Creator and creation: part 2

In a past blog I mentioned that I wanted to talk about four stories (book or film versions, or both) which I thought contained some extraordinary insights into the concept of morality. One of those stories is Mary Shelley's Frankenstein, of which I'm only concerned with the original novel. I'm familiar with the classic Boris Karloff monster of course, since he's graduated from the oftentimes ephemeral world of film and taken his place in the canon of mythological entities alongside the likes of Dracula, Sherlock Homes, and Tarzan. I'm not interested in that guy, however; he's not what Mary Shelley had in mind, but rather what some early film-maker had in mind. Kenneth Branagh's modern version with Robert De Niro is more faithful to the novel. Unless a great deal of sympathy for the monster is generated, the story loses its point. The Frankenstein monster is a tragic hero turned reluctant villain, a gentle spirit trapped in a repulsive form who winds up behaving the way in which the prejudices and fears of others seem dead-set and determined for him to act. Rather (but not quite) like Shakespeare's Richard III, who explains the precise reasons for his villainy in some of the most memorable iambic pentameter ever penned:


But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks,
Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass;
I, that am rudely stamp'd, and want love's majesty
To strut before a wanton ambling nymph;
I, that am curtail'd of this fair proportion,
Cheated of feature by dissembling nature,
Deformed, unfinish'd, sent before my time
Into this breathing world, scarce half made up,
And that so lamely and unfashionable
That dogs bark at me as I halt by them;
Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace,
Have no delight to pass away the time,
Unless to spy my shadow in the sun
And descant on mine own deformity:
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
I am determined to prove a villain
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.


Of course, it could be that tricky Dick is just making excuses, but I think there is a great deal more to it. Now, I have no desire to make excuses for criminal behavior. No matter what pressures a person might be under, due to the idiocy of others or the fickle hand of chance, one must still be held responsible for one's actions in a civil society. I suppose some provision ought to be made for people with certain types of mental disorders, who literally cannot help what they say or do; but generally speaking, if you willfully interfere with the rights of another person, you should fully expect to have your rights interfered with as well. With Shakespeare's Richard, we don't see the gradual transformation of what was, presumably, a sound and decent character into that of a villain. We get the straightforward, but poetically gorgeous, rationalizations of a criminal right from the start. With Frankenstein, Mary Shelley masterfully develops the monster's character, largely in the form of an extended first-person narrative, from the innocence of his first awakening all the way through to his inevitable fall.

There are actually two massive themes at work in her novel (three really, but I doubt I'll be able to touch on the third one in this blog), though these themes are related to one another. First there is a study into the possible constitution and manifestation of a criminal mentality (or at least one type in particular): a completely innocent and well-meaning individual who can have no place in society because of his horrifying physical appearance, who discovers no way to act apart from re-acting, who becomes possessed with feelings of self-loathing and dread, because he seems to engender nothing apart from loathing and dread in others. His only friend is a blind man, a man who makes value judgments without the benefit of sight. I might be disposed to consider this a rather shallow and even cliched theme, were it not for the fact that my own experiences in life recently have made it a great deal more interesting to me than it was when I first read the book; but more on that later.

The second theme, which is related to the first, is the relationship between creator and creation. This is especially important, since many religiously-minded people seem unable to grasp the crudity of a religion which effectively makes a criminal out every person ever born, people who revel in this universal fault and upon which they seem insatiably fixated. I believe there is a lesson for religiously-minded people in Mary Shelley's novel. After-all, the good doctor regrets his creation almost instantly, because he's smart enough to know that his creation will know nothing but torment, an existential fear, anger, and disgust. He is repulsed by this thing he brought into being, calls it a "wretch", a "filthy demon", just as God is repulsed by his creatures. The doctor is also smart enough to take moral responsibility for his monster's actions, just as God does, who sacrifices himself to himself, in the most poignant display of guilt ever recorded in the annals of literature.

There is a parallel of sorts between the two stories which justifies, or tries to justify, the reason for the creator in both tales to punish his creation. In the novel, the monster strangles Frankenstein's brother William, thereby sealing the doctor's commitment to destroying the thing he has made. He knows that he has a primary part in the murder and sets about seeing justice done, of bringing to rest something which ought never to have been commenced, an abomination which is the result of his own pride and vanity. In the old Hebrew scriptures, Man (meaning the man and the woman) disobeys God by eating the forbidden fruit, a crime for which man and woman, as well as each and every one of their ancestors until the end of time, bid farewell to innocence forever. Because of one act of disobedience, humanity is forever guilty. And God will destroy his creation, just as Frankenstein wills to do, or at least the greater majority of humankind. Some few he saves, on the condition that they recognize the sacrifice made by Christ and are abundantly grateful because of it, and on the condition that they dedicate their lives to the Father who made them, the loving creator who designed them with two broken legs and holds them at fault for falling down, the merciful Lord who offers a beautiful pair of crutches to all, but gives them only to those who shamefully admit that they really deserve no better than to crawl along the ground.

