~~~~ The Worms of Babel ~~~~
~1~
It slithered off her plate and up into her mouth.
“Disgusting,” Rufus said, his nose wrinkled.
She looked up at him from her plate. “It is a local dish dear. It is just noodles in a squid sauce.” She smiled and slurped up another mouthful of noodles.
“I don’t know how I am going to survive a whole week here.” He sighed and looked out the restaurant window. “I can’t even find any decent food around here.”
“Cheer up Ruffy.” She wiped some sauce from her lips with a paper napkin. The restaurant was empty except for them and the owner who sat behind the counter watching a small portable TV. She scooted her plastic chair closer to Rufus and squeezed his hand.
“I’m sorry Bri, I’m just a little on edge. Didn’t get much sleep last night. The bed in our hotel isn’t exactly four star quality.” She laughed and kissed him on the cheek.
“Your breath smells like squid.”
The TV buzzed with static as the restaurant owner hit it a couple times, trying to pick up a better picture. “Kuma a nan!” he cursed in the native island language. Sun from outside streamed in, and the fan in the restaurant did little besides blow warm air around the room.
“How about a swim Bri?” Rufus said pulling at his shirt, “At least the water’s nice here.”
“Too full.” She said, “But I’ll watch from the beach.”
They left the restaurant and walked back out onto the street. The sun highlighted their pink skin, making them stand out even more to the rest of the island natives. They walked past the island’s only hotel and onto its public beach. The beach was the local swimming spot, where everyone went to escape the heat.
“See you in a few,” he said as he pulled his shirt over his head.
~2~
“What’s wrong Ruffy?”
Rufus leaned to his right, shaking his head up and down.
“Water,” he grunted, “It’s stuck in my ear.” He jammed his pinky into his ear.
“Oh, I hate that,” Bri said as she returned to her book.
Rufus dried off and laid down on the sand next to her.
“Did you know that chimpanzee communication activates the same regions of the brain as human communication?” Bri said from behind her book.
“No, that’s interesting,” He replied, his voice muffled through the shirt he had put over his face to block the sun.
“I know, I can’t wait to meet Dr. Farsa tomorrow. I’ve already learned so much from his book, just think of what I could learn from meeting him in person.”
“Yeah, it’s exciting. What time is that at?”
“One O’clock. I’ve arranged a taxi to pick us up in front of the hotel.”
“Sounds good.” Rufus yawned, “I’m going to catch a couple Z’s Bri.”
~3~
Rufus woke up and put his hand to his forehead. He blinked his eyes a couple times and winced in pain.
“My head.” He moaned
“Headache?” Bri asked, “Maybe your dehydrated.”
“Yeah, and there is still water in my ear too. I’m going to head back to the hotel and get some aspirin.”
He walked back up the path towards the hotel. On his way back, he passed the restaurant they were at earlier. He bobbed his head a few times, trying to dislodge the water still stuck in his ear. ‘Maybe I just need some food’ he thought. The buzz of the small portable TV greeted him as he entered. The owner sat watching the local island news program. A woman on the television was reporting from the island market. Rufus couldn’t make out the report though, as it was in the island’s language of Babelian. The language was only spoken on the island, and sounded like a mixture of Spanish and Greek.
“Two orders of the, pan-zan-itas.” He struggled to pronounce the name of the food.
“De pan’zenitaz?” the owner corrected him, “Corte flore.”
“How much?” Rufus asked.
The owner held up four fingers, “Corte.”
Rufus handed over the blue bills and took a seat outside. After the first bite, his eyes widened. He quickly finished the two plates of food and went back to order another.
~4~
“Ruffy, wake up.”
Rufus slowly sat up in bed. “I overslept? This is the first night of good sleep I’ve had.”
“Yes, well the taxi will be here in ten minutes.”
“Oh right, your meeting with that doctor.”
“Get dressed and let’s go.”
Rufus stood up and threw on a shirt. “I’ve still got that water stuck in my ear.”
“No time for that Ruffy, let’s go.”
They stood outside the hotel and a green jeep with the words Cochena/Taxi written on the side pulled up. The driver leaned out the window, “De Farsa con’tecca?” He asked.
“Yes, that’s us,” Bri said. “Come on Ruffy.”
They hopped in and the taxi sped them down the island’s only road. The driver had a pair of sunglasses that sat a little crooked on his face. He turned the radio down, “Te pur Americas?” he smiled and looked back through the rear view mirror.
“Yes, we’re American” Bri said, “I’ve come to meet Dr. Farsa. He is a primatologist like I am.”
“Aye,” The driver nodded, “De primatas.”
‘The monkeys’ the words clicked in Rufus’s head.
“You know Dr. Farsa?” Bri asked.
“Aye, kay’nan Farsas. Hoi er un quen’dav.”
‘Yes, I know Farsa. He is a strange one.’ Rufus understood.
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Babelian.” Bri said
Rufus turned to Bri, a confused look on his face, “He said Farsa is a strange man.” Rufus told her.
“What, Ruffy, you don’t speak Babelian. How would you know?”
“I don’t know, ask him something else.”
“You say Farsa is a strange man? How so?” Bri asked the driver and then looked at Rufus.
“Hoi er yoke’ ave de come’tecca. Pet’un a de primata’tecca.”
Rufus translated, “He’s never at the marketplace. Always in the monkey house.”
Bri laughed at Rufus, “Ruffy is this some kind of joke? Did you plan this out with the driver?”
“No, how could I have?”
“Well then speak some Babelian back.” She smiled.
“I can’t, I don’t know what is happening?” Bri could tell by the stress in his voice that he wasn’t joking.
“You’re serious,” she said, “well you didn’t understand Babelian yesterday did you?”
“No, I didn’t,” Rufus tried to explain it, “The language just seems to click all of a sudden. I just, get it.”
Bri looked skeptical, “Driver, could you turn up the radio?” She made a twisting motion with her hand.
“Aye,” the driver turned up the radio and the local news babbled out through the mono-speaker.
‘—corle de come ol’ er massikanto. De porkan’o vi de habit’antes moce’ olipatica’as. Come’tecca ol’ alvico’se mate come’ a baso tre’kas—’
“What did it say?” Bri questioned him.
“There is a food shortage on the island. Officials don’t know why, but food is selling off the shelves of the marketplace much faster than usual.”
“How is this possible? To understand a language out of the blue?”
“I am just as shocked as you are.” Rufus said, “I can’t speak it, but somehow I understand it.”
The taxi suddenly turned onto a bumpy dirt road. Above the trees, the top of a large glass building could be seen. Its dome top gleamed in the light of the sun and reflected the green of the trees surrounding it.
“De primata’tecca,” the driver grinned when he saw them staring at it through the window.
~5~
A short man in a Hawaiian shirt walked out of the building as the taxi pulled up, behind him an even shorter man followed. The man in the Hawaiian shirt had a red face and a bushy grey mustache. He beamed as he walked up to the taxi.
“Welcome to The Babel Island Primate Research Facility, or as the natives like to call it, the monkey house.” He held out his hand to Bri in a greeting, “I am Dr. Finnegan Farsa, and you must be Brianne Holdings?”
“Yes, call me Bri, it is such an honor to finally meet you. I’ve read your book on primate communication too many times to count.”
“Ahh yes, well I’ve read some of your research papers as well, it is a pleasure to have you here. I’m always thrilled to share my research with an eager ear.”
“And this is my husband, Rufus.”
“Ah Rufus, nice to meet you.” The shorter man behind Dr. Farsa coughed. “Oh yes, this is my assistant D’jango.” Dr. Farsa stepped aside, “One of the only natives on the island that can speak a lick of English.” The man gave a short bow.
“D’jango, could you take car of the taxi here while I give our friends a tour.”
“Yis,” D’jango walked over to the jeep and began talking to the driver.
“Shall we begin the tour?” Dr. Farsa motioned to the building.
The facility had an all tinted glass exterior. The right side of the building housed the tall dome that could be seen from the road. The green metal doors made the complex look like it could have just as easily been underwater. Large generators hummed as they supplied the power to the facility.
“This is an amazing research facility you have here.” Bri commented as they entered the door.
“Yes, I am very proud of it. It is obviously not funded by Babel Island though. I have numerous private investors that support my research.”
They walked down the main hallway past a number of labs on either side. The sun lit the hallway from a skylight above. They came to a display case at the end of the hall of a primate skeleton.
“And this is the primate we work with,” Dr. Farsa pointed, “the chimpanzee, Pan troglodytes.”
Rufus examined the chimpanzee’s display.
“But,” Dr. Farsa held up a finger and looked at Bri. “You may be wondering why we go through all the trouble to be on this tiny island.”
“Yes, I’ve been wondering that since I first contacted you and you told me you were on Babel Island. The chimpanzee, Pan troglodytes, isn’t native to these parts”
“Exactly right,” Dr. Farsa grinned, “We actually had to ship all our chimpanzees here by boat. The reason we are located on Babel Island actually has nothing to do with primates at all. It is because of worms.”
“Worms?” Rufus asked confused.
“That’s right, earworms to be exact. The island supports a rare native species of earworm, Mal mealias.”
“But Doctor, I thought your research was on primate communication?” Bri asked.
“Oh I assure you it is, let us continue and I will explain.”
Dr. Farsa pushed through a double door on their right and led them down another hallway. Large glass windows on the right viewed an indoor forest covered by the tall glass dome. “To the right you will see our chimp habitat.” Dr. Farsa continued to walk as he pointed out the exhibit. A single chimpanzee stood in front of the glass eating a pink fish. A pile of bones lay at its feet.
“You see Bri, as you know from the book I wrote, seven years ago I was studying chimpanzee communication in Africa. I tried, without success, to teach a chimpanzee sign language.”
“Well you certainly made a lot of progress. Almost nothing was known about primate communication before your work.”
“Yes, well, I came to the conclusion years later that it was very unlikely chimpanzees would ever be able to learn any kind of human communication. The simple fact of the matter is, the language centers of their brains just aren’t developed enough.”
Dr. Farsa pulled a keycard off of his belt and swiped it through a door on the left. Inside, tanks of water lined the walls. They appeared empty except for some sand on the bottoms. Bright red lights illuminated the tanks.
“Which is what brought me to Babel Island.” He pointed to the tanks, “The pride of our research facility.”
~6~
“I don’t see anything,” Rufus said as he squinted into the tanks.
“Of course you don’t,” Dr. Farsa took a few steps over to a microscope, “Earworms are slightly too small to see with the naked eye. Here, a little magnification will help.”
Dr. Farsa adjusted the microscope and Rufus looked through it. A few small worms wriggled in the plane of view. They were long slender creatures that appeared almost clear in color.
“Bri come look at this.” She looked through the microscope.
“Fascinating, but I still don’t see what this has to do with primate communication?”
“I’m getting there,” Dr. Farsa smiled and brushed his mustache with a finger, “After my stay in Africa, I decided I wanted to take my research to the next level. Trying to teach a normal chimpanzee to communicate was getting me nowhere, so I decided instead to apply the field of genetics. Genetic modification is no easy task though, and there is no single set of genes that can make a chimpanzee smarter. This is where the earworm comes in. The earworm, Mal mealias, attaches deep inside the ear of mammals where it feeds off its host. By genetic transformation here at our facility, we were able to modify the worm. From the ear, it now attaches to the language center of the brain, the inferior frontal gyrus. Once there, it stimulates the neurons and accelerates growth in that area. At least that is what happens in theory.” The smile on Dr. Farsa’s face faded.
“What do you mean ‘in theory’.” Bri asked.
“Well so far the results have not been exactly successful. At first, when the earworms were inserted into the chimpanzees, it was only a week or so before the chimps died. We modified the DNA plasmids inserted into the worms though, and have since seen some promising results. Just last week, one of our chimps tested positive for communication cognition. We were thrilled and did a scan on his brain. He showed definitive signs of neuronal development in the language center of the brain.”
“That’s incredible,” Bri exclaimed, “well have you—”
“There were side effects,” Dr. Farsa interrupted, “His brain showed signs of neuronal development in another region of the brain that wasn’t part of the language regions. We think we have an idea of the behavior this region of the brain affects but we’re—”
The doctor stopped talking mid-sentence and stared at Rufus. His eyes widened, “Excuse me Rufus, what are you doing?”
“Sorry, I can’t seem to get this water out of my ear.” Rufus leaned to his side and bobbed his head up and down, “Its been stuck in there since yesterday.”
“How did you get water in your ear?” Dr. Farsa asked.
“I went swimming at the beach,” Rufus replied.
The doctor’s face twisted in a rush of panic. He pulled a walkie-talkie off his belt. “D’jango, meet me in my office, now!”
~7~
They stood in Dr. Farsa’s office while he paced back and forth behind his desk. He stared at the floor, a concerned look on his face as he stroked his mustache.
“What’s wrong Doctor? What does any of this have to do with me?” Rufus stuck his finger in his ear and jostled it around.
