Bewilderment Is Best Shared

Treat everything as if it has the potential to sing.

That's a picture of a new display board in the teen area of my library. My colleagues came up with this prompt to start things off. My contribution: Bewilderment is best shared. In reference to my newest favorite book, Poison for Breakfast by Lemony Snicket. Post Existential Bewilderment has more about it. I know the four words won't say much to most people without more context, but I shared it anyway to make myself happy. The context, so you don't have to stop to go read that previous post: the best way to respond to the essential bewilderment of existence is to seek connection with each other through literature, art, conversation, stories, philosophy, and the like.

Aside from that, this post isn't essentially about bewilderment. Instead it's about compiling many of the thoughts and items I've recently posted to Facebook in pursuit of shared connection. Here's one such item:

I was thinking this morning about the D&D / role-playing game concept of alignments. It's fun to take quizzes and ponder what our dominant alignment might be, but today I was struck by just how situational they are, how they can change moment-to-moment in response to different circumstances.

Like, I think we all have moments when we are chaotic good--when we knowingly choose to break a rule (law, even) because we feel doing so is important and good and the best decision in that circumstance. Following the rule right then might be lawful, but it is not good (in our view).

And I think we all have lawful evil moments where we relish punishing someone for breaking a rule that we believe should be followed.

Myself, for instance, I get a secret little thrill from parking my car to the left of someone who can't stay between the lines. I make sure I am completely centered in my spot, so that I get to cramp their driver-side door, hoping the lesson will teach them to be more careful next time. I know that's not how human psychology works and it won't, but I still feel a satisfying and pleasurable sense of self-righteousness. And I continue to do it, even knowing it's mean and lawful evil.

I didn't get any responses, so I'm not sure if that means it didn't resonate with anyone or it simply didn't show up in their feeds. I'm hoping it's the latter.

Now a section of observations and thoughts related to my kids, ages 6 and 8.

Listening to my kids talk to each other, I was struck by how video games have changed the meaning of the word "boss." In times of yore, a "boss" was someone who told you what to do who you had to follow and respect. In their worldview, a "boss" is a big bad guy who must be defeated (usually destroyed).

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The boys started arguing about silly things as we were leaving the locker room after the pool tonight. Name calling and mocking. When we got to the car, the fighting turned physical, and they ended up on the ground. [Younger] made it into the car first and made it his mission to keep [Older] out, to the point that I seriously threatened to make us walk home (about a mile) and come back for the car later. Finally, [Older] got in and they both started working on seatbelts. As I joined them, I overheard this exchange:

"That was actually a really good fight."

"Yeah, it was. Did you get hurt?"

"No, you?"

"No."

"High five!"

"Yeah!"

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I'm working late today, so I'm still waiting to find out if he created another installment of the story [Older] brought home from school yesterday.

I think my favorite sentences are the ones that mention his brother and his mom.

"I was playing outside when a giant asteroid came falling down. I went to investigate. When I got there the asteroid was cracked in half. Inside was a stick that had a curve on the end. I went to pick it up. When I picked it up I felt a feeling. I pointed it in one way. Suddenly a beam of light shot out of the stick. This wasn't any ordinary stick. This was a magic wand! But I didn't know how to wield its power. I decided to keep it a secret, imagining what my brother would do with it. Anyway, I covered up the hole. My mom was calling me for dinner.

"I lied to my mom about needing to get a stuffy from my room. When I got to my room I went up into my bed. I lifted my mattress up and put the magic want under it, then I grabbed a stuffy and went to the table."

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Our boys have always been sensitive movie watchers, easily scared and disturbed by tension, frustration, temporary defeat, sadness, and the like. It's slowly improving as they get older. Tonight we watched Kung Fu Panda 3 and they handled almost all of it well. The fighting, the setbacks, etc. There was one scene that had [Younger] truly scared, though. He paced, almost walked out, snuggled up between Mom and Dad for safety because he related to the moment so viscerally and it really hit home. It was when Po and his dad were running wild through the museum (ish) shrine, playing with all the things they weren't supposed to touch, and he just knew they were going to get into trouble for it. That terrified him.