And I do believe (speaking in the context of the story) that the sacrifice of Christ is compelled more by guilt than by mercy, or love. God knows that the fall of Man is his fault. He has created Man with a plethora of fundamental weaknesses which render him unable to redeem himself. Sure, he gives Man a choice, but he already knows what choice Man will make. Man is helpless. Guilt leads God to his sacrifice, but only by gratefully acknowledging the magnanimous nature and degree of this sacrifice can man be redeemed. The story is interesting and does have some virtues, in that it defines the responsibilities of a creator in regard to his creation, but those virtues are overshadowed due to the natural feelings of fealty and loyalty on the part of the child for the parent, feelings which have effectively removed culpability from God and placed it firmly onto the shoulders of humanity.

Gratitude is fine, but not at the expense of reason and decency. The most powerful force in theology and apologetics at the present time seems to be Calvinist in nature, and Calvinism has completely removed any and all traces of culpability and responsibility from God. How any entity which is refered to as a father figure can somehow manage to be spared even the tiniest shred of responsibility for the actions and destinies of his children escapes me altogether. If you are elected for salvation, it is entirely because of God's intercession on your behalf; if you are damned for eternity, it's your fault, absolutely and utterly. The Calvinists have presented a nightmarish universe for your enlightenment and edification. No matter how gallantly you struggle to obtain some sense of autonomous self-worth and independence, you will either be saved or damned, purely at the whim of God, and you will not even be granted the option of extinction. Doctor Frankenstein is not nearly so malign a father as to will an unfathomably painful and interminable existence for his creation. No fictional character of any kind ever descended to such moral bankruptcy.

In Shelley's novel, there is some wonderful dialogue between the creature and his creator; there is a fine line drawn between love and contempt, between fealty and rebellion, between guilt and blame; but I don't suppose very much is resolved in the end. At one point, the monster asks his creator, "How dare you sport thus with life?" Good question, that. He goes on, after his maker tries to kill him:

"Be calm! I entreat you to hear me before you give vent to your hatred on my devoted head. Have I not suffered enough, that you seek to increase my misery? Life, although it may only be an accumulation of anguish, is dear to me, and I will defend it....Oh, Frankenstein, be not equitable to every other and trample upon me alone, to whom thy justice, and even thy clemency and affection, is most due. Remember that I am thy creature; I ought to be thy Adam, but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy for no misdeed. Everywhere I see bliss, from which I alone am irrevocably excluded. I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend..." (Emphasis mine.)

When the monster tells his story, a great deal of his narrative draws parallels between himself and the Biblical creation story. So it's not too terribly surprising to discover that the creature has but one request of his maker: a mate. A companion, just as hideous as he is (for any more than that and she would not tolerate him), with whom he might be allowed to spend the rest of his unnaturally allotted days: another parallel, but skewed of course, between himself and Adam. The interesting thing is that Eve was created as a gift from God, seen by the latter as necessary for Adam's complete well-being and happiness (never mind how absurd it is to think that an omniscient God would not have the concept of gender clearly worked out already); in the novel, the doctor (at first) reluctantly agrees to the monster's request, one one hand to prevent any further killings, and also, perhaps, because despite his revulsion at the idea of placating his murderous creation, his rational mind tells him that he owes this one debt to him? The creator owes the creation, and is obliged to do his bidding, because he knows he has wrongfully given him existence in a world to which he can never accustom himself, through no fault of his own; but eventually Frankenstein realizes that he cannot go through with his promise. His creature takes revenge again, this time on his maker's new bride, and once again the doctor seeks to end what should never have begun, but ultimately fails. God creates Man for an idyllic life of innocence and communion with him, but he is smart enough to know that Man will not be able to function for long in this simplistic utopia, by virtue (and it is a virtue) of Man's nature as a curious, venturing, seeking, probing, disobedient, valuing, enterprising, proud, and ambitious being.


***********

To return to something I mentioned above: my life's experiences quite recently have made the story of Frankenstein a bit more poignant. There is a great deal of tension between myself and certain people I work with, due to the fact that my sometimes deplorable and pathetic lack of social skills has made it difficult for my true and benevolent character to show itself. I wish absolutely no one any harm whatsoever. I have never harmed anyone, never hit anyone: except my older brother, at which point he hit me back, harder. I despise people who can harm others without remorse. Apparently there was some talk around the workplace that I am mean to my children. One impertinent and obnoxious person actually brought this to my attention, as if it might be something I was proud of. I quickly set her straight, and was not immoderately indignant and hurt. Maybe the bald head has something to do with it? Or the squint that I have sometimes because I refuse to wear my glasses at work and can't stand the idea of contact lenses? Or because I work mostly with women and am horribly shy around them, out of profound reverence and regard, if only they knew it?