“I’ll explain once D’jango gets here,” he mumbled, “Damn it.”
The doctor’s office was on the second floor of the building. Its window overlooked the chimpanzee habitat from above. D’jango stepped into the office out of breath.
“Yis doctor?” he asked.
The doctor glared at D’jango, “Rufus would you mind taking a seat?”
Rufus sat down and the doctor reached into his desk and pulled out a small silver object. He put it to his mouth and blew. Rufus grabbed his right ear in pain and fell off his chair to the ground.
“Ruffy!” Bri yelled as she went to his aid. The doctor stopped and Rufus slowly sat up.
“What the Hell was that noise!” Rufus said still clutching his ear.
The doctor held up the silver object, “An ordinary dog whistle,” he said. “The easiest way to tell if an earworm has taken hold. The earworm is able to pick up the frequency of the dog whistle. It appears to react negatively to the frequency, and transmits the sound as pain signals to the host. I recognized the behavior in your husband instantly, as all the chimps scratched at their ear when the worm was first inserted.”
“So you’re saying my Ruffy has earworms!” Bri stammered.
“Hold on now,” the Doctor put the whistle down and turned to D’jango who stood in the corner of the office nervously.
“D’jango! This is very important. What did you do with those containers of water I told you to dispose of last week? Did you get rid of them like I asked you to?”
“Yis, Iy put them down de waste.”
“Which waste container? The fluids waste or the biohazard waste?”
“De fluids, et was water.”
“No no, I told you to put them in the biohazard waste, not the fluids waste, there were earworms in that water! They have probably migrated from the sewers out to the open ocean by now. You know this island supports earworm life! Now these mutant worms are out in the wild multiplying and spreading. It has been a week since then, if Rufus here has them, then, then, God only knows who else on the island has them. You’ve seen the effects they had on our chimps. Imagine that in humans!” Dr. Farsa started pacing behind his desk again.
Bri turned from Rufus to Dr. Farsa, “What do you mean the effects they had?”
“Have you noticed any behavioral changes?” Dr. Farsa asked.
Bri looked at Rufus, “Ruffy, what about, you know, the car ride over you—”
Rufus was dumbfounded by the whole ordeal, he held a blank expression as he thought back. He remembered the taxi ride, and how he could somehow understand the island’s language.
“Well, I am not sure, but I think I could understand the language the driver spoke, Babelian.”
“Fascinating,” Dr. Farsa whispered, “D’jango, say something in Babelian.”
“Am te vit’al er bufa ‘od deva,” D’jango said.
“What did he say?” asked Dr. Farsa.
“He said, ‘may your life be full and rich’.”
D’jango let out a slight grin, “De saying of Babel.”
“Amazing,” Dr. Farsa stared at Rufus, his eyes glassy, “The earworm must have developed the interior fron—”
“Doctor Farsa!” Bri interrupted, “This is not a chimpanzee you are working with, this is my husband!”
“Of course, of course,” Dr. Farsa blinked a couple of times and looked as if he had just come out of a trance. “All for your well being Rufus. Now, this is important as well. Have you noticed any changes in say, eating pattern, metabolism, hunger?” The doctor raised an eyebrow.
“Not that I can remember,” Rufus looked up in thought, “Just the normal appetite I suppose, although I did try the island’s pan-zan-itas the other day and liked those. But nothing out of the ordinary.”
“I see, I see,” Dr. Farsa turned and looked out his office window into the monkey habitat.
“What do eating patterns have to do with this?” Rufus asked.
“Hold on a moment, D’jango come with me.” Dr. Farsa looked at Rufus and Bri, “I’ll be right back.”
~8~
Bri sat in a chair in the office as Rufus stood next to the window, gazing into the chimp habitat.
“Ruffy I’m worried, do you feel any pain? You said you had a headache yesterday.”
“I feel fine Bri, the only difference is that I can understand Babelian, but that is about it.”
“This is all so experimental. What if there are other side effects? Dr. Farsa seemed to be hinting at something.”
Rufus just stared out the window.
“Ruffy, don’t worry, I’m sure Dr. Farsa will help us. There has to be a way to get the worm out.”
“Yeah,” Rufus mumbled, “Bri, did you notice that there is only one chimpanzee in the habitat? Doesn’t that seem strange?”
The door to the office opened. D’jango rushed in and closed the door quietly behind him.
“Listen,” He grabbed Rufus by the arm and began speaking to him in Babelian.
“The doctor Farsa, he plans bad things. He want to keep you here. Do testing on you, experiments. He say you are valuable. The first human with successful worm function. He want to do tests, understand how worm is integrated. It will be painful, may result in death. I do not want this. I can help.”
“Well what can we do? How do we get out of here?” Rufus said to D’jango.
“What do you mean get out of here?” Bri looked at them confused.
D’jango continued, “The Doctor Farsa is locking front door. The only other way out is door through monkey habitat. There is problem. The worms. It make monkeys possessed. Turn them evil. They want meat. Desperate. They try to eat each other.”
“Will that happen to me!” Rufus gripped D’jango by the shoulder.
“Yes, but there is medicine. I brought it from lab. It is good medicine. It will kill worm. The Doctor Farsa does not want this. He say you are valuable.”
D’jango handed him a vial of white powder. “Here. Take two pinch of medicine a day. Now, we must hurry.”
D’jango reached into Dr. Farsa’s desk and pulled out a ring of keys. He pocketed them, then took the silver dog whistle off the desk. “We use this. Monkey hungry. Whistle hurt monkey. Whistle will also hurt you. You must be strong. You see the door?”
He pointed across the chimpanzee habitat to a metal door. “We go there. Ready?”
Before Rufus could answer, D’jango picked up one of the chairs in the office and held it over his head.
“Ruffy, what is going on!?” Bri yelled as she backed away from D’jango in fear.
“Don’t worry, he is going to help us. We have to follow him. Just trust me, the Doct—”
D’jango ran at the office window and threw the chair, shattering the large window. Bits of glass cascaded out into the chimpanzee habitat, following the trajectory of the chair. Rufus neared the opening and looked down into the habitat. The chimpanzee ran up to the chair and sunk his teeth into the leather back. He pushed it away out of distaste and circled it in anger.
D’jango looked up at Rufus, “You jump first. Then I blow whistle. Then she jump. Then I jump. Ready?”
Rufus walked to the edge of the window. He turned to Bri, “We have to do this Bri, trust me.” Pieces of glass crackled beneath his shoes as he landed on the dirt floor. The chimpanzee looked at Rufus and began running at him. D’jango blew the dog whistle and both Rufus and the chimpanzee immediately fell over in pain. D’jango pointed at Bri to jump, the whistle still in his mouth. She jumped down to Rufus and picked him up off the ground, putting his arm over her shoulder. D’jango followed and stopped blowing the whistle for enough time to say, “De door!” He led the way through the trees, to the small door and opened it with the keys he had taken from the office. Bri held Rufus up as he struggled to walk, the pain of the whistle ringing in his ear. On top of the whistle Rufus could hear a pounding noise. He looked over and saw Dr. Farsa, banging his fists on the window that looked into the habitat from the lower hallway. They ducked through the door and were outside the building in a gated area. D’jango closed the door behind them and stopped blowing the whistle. A white truck with a caged flatbed was parked at the side of the building.
“In de truck!” D’jango yelled. He jumped into the driver’s seat and started it. A loud siren started to blare out from the building and the main gate began to close. Rufus and Bri got in the other side and they drove out as the gate was closing. Rufus sat in the passenger seat holding his ear.
“That siren,” he said.
“What’s wrong?” Bri looked at him concerned.
“I can’t think straight.” He twisted in his seat.
“Does it hurt? Is it like the dog whistle?” Bri asked.
“No,” Rufus held his forehead in his palms, “It’s different, I just,” he groaned in frustration, “I need something to eat.”
D’jango interrupted in Babelian, “Where we go? How you get here in first place?”
Rufus struggled, “Ahh, seaplane, docks.”
~9~
They drove down the main road and entered the town. D’jango slowed the car down as they rode past the marketplace, but did not stop.
“What is going on?” Bri gasped as she watched the scene before them.
Various scraps of food lay scattered across the streets. A couple natives ran around the marketplace, desperately stuffing anything they could find into their mouths. Some of them were fighting with each other; one woman was biting at a man’s leg. The siren from the complex could be heard clearly as it echoed throughout the island.
“Meat! Meat!” another man yelled in Babelian as he searched a market stand for food. He saw the truck pull up and began running at it, “MEAT!” he called. He jumped on the back of the truck and grabbed onto the cage. D’jango increased the trucks speed but the man held on.
“What does he want!” Bri yelled at D’jango.
Rufus sat doubled over in his seat. “Can we please stop for food,” he moaned.
D’jango rolled down the window of the truck and leaned out, still driving. He held the dog whistle up to his mouth and blew. The man let go of the cage with one hand and gripped his ear. D’jango swerved the truck and the man fell off, unable to hold on with one hand. He rolled the window up.
“It de worms,” he said to Bri.
~10~
They reached the docks and D’jango pulled up in front of a covered hut where a man sat reading a newspaper. A small pink seaplane was tethered to the dock. D’jango got out of the truck and walked over to the man.
“You the pilot?” he asked in Babelian.
“I am,” the man said, “You need a ride? It is fifty flore for a lift to the mainland.”
“No not for me. For these two.” He pointed to Rufus and Bri.
Bri helped Rufus, who was still hunched over, out of the car.
“Come on Ruffy, we are getting out of here.”
She walked Rufus across the dock and up the plank into the seaplane. She walked back to D’jango.
“Thank you so much for everything D’jango.” She gave him a hug.
“No problem, Am te vit’al er bufa ‘od deva.”
“Will you be alright here on the island?”
“Yis, Iy have medicine, Rrufis has medicine.”
Bri said goodbye as she boarded the seaplane. The driver untied the plane from the dock and started the engine. He taxied out into the clear water, sped up the plane, and took off. Rufus lay across one of the seats in the plane.
“D’jango said he gave you some medicine for the earworm?” Bri asked Rufus.
“Yeah,” he pulled the vial out of his pocket.
“You should take some now Ruffy.”
“I will once we land,” he lay back in his seat.
Bri looked out the window at the island. The town of Babel looked like a small smudge from this distance. She took a deep sigh.
“Thank God that’s over,” Bri said, “You should eat, Ruffy.”
Rufus sat up from his seat, “What did you say?”
“I said you should sleep, Ruffy. It has been a long day. The plane ride should take at least thirty minutes. That’s enough time for a nap.”
Rufus leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, “Yeah, that would be nice.”
The buzz of the plane motor droned on in a steady monotone pitch.
“I’m sorry I even went to meat that Doctor in the first place.” Bri said.
Rufus looked at her.
“Ruffy what’s wrong?”
His eyes glazed over as he stared at her. His head started to hurt.
“Ruffy?” She said, “ What’s Meat. Meat. Eat meat. MEAT?"
Friday, March 19, 2010
Thought Experiment 2
Hypnosis Psychosis
I sat in his office, in front of his desk, in front of a clock that sat on his desk. I had just introduced myself and he sat in a large green leather chair with silver rivets along the edges. His desk was a collage of various colored papers. On his wall, the self-portrait of M.C. Escher stared back at me, his proportions warped through the reflection of the orb in his hand.
“Yes, well, before we begin there is just one problem.”
“Yes?” I said.
“Well,” he leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his desk. “You see, I’ve made it my policy that I require a co-pay on your part in advance, for the first session.” He cleared his throat, “There was… an incident before, and well,” he tilted the palms of his hands upward as he sat back, in a helpless defense. “Well I’d rather not get into it.” An airy whistle escaped him as he grinned a toothy grin.
“Right,” I said. He specified the amount and the transaction was made.
“Would you like a receipt?” His blue eyes peered over the tops of his spectacles. He had already begun filling out a small piece of paper.
“No, thank you,” I said.
“No?” He appeared pleased by this. He wadded up the slip of green paper and held it upward, suspended in his right hand.
“You mind?” He nodded to a small wastebasket to my left, motioning for me to pop the lid. He lobbed the paper ball and scowled as he watched it land on the floor. I picked it up and placed it in the basket beside some used tissues and a number of discarded blue pills. I forced a smile with my cheeks, but my eyes betrayed me, as he could clearly see I was not amused.
“Ok, well,” he hurriedly rustled through some papers on his desk. He pulled a blank sheet from the grip of an empty coffee mug, and placed it on a clipboard.
“Let’s begin, shall we?” The click of his pen echoed back on itself, sounding not too different from the start of a stopwatch.
“Right, well you see doctor—”
“Please, I prefer a layman’s title,” he said. “The title Doctor,” he played with the taste of the word in his mouth, “It just puts so much distance between us.”
“Right,” I said. Had he not introduced himself as Dr. Lapansky but a few moments earlier?