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Yesterday, on the drive home from soccer practice, the boys were particularly loud, especially [Older]. As we approached home, after my repeated exhortations to be calmer and quieter while I was driving, [Older] settled into a screeching vocal guitar solo (no idea where he learned that). [Younger], I think in an effort to be helpful by distracting him with a quieter activity, said, "Hey, let's have a beatbox battle." And they did. (No idea where he learned that; it was my first time hearing either of them use those words.)

Also, the day before, in an escalating fit of rage at his brother, [Younger] picked up a chair to use as a weapon and earnestly said, "It's time for a beat down." (No idea where he learned that; it was my first time hearing either of them use those words; and they've never watched wrestling to the best of my knowledge.)

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The boys haven't been practicing piano lately, so yesterday when we got home from school/work we found this note [Spouse] had made. Somehow, for once, they accepted it and were oblivious to the clear (to me) manipulation, indicated by the timing that it will magically be fixed when they get back from their weekly lessons.

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When I first saw [Younger]'s poster, my mind did not immediately go to "superhero."

It's him, I believe, with the powers of a black panther (he hasn't seen the movie but knows the hero exists, so that's what he's going for based on his knowledge of the animal).

Habitat: Forest

Food: Claws to grab fish

Protection: Hide in the shadows with dark fur

Camouflage: Black fur to hide in the shadows

Locomotion: Very long and strong legs to run fast

Of course, if that's a self-image he fantasizes about, I'm comforted to know he also sees himself as all of these.

This is related to one of the anecdotes above.

I'm pretty sure my bucket list is going to consist of items related to awful wordplay. Like, for instance, I want to travel far enough north that I can yell, in a Jack Black Kung Fu Panda voice, "Get ready to feel the tundra!" right before I do so.

hashtag lawnmowingthoughts

If I had a bucket list, I might seriously start working on that list.

This was really fascinating and intriguing.

I don't know what happened to the dew condensation last night, but this morning all three cars in our driveway were covered in random scrawls trailing through the water beads, even on the sides.

Twigs/seeds/pollen blowing around is my best guess, but I have no confidence in it.

I've never seen anything quite like it.

This isn't related to anything, I just enjoy the picture.

From Tiny Dino by Deborah Freedman

The news lately has brought to mind this section of The Alex Crow by Andrew Smith.

I thumbed ahead in Mrs. Nussbaum's Male Extinction: The Case for an Exclusively Female Species. Apparently, the first section of the book was entirely devoted to the scientific studies that yielded the female sperm, failed attempts at fertilizing an ovum, and the successful development, just after the turn of our century, that produced two baby girls, born a year apart to the same mother.

Mrs. Nussbaum hailed this era as "the final century of man."

Her dark prophecy was almost biblical in tone.

The second section of the book was a rationale for the argument in support of programmed male extinction. Mrs. Nussbaum made a reasonable point, after all, considering the terrible things males had done in their never-ending effort to push our species to ward the precipice of extinction, and control and manipulate everything they ever came in contact with. With viable and genetically diverse female sperm, she postulated, males could rapidly become extinct if females simply decided to refrain from breeding with them. Since female sperm can only create female offspring, male extinction would occur within fifty years. But the most frightening aspect of Mrs. Nussbaum's case for facilitating the extinction of all male humans--she referred to it as "gender die-off"--was that her "Law of Male Uselessness" was primarily based on the results of comprehensive psychological and medical studies she had conducted over the course of the past decade on "a wide variety of males between the ages of twelve and seventeen years."

When I went to look for the quote, I realized I'd never shared the book on this blog (even though I read it seven years ago). Here's my review:

The promotional tour Smith undertook with the release of this book was dubbed "Keep YA Weird," with an accompanying online campaign and fun images. And on the general continuum of stories books tell, The Alex Crow does indeed tilt toward the stranger side--

Consider, for instance:

- The subplot about Leonard Fountain, the physically deteriorating "melting man," who might just be the most insane man on the planet, as he wanders the countryside in an old U-Haul with a radioactive bomb he's built, bullied (and constantly urged to homicide) by the voice of Joseph Stalin in his head--along with multiple other voices and hallucinations--in search of the Beaver King he needs to blow up.