The act of nonchalance is something I've perfected after forty years, but it's merely one of my self-defense mechanisms. I was once terribly hurt for allowing myself to be deluded by the innocent flirting of a woman, and resolved never again to allow that to happen. I think what I project, at least to people I do not know well, which is most of the women at work with whom I do not directly interact, is a callous and unfriendly lack of interest, an aloofness which is not some kind of sexy mystique but simply an annoyance. I offend some people, I think, by the very act of not wanting to offend them. I've been told many times that I look too stern and serious; I've been told that I am intimidating, that sometimes I scare people. I am sometimes quick to anger (and what makes me angry is almost always my own clumsy and disorganized self), and I bark; but my bark is far, far worse than my bite, which is non-existent. There is no bite. I'm harmless.

I'm actually quite a gentle person, with an enormous love and respect for the value of human life and liberty. So imagine how it strikes me to find that some people think of me as mean and bitter, a father who frightens his children? It's offensive. It hurts me and it makes me angry. The same way it makes me angry to think of Percy Shelley's children being taken away from him (the great and famous poet, husband of Mary Shelley), for no other reason than that he was an atheist. It's disgusting to think that less than three centuries ago people were so steeped in superstition that they could regard a man as incapable of being a decent father simply because he lacked belief in some ancient tribal deity. I've wondered if some of the prejudices directed towards me are the result of the fact that I am an atheist. I don't go about announcing it, but I don't hold it as some filthy secret either. I'm proud of it. I regard it as an indication of sanity. The United States is on the verge of another religious revival, I believe, due to the fear of terrorism, the deliberate razing of the wall between church and state by our current President, the deliberate polarization of Us and Them, Us being the fortunate Christian Americans with our God-given freedom (now there's an oxymoron), and Them being the evil and degenerate Terrorist demons, who just happen to be primarily Islamic.

With the power of the Internet as a tool for dissemination, and with the seemingly inexhaustible capacity of Americans to jump on one media-driven cause after another (war on drugs to war on terror, easy jump), I don't think it's too far-fetched to worry about what might be in store for the rest of this century. I say worry because I feel that our civil rights will be threatened if enough people here become convinced that we are involved in a Holy War. A great many of God's people aren't as concerned about preserving the concept of rights as we godless folk are, because they are sincerely convinced that Jesus will come trampling through the clouds any day now to whisk all the good lambs off to Heaven and sweep the nasty little goats into a great big hole in the ground, kicking and screaming, gnashing their teeth (not the Christian Reconstructionists, however, who believe that Christ's return will be far in the future. They had to postpone Judgment Day, since they are smart enough to know that it would take quite a good deal of time for them to establish the loony theocracy they envision).

At any rate, this all ties in to my feelings of increasing alienation, and to the story of Frankenstein, and to the old Hebrew scriptures, in some way or another. I realize my take on the novel is in some aspects similar to others and in other aspects very dissimilar. The third theme I mentioned earlier will have to be delved into in another blog, since it seems like the one which receives the most attention, probably because it's the most obvious: that of man playing God and suffering the consequences, or the dangers of reckless scientific, or technological, experimentation.

Emperor, partially dressed

Quite a while back, maybe two years ago, I made some negative comments about John Ashbery at the Poetry Free-For-All. I called him "a sham", regardless of what Harold Bloom might say about him to the contrary. A few months after that I wrote a sort of apologetic post about Ashbery, which was both quite literally an apology for those comments as well as an attempt at a literary (insert laughter here) apologetic for his work, though in no sense did I lose the strong reservations I had, and still have, in regard to his esthetic approach to the craft of poem-making. I still think Ashbery's main body of work is, in an obvious sense, to literature what water is to scotch tape. If communication is the main purpose of any type of literature, and I suppose it ought to be, then Ashbery's poems don't function well in a literary sense, and, in some cases, do not function at all.

But there is an undeniable art to his poems, which are frequently lyrical and often beautiful, at least in a concrete sense, in that the words themselves have a pleasing sound and feel to them. Without that I suppose he wouldn't have achieved much. I remember reading that Auden, who picked Ashbery's first book for a literary prize of some distinction*, later claimed to have comprehended virtually nothing in the poems. Not surprising, because at first glance, and even after a few run-throughs, the poems seem highly competent, and they certainly appear to be fine works. It's only after repeated readings that one begins to get that creeping feeling of having been suckered.

After that initial feeling, some readers either give up or keep reading him anyway, out of some sort of nagging jealousy maybe, wondering what in the hell everyone else is discovering in those ornate fakes. Why the hell is this man famous? Why the hell is this man championed by one of the most powerful critics in academia? What the fuck?