“Mr. Lapansky. The problem I have is concerning my wife.” I began, “She’s just, so needy, I—”
“Uh-huh.” He nodded his head, scribbling something down, as if he already knew the answer to my problem.
“It’s just,” I continued, “I can’t take all the demands sometimes. The constant ‘Honey, can you run to the store and pick me up some eggs?’, ‘Honey, have you payed the electric bill?’, ‘Honey, where did you put the mail?’ I just… It never ends!”
I took a breath.
“I see.” He extended his neck and scratched at the thick grey hairs that grew there.
“And I wanted to send my wife here instead, it’s just, she doesn’t seem to think she has a dependence problem at all. I thought, well, if I can’t get treatment for her, then I’ll get treatment for myself.”
“Yes,” he said a bit skeptically. “Well, how do you respond to your wife when she asks something of you?”
“It hasn’t been a problem until recently. She was never more dependent on me than I was on her. But now, whenever she asks something of me, I find myself very bothered, to the point where,” I didn’t know how to say it.
“Yes, well, there are many methods and techniques for solving this sort of thing.” He leaned back in his chair and waved his right hand in small circular loops through the air, as if sorting through loose sheets of paper in his head.
“And, well, my personal favorite method is hypnosis.” He tossed his clipboard on the desk. I tried to decipher what he had written so far, but the penmanship was so small and erratic that it looked like the readings of a seismograph.
“Fine,” I said, “Whatever you think will work best.”
“Excellent,” he chirped, “Just sit back and relax, arms and legs loose and comfortable.”
I did as he said and placed my arms across my lap, sat back in my chair, and took a deep breath.
He reached for the metronome on the side of his desk and pulled back the needle with his index finger. He released it and the needle bobbed, left, right, left, right, emitting a soft tick as it moved. I adjusted myself, and the metronome soon nodded in agreement with the rhythm of my breathing.
“Now then,” He began and his voice assumed a hushed demeanor, “Clear your mind and concentrate only on my voice. You hear nothing but the sound of my voice. Your arms and legs are heavy. They are heavy, heavy and warm. As I begin to countdown from ten, your relaxation will grow. When I’m finished, you will be in a state of complete relaxation.”
“Ten, you are calm and relaxed. Your breathing is deep and steady.”
“Nine, you are sinking to the bottom of a bottomless ocean.”
“Eight, deeper and deeper. Your relaxation is growing.”
“Seven, your arms and legs are heavy and warm.”
“Six, deeper still.”
“Five, your heart-rate is slow and calm.”
“Four, you sink deeper and deeper.”
“Three, deep relaxation.”
“Two, almost there.”
“One more lap now! You can do it, keep up the pace. Only—”
Breathe in, stadium lights, gold ripples span the floor,
Breathe out, waves, cheers, stroke,
Breathe in, blue tiles, yellow buoys,
Breathe out, left arm, right arm, left arm, right arm,
Time! Echoes of cheers bound off the water,
“Lapansky we won!”
Water slips between the fingers, slipping, deeper,
“Lapansky!”
Water rising, nothing to breathe in, nothing to breathe out,
“Mr. Lapansky?”
Waves of sound slow as they sink through the water,
“Hello? Mr. Lapansky?”
“Oh, what?”
“Mr. Lapansky, are you alright?”
The tick of the metronome cut the silence in the room.
“Oh, yes, well, excuse me, I must have dozed off.”
He stared at me for a few seconds with a deadpan expression. His lips parted as his face loosened.
“It’s quite alright,” he said, “It’s just, my problem,”
“Your problem,” I said.
“With my wife,” he raised his voice slightly.
“Yes, yes, your wife,” I said.
He frowned, fidgeting with his left hand a bit. The metronome was still ticking and I reached out and stopped it. He looked up from his hand.
“It’s just, I don’t think the hypnosis helped much—”
“Ah, yes, well, give it a day or two,” I assured him, “and you may find it did more than you think.”
His expression soured and he turned red. His left hand gripped the chair arm more tightly.
“It’s just, I don’t think you understand,” his breathing started to increase. “I don’t know how much more I can take. The demands! The constant needs!”
He squirmed in his seat like a worm on the end of a hook about to be cast. He continually wiped his perspiring hands on his pants, and a single drop of perspiration hung from the tip of his nose.
“Now, now,” I said, “Hold on now, deep breaths now, deep breaths. Breathe.” I found myself out of breath at just the sight of his emotional state.
He sat up straight and attempted to breathe. He looked like a fish just released back into water.
“Breathe in, breathe out,” I motioned in and out with my hands. The redness in his face started to fade and he sat back in his chair. The pits of his shirt were soaked with sweat, and his hands still shook a bit.
“Excellent,” I said. “Now. When can you see me next?”
I scheduled him an appointment in a week, and he reluctantly left with my card in hand. ‘This is exactly why I get them to pay up front’ I thought, ‘What a day.’
I opened the double doors of my office and walked down the hall. I reached the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water. Bees outside the window hovered from flower to flower. The blue petals bobbed up and down as the bees did their job. ‘A bee knows a true day of work’ I laughed.
Satisfied, I walked back down the hall. I stopped at the entrance to the living room and saw my wife. Her long bangs couldn’t mask the puzzled look on her brow. She stood over the piano, a bundle of sheet music in her arms. She looked up and caught sight of me in the entranceway.
“Honey,” she asked, “Have you seen my metronome anywhere?”
She searched over the top of the piano, perched on the balls of her feet. One of her fingers hit a note as she strained to scan a hand over the piano top. A few sheets of music lay scattered across the hardwood floor.
His eyes made a wide arch from left to right as he sighed.
“You see my problem?” he said.
I nodded in agreement.
Sources
“Everything is overturned; he is the observer. The spectators are no longer on stage to enjoy, like us, the twin movements of the ogre and the truffle, the game of who will eat whom. Everything is overturned. Tartuffe observes, as do we through his eyes—the game of the collective and its metamorphoses. He is not a joker; he is Moliere’s emissary. He is perhaps Moliere himself. Masked, so as not to be seen. But what is the joker, if not a pile of masks?” -Serres, The Parasite, 210
“… in the relation of the hypnotized medium to the hypnotist, as in relation, say, of the group to the leader, it is the seemingly powerless partner, the hypnotized medium, for example, who does all the work. The hypnotist, like the vampire, is a kind of phantom projection produced by the medium’s desire to be possessed, controlled, vampirized. And in an aside Freud adds that we can recognize in this hypnotized medium the group of one, the portrait that really becomes us.” –Rickels, The Vampire Lectures, 19
“Freud signs on the dotted line: “The ‘double’ was originally an insurance against the destruction of the ego”. But once the earliest dyadic, mirroring “stage has been surmounted, the ‘double’ reverses its aspect.” –Rickels, The Vampire Lectures, 64
“Soon, in order to make the collective clearer, I shall use the notion of quasi-object. It circulates, it passes among us. I give it; I receive it. Thank you; you’re welcome. Eucharist and Paraclete… The third appears; the third is included. Maybe he is each and every one of us.” –Serres, The Parasite, 47
“The imperative of purge. Thus the excluded third, the Demon, prosopopoeia of noise. If we want peace, if we want an agreement between object and subject, the object appearing at the moment of the agreement, at the Last Supper as well as in the laboratory, in the dialogue as on the blackboard, we have to get together, assembling, resembling, against whoever trouble our relations, the water of our channel… In order to succeed, the dialogue needs an excluded third…” –Serres, The Parasite, 56-57
“The parasite is the essence of relation. It is necessary for the relation and ineluctable by the overturning of the force that tries to exclude it. But this relation is nonrelation. The parasite is being and nonbeing at the same time. Not being and nonbeing that are names (or the nonnames) of stations; but arrow and nonarrow, relation and nonrelation. Hence its metamorphoses and the difficulty we have in defining it.” –Serres, The Parasite, 79
Serres, Michel. The Parasite: Translated by Lawrence R. Schehr.
Minnesota: University of Minnesota Press, 2007.
Rickels, Laurence A. The Vampire Lectures.
Minnesota: University of Minnesota Press, 1999.
I sat in his office, in front of his desk, in front of a clock that sat on his desk. I had just introduced myself and he sat in a large green leather chair with silver rivets along the edges. His desk was a collage of various colored papers. On his wall, the self-portrait of M.C. Escher stared back at me, his proportions warped through the reflection of the orb in his hand.
“Yes, well, before we begin there is just one problem.”
“Yes?” I said.
“Well,” he leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his desk. “You see, I’ve made it my policy that I require a co-pay on your part in advance, for the first session.” He cleared his throat, “There was… an incident before, and well,” he tilted the palms of his hands upward as he sat back, in a helpless defense. “Well I’d rather not get into it.” An airy whistle escaped him as he grinned a toothy grin.
“Right,” I said. He specified the amount and the transaction was made.
“Would you like a receipt?” His blue eyes peered over the tops of his spectacles. He had already begun filling out a small piece of paper.
“No, thank you,” I said.
“No?” He appeared pleased by this. He wadded up the slip of green paper and held it upward, suspended in his right hand.
“You mind?” He nodded to a small wastebasket to my left, motioning for me to pop the lid. He lobbed the paper ball and scowled as he watched it land on the floor. I picked it up and placed it in the basket beside some used tissues and a number of discarded blue pills. I forced a smile with my cheeks, but my eyes betrayed me, as he could clearly see I was not amused.
“Ok, well,” he hurriedly rustled through some papers on his desk. He pulled a blank sheet from the grip of an empty coffee mug, and placed it on a clipboard.
“Let’s begin, shall we?” The click of his pen echoed back on itself, sounding not too different from the start of a stopwatch.
“Right, well you see doctor—”
“Please, I prefer a layman’s title,” he said. “The title Doctor,” he played with the taste of the word in his mouth, “It just puts so much distance between us.”
“Right,” I said. Had he not introduced himself as Dr. Lapansky but a few moments earlier?
“Mr. Lapansky. The problem I have is concerning my wife.” I began, “She’s just, so needy, I—”
“Uh-huh.” He nodded his head, scribbling something down, as if he already knew the answer to my problem.
“It’s just,” I continued, “I can’t take all the demands sometimes. The constant ‘Honey, can you run to the store and pick me up some eggs?’, ‘Honey, have you payed the electric bill?’, ‘Honey, where did you put the mail?’ I just… It never ends!”
I took a breath.
“I see.” He extended his neck and scratched at the thick grey hairs that grew there.
“And I wanted to send my wife here instead, it’s just, she doesn’t seem to think she has a dependence problem at all. I thought, well, if I can’t get treatment for her, then I’ll get treatment for myself.”
“Yes,” he said a bit skeptically. “Well, how do you respond to your wife when she asks something of you?”
“It hasn’t been a problem until recently. She was never more dependent on me than I was on her. But now, whenever she asks something of me, I find myself very bothered, to the point where,” I didn’t know how to say it.
“Yes, well, there are many methods and techniques for solving this sort of thing.” He leaned back in his chair and waved his right hand in small circular loops through the air, as if sorting through loose sheets of paper in his head.
“And, well, my personal favorite method is hypnosis.” He tossed his clipboard on the desk. I tried to decipher what he had written so far, but the penmanship was so small and erratic that it looked like the readings of a seismograph.
“Fine,” I said, “Whatever you think will work best.”
“Excellent,” he chirped, “Just sit back and relax, arms and legs loose and comfortable.”
I did as he said and placed my arms across my lap, sat back in my chair, and took a deep breath.
He reached for the metronome on the side of his desk and pulled back the needle with his index finger. He released it and the needle bobbed, left, right, left, right, emitting a soft tick as it moved. I adjusted myself, and the metronome soon nodded in agreement with the rhythm of my breathing.
“Now then,” He began and his voice assumed a hushed demeanor, “Clear your mind and concentrate only on my voice. You hear nothing but the sound of my voice. Your arms and legs are heavy. They are heavy, heavy and warm. As I begin to countdown from ten, your relaxation will grow. When I’m finished, you will be in a state of complete relaxation.”
“Ten, you are calm and relaxed. Your breathing is deep and steady.”
“Nine, you are sinking to the bottom of a bottomless ocean.”
“Eight, deeper and deeper. Your relaxation is growing.”
“Seven, your arms and legs are heavy and warm.”
“Six, deeper still.”
“Five, your heart-rate is slow and calm.”
“Four, you sink deeper and deeper.”
“Three, deep relaxation.”
“Two, almost there.”
“One more lap now! You can do it, keep up the pace. Only—”
Breathe in, stadium lights, gold ripples span the floor,
Breathe out, waves, cheers, stroke,
Breathe in, blue tiles, yellow buoys,
Breathe out, left arm, right arm, left arm, right arm,
Time! Echoes of cheers bound off the water,
“Lapansky we won!”
Water slips between the fingers, slipping, deeper,
“Lapansky!”
Water rising, nothing to breathe in, nothing to breathe out,
“Mr. Lapansky?”
