's master, merely its administrator, and therefore eventually responsible for his administration. Descartes took a decisive step forward: he made man "maître et propriétaire de la nature." And surely there is a deep connection between that step and the fact that he was also the one who point-blank denied animals a soul. Man is master and proprietor, says Descartes, whereas the beast is merely an automaton, an animated machine, a machina animata. When an animal laments, it is not a lament; it is merely the rasp of a poorly functioning mechanism. When a wagon wheel grates, the wagon is not in pain; it simply needs oiling. Thus, we have no reason to grieve for a dog being carved up alive in the laboratory."

And

"True human goodness, in all its purity and freedom, can come to the fore only when its recipient has no power. Mankind's true moral test, its fundamental test (which lies deeply buried from view), consists of its attitude towards those who are at its mercy: animals. And in this respect mankind has suffered a fundamental debacle, a debacle so fundamental that all others stem from it."

In my head, this all compiles to some basic points that have become my reasons for this decision:

- "Man the cow parasite": This to me rings truth; we have used and misused animals for our own selfish purposes beyond a reasonable degree. The "industry-is-evil" point probably goes under this argument.

- Man as administrator of mankind, not its ruler: I feel that we have already (unfairly) taken to be rulers of our Earth, taking away land from animals for our developments and destroying precious ecosystems all over the place. This is absolutely no way to take care of our home and our neighbors.

- Animals have souls and are capable of suffering: This, of course, is up for philosophical debate, but I've already mentioned that I am no fan of Descartes. Thus, I believe this to be true. There is no reason for my life and my needs to cause animals (who have a soul) to suffer.

- Man's moral test is to show mercy to those with less power: This applies to many aspects of life and is such a fundamental truth. At this point, animals are completely powerless and at the mercy of man, and it is our moral duty to protect and care for them.

So there you have it. For these reasons, I will no longer eat red/four-legged animal or white/poultry/bird meat. (I have to do some more thinking regarding seafood, as fish farms may or may not be acceptable by the above standards.)

And I am not even condemning animal use in general. If there was a way for me to be in humane communion with the animals that provide us with food and various materials, I would so gladly do it. In fact, if I lived in the country and could milk a cow for my dairy or collect chicken eggs or hunt in such a way that allowed me to be part of the greater ecosystem, I would be at the front of the line. At this point though, being in the position that I am in, there is no way for me to be a steward to the animal kingdom.

I have considered becoming vegan, but I find no conceivable way for me to give up cheese. This sounds ironic, I know, but it's true. And for now, I justify it in that at least milk and eggs are more sustainable… as opposed to taking an animal’s life. (Though, in all honesty, our dairy industry is far from holy, so this might be a future direction for me.) For now, I think I will concentrate on cutting out as many leather and dead-animal products as I possibly can. Like I said, this will be far from easy, but hopefully it will be satisfying. So, check back for updates about this bumpy journey of mine. And send postcards; Lord knows, I'll need them!

something more neutral

So I was perusing the internet, and actually, I was looking for a Friends clip when "the messees become the messers", but instead I stumbled upon this priceless scene. It's just too good not to be shared:

ruminating on mankind's debacles

It was only a matter of time before I finally sat down to write anything about a book that pretty much changed my life (or at least, had a large influence on my current perspective on life). 

The Unbearable Lightness of Being offers a series of convoluted love stories that take place during the tumultuous late-1960s in Czechoslovakia, and a really wonderful glimpse into the philosophical innerworkings of these interesting characters. Anyway, all these said philosophical innerworkings have in many ways affected those chronic dilemmas I have brewing in the back of my mind. And one of these days, I should really sit down and formulate said effects (it is hard!). For now, I will leave you with a passage that is found toward the end of the book, and that had me crying my eyes out just now. It's about one of the female characters, Tereza, her terminally ill dog, Karenin, and their mutual loving companionship as members of the animal kingdom:

"Tereza keeps appearing before my eyes. I see her sitting on the stump petting Karenin's head and ruminating on mankind's debacles. Another image also comes to mind: Nietzsche leaving his hotel in Turin. Seeing a horse and a coachman beating it with a whip, Nietzsche went up to the horse and, before the coachman's very eyes, put his arms around the horse's neck and burst into tears.

That took place in 1889, when Nietzsche, too, had removed himself from the world of people. In other words, it was at the time when his mental illness had just erupted. But for that very reason I feel his gesture has broad implications: Nietzsche was trying to apologize to the horse for Descartes [who claimed that animals have no souls and that man is "maître et propriétaire de la nature". I myself am just really not a huge fan of Descartes in general.]. His lunacy (that is, his final break with mankind) began at the very moment he burst into tears over the horse.

And that is the Nietzsche I love, just as I love Tereza with the mortally ill dog resting his head in her lap. I see them one next to the other: both stepping down from the road along which mankind, "the master and proprietor of nature," marches onward."

I think I might finally be ready now to defy my Russian upbringing and all other cultural considerations, and that is, to try being a vegetarian.