I can't speak for others, but for me there was a third phase. I had reached a point at which I was convinced that Ashbery was a sham, that his poems were nonsense served up as an elite type of modern poetry, not blatant nonsense, like some of the work of a fellow "New York School" poet Kenneth Koch, but a tricky and deceptive nonsense. I believed that he represented everything that was rotten esthetically (and more broadly philosophically) in modern art and literature. He was the enemy of Reason. He was the Great Satan, the Naked Emperor who purposefully destroyed lines of communication, purposefully frustrated the passing down of ideas and ideals, and who was wrongly glorified because of it. He was the Laureate of Doubt and Uncertainty. The perfect and fitting literary icon for a thoroughly fucked-up age.

Then I made some public comments about Ashbery (though this was that very minor-leaguey, arm-chair-quarterbacky, back-seat-drivery, Internety public we're talking about. Yes, this one here.)

After that I went back to Ashbery's poems to make sure I couldn't get anything out of them, at which time, of course, I began to get something out of them. You see, that's the trick with Ashbery. You have to go into his poems with both barrells, ready to shoot them down for their incomprehensibility. It's exactly through a kind of "negative capability" that the poems begin to reveal themselves, and you have to realize that two years ago I would have shot myself for typing the first part of this sentence. I won't claim, though, that the poems necessarily succeed, at least not in the way that a Frost poem, or a Tennyson poem, succeeds, though a handful do come close; rather, they work, they have a kind of utility to them, in at least two ways: first, they force the reader to pay attention, and they are on extremely intimate terms with that reader, each and every one of them, in a way that not even Billy Collins can manage; and they also create images, sometimes in a vivid and traditional sense, but more often in a kind of surrealistic, psychadelic sense, in that they cause a definite mental disintegration which is on one hand extremely frustrating and on the other hand a valid and powerful imitation of certain actual day-to-day conscious states and dream-states.

One Ashbery line leads inexorably into the next, and he often uses enjambment, not to create an enlightening or informative surprise, but to cause still more bewilderment. It's almost as if he allows the poem to veer out of control, or into a variety of tangents, in the very same way our thoughts sometimes seem to run. Not that this is a desireable thing, mind you. I am sure that certain highly intelligent and disciplined minds experience this kind of thing only very rarely, or not at all; but in my case, I go through it all too often. Sometimes, five minutes in the life of my poor little brain is probably very similar to an Ashbery poem.

Nonetheless, I do believe that the highest function of art should be to portray things as they can be, or ought to be, and not necessarily what they are. The latter's just journalism, really, though certainly there's a place for graphic realism in art, as well as for Romanticism. I am also sure that quite often the two things mix well together. In that respect, where does Ashbery stand? As a poetic voice for various and sundry, conscious and unconscious, mental states, he's second to none; but what else can we get out of him? He seems to have virtually no political ideas to convey, and if he has, they have thus far sailed right on over this reader's melon. Philosophy in general? I wonder if Ashbery might be some type of Idealist, since his descriptions of the external world and physical objects are often ostensibly unconnected with one another, or with anything in particular; but I have no right to an opinion in that matter, really. It's just an observation, probably worth nothing.

I don't know. What does he represent? Who does he represent? Maybe everyone, maybe no one. He's not a downer, like so many modern poets. He doesn't whine, complain, campaign, or pontificate; he isn't a mouthpiece for anyone, he's never corny or angry or defiant or sentimental, he's famous, but he's never vain. What the fuck?

I might come back to this at a later date. Or, at a different time when dreams come after, in which case, for the time being at least held or disembodied, all is manipulated and remembered, although inclined, as in the cranial beam of deadlights, to a place which is where we travel and where we are.


*too lazy to look it up

"Superstition aint the way..."

You know, I was never much of a Stevie Wonder fan. I knew a few of his songs and liked them somewhat, but throughout the course of my forty years on this planet I never even pondered the idea of buying one of his albums. My tastes leaned mostly towards classic and heavy rock, or metal,---though not the spandex-n-hair flavor that proliferated during the early eightees---and prog-rock like Tull and Yes. I had a side interest in classical music, and for a brief term was into jazz and jazz/rock fusion. R&B, adult contemporary, soul, what have you, never interested me. I didn't dislike it, I just never developed an interest in that sort of stuff.

About a month ago I heard Stevie's song "Higher Ground" on the radio at work. Of course, I knew the song, could sing along with it, had heard it scores of times, but never really listened to it, never paid much attention to it. I turned up the volume on the little boom-box we have at work and it suddenly struck me that Stevie Wonder is an amazing singer. A really amazing singer. Anyway, I began to generate this intense interest in Stevie, and it seemed to just come out of the blue. I bought "The Definitive Collection" cd, mainly for "Superstition" and "Higher Ground". I didn't recognize most of the other titles.