Waves of sound slow as they sink through the water,
“Hello? Mr. Lapansky?”
“Oh, what?”
“Mr. Lapansky, are you alright?”
The tick of the metronome cut the silence in the room.
“Oh, yes, well, excuse me, I must have dozed off.”
He stared at me for a few seconds with a deadpan expression. His lips parted as his face loosened.
“It’s quite alright,” he said, “It’s just, my problem,”
“Your problem,” I said.
“With my wife,” he raised his voice slightly.
“Yes, yes, your wife,” I said.
He frowned, fidgeting with his left hand a bit. The metronome was still ticking and I reached out and stopped it. He looked up from his hand.
“It’s just, I don’t think the hypnosis helped much—”
“Ah, yes, well, give it a day or two,” I assured him, “and you may find it did more than you think.”
His expression soured and he turned red. His left hand gripped the chair arm more tightly.
“It’s just, I don’t think you understand,” his breathing started to increase. “I don’t know how much more I can take. The demands! The constant needs!”
He squirmed in his seat like a worm on the end of a hook about to be cast. He continually wiped his perspiring hands on his pants, and a single drop of perspiration hung from the tip of his nose.
“Now, now,” I said, “Hold on now, deep breaths now, deep breaths. Breathe.” I found myself out of breath at just the sight of his emotional state.
He sat up straight and attempted to breathe. He looked like a fish just released back into water.
“Breathe in, breathe out,” I motioned in and out with my hands. The redness in his face started to fade and he sat back in his chair. The pits of his shirt were soaked with sweat, and his hands still shook a bit.
“Excellent,” I said. “Now. When can you see me next?”
I scheduled him an appointment in a week, and he reluctantly left with my card in hand. ‘This is exactly why I get them to pay up front’ I thought, ‘What a day.’
I opened the double doors of my office and walked down the hall. I reached the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water. Bees outside the window hovered from flower to flower. The blue petals bobbed up and down as the bees did their job. ‘A bee knows a true day of work’ I laughed.
Satisfied, I walked back down the hall. I stopped at the entrance to the living room and saw my wife. Her long bangs couldn’t mask the puzzled look on her brow. She stood over the piano, a bundle of sheet music in her arms. She looked up and caught sight of me in the entranceway.
“Honey,” she asked, “Have you seen my metronome anywhere?”
She searched over the top of the piano, perched on the balls of her feet. One of her fingers hit a note as she strained to scan a hand over the piano top. A few sheets of music lay scattered across the hardwood floor.
His eyes made a wide arch from left to right as he sighed.
“You see my problem?” he said.
I nodded in agreement.
Sources
“Everything is overturned; he is the observer. The spectators are no longer on stage to enjoy, like us, the twin movements of the ogre and the truffle, the game of who will eat whom. Everything is overturned. Tartuffe observes, as do we through his eyes—the game of the collective and its metamorphoses. He is not a joker; he is Moliere’s emissary. He is perhaps Moliere himself. Masked, so as not to be seen. But what is the joker, if not a pile of masks?” -Serres, The Parasite, 210
“… in the relation of the hypnotized medium to the hypnotist, as in relation, say, of the group to the leader, it is the seemingly powerless partner, the hypnotized medium, for example, who does all the work. The hypnotist, like the vampire, is a kind of phantom projection produced by the medium’s desire to be possessed, controlled, vampirized. And in an aside Freud adds that we can recognize in this hypnotized medium the group of one, the portrait that really becomes us.” –Rickels, The Vampire Lectures, 19
“Freud signs on the dotted line: “The ‘double’ was originally an insurance against the destruction of the ego”. But once the earliest dyadic, mirroring “stage has been surmounted, the ‘double’ reverses its aspect.” –Rickels, The Vampire Lectures, 64
“Soon, in order to make the collective clearer, I shall use the notion of quasi-object. It circulates, it passes among us. I give it; I receive it. Thank you; you’re welcome. Eucharist and Paraclete… The third appears; the third is included. Maybe he is each and every one of us.” –Serres, The Parasite, 47
“The imperative of purge. Thus the excluded third, the Demon, prosopopoeia of noise. If we want peace, if we want an agreement between object and subject, the object appearing at the moment of the agreement, at the Last Supper as well as in the laboratory, in the dialogue as on the blackboard, we have to get together, assembling, resembling, against whoever trouble our relations, the water of our channel… In order to succeed, the dialogue needs an excluded third…” –Serres, The Parasite, 56-57
“The parasite is the essence of relation. It is necessary for the relation and ineluctable by the overturning of the force that tries to exclude it. But this relation is nonrelation. The parasite is being and nonbeing at the same time. Not being and nonbeing that are names (or the nonnames) of stations; but arrow and nonarrow, relation and nonrelation. Hence its metamorphoses and the difficulty we have in defining it.” –Serres, The Parasite, 79
Serres, Michel. The Parasite: Translated by Lawrence R. Schehr.
Minnesota: University of Minnesota Press, 2007.
Rickels, Laurence A. The Vampire Lectures.
Minnesota: University of Minnesota Press, 1999.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
The Filf
Bruce Robertson is a pig in every sense of the word. For one, the parasitic tapeworm in his stomach forces him to constantly stuff his face with food. Secondly, he is extremely sexist and always hungry for more women. He lives in a sty of a house now that his wife has left him, with piles of dirty laundry filling the floor. He is dirtier than any pig, not only mentally, but also physically, due to an eczema rash developing in his pants. On top of all this, he is a police officer a.k.a. the fuzz a.k.a. the five-oh, a.k.a. the po-po, a.k.a. a blue boy, or a.k.a., a pig. The cover of the book, Filth by Irvine West, makes this obvious with the giant illustration of a pig wearing a policeman’s hat. Also, “The Filth” is another name for police officers in Europe. The author goes deeper with this idea though, and tries to explain psychologically why this man, Bruce Robertson, has become a pig.
The tapeworm in Bruce’s stomach seems to know more about Bruce than he knows about himself. Bruce goes to great lengths to avoid any time for self-thought or evaluation. He occupies his time with work, sex, and drugs as much as he can. On the weekend, he goes to work for overtime, and on his time off, he’s either at the bar getting “three sheets to the wind”, or on the lookout for prostitutes. Bruce can’t even stand a quiet car ride, and so tunes out to Ozzy Osbourne or Iggy Pop and The Stooges. The worm in Bruce’s stomach wisely says, “You need to be at work. You need the job; hating, yet at the same time thriving on, its petty concerns. These concerns are enough to distract you from the Self you must only face up to at night between the extinguishing of the television set and the onset of a jittery and fitful descent into a physically bruising sleep.” (260). It’s too bad Bruce can’t hear the worm in his stomach because it would do him a lot of good. The worm boils the way Bruce lives his life down into one sentence. “The Host’s philosophy of life seems then, more rather than better.” This philosophy embodies the motto of a pig. Quantity over quality.
Why is it that Bruce goes through so much trouble to avoid, as the worm calls it, “the Self”? One possibility is that Bruce is insecure, that he doesn’t like the person he’s become. Bruce comes from a mining family in some small village of Scotland, a fact that, at out point, he denies out of shame. The worm explains that Bruce realized at an early age that the working class, his family, had no power, and that the governing class made the rules. It is most likely for this reason that Bruce decided to become a police officer.
One of the only moments in the book where Bruce is vulnerable is when he tries to save a man on the street that just had a heart attack. This is the one time that we, the reader, realize Bruce actually has the ability to care about another human being. When he fails at saving the man’s life, a feeling of sadness quickly turns to anger as onlookers guake at the tragic scene. Bruce describes the onlookers, “That’s what the ghouls want… they want to drink the misery out of your faces.” Wanting to know about the experience of seeing a man die in his arms, a reporter asks Bruce, “How did that make you feel?” Bruce responds, “Eh? I ask the cunt. –What the fuck…”(114) Unable to face his own feelings, he immediately heads to a bar, and then home with a prostitute, blurring out his pain with distractions. This question stays at the back of his head though, occasionally coming back into his thoughts from time to time, haunting him and forcing him to reflect on his feelings.
Bruce’s character is a deeply disturbed one. He relishes in the pain of others, and on many occasions, purposefully inflicts pain for no reason other than for his own enjoyment. When he first steals an old ladies paperweight, he does so thinking it is valuable. Upon finding the paperweight missing, the old lady tells Bruce that it only has sentimental value, and only wants it back because her deceased husband gave it to her long ago. Although he could have easily anonymously left it in her house, Bruce decides to chuck it into the river instead. Another time, Bruce is in a great mood and gets a taxi ride home. “I’m almost tempted to give him a tip,” Bruce says, “but think better of it, drinking in the stoical disappointment on his face as I count out the exact fare.” (226). Just a note that neither of these things are even close to some of the evil things Bruce does. But why is it that Bruce decides to be cruel for no reason. This situation is so similar to the earlier situation when Bruce tried to save the dying man’s life, except this time the roles are reversed. It is Bruce taking in the pain on someone’s face, and not the onlookers drinking in Bruce’s. Why is it that Bruce tries to inflict pain on others, even though he knows what its like to be one the other side?
The worm in Bruce’s stomach may provide some insight into why Bruce does these things. “The important thing was to be on the winning side…” the worm says on Bruce, “only the winners or those sponsored by them write the history of the times… The worst ever thing to be is on the losing side. You must accept the language of power as your currency, but you must also pay a price. Your desperate sneering and mocking only illustrates how high the price has been and how fully it has been paid. The price is your soul. You came not to feel. Your life, your circumstances and your job demanded that price.” Bruce knows what it’s like to be on the other side, the losing side, the mining working class side, but chose to be on the winning side. He chose the side of power, the winning side, the side that inflicts the pain, and doesn’t receive it.
At one point, Bruce is asked why he enjoys other peoples pain, and he replies by saying that because bad things happen to other people, it means they aren’t happening to him. Every time he inflicts pain on someone else, it reminds him that he’s the one on the winning side. To have power over someone is to have the ability to inflict pain on them. Bruce knows this and uses his rank as a police officer to do so. The damn pig.
The tapeworm in Bruce’s stomach seems to know more about Bruce than he knows about himself. Bruce goes to great lengths to avoid any time for self-thought or evaluation. He occupies his time with work, sex, and drugs as much as he can. On the weekend, he goes to work for overtime, and on his time off, he’s either at the bar getting “three sheets to the wind”, or on the lookout for prostitutes. Bruce can’t even stand a quiet car ride, and so tunes out to Ozzy Osbourne or Iggy Pop and The Stooges. The worm in Bruce’s stomach wisely says, “You need to be at work. You need the job; hating, yet at the same time thriving on, its petty concerns. These concerns are enough to distract you from the Self you must only face up to at night between the extinguishing of the television set and the onset of a jittery and fitful descent into a physically bruising sleep.” (260). It’s too bad Bruce can’t hear the worm in his stomach because it would do him a lot of good. The worm boils the way Bruce lives his life down into one sentence. “The Host’s philosophy of life seems then, more rather than better.” This philosophy embodies the motto of a pig. Quantity over quality.
Why is it that Bruce goes through so much trouble to avoid, as the worm calls it, “the Self”? One possibility is that Bruce is insecure, that he doesn’t like the person he’s become. Bruce comes from a mining family in some small village of Scotland, a fact that, at out point, he denies out of shame. The worm explains that Bruce realized at an early age that the working class, his family, had no power, and that the governing class made the rules. It is most likely for this reason that Bruce decided to become a police officer.
One of the only moments in the book where Bruce is vulnerable is when he tries to save a man on the street that just had a heart attack. This is the one time that we, the reader, realize Bruce actually has the ability to care about another human being. When he fails at saving the man’s life, a feeling of sadness quickly turns to anger as onlookers guake at the tragic scene. Bruce describes the onlookers, “That’s what the ghouls want… they want to drink the misery out of your faces.” Wanting to know about the experience of seeing a man die in his arms, a reporter asks Bruce, “How did that make you feel?” Bruce responds, “Eh? I ask the cunt. –What the fuck…”(114) Unable to face his own feelings, he immediately heads to a bar, and then home with a prostitute, blurring out his pain with distractions. This question stays at the back of his head though, occasionally coming back into his thoughts from time to time, haunting him and forcing him to reflect on his feelings.
Bruce’s character is a deeply disturbed one. He relishes in the pain of others, and on many occasions, purposefully inflicts pain for no reason other than for his own enjoyment. When he first steals an old ladies paperweight, he does so thinking it is valuable. Upon finding the paperweight missing, the old lady tells Bruce that it only has sentimental value, and only wants it back because her deceased husband gave it to her long ago. Although he could have easily anonymously left it in her house, Bruce decides to chuck it into the river instead. Another time, Bruce is in a great mood and gets a taxi ride home. “I’m almost tempted to give him a tip,” Bruce says, “but think better of it, drinking in the stoical disappointment on his face as I count out the exact fare.” (226). Just a note that neither of these things are even close to some of the evil things Bruce does. But why is it that Bruce decides to be cruel for no reason. This situation is so similar to the earlier situation when Bruce tried to save the dying man’s life, except this time the roles are reversed. It is Bruce taking in the pain on someone’s face, and not the onlookers drinking in Bruce’s. Why is it that Bruce tries to inflict pain on others, even though he knows what its like to be one the other side?