- The subplot about a failed arctic expedition from the past, conveyed by the journal entries of one of its few survivors, that led to the discovery of a "devil-man" frozen in the ice.

- The scientific pursuits of the protagonists' fathers, which include bringing extinct species back to life and using them as "biodrones" to spy on--and blow up--whomever they please.

- The lone female colleague of their fathers, who has penned a book titled, Male Extinction: The Case for an Exclusively Female Species.

- The antics at Camp Merrie-Seymour for Boys, where the protagonists are sent for the summer since it's a free work perk for their parents, which include . . . an honest look at how teen boys act when left alone under the supervision of barely-not-teen-boys, with their constant talk of masturbation and threats of violence toward each other.

--yet it's not the weirdness that really defines this book, but the underlying weight of its connecting themes. Even during the most ridiculous, often hilarious moments there is a looming sense of menace and gravitas that maybe it's not all just fun and games. That maybe, even as fifteen-year-old narrator Ariel weaves in chapters of his long, arduous flight from the Middle-East as a refugee, being resurrected from one life to the next until finally landing with a family in West Virginia, all of our efforts are really just leading us toward self-extinction.

The Alex Crow is a collection of stories, some of which have clear linear connections and some of which weave together in unexpected ways. They all converge in the end to make a larger whole, one that is compellingly interesting, disturbingly amusing, and insightfully--if somewhat scarily--satisfying.

MacLeod Andews' audiobook narration is absolutely stellar, and I highly recommend consuming the book in that medium. Smith's writing seems all the more eloquent when he brings it to life.

Two short sections from the book, the first from the start and the second from the end:

Here is a handful of dirt.

As far as its use as a medium for sustaining life--nourishing roots--it is perhaps the least capable dirt that can be found anywhere on the planet. To call it sand would be to give it some unwarranted windswept and oceanic dignity.

It is simply dead dirt, and it fills my hand.

I will tell you everything, Max, and we will carry these stories on our small shoulders.

-----

Here are all the stories I shelve in your library.

I never thought you'd want to hear these things, Max.

And here's what I found out: The terrible stories are the same as the extinct beings that Dad brings back to life--each one pulls from the original, which never loses weight in the replication. So they all remain equal in substance for us to carry around--the boy in the clown suit, the men in the schoolroom, a refrigerator, the little dog, a coffee server named Ocean, the boys in the city of tents--populating and overpopulating, filling all the libraries inside every one of us.

END

This, on the other hand, I just finished reading today. The Honeyman and The Hunter by Neil Grant. It's here mostly so I can share the grandmother's tale.

A vivid and immersive adventure.

Rudra has always lived with water, his father a hard-scrabble fisherman on the coast of Australia, where their world is the convergence of rivers and ocean, beaches and water, tides and storms. His mother is from India, but she has always rejected that heritage and Rudra thinks of himself as purely Australian. Then his mother's mother shows up, tells him stories, and requests as her dying wish that Rudra and his mom return her ashes to where she grew up, the similarly tidal, fishing-focused Sundarbans region of India. Through her stories and a strange artifact he hauls out of the depths during fishing work, he learns his great-grandfathers--a honeyman on one side and a hunter on the other--are connected by way of a tiger. So he sets off on an unexpected journey to return his grandmother's ashes and learn about where he has come from.

It's a mystical adventure filled with stories and spirits, converging cultures and religions, and very real danger. Grant is a deft and beautiful writer.

Here's one of the tales Rudra hears from his grandmother:

"The oarsman stopped the boat. It was quiet, just the sound of water around the feet of the bridge. Then the oarsman pushed on of his oars deep into the water, blade first. He motioned for my mother's cousin to put his ear to the handle of the oar.

"There was a sound. Soft at first, like a pinkie humming around the wet rim of a glass. then other sounds joined--the slow sawing of a violin bow, the pluck of a single guitar string. Soon it was a whole chorus. The oarsman believed the sound was made by crying shells.

"Crying shells?"

"That's what the oarsman said. By my mother's cousing said it was fish that made the music. Singing fish. They are famous in Batticaloa."

"Singing fish."