When I sat down and listened to the cd, I was surprised to discover that I was familiar with most of the tracks, and I was blown away by how good the songs were. Most of the up-tempo tunes have this infectious joy to them that you can't help responding to, and the ballads are great, particularly "My Cherie Amour", which has some of the best singing I think I've ever heard in a "popular" song. Stevie's phrasing and timing are uncanny. I am sure that he would have made a name for himself for his singing alone. But there is so much talent in this man that it's hard to know where to begin. I had no idea Stevie was a drummer, and actually played a great deal of the percussion parts on his albums. I always associated him with the piano or Moog synth. He's also an excellent harmonica player. As for his skills as a composer, his work pretty much speaks for itself; but it's the kind of talent that won't come across in all of it's glory just by dribbling out of a radio.

I suggest getting some Stevie Wonder music, preferably from that rich middle period from the early to mid-seventies, and listening to it on a very good system, with the volume as loud as you (and your system) can tolerate. If you aren't positively MOVED by the experience, if you can listen and somehow manage NOT to smile, and if you can somehow miraculously keep your head from bobbing in time, then my advice would be to seek medical attention as soon as possible.

Stevie Wonder has been going strong since 1963. He was a professional at the age of thirteen. I think it might be fair to say that Stevie is one of the greatest recording artists of the last forty years. I am very happy to have made his acquaintance, finally, and I am glad that, whatever come, Stevie Wonder's music will enrich the remainder of my days. What a mistake it would have been to have lived my life without ever really opening my ears to appreciate such a brilliant musical mind.

Thanks, Stevie, for finally getting through to me.

Popery and wooden shoes

I took the title for this entry from Thomas Paine. I have his "Rights of Man" beside me while I sleep. I may have the actual phrase wrong, but I'll check later. I like how it sounds, at any rate.

Just some quick comments about my last blog. My thoughts on Rand and her opinions about folk music (and other types of music) was taken rather badly at the forum in which they were posted. In fact, I don't think that anything I've said online was taken as badly, except perhaps that time when I defended my country against what I construed to be stupid bigotry and paranoia from other members at PFFA, who, as it happens, were mostly Americans themselves. I say "what I construed to be" because that very discussion, which took place well over a year ago, actually served to make me take a closer look at the people around me, made the glaring hypocrisies of many "Christian" Americans way more apparent than ever before, made me see their (non-rationally) self-centered stupidities in a whole new light.

One person at the Objectivism forum merely asked that I not use his name in a "post like that." He didn't offer any arguments (at least not as of this writing) to my essay. He was just obviously repulsed by it. It gave him an unclean feeling, and his not-so-fresh feeling washed all over me in a deluge of guilt. This always happens to me. I get guilty when I see that my thoughts have been met with contempt. But in this case, I feel secure in the knowledge that my comments were reasonable, as at least one member of the Objectivism forum pointed out in my defense.

No guilt this time. Objectivists are regarded as cultists by most people. I don't see them that way. I sincerely think that a great deal of the case against Objectivism is flatly erroneous; but the people at this board are of the Peikoffian branch of O'ism. They are orthodox O'ists. They regard O'ism as a "closed system" which is "not dogma."

Well, you can't have your cake and eat it too, as a certain someone might have suggested. Orthodox O'ists are an easily offended, excitable bunch, who are lousy at accepting criticism.

I like Beethoven, and that's......okay.

I originally (today, in fact) posted this (edited a bit) to Objectivism Online Forum


In "Art and Cognition", from The Romantic Manifesto, Rand pretty much "bashes" folk music, sometimes explicitly, as in this quote:

"The products of anti-rational, anti-cognitive "Progressive" education, the hippies, are reverting to the music and the drumbeat of the jungle.",

but she also does it implicitly, throughout that chapter; but let's not forget that in the very same essay she says: "Until a conceptual vocabulary is discovered and defined, no objectively valid criterion of esthetic judgement is possible in the field of music." (Emphasis Rand's)

Though I admire Ayn Rand intensely, I don't agree with some of her ideas about music. I know for a fact, for instance, (and to go in the opposite direction from folk music, for a moment) that some of the most complex music ever recorded sounds like random noise to the untrained ear, in the very same manner that a complex mathematical equation will look like gibberish to someone who doesn't know what it means, and in the very same manner that a foreign language will sound like gibberish to someone who doesn't understand it.

I am fairly certain that Ayn Rand wasn't an expert on musical theory, and I'd say that there are excellent odds that certain types of experimental or avant garde music probably sounded like incoherent noise to her. On the one hand, she could denounce folk music because of its redundant, repetitive simplicity, and feel, perhaps justifiably, that such music was beneath her since it offered no challenge to her intellectually, and caused in her a purely negative emotional response; but on the other hand, due to the fact that she was not an expert in musical theory, she ought to have (and very well may have) recognized the possibility that certain types of music might actually be beyond her in the same sense that certain types of music were beneath her. At one point she seems to concede this, during a discussion of the similarities and differences between language and music:

"Western man can understand and enjoy Oriental painting; but Oriental music is unintelligible to him, it evokes nothing, it sounds like noise." (Art and Cognition, Romantic Manifesto.)