The worm in Bruce’s stomach may provide some insight into why Bruce does these things. “The important thing was to be on the winning side…” the worm says on Bruce, “only the winners or those sponsored by them write the history of the times… The worst ever thing to be is on the losing side. You must accept the language of power as your currency, but you must also pay a price. Your desperate sneering and mocking only illustrates how high the price has been and how fully it has been paid. The price is your soul. You came not to feel. Your life, your circumstances and your job demanded that price.” Bruce knows what it’s like to be on the other side, the losing side, the mining working class side, but chose to be on the winning side. He chose the side of power, the winning side, the side that inflicts the pain, and doesn’t receive it.
At one point, Bruce is asked why he enjoys other peoples pain, and he replies by saying that because bad things happen to other people, it means they aren’t happening to him. Every time he inflicts pain on someone else, it reminds him that he’s the one on the winning side. To have power over someone is to have the ability to inflict pain on them. Bruce knows this and uses his rank as a police officer to do so. The damn pig.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
You got Laurence Rickel-Rolled!
In Laurence Rickels’ book The Vampire Lectures, Rickels brings up Freud’s idea of the uncanny and relates this to vampirism. The word for uncanny in german is unheimliche, which literally means un-home-like. In Greek the word for blood is hemo (for example hemoglobin is the scientific name for red blood cells). Blood and home are essentially the same thing. Your family household is your bloodline. Your blood relatives are the members of your home. A loved one that comes back from the dead is the same, yet different. A vampire is unheimliche, un-home-like, or un-blood-like. A shell of a person once known. They are similar to the member of the household, of the bloodline, yet different; uncanny.
It is possible that vampires represent the deep subconscious wish all humans have for eternal life, or at least a second chance at life. Rickels mentions that in Europe, during the vampire mania that spread, men who died as bachelors or people who committed suicide were most feared to come back as vampires. Could this be because people believed a bachelor or suicide victim deserved a second chance? Rickels hypothesizes that it was due to improper burial rights. Suicides were not allowed a Christian burial, and bachelors didn’t have a family to properly mourn their passing. This would lead to the inability of the deceased to rest in peace, and therefore allow for their return as a vampire. This idea is similar to the rule that if a person has unfinished business when they die, they are likely to come back as a ghost until that business is finished. In Hamlet for example, the prince’s father visits him as a ghost so that his son may avenge his murder.
One of the more obscure rules a vampire must follow is that it cannot enter a household without an invitation. A vampire must be let into the house by the consent of the owner. The origin of this rule seems mysterious. Rickels discusses the idea of “no vampirism without the desire to be vampirized” and this idea seems to fit with the invitation rule. People who attend horror films seem to be in a similar vein (no pun intended). People pay money to see a horror movie and be scared. They desire fright.
It is possible that vampires represent the deep subconscious wish all humans have for eternal life, or at least a second chance at life. Rickels mentions that in Europe, during the vampire mania that spread, men who died as bachelors or people who committed suicide were most feared to come back as vampires. Could this be because people believed a bachelor or suicide victim deserved a second chance? Rickels hypothesizes that it was due to improper burial rights. Suicides were not allowed a Christian burial, and bachelors didn’t have a family to properly mourn their passing. This would lead to the inability of the deceased to rest in peace, and therefore allow for their return as a vampire. This idea is similar to the rule that if a person has unfinished business when they die, they are likely to come back as a ghost until that business is finished. In Hamlet for example, the prince’s father visits him as a ghost so that his son may avenge his murder.
One of the more obscure rules a vampire must follow is that it cannot enter a household without an invitation. A vampire must be let into the house by the consent of the owner. The origin of this rule seems mysterious. Rickels discusses the idea of “no vampirism without the desire to be vampirized” and this idea seems to fit with the invitation rule. People who attend horror films seem to be in a similar vein (no pun intended). People pay money to see a horror movie and be scared. They desire fright.
A Meal Divided
“You enjoy that meal?”
“Sure did Barrett, thanks.”
“My wife packed that meal for us.”
“Oh…" Abe's eyes glanced over, but his head didn't move, "sure was nice of her.”
Barrett was riding a few feet ahead. He turned over his shoulder, looked at Abe and said, “Yes, it was.”
The two men rode through the brush on horseback. The pace was slow and the occasional rustle of grass could be heard as the horses made their way.
“Why we going off the trail anyway Barr-”
“Abe,” Barrett said with more force than he intended, “Abe, you remember a couple winters ago, when that fox kept breaking into my barn?”
“Oh shoot, yeah!” Abe had a laugh that sounded like a wobbly piece of sheet metal, “I ‘member we set up so many damn traps for that thing, you nearly stepped in one yourself. Couldn’t even set foot in that barn for fear of being clenched in the ankle.”
Barrett stared ahead straight faced, “Yeah, never did catch that fox.” He mumbled.
Abe looked over at the back of Barrett’s head and his smile faded. He thought for a minute, then stared down at the reigns in his hands.
The sky was a dusty overcast grey. Bushes and weeds littered the landscape with a tree every now and then that painfully crawled out of the ground. They came upon a small clearing and Barrett suddenly stopped his horse. He stepped down onto the ground as Abe watched. His left hand gripped the reins with white knuckles, and his right hung centered from his belt strap. His whole body was rigid as he looked off into the horizon with unfocused eyes. Dark bags rested under his sockets from the nights of sleep lost over what he was about to do.
A gust of wind blew and the bush swayed in the waves of the air.
“Barrett, I just…” Abe’s voice lost steam and trailed off as he shifted in his saddle.
“There’s no point Abe, I know what you done.”
A sudden calm grew and Barrett squinted towards a dark smudge in the distance.
“What is that?” He muttered, more to himself than to Abe.
He flicked the nails of his fingers up the scruff on his cheek. Smoke seemed to be billowing out of the ashy stump of a tree. Barrett started to lead his horse towards the stump while Abe slowly followed on horseback.
When they reached the stump and saw the other side, an old Indian man lay smoking a long pipe. He took a deep pull, glanced at Abe, then turned to Barrett and grinned. Smoke leaked out of the cracks between his teeth, twisting in streams up the front of his face. He leaned back and exhaled, a cloud of dark grey rising from his mouth.
“What the hell’s an injun man doing all the way out here?”
Barrett rested his hand on his revolver just in case. It shone pale silver in the light of the overcast sky, having been carefully greased the night before.
The man wore the old furs of some grey fox or wolf. The hide was oily and tattered. Patches of fur had altogether fallen out in various places. The man looked like some diseased animal, slumped against the stump of a tree to rot.
“Y’all right there fellow?” Abe asked, a bit withdrawn.
He looked up towards the clouds and coughed out a slow chuckle. He leaned back, hands crossed, patiently waiting, as if he had come for a show.
Barrett was watching him out of the sides of his eyes, not wanting to look him dead on.
“Come on Abe” He sighed, “Let’s go.”
“Sure did Barrett, thanks.”
“My wife packed that meal for us.”
“Oh…" Abe's eyes glanced over, but his head didn't move, "sure was nice of her.”
Barrett was riding a few feet ahead. He turned over his shoulder, looked at Abe and said, “Yes, it was.”
The two men rode through the brush on horseback. The pace was slow and the occasional rustle of grass could be heard as the horses made their way.
“Why we going off the trail anyway Barr-”
“Abe,” Barrett said with more force than he intended, “Abe, you remember a couple winters ago, when that fox kept breaking into my barn?”
“Oh shoot, yeah!” Abe had a laugh that sounded like a wobbly piece of sheet metal, “I ‘member we set up so many damn traps for that thing, you nearly stepped in one yourself. Couldn’t even set foot in that barn for fear of being clenched in the ankle.”
Barrett stared ahead straight faced, “Yeah, never did catch that fox.” He mumbled.
Abe looked over at the back of Barrett’s head and his smile faded. He thought for a minute, then stared down at the reigns in his hands.
The sky was a dusty overcast grey. Bushes and weeds littered the landscape with a tree every now and then that painfully crawled out of the ground. They came upon a small clearing and Barrett suddenly stopped his horse. He stepped down onto the ground as Abe watched. His left hand gripped the reins with white knuckles, and his right hung centered from his belt strap. His whole body was rigid as he looked off into the horizon with unfocused eyes. Dark bags rested under his sockets from the nights of sleep lost over what he was about to do.
A gust of wind blew and the bush swayed in the waves of the air.
“Barrett, I just…” Abe’s voice lost steam and trailed off as he shifted in his saddle.
“There’s no point Abe, I know what you done.”
A sudden calm grew and Barrett squinted towards a dark smudge in the distance.
“What is that?” He muttered, more to himself than to Abe.
He flicked the nails of his fingers up the scruff on his cheek. Smoke seemed to be billowing out of the ashy stump of a tree. Barrett started to lead his horse towards the stump while Abe slowly followed on horseback.
When they reached the stump and saw the other side, an old Indian man lay smoking a long pipe. He took a deep pull, glanced at Abe, then turned to Barrett and grinned. Smoke leaked out of the cracks between his teeth, twisting in streams up the front of his face. He leaned back and exhaled, a cloud of dark grey rising from his mouth.
“What the hell’s an injun man doing all the way out here?”
Barrett rested his hand on his revolver just in case. It shone pale silver in the light of the overcast sky, having been carefully greased the night before.
The man wore the old furs of some grey fox or wolf. The hide was oily and tattered. Patches of fur had altogether fallen out in various places. The man looked like some diseased animal, slumped against the stump of a tree to rot.
“Y’all right there fellow?” Abe asked, a bit withdrawn.
He looked up towards the clouds and coughed out a slow chuckle. He leaned back, hands crossed, patiently waiting, as if he had come for a show.
Barrett was watching him out of the sides of his eyes, not wanting to look him dead on.
“Come on Abe” He sighed, “Let’s go.”
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
R-R-Rambling!
Note to reader: The following is an experiment in rambling. Its what happens when editing and research goes out the window, and I try to just write what I want to. No internet to look up facts or quotes to make myself appear smarter, and minimal editing of what I’m thinking. The result is this. I promise next week’s blog will be more structured.
It’s amazing, the magnitude of things. The massive scale of this place we call the universe. How are we able to even sum up the amount of content the universe contains into that one word? It reminds me of one of my favorite movie endings. At the very end of Men in Black, the camera pans further and further back from Will Smith, to New York City, to Earth, and even further and faster back to the whole Milky Way Galaxy, and to many other galaxies, until all of the entire universe is contained inside a blue orb. The orb is then picked up by a giant alien hand and tossed in what appears to be some alien form of marbles. It’s comical but at the same time awe-inspiring. This scale of magnitude is very real. Even just looking at your hand, there are millions of skin cells. Inside each cell is a functioning process, not unlike a tiny city. There is data being copied from our DNA, which is then translated into proteins, folded, and shipped out to the place where it performs its function. This protein has a job like most people do. It could break down certain molecules that enter the cell, or it could be used in the cell membrane to decide what gets in. You probably think I’m high or something at this point but I assure you I’m not. If the tiny cells of my brain called neurons are doing what they should be, then I’m thinking straight. We can think of these cells making up a person in the same way that we as people make up the world. The world is one big organism with all the plants, animals, bacteria, etc. doing their own specialized part. But now this rambling is getting a little too hippie and there’s only one place I can go from here, global warming, which I don’t feel the need to preach about.
One of my biggest questions is how molecules turned into cells that needed a form of energy to stay “alive” in the first place? Everything evolved from single celled organisms, but what did the single celled organism evolve from? Molecules? How do molecules evolve? Why is it that the chaos of the beginning of everything decided to become organized? Isn’t some law of thermodynamics broken here? What made cells even want to stay alive? Cells obviously can’t think or feel pain, so why put the effort into trapping energy? Whatever the reason, it must mean that life is better than death. An old Greek myth involves a man who is granted one favor by a god that knows all. The man asks the god, “What is the purpose of life?” The god tries his hardest to persuade the man to ask for something else but the man is stubborn and will not be persuaded. The god sighs and grimly whispers, “There is no purpose to life. Man would have been better off never being born.” Phheww, that’s one of the darkest Greek myths in my opinion. But I don’t think that Greek god had it all figured out. True, death is the absence of life, and so the absence of happiness and sadness, of all the ups and downs this world has to offer. Is all the sadness and pain worth the moments of happiness and joy? Too emo, next.