"You can even look them up in the any such encyclopaedia. There are many doubting Thomases but I heard this story with my own ears."

"But fish can't sing, Didima."

"How do you know that, Rudra?"

"I just know it. Fish can't sing. I mean, I've heard of fish like sooty grunters making noises, but singing, Didima, that is something completely different."

"What do you mean?"

"Only things that feel sing."

"Like birds?"

"Yes, I reckon birds feel things--happiness, sadness, anger."

"But not fish."

"No. Fish don't feel anything."

"You are talking about emotions, Rudra?"

"Yes, they don't feel emotions. They're cold-blooded. They just act on . . . on . . . "

"Instinct--is this the word you are looking for?"

"Yes, instinct."

"How do you know they do not feel anything?"

"Because they're fish and I just know they don't."

"I think until you've been a fish, Rudra, you cannot say what they are feeling."

"That's just stupid."

"I heard this story when I was a child, Rudra, and from that moment on I have always treated everything as if it has the potential to sing."

I also really like the language Grant uses to describes this feeling.

"What are you going to do after this?"

"Maybe Mumbai."

"You wouldn't go home?"

"I cannot."

"Why?"

"Home is not where I left it."

"You mean your village has gone?"

"No, it is still there."

"I'm not following you, Raj."

"My home is very small now. Much smaller than when I lived there. When I call my village and speak to my mother, she seems--I am ashamed even to say this--she seems not so clever."

"She's become stupid?"

Raj winces at the suggestion. "She has not become that way Rudra. She has stayed the same. It is I who have changed."

His grandmother's tale brought to mind this essay that recently came across my feed.

Against Human Exceptionalism

My goal is instead to argue against a moderate form of human exceptionalism, according to which humans contingently matter more than nonhumans. If you are among the many who think that we take priority over other animals because of our ‘higher’ capacities and ‘stronger’ relationships, this is wishful thinking. There are too many nonhumans, and our lives are too intertwined with theirs, for that to be plausible. This ‘moderate’ view is not as ethical as you think.

Of course, that brings to mind an essay in A Theory of Jerks and Other Philosophical Misadventures by Eric Schwitzgebel, which I wrote about in You Belong to a Herd. From "Cheeseburger Ethics":

He considers the practiced ethics of professional ethicists. Even though that group is the most knowledgeable of any about right and wrong, in practice they aren't any more ethical than the rest of us. He highlights the example of eating cheeseburgers: ethicists believe eating meat is wrong much more highly than the general population, yet still eat cheeseburgers at the same rate as everyone else.

But I'd rather ponder crying shells and singing fish.

Finally, I spent the last while very slowly reading Lisel Mueller's book of poetry Alive Together on my phone. While I love audiobooks, I strongly dislike eBooks. I kept this one on my phone for moments when I wanted to read a poem or two instead of surf the web or similar without having to involve myself in big chunks of digital text. Early in the process I shared a bit of her work in Transmute Anger Into Sadness, and Then Sadness Into Love. I bookmarked other pieces as I read, and think I'll sprinkle them into my posts until I run out. Here's one:

Moon Fishing

When the moon was full they came to the water.

some with pitchforks, some with rakes,

some with sieves and ladles,

and one with a silver cup.

And they fished til a traveler passed them and said,

"Fools,

to catch the moon you must let your women

spread their hair on the water --

even the wily moon will leap to that bobbing

net of shimmering threads,

gasp and flop till its silver scales

lie black and still at your feet."

And they fished with the hair of their women

till a traveler passed them and said,

"Fools,

do you think the moon is caught lightly,

with glitter and silk threads?

You must cut out your hearts and bait your hooks

with those dark animals;

what matter you lose your hearts to reel in your dream?"

And they fished with their tight, hot hearts

till a traveler passed them and said,

"Fools,

what good is the moon to a heartless man?

Put back your hearts and get on your knees

and drink as you never have,

until your throats are coated with silver

and your voices ring like bells."

And they fished with their lips and tongues

until the water was gone

and the moon had slipped away

in the soft, bottomless mud.

Until you've been a fish, you cannot say what they are feeling.

Treat everything as if it has the potential to sing.