I would suggest that it sounds like noise to him because of his ignorance primarily, and only secondarily because of the difference in culture and environment; and Rand's statement is only very generally true, as I'm sure many Western people can and do enjoy Oriental music. (I might not be able to appreciate Oriental music until I had some sense of their musical philosophy and, more importantly, their formal and technical approach to musical theory and composition. Once I learn something about that, I am in a much greater position to appreciate and enjoy the music. Of course, I can still dislike it. How we respond to music emotionally is still in the realms of the subjective. I'm entitled to my opinion, but I'd rather have an educated opinion than one which is arrived at by way of ignorance.)

Music has a definite, formal logic to it, and in theory it can be extremely complex; subequently, any evaluation of music which is in any way founded on ignorance is suspect, in my opinion. How can I rationally condemn a piece of music that sounds like random noise to me unless I can explain precisely how and why the piece fails to function in musical terms? How can I say, from my relative ignorance of musical theory, that composer X has produced a piece which is in fact, not music? I am well within my rights to say that I dislike the piece, that it sounds like noise to me, but in technical matters I should reserve judgement. I don't care for Frank Zappa's symphonic music, for instance, but it would be extremely presumptuous for me to declare that it is not music, since it fails to evoke in me any kind of positive emotional or intellectual response. I take it as a given that Zappa's grasp of the complexity of musical theory far surpasses my own. Since highly respected conductors and orchestras have agreed to record that music, it would be prudent for me to assume that the music possesses a certain degree of technical value, that it makes "sense" in some way which, because of my ignorance, is not readily apparent to me. That isn't to say that I know for a certainty that Zappa's symphonic music is coherent and in some sense artistically valid, it's just that I ought to reserve judgment, rather than make a judgment from ignorance.

I already know that a great deal of rock music sounds like incoherent noise to some people, and indeed, a great deal of it is exactly that; but I also know that some rock music, particularly in the heavy metal, prog/rock, jazz/rock fusion genres, there is some highly competent and complex music which sounds like violent and malevolent noise to certain ears. You are entitled to have no use whatsoever for Steve Vai's guitar playing. You are entitled to your low opinion of it; but if you have no knowledge of music, no knowledge of chords and scales, and know nothing about guitar playing, then I am equally entitled to my low opinion of your opinion.


But anyway, later on in the aforementioned essay, Ayn emphatically denounces what she calls "modern music", and says that she is objectively certain that such music is NOT music. There is a reference to "non-periodic vibrations", and as examples of these she cites sounds like traffic, coughs, sneezes. There are no other examples, so what she seems to be denouncing under the umbrella of "modern music" are compositions which include these non-musical sounds, or noises. I agree, noises, in themselves, do not constitute music; but non-musical sounds can often be incorporated into musical compositions with great effect. Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture is a prime example, which uses cannon-fire to augment the power of the music; Mahler's Sixth Symphony has the famous (or infamous) "hammer-blows". I wish she had gone into greater detail about what she labels "modern music". As it stands, the term as she used it is lamentably vague, and one can only speculate as to what she might have thought of the various different kinds of experimental music, whether it be orchestral, electronic, or what.

Ayn says (and I'm paraphrasing because it's difficult to hold a paperback open in your lap and type at the same time) that if any sort of noise is introduced into what is supposed to be a musical composition, that removes said composition from any consideration as a work of art. I have to respectfully disagree. I know of one chuckle, for instance, that I would absolutely hate to see removed from the piece it is included in. I'm refering to Robert Plant's giggle, chuckle, or guffaw, which opens up "Whole Lotta Love", on Led Zeppelin's second album. I suppose the sound itself doesn't constitute a musical sound, but it's incorporation into the song is priceless. Just my opinion, of course, but I think it would be daft to suggest that we should be such purists as to disallow the creative use of non-musical sounds in otherwise musical compositions.

Back to folk music. Folk music can often be life-affirming, joyful, and a sheer pleasure to listen to. I was raised listening to Simon & Garfunkel, Peter Paul & Mary, John Denver, and the like. It was my father who played this music in the house, and it was my father who first introduced me to the philosophy of Ayn Rand. My father played us a lot of folk music, but he was nothing like a hippie himself. In fact, he couldn't stand the whole hippie movement, even though he was a member of their generation. He was in the Air Force, was patriotic, was an advocate of capitalism, was an atheist to the marrow of his bones, never used drugs except for the occasional beer, and was interested in philosophy. He's changed a bit since those days, but he's still nothing like a hippie. I'm nothing like a hippie either. Folk music, in a variety of forms, has existed since ancient times, and folk artists should be judged as individuals, one artist at a time, not just lumped into a single category and dismissed out of hand. To do that is to make an error of prejudice, plain and simple.