It’s hard enough to put the universe to scale. What about our lives though? We take things for granted. This phrase is said a lot, and it’s true, but it’s impossible not to take things for granted. Our minds are set up so that we only deal with net differences, not the absolute quantities. What I mean by this is that over time, we adjust to the way our lives are. How is it that a spoiled 14 year old told to do chores can declare they have the worst life ever, while a poor immigrant can think a hula-hoop is the best thing in the world? We are only able to compare the quality of our lives to our own experience. We set up our own reality of how we think the world is and try to maintain it. Sometimes I look at the rich and well pampered and think, how can they throw a fit over not getting the most expensive brand of bottled water, or not being able to sit first class on a plane? But in the same way, someone from a third-world country might look at us and think, how can they throw a fit over not getting a good haircut or not getting good seats in a movie theater? A great show that used to be on the discovery channel was called I Shouldn’t be Alive. It told the stories of survivors of traumatizing accidents and experiences. People who got lost on a hiking trip or who were lost at sea after their plane crashed. In all the cases profiled on the show, the survivors very narrowly escaped death. The most interesting part of the show in my opinion was at the very end, when it showed the survivors telling the final part of their tale, and through this, reliving the experience. It was the looks on their faces when they told of how they waved a plane down, or made it to some kind of civilization. The relief and pure joy of knowing they would be able to live another day was truly beautiful. Conveniently, many of the survivors ended up becoming motivational speakers after their return home. Figures, my as well cash in on one of the most raw and beautiful moments of their lives. But after watching a handful of episodes, a pattern started to emerge with the survivors. All of them claimed that after this traumatic experience, they never took another day for granted again. They “woke up to life” and have since lived with a renewed vigor. One man said that still, the sound of helicopters is his favorite sound in the world, because it instantly brings him back to that feeling he felt when he was rescued by one. In my opinion, the traumatic experience of these survivors has kept them “grounded” so to speak. They know what true despair and hopelessness felt like when near death, so anything else feels above that. Maybe its some form of post-traumatic stress that keeps them at this level. Instead of feeling like it’s the end of the world when they get in a fender bender, they can take a step back, remember what’s important, and just be grateful they’re alive. Maybe that’s the key to life? Approach life from the lowest point possible. It makes sense; people who constantly relive their glory days are miserable.
Anyways, I guess I should try to relate all this to my parasites class, after all, that’s what this blog is for… umm… life is a parasite. But a good one at that. You think about it, I’ve got enough on my mind.
It’s amazing, the magnitude of things. The massive scale of this place we call the universe. How are we able to even sum up the amount of content the universe contains into that one word? It reminds me of one of my favorite movie endings. At the very end of Men in Black, the camera pans further and further back from Will Smith, to New York City, to Earth, and even further and faster back to the whole Milky Way Galaxy, and to many other galaxies, until all of the entire universe is contained inside a blue orb. The orb is then picked up by a giant alien hand and tossed in what appears to be some alien form of marbles. It’s comical but at the same time awe-inspiring. This scale of magnitude is very real. Even just looking at your hand, there are millions of skin cells. Inside each cell is a functioning process, not unlike a tiny city. There is data being copied from our DNA, which is then translated into proteins, folded, and shipped out to the place where it performs its function. This protein has a job like most people do. It could break down certain molecules that enter the cell, or it could be used in the cell membrane to decide what gets in. You probably think I’m high or something at this point but I assure you I’m not. If the tiny cells of my brain called neurons are doing what they should be, then I’m thinking straight. We can think of these cells making up a person in the same way that we as people make up the world. The world is one big organism with all the plants, animals, bacteria, etc. doing their own specialized part. But now this rambling is getting a little too hippie and there’s only one place I can go from here, global warming, which I don’t feel the need to preach about.
One of my biggest questions is how molecules turned into cells that needed a form of energy to stay “alive” in the first place? Everything evolved from single celled organisms, but what did the single celled organism evolve from? Molecules? How do molecules evolve? Why is it that the chaos of the beginning of everything decided to become organized? Isn’t some law of thermodynamics broken here? What made cells even want to stay alive? Cells obviously can’t think or feel pain, so why put the effort into trapping energy? Whatever the reason, it must mean that life is better than death. An old Greek myth involves a man who is granted one favor by a god that knows all. The man asks the god, “What is the purpose of life?” The god tries his hardest to persuade the man to ask for something else but the man is stubborn and will not be persuaded. The god sighs and grimly whispers, “There is no purpose to life. Man would have been better off never being born.” Phheww, that’s one of the darkest Greek myths in my opinion. But I don’t think that Greek god had it all figured out. True, death is the absence of life, and so the absence of happiness and sadness, of all the ups and downs this world has to offer. Is all the sadness and pain worth the moments of happiness and joy? Too emo, next.
It’s hard enough to put the universe to scale. What about our lives though? We take things for granted. This phrase is said a lot, and it’s true, but it’s impossible not to take things for granted. Our minds are set up so that we only deal with net differences, not the absolute quantities. What I mean by this is that over time, we adjust to the way our lives are. How is it that a spoiled 14 year old told to do chores can declare they have the worst life ever, while a poor immigrant can think a hula-hoop is the best thing in the world? We are only able to compare the quality of our lives to our own experience. We set up our own reality of how we think the world is and try to maintain it. Sometimes I look at the rich and well pampered and think, how can they throw a fit over not getting the most expensive brand of bottled water, or not being able to sit first class on a plane? But in the same way, someone from a third-world country might look at us and think, how can they throw a fit over not getting a good haircut or not getting good seats in a movie theater? A great show that used to be on the discovery channel was called I Shouldn’t be Alive. It told the stories of survivors of traumatizing accidents and experiences. People who got lost on a hiking trip or who were lost at sea after their plane crashed. In all the cases profiled on the show, the survivors very narrowly escaped death. The most interesting part of the show in my opinion was at the very end, when it showed the survivors telling the final part of their tale, and through this, reliving the experience. It was the looks on their faces when they told of how they waved a plane down, or made it to some kind of civilization. The relief and pure joy of knowing they would be able to live another day was truly beautiful. Conveniently, many of the survivors ended up becoming motivational speakers after their return home. Figures, my as well cash in on one of the most raw and beautiful moments of their lives. But after watching a handful of episodes, a pattern started to emerge with the survivors. All of them claimed that after this traumatic experience, they never took another day for granted again. They “woke up to life” and have since lived with a renewed vigor. One man said that still, the sound of helicopters is his favorite sound in the world, because it instantly brings him back to that feeling he felt when he was rescued by one. In my opinion, the traumatic experience of these survivors has kept them “grounded” so to speak. They know what true despair and hopelessness felt like when near death, so anything else feels above that. Maybe its some form of post-traumatic stress that keeps them at this level. Instead of feeling like it’s the end of the world when they get in a fender bender, they can take a step back, remember what’s important, and just be grateful they’re alive. Maybe that’s the key to life? Approach life from the lowest point possible. It makes sense; people who constantly relive their glory days are miserable.
Anyways, I guess I should try to relate all this to my parasites class, after all, that’s what this blog is for… umm… life is a parasite. But a good one at that. You think about it, I’ve got enough on my mind.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
D-D-Dracula!
While watching The Horrors of Dracula, something struck me as odd. It wasn’t the fact that Dr. Van Helsing never once smiled, or the fact that for some reason Count Dracula needed a librarian.
It was during the scene where Dr. Van Helsing drove away vampire Aunt Lucy with a Christian cross. Helsing pressed a cross up to her, and the metal figure burned a mark into her forehead. “How is that possible?” I scoffed in my mind. Later in the movie, Dr. Van Helsing holds back Count Dracula by grabing two metal candlesticks and holding them in the form of a cross. “Ridiculous!” I thought. Are vampires afraid of right angles? Do they not like metal objects? Surely the power of the cross had to do with something besides the fact that it is a religious symbol for good over evil.
I thought back to other known vampire myths. The classic protection against vampires has always been garlic, crosses, and sunlight. In the book I am Legend, garlic is explained as repulsing vampires due to a certain enzyme in contains, and sunlight burns their skin due to a severe form of albinism. Crosses as protection however, are left out. It seems that more recent vampire stories have started to get rid of the cross as a repellant. Let the Right One In, a newer movie on vampires from the Netherlands doesn’t use crosses. And although I haven’t seen it, I’ve heard Twilight vampires aren’t afraid of crosses either. Why is this though? Is it a sign of our times?
Back when the folklore of the vampire was thought up, people generally turned to religion in times of need. Pray to God and he would make a sickness go away. God rewarded the good, and punished the bad. Naturally, religion could also be used to drive away an evil vampire through the power of a cross. Nowadays though, more and more people are turning to science. If you get sick, you go to the doctor and get medication. I’m not saying one is better than the other (Well, maybe I am), I’m just saying that maybe peoples idea of what protection is, has changed. It seems people put more faith in the physical now than in the spiritual. It’s interesting to observe this possible shift through vampire lore.
It was during the scene where Dr. Van Helsing drove away vampire Aunt Lucy with a Christian cross. Helsing pressed a cross up to her, and the metal figure burned a mark into her forehead. “How is that possible?” I scoffed in my mind. Later in the movie, Dr. Van Helsing holds back Count Dracula by grabing two metal candlesticks and holding them in the form of a cross. “Ridiculous!” I thought. Are vampires afraid of right angles? Do they not like metal objects? Surely the power of the cross had to do with something besides the fact that it is a religious symbol for good over evil.
I thought back to other known vampire myths. The classic protection against vampires has always been garlic, crosses, and sunlight. In the book I am Legend, garlic is explained as repulsing vampires due to a certain enzyme in contains, and sunlight burns their skin due to a severe form of albinism. Crosses as protection however, are left out. It seems that more recent vampire stories have started to get rid of the cross as a repellant. Let the Right One In, a newer movie on vampires from the Netherlands doesn’t use crosses. And although I haven’t seen it, I’ve heard Twilight vampires aren’t afraid of crosses either. Why is this though? Is it a sign of our times?
Back when the folklore of the vampire was thought up, people generally turned to religion in times of need. Pray to God and he would make a sickness go away. God rewarded the good, and punished the bad. Naturally, religion could also be used to drive away an evil vampire through the power of a cross. Nowadays though, more and more people are turning to science. If you get sick, you go to the doctor and get medication. I’m not saying one is better than the other (Well, maybe I am), I’m just saying that maybe peoples idea of what protection is, has changed. It seems people put more faith in the physical now than in the spiritual. It’s interesting to observe this possible shift through vampire lore.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Food for Thought
Serres is the ultimate parasite. The author of the aptly named book, The Parasite, does what he knows best; “He obtains energy and pays for it in information.” He is a parasite on us the reader. Is he not exchanging his thoughts, in the form of a book, for our money? And with that money he’ll buy food that could be ours! Serres takes our food for his thoughts. “He obtains the roast and pays for it with stories.” (36) Food for thought.
Serres too talks of leadership. “Anyone who wants to sit on the shoulders of an athlete does not want him to see well. He who likes to command can do so, but on one condition: the eyes of the producers, of the energetic and the strong, have to be poked out.” Is Serres opening our eyes to the world of parasites or merely blinding us? Reading Serres is a constant game of Marco Polo. Where exactly is it that we are being led?
In French, the word parasite also means static. Serres’ work seems to fit this alternate definition well. The text is a jumble of noise through which we, the reader, try to perceive a clear message. We are led through fragments of fables, references to philosophers, and puns on French language.
It’s easy to play the cynic though. And although there are times I wish I could tear up the book into tiny pieces and eat them, thereby turning his thoughts into my food, I restrain myself, and find his book more enjoyable to read than to eat.
(Serres rambles on about bifurcations and excluded thirds)
After all, the beauty of music isn’t in the individual melodies, but in the mixture of the parts together. A cowbell can be annoying on its own, but when put with the right melody, it fits. So too it is with Serres’ work. The weaving of philosophy, myths, and even science make it something more. The sum is greater than the whole of its parts.
At times, The Parasite pulls at the unconscious, as if there are connections just under the surface. The pieces seem to fit. But at the. Same time. Don’t.
Anyways; All hail Serres, Master of the Masters of thought.
Serres too talks of leadership. “Anyone who wants to sit on the shoulders of an athlete does not want him to see well. He who likes to command can do so, but on one condition: the eyes of the producers, of the energetic and the strong, have to be poked out.” Is Serres opening our eyes to the world of parasites or merely blinding us? Reading Serres is a constant game of Marco Polo. Where exactly is it that we are being led?
In French, the word parasite also means static. Serres’ work seems to fit this alternate definition well. The text is a jumble of noise through which we, the reader, try to perceive a clear message. We are led through fragments of fables, references to philosophers, and puns on French language.
It’s easy to play the cynic though. And although there are times I wish I could tear up the book into tiny pieces and eat them, thereby turning his thoughts into my food, I restrain myself, and find his book more enjoyable to read than to eat.
(Serres rambles on about bifurcations and excluded thirds)After all, the beauty of music isn’t in the individual melodies, but in the mixture of the parts together. A cowbell can be annoying on its own, but when put with the right melody, it fits. So too it is with Serres’ work. The weaving of philosophy, myths, and even science make it something more. The sum is greater than the whole of its parts.
At times, The Parasite pulls at the unconscious, as if there are connections just under the surface. The pieces seem to fit. But at the. Same time. Don’t.
Anyways; All hail Serres, Master of the Masters of thought.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Thought Experiment 1
Editor’s Foreword
No essay stands in more need of a foreword than the present work, since without some explanation of the strange way in which it is put together, it is bound to seem an oddly assorted hotchpotch. Upon writing the aforesaid work, the author used the printed sheets of various blogs as waste paper, and as a consequence, the reader will find these blogs scattered throughout the work. It is well to mention too that by some mysterious means, thoughts of the author’s mind appear to interject at certain intervals. The editor humbly begs the reader to take these interruptions with stride, and not to think any worse of the author because of it.
An Essay on the Self
The self… that mysterious form of consciousness we call “I”. The filter through which we view the people and events around us. What exactly makes up this thing we call the self? Are we born with it? Do we develop it? I think therefore I am, but I also do therefore I am. I speak, I laugh, I lie, I love, I write. Is it the action of doing these things that makes me who I am?
[Mind] Shit, what to write, does this sound too lofty? Probably sounds like I’m up on that high horse again, tone it down a bit.
Through actions, we are able to get the clearest picture of who we are or who someone else is. Any action is a form of communication that conveys something about the self. Simple actions like walking or laughing give away hints to how a person views themself. The act of writing can be a truthful form of self-expression but it can also be very deceiving. It is important to keep in mind that behind a written work there are certain motivations. There is the audience the writer is writing to, and also what the writer wants to convey to that audience.
[Kostylo Music] It should be clear that once an idea leaves your body in the form of an expression, it's already gone through one filter. Still, we may not be aware of this filter… Why do we filter ourselves though? Perhaps because we want to appear more interesting or beautiful than we are. It could be said then, that society-
The autobiography can be an especially deceiving form of writing because the writer is writing on himself. He is portraying himself in a certain way and wants the reader to see himself from a certain light. In E.T.A. Hoffmann’s book The Life and Opinions of the Tomcat Murr, we are presented with two narrators. One is the Tomcat Murr, whose autobiography gives us an account of his upbringing. Through this autobiography, two forms of the Tomcat Murr’s self can be seen. The first is the self that Murr wants us, the reader, to see. He presents himself as a modest genius, whose only wish is to simply educate young tomcats through his life and poetry. “Young tomcat, be modest like me, and don’t be ready with your verses on every occasion if plain honest prose will do to spin out your ideas.” (301)
The other Murr, that is perhaps the more real one, is the Murr we can piece together through the “chinks in his armor” so to speak. This Murr has a large ego, thinks himself as probably the greatest tomcat that ever lived, and wishes to become famous for his beautifully flowing poetry.
[Mind] Tools, spell-check. Sentence fragment, ignore, Murr, ignore, self expression, change. Now where was that one quote? Uhh I hate cats… allergies asthma grandma’s apartment Mr. Tubbs every Christmas, party poppers always something inside, cold fresh air- ok focus.
In the foreword to the book that was supposed to be suppressed, Murr says rather arrogantly, “With the confidence and peace of mind native to true genius, I lay my life story before the world, so that the reader may learn how to educate himself to be a great tomcat, may recognize the full extent of my excellence, may love, value, honour and admire me – and worship me a little.” From this excerpt we can begin to see that Murr’s opinion of himself may be a little higher than he lets on. As the editor later puts it, “…if many another sensitive author’s modest preface were translated into the true language of his inmost thoughts, it might not sound so very different.” (7)
Yet is there really such a thing as “true language”, or a true self? Our actions are probably the best representation of our true selves. They reside outside the imagination of our heads and are able to be held up against the majority’s reality. The self that lies in our head can be completely different from anything we’ve ever done.
[Mind] The self that lies in our head is often the self that lies. Haha nice, very clever.
A man can be the smartest, most attractive person inside his head, yet when tested through real world actions, this may not be the case. But what is reality?
[Mind] Ahh, I really don’t want to get into this hippie, “its all relative” stuff, but it looks like I have no choice.
Who’s to say that the reality outside a man’s head has more truth to it than the reality inside? There is no one true reality that exists.
[Espinod] I have this idea in my head, and it just keeps growing and growing and growing. When we actually see ourselves, and I mean in the mirror and not in a photo on the computer, we are seeing the REAL US. Our selves. When we walk around and have-
Do we ever see the “real us”? Do we ever know ourselves? Can we ever know anybody else?
[Mind] This is an essay, not a questionnaire, give ‘em some evidence!
In E.T.A. Hoffmann’s Tomcat Murr, the other narrator is an anonymous biographer that gives the secondhand account of the life of Johannes Kreisler. Unlike when we hear the story from Murr, we the reader can never really be sure of what Kreisler is actually thinking since biographer cannot know this. The biographer imparts to the reader, “Such is the case of the man who has undertaken to set down for your benefit, gentle reader, what he knows of the remarkable life of Kapellmeister Johannes Kreisler.” And, “But such nice chronological order is out of the question, since the unfortunate narrator has at his disposal nothing but oral information imparted bit by bit, which he must set down at once if the whole is not to be lost from his memory.” (37) When we read the story of Johannes Kreisler, we aren’t reading about Kreisler’s true self, but are reading the biographer’s interpretation of Kreisler. We are seeing the image of a man not only distorted by the biographer’s reality, but also his memory.
[Nanotext] “To begin to resemble the other, to take on their appearance, is to seduce them, since it is to make them enter the realm of metamorphosis despite themselves” (445)
The above quote from Baudrillard’s “The Evil Demon of Images” seems like a perfect place to pick up with-
The self is a tricky object to pin down. It is always changing, always being impacted by the events we experience. We are what we do, but we pick and choose to remember what we’ve done. Our past selves can be just as relevant as our current selves, depending on what we choose to define ourselves as.
[Williamnot] That being said I want to inform anyone who decides to wander these pages that past blogs show who I was, not who I currently am. I am not particularly proud or ashamed of any entry, but I am interested to see if any of them have any relevance to-
There are many facets to a man that make up his existence. As Walt Whitman says in Song of Myself, “Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes.” The thing called “I” is more than just a singular entity. It can envelop all sides, all moods, and all thoughts of a person. Is it “I am”, or “I are”? All these multitudes exist in the complicated idea called self.
[Mind] Should I end it here? I think I’ve said everything I wanted to say.……. Yeah, ill end it here.
Sources
Hoffmann, E.T.A. The Life and Opinions of the Tomcat Murr.
New York: Penguin Books, 1999. Print.
Kostylo, Joe (Kostylo Music). “Liar.” Weblog. Some Kind of Strange. 22 January 2010.
Prichard, Tony (Nanotext). “Doppelgang.” Weblog. Nanotext. 18 May 2009.
Espinoza-Gonzalez, Daniel (Espinod). “Thought Experiment Outakes…” Weblog. He Who Laughs Last Didn’t Get it. 26 January 2010
Beyer, William (Williamnot). “A Disclaimer.” Weblog. Nano Shock. 6 January 2010
Whitman, Walt. Song of Myself. 30 January 2010.
No essay stands in more need of a foreword than the present work, since without some explanation of the strange way in which it is put together, it is bound to seem an oddly assorted hotchpotch. Upon writing the aforesaid work, the author used the printed sheets of various blogs as waste paper, and as a consequence, the reader will find these blogs scattered throughout the work. It is well to mention too that by some mysterious means, thoughts of the author’s mind appear to interject at certain intervals. The editor humbly begs the reader to take these interruptions with stride, and not to think any worse of the author because of it.
An Essay on the Self
The self… that mysterious form of consciousness we call “I”. The filter through which we view the people and events around us. What exactly makes up this thing we call the self? Are we born with it? Do we develop it? I think therefore I am, but I also do therefore I am. I speak, I laugh, I lie, I love, I write. Is it the action of doing these things that makes me who I am?
[Mind] Shit, what to write, does this sound too lofty? Probably sounds like I’m up on that high horse again, tone it down a bit.
Through actions, we are able to get the clearest picture of who we are or who someone else is. Any action is a form of communication that conveys something about the self. Simple actions like walking or laughing give away hints to how a person views themself. The act of writing can be a truthful form of self-expression but it can also be very deceiving. It is important to keep in mind that behind a written work there are certain motivations. There is the audience the writer is writing to, and also what the writer wants to convey to that audience.
[Kostylo Music] It should be clear that once an idea leaves your body in the form of an expression, it's already gone through one filter. Still, we may not be aware of this filter… Why do we filter ourselves though? Perhaps because we want to appear more interesting or beautiful than we are. It could be said then, that society-
The autobiography can be an especially deceiving form of writing because the writer is writing on himself. He is portraying himself in a certain way and wants the reader to see himself from a certain light. In E.T.A. Hoffmann’s book The Life and Opinions of the Tomcat Murr, we are presented with two narrators. One is the Tomcat Murr, whose autobiography gives us an account of his upbringing. Through this autobiography, two forms of the Tomcat Murr’s self can be seen. The first is the self that Murr wants us, the reader, to see. He presents himself as a modest genius, whose only wish is to simply educate young tomcats through his life and poetry. “Young tomcat, be modest like me, and don’t be ready with your verses on every occasion if plain honest prose will do to spin out your ideas.” (301)
The other Murr, that is perhaps the more real one, is the Murr we can piece together through the “chinks in his armor” so to speak. This Murr has a large ego, thinks himself as probably the greatest tomcat that ever lived, and wishes to become famous for his beautifully flowing poetry.
[Mind] Tools, spell-check. Sentence fragment, ignore, Murr, ignore, self expression, change. Now where was that one quote? Uhh I hate cats… allergies asthma grandma’s apartment Mr. Tubbs every Christmas, party poppers always something inside, cold fresh air- ok focus.
In the foreword to the book that was supposed to be suppressed, Murr says rather arrogantly, “With the confidence and peace of mind native to true genius, I lay my life story before the world, so that the reader may learn how to educate himself to be a great tomcat, may recognize the full extent of my excellence, may love, value, honour and admire me – and worship me a little.” From this excerpt we can begin to see that Murr’s opinion of himself may be a little higher than he lets on. As the editor later puts it, “…if many another sensitive author’s modest preface were translated into the true language of his inmost thoughts, it might not sound so very different.” (7)
Yet is there really such a thing as “true language”, or a true self? Our actions are probably the best representation of our true selves. They reside outside the imagination of our heads and are able to be held up against the majority’s reality. The self that lies in our head can be completely different from anything we’ve ever done.
[Mind] The self that lies in our head is often the self that lies. Haha nice, very clever.
A man can be the smartest, most attractive person inside his head, yet when tested through real world actions, this may not be the case. But what is reality?
[Mind] Ahh, I really don’t want to get into this hippie, “its all relative” stuff, but it looks like I have no choice.
Who’s to say that the reality outside a man’s head has more truth to it than the reality inside? There is no one true reality that exists.
[Espinod] I have this idea in my head, and it just keeps growing and growing and growing. When we actually see ourselves, and I mean in the mirror and not in a photo on the computer, we are seeing the REAL US. Our selves. When we walk around and have-
Do we ever see the “real us”? Do we ever know ourselves? Can we ever know anybody else?
[Mind] This is an essay, not a questionnaire, give ‘em some evidence!
In E.T.A. Hoffmann’s Tomcat Murr, the other narrator is an anonymous biographer that gives the secondhand account of the life of Johannes Kreisler. Unlike when we hear the story from Murr, we the reader can never really be sure of what Kreisler is actually thinking since biographer cannot know this. The biographer imparts to the reader, “Such is the case of the man who has undertaken to set down for your benefit, gentle reader, what he knows of the remarkable life of Kapellmeister Johannes Kreisler.” And, “But such nice chronological order is out of the question, since the unfortunate narrator has at his disposal nothing but oral information imparted bit by bit, which he must set down at once if the whole is not to be lost from his memory.” (37) When we read the story of Johannes Kreisler, we aren’t reading about Kreisler’s true self, but are reading the biographer’s interpretation of Kreisler. We are seeing the image of a man not only distorted by the biographer’s reality, but also his memory.
[Nanotext] “To begin to resemble the other, to take on their appearance, is to seduce them, since it is to make them enter the realm of metamorphosis despite themselves” (445)
The above quote from Baudrillard’s “The Evil Demon of Images” seems like a perfect place to pick up with-
The self is a tricky object to pin down. It is always changing, always being impacted by the events we experience. We are what we do, but we pick and choose to remember what we’ve done. Our past selves can be just as relevant as our current selves, depending on what we choose to define ourselves as.