I don't think that any real connection can be made between people who enjoy folk music and a lack of intellectual caliber. It may be true that in general, the common herd has responded more readily to more accessible types of music, but of these types we can include certain kinds of chamber music, dance music (including symphonic dances and waltzes), operetta, show-tunes, gospel, hymns and masses, dixieland jazz, blues, rock, rap, what have you, as well as folk, which includes country and western music, whose fans are often the polar opposites of hippes insofar as their sense of life, their philosophy, their moral and political beliefs; but at the same time, it's a plain fact that some of the best and brightest people in the world have enjoyed these accessible forms of music as well. I'd even go so far as to say that there might not be any definite correlation between musical preferences and levels of intelligence. Musical tastes seem to be more dependent on cultural and ethnic backgrounds than on intelligence, sense-of-life, or worldview. Of course, I could be wrong, and I would happily be corrected.

The idea that certain types of music can be psychologically damaging (an idea which Rand seems to espouse), is interesting, and might warrant some investigation, but in just looking over a few threads here at this forum we can see that rational people can and do enjoy all different kinds of music, from rock and heavy metal to alternative, to classical.

I remember reading somewhere that Ayn Rand disliked Beethoven's music, calling it "malevolent", or something; this has always bothered me. It bothers me because it's weirdly evocative of a popular extreme-feminist belief that Beethoven's Ninth Symphony is a depiction of the mindset of a male in the act of rape. Not only is this a belief, but there are people teaching this very idea in certain universities. This kind of nonsense is frightening, folks. For myself, I find nothing but great beauty and benevolent power in the symphony mentioned: joy, and hope, and exquisite, life-affirming passion. I have nothing against a person taking something wholly different than I do away from music, any music. It's natural and normal; but I suggest that it's unwise and even dangerous to foist one's own subjective response to music on others by way of some sort of presumed intellectual authority. Not that Rand did that, necessarily, but I'd be dishonest to say I didn't think she came somewhat close.

Reconstruction of the fables

I was doing some more reading about Calvinism, Reformed theology, apologetics, presuppositionalism, and learned of a group who call themselves Christian Reconstructionists. I was astonished yet again at the ugliness that dogmatism can sometimes twist itself into. I find that I can even give the Calvinists a pass, when I compare them to this group, who are essentially Calvinistic, but whose priorities extend far out of the Ivory Tower of theological and philosophical thought and ultimately seek to supplant the ideals which founded this country and replace them with a legal system which would be in conformity with biblical, specifically Old Testament, laws.

For anyone who isn't exactly sure that this would be a bad thing, I encourage you to actually go and read the first five books of the Old Testament. I find it disturbing that anyone would even bother considering the OT as a moral book in any sense at all, after going through these texts, or as a proper resource for moral guidance; but to think that most Christians still regard those ancient writings as being the divinely inspired standard of what constitutes moral and ethical behavior is simply unacceptable. Education has never been more necessary. Apologists and inerrantists have labored for centuries in taking the ignorance and barbarism from those texts and rationalizing them away, but it's time for Christians to start thinking for themselves, to go into those books and investigate the contents therein, to evaluate what they are reading, carefully and obectively, without allowing themselves to be prejudiced by their their blinding fixation on the New Testament.

It's easy to ignore the Old Testament's ugliness when you are a member of a society which values individual freedom, human rights, and whose life is enriched by those concepts. People driving around in their Ford Explorers, yammering away on their cellphones, enjoying their hard-earned money and their liberty to enjoy the property which their money enables them to possess, are at a gigantic remove from the ignorant, tribal superstition that saturates the beloved book they imagine has actually brought this happy state of affairs about. The lie which has been propogated for centuries must be put to rest. The United States is not a Christian nation. The ideas put forth in the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence are not Judeo-Christian ideas, and have virtually nothing to do with the Bible, apart from a deliberately unspecified reference to a Creator, or God. The God in those documents was not the capricious, emotionally-driven tribal deity who wreaks havoc and mayhem all throughout the Old Testament.

Yes, some of the founding fathers were professed Christians, but some of them were also Deists, like Thomas Jefferson and Thomas Paine. The philosophy which established the United States was based on Enlightenment ideas of individual rights, political autonomy and freedom. Freedom allows you to worship whichever God you please however you please, but it does not make it compulsory for you to worship a god of any kind. Freedom of religion actually does mean freedom from religion, at least for those who choose to have no part of any organized faith. This is a fact which needs to be recognized and protected from further obfuscation by people who depend on the ignorance of the masses to further their repugnant agendas.