[Williamnot] That being said I want to inform anyone who decides to wander these pages that past blogs show who I was, not who I currently am. I am not particularly proud or ashamed of any entry, but I am interested to see if any of them have any relevance to-
There are many facets to a man that make up his existence. As Walt Whitman says in Song of Myself, “Do I contradict myself? Very well then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes.” The thing called “I” is more than just a singular entity. It can envelop all sides, all moods, and all thoughts of a person. Is it “I am”, or “I are”? All these multitudes exist in the complicated idea called self.
[Mind] Should I end it here? I think I’ve said everything I wanted to say.……. Yeah, ill end it here.
Sources
Hoffmann, E.T.A. The Life and Opinions of the Tomcat Murr.
New York: Penguin Books, 1999. Print.
Kostylo, Joe (Kostylo Music). “Liar.” Weblog. Some Kind of Strange. 22 January 2010.
Prichard, Tony (Nanotext). “Doppelgang.” Weblog. Nanotext. 18 May 2009.
Espinoza-Gonzalez, Daniel (Espinod). “Thought Experiment Outakes…” Weblog. He Who Laughs Last Didn’t Get it. 26 January 2010
Beyer, William (Williamnot). “A Disclaimer.” Weblog. Nano Shock. 6 January 2010
Whitman, Walt. Song of Myself. 30 January 2010.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Madness!
In The Life and Opinions of the Tomcat Murr by ETA Hoffmann, there is a recurring depiction of the artist as a man on the brink of insanity. Hoffmann paints the romantic picture that a fire inside the artist allows him to create, but at the same time, if not controlled, can consume the artist. This madness is a double-edged sword that can both create, and destroy.
One of the biographies in Hoffmann’s book is of one such artist, Johannes Kreisler. Kreisler is viewed by most of the common characters in the book with a raised eyebrow. Most see him as a bit eccentric, and generally do not understand him. He is often thought to be at times consumed by his emotions. Madame Benzone, a character in Hoffman's book, reflects this perception of Kreisler when she says, “I have always thought that music has too strong an effect upon you [Kreisler], and consequently a harmful one, for all the features of your face would change as your whole being seemed imbued by the performance of some fine work. You turned pale, you were unable to speak, you could utter only sighs and tears, and then, if anyone ventured to say so much as a word about the master’s work, you would round on him with the bitterest mockery, with deeply wounding scorn.”
Kresiler himself is aware of this madness brewing inside him. "He [Kreisler] had always been obsessed with the idea that madness lay in wait for him like a wild beast slavering for prey, and one day would suddenly tear him to pieces." (117)
The notion of the artist being directly linked to madness is again related in the following poem by Emily Dickinson. In it, Dickinson expresses the idea that to be mad is to actually be sane, and that true madness lies in following the majority. Outsiders, such as artists or rebels who think differently than the majority, are percieved as a threat.
Much Madness is divinest Sense –
To a discerning Eye –
Much Sense -- the starkest Madness –
'Tis the Majority
In this, as All, prevail –
Assent -- and you are sane –
Demur -- you're straightway dangerous –
And handled with a Chain --
Leonhard Ettlinger is another artist from Hoffmann's Tomcat Murr that is literally "handled with a chain". Princess Hedwiga tells Kreisler that Ettlinger was a painter in the castle whom she befriended when she was younger. After some time, Ettlinger disappears, and Hedwiga searches the castle for him. She finds him in a part of the castle that is usually locked and asks him if he can paint something for her as he used to. Hedwiga says, "At this Leonhard ran towards me with a peal of wild laughter - a chain that seemed to be fastened to his waist clinked as he moved..." (116). Ettlinger then grabs Princess Hedwiga and attempts to cut her throat, saying madly that he needs blood to paint his picture.
Hoffmann seems to portray two paths an artist can follow, and divides them accordingly. There are those that can control their madness and there are those that are overtaken by their madness. Kreisler and Ettlinger seem to represent these two paths. After Madam Benzone expresses to Kreisler her impressions of him (see above quote), Kreisler replies that he has changed and can now listen to a beautiful piece of music and merely tap his finger. Later, the Privy Councillor is surprised at how well Kreisler is able to control himself when a lieutenant stops Kreisler to recite a long-winded poem he wrote. Ettingler on the other hand is consumed by madness, forcibly chained to restrain his homicidal tendencies.
Kreisler and Ettlinger are essentially the same person except for the way each handles madness. Upon meeting Kreisler for the first time, Princess Hedwiga mistakes him for Ettlinger, and every time she sees Kreisler after this, she is reminded of her traumatic experience with Ettlinger. While Kreisler is taking a walk through the park, he looks into the lake and sees the reflection of Ettlinger. "Oho," Kreisler says, "oho, are you there, my dear doppelganger, my brave companion?" (123).
It is even more interesting when the character of Kreisler is analyzed from the viewpoint that his life is actually a romanticised version of ETA Hoffmann's life. Many similarities exist between the life of Kreisler and Hoffmann to the point where it is obvious Hoffmann used his own life at least as inspiration for Kreisler. Viewing Hoffmann from the perspective of the artist raises the question of whether Hoffmann struggled with this artist's madness himself? The unimaginative Sir Walter Scott says, "the inspirations of Hoffmann so often resemble the ideas produced by the immoderate use of opium..." In the footnotes of the book, it is cited that in a letter to a friend, Hoffmann wrote "Why do I think of madness so often, sleeping or waking?"
One of the biographies in Hoffmann’s book is of one such artist, Johannes Kreisler. Kreisler is viewed by most of the common characters in the book with a raised eyebrow. Most see him as a bit eccentric, and generally do not understand him. He is often thought to be at times consumed by his emotions. Madame Benzone, a character in Hoffman's book, reflects this perception of Kreisler when she says, “I have always thought that music has too strong an effect upon you [Kreisler], and consequently a harmful one, for all the features of your face would change as your whole being seemed imbued by the performance of some fine work. You turned pale, you were unable to speak, you could utter only sighs and tears, and then, if anyone ventured to say so much as a word about the master’s work, you would round on him with the bitterest mockery, with deeply wounding scorn.”
Kresiler himself is aware of this madness brewing inside him. "He [Kreisler] had always been obsessed with the idea that madness lay in wait for him like a wild beast slavering for prey, and one day would suddenly tear him to pieces." (117)
The notion of the artist being directly linked to madness is again related in the following poem by Emily Dickinson. In it, Dickinson expresses the idea that to be mad is to actually be sane, and that true madness lies in following the majority. Outsiders, such as artists or rebels who think differently than the majority, are percieved as a threat.
Much Madness is divinest Sense –
To a discerning Eye –
Much Sense -- the starkest Madness –
'Tis the Majority
In this, as All, prevail –
Assent -- and you are sane –
Demur -- you're straightway dangerous –
And handled with a Chain --
Leonhard Ettlinger is another artist from Hoffmann's Tomcat Murr that is literally "handled with a chain". Princess Hedwiga tells Kreisler that Ettlinger was a painter in the castle whom she befriended when she was younger. After some time, Ettlinger disappears, and Hedwiga searches the castle for him. She finds him in a part of the castle that is usually locked and asks him if he can paint something for her as he used to. Hedwiga says, "At this Leonhard ran towards me with a peal of wild laughter - a chain that seemed to be fastened to his waist clinked as he moved..." (116). Ettlinger then grabs Princess Hedwiga and attempts to cut her throat, saying madly that he needs blood to paint his picture.
Hoffmann seems to portray two paths an artist can follow, and divides them accordingly. There are those that can control their madness and there are those that are overtaken by their madness. Kreisler and Ettlinger seem to represent these two paths. After Madam Benzone expresses to Kreisler her impressions of him (see above quote), Kreisler replies that he has changed and can now listen to a beautiful piece of music and merely tap his finger. Later, the Privy Councillor is surprised at how well Kreisler is able to control himself when a lieutenant stops Kreisler to recite a long-winded poem he wrote. Ettingler on the other hand is consumed by madness, forcibly chained to restrain his homicidal tendencies.
Kreisler and Ettlinger are essentially the same person except for the way each handles madness. Upon meeting Kreisler for the first time, Princess Hedwiga mistakes him for Ettlinger, and every time she sees Kreisler after this, she is reminded of her traumatic experience with Ettlinger. While Kreisler is taking a walk through the park, he looks into the lake and sees the reflection of Ettlinger. "Oho," Kreisler says, "oho, are you there, my dear doppelganger, my brave companion?" (123).
It is even more interesting when the character of Kreisler is analyzed from the viewpoint that his life is actually a romanticised version of ETA Hoffmann's life. Many similarities exist between the life of Kreisler and Hoffmann to the point where it is obvious Hoffmann used his own life at least as inspiration for Kreisler. Viewing Hoffmann from the perspective of the artist raises the question of whether Hoffmann struggled with this artist's madness himself? The unimaginative Sir Walter Scott says, "the inspirations of Hoffmann so often resemble the ideas produced by the immoderate use of opium..." In the footnotes of the book, it is cited that in a letter to a friend, Hoffmann wrote "Why do I think of madness so often, sleeping or waking?"
Monday, January 18, 2010
One Big Cat's Cradle
“-who but an idiot has really understood?-” (Ronell)
(As a side note, its kind of ironic that Ronell says this, due to the fact that she is a student of Derrida, who is known to overanalyze texts. And doubly ironic that this quote from Ronell is taken from a larger quote by her on irony.)
Take a magic trick for example. The fun of seeing a magic trick lies in the mystery; of not knowing how the trick is done and being amazed by it. To over-think the trick and figure it out essentially ruins it. Yet it is inevitable that when we see a magic trick, we immediately develop multiple theories as to how it’s done. For example, “Maybe there was a trap door underneath.” or “Maybe it was a fake sword.” But the point of a magic trick is not to understand it. Maybe only the idiot understands this.
It’s human nature to want to understand though. If this weren’t one of mankind’s key traits, then religion wouldn’t be a worldwide institution. Going back to the earliest human civilizations, religion was used to explain that which man did not understand. Man has always pondered the questions of life. How does the universe work?, does God exist?, what is my purpose in life?, etc.
Religion in itself can be viewed as a parasite, preying on man’s need to comprehend. It spreads from generation to generation, filling the void in mans head caused by life’s unanswered questions. Without a population of believers, a religion dies. Gods only live on in the minds of people who believe in them. After that, they are but a fictional character in the history of man.
To be fair though, religion is much more than a leeching parasite. Religion offers man sanity, happiness, and comfort in thinking he’s got the world figured out.
The following poem from Kurt Vonnegut’s book Cat’s Cradle relates this idea nicely.
Tiger got to hunt,
Bird got to fly;
Man got to sit and wonder, “Why, why, why?”
Tiger got to sleep,
Bird got to land;
Man got to tell himself he understand.
Religion is one way man can tell himself he understands. Without religion, man would be lost and scared in the unpredictable world around him. People feel safer believing an all-powerful, all-loving being is watching over the world, and that the events in their lives happen for a reason.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Parasite or Symbiotic Organism? You Decide...
Is the parasite in David Cronenberg’s Shivers actually a parasite at all? Technically a parasite is something that takes advantage of another organism, using that organism in a way that is detrimental to its well-being. The relationship between a parasite and its prey is one-way. The parasite takes and the prey gives.
This definition of a parasite does not match that of the parasites in Shivers. In Shivers, although the parasite uses human beings by living in their intestines, it also gives something in return. It gives humans a release from the inhibition of their sexual desires. In the film, Nurse Forsythe desired Doctor St. Luc, and the parasite she obtained was a means to fulfilling that desire.
Doctor st. Luc examining the parasite.
Is this release from our inhibited sexual desires necessarily a good or a bad thing? There are many examples in the film where it is obvious this release is a bad thing. A father making out with his own daughter, and a man with two children on leashes for example. However, by the end of the film, it appears that all of the humans infected with the parasites seem much happier as a result.
Yet what is the cost of this happiness? To answer this question, the economist’s central dogma of “Do the benefits outweigh the costs?” can be used. Do the benefits of being happy outweigh the cost of having a parasite and breaking certain cultural values and taboos? Depending on the answer, this creature is either a parasite, or a symbiotic organism.
The classic definition of symbiosis is “the living together of unlike organisms” (de Bary). It involves two different species working together to survive. The relationship is not one-way, as with parasitism, but a give-and-take. Symbiotic relationships can be seen all around us. A jock and a nerd who become friends to make up for each other’s shortcomings, an alligator that opens its mouth so birds can clean it, or a dip-n-dots stand inside a McDonalds. All of these are symbiotic relationships that benefit both parties.
Another symbiotic releationship? you decide...
Finally, on a bit of a tangent, what about the relationship between Batman and Robin? Is Robin a parasite or a symbiotic organism? Robin lives in Batman’s giant mansion, eats his food, and drives his super vehicles. He follows Batman around on his missions, doing next to nothing besides offering a secondary exclamatory to Batman’s puns. Symbiote or parasite? You decide…
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