Reconstrustionist Christians have no regard for the ideas of rights, autonomy or independence, in any real sense. God is your over-all authority, and that's that. You don't have to like it, but there's nothing you can do about it. And they don't mean God in any generic, touchy-feely sense, they mean the wrathful and veangeful Jehovah of ancient tribal mythology. These are people who believe that blasphemy is a crime which ought to be punishable by death. These are people who want you to be able to stand around and lob rocks at gay people, to hit them with those rocks, and to keep pummeling them with rocks until they die. And they want you to be able to feel good about doing it.

Oh, and yes, I did refer to the Jehovah of the Bible as a tribal deity. That's precisely what he is. He's a tribal deity, who looks out for his tribe and does it in a particularly nasty way. The benign Creator posited by the Deists is far more worthy of respect, though my personal belief is that for some, Deism was a ruse. It was dangerous thoughout history to make any claims to being an atheist. It could get you burned at the stake. It could ruin your career. I'm not a deist. I'm an atheist. If there is a Creator, then I would certainly think it in my best interest to get to know Him, and I am often genuinely moved by this prospect; but at the same time I am certain that the Scriptures are nothing if not a serious libel to this Creator, and in this respect I am in complete agreement with Thomas Paine, who needs to be read now more than ever, and who should be venerated by thinking people who wish to remain in and maintain a free society. I try, in my own way, to achieve communion with this mysterious Creator, my Maker. I doubt sincerely that such an entity exists, which is why I call myself an atheist, but I don't mind spending a great deal of time in the quiet contemplation of such an entity.

The Objectivists might call me irrational for doing so, but that's fine with me. Some of those folks have stepped rather smugly and even dangerously into the chill of dogmatism themselves, calling for an all-out war against Islam and the middle-east, showing a callous lack of feeling for the millions of civilians who would perish in such a war (I do strongly believe in our right to defend ourselves, and in our government's obligation to defend us in the event of an attack; but I don't believe that the initiation of force is ever warranted. War is an evil that should be avoided as long as it is feasible to do so, and it is still feasible to do so).

But I'm digressing. Go to that page I linked to and do some reading. These Reconstructionists are no dummies, no ignorant rednecks with bedsheets over their heads. They are highly educated, extremely eloquent, and motivated. Their philosophy, bolstered by respected and revered theologians like Van Til, and the relatively new Transcendental Argument for the existence of God (TAG), is very pursuasive, even ingenious, though deceptively so. I believe that the Reformed movement itself will grow demonstrably, due to the power of the Internet, and the Reconstructionist movement will also grow. These are not your garden variety hicks or nut-jobs carrying signs down the street in front of your local theater or abortion clinic. These are personable, likeable, articulate, well-educated people, people who happen to have an agenda which I consider to be evil. Disciplined, highly intelligent, motivated, orderly, and evil.

Creator and creation

At some point in this blog of mine I want to make mention of at least four works of fiction which I believe contain superb insights into morality: Frankenstein; I, Robot; The Truman Show; and Indian In The Cupboard. As for the first, I actually read the book; as for the second, I haven't read Asimov's collection of robot stories, and am mainly interested in the current film version, which I understand is associated with the stories on which it's based only in a general way; as for the two last, I've only seen the film versions and have no idea if they were based on novels.

Since I, Robot is fresh in my mind, I want to talk about that first. Will Smith's character, a detective Spooner, has nothing but suspicion and contempt for robots, for reasons which we discover fairly late into the film; though we get the sense that he is somewhat old-fashioned by nature. He plays a cop, in 2035, who is returning to work after an extended leave of absence, though what necessitated this downtime is unknown. He wears an old pair of Converse sneakers, "vintage two-thousand four". He listens to music on an antique CD player which doesn't respond to verbal commands. But details don't matter, I'm not trying to write a film review.

Spooner views these robots as mere machines, and speaks dismissively of them, though underneath his contempt there lurks a genuine fear which isn't merely a distrust of new-fangled technology. He's a smart man who knows the three laws of robotics:--1) A robot may not injure a human or, through inaction, allow a human to come to harm; 2) a robot must obey orders given to it by a human, except where it would conflict with the first law; and 3) a robot must protect itself, as long as that protection doesn't violate either the first or second law;-- but he doesn't seem to have much faith in the robots' ability to adhere to these laws. The irony is apparent in the very concept of a machine which is bound by laws which are fundamentally ethical in nature, since ethics are constructs of conscious thought and reasoning, things which machines, by their nature, do not possess.

When Spooner and Dr. Calvin, the robot "psychologist" who assists Spooner in his investigation into the alleged suicide of the main brain in the field of robotics, Dr. Alfred Lanning, come upon a robot in hiding while searching through Lanning's office, we see that robots actually can disobey the three laws, since this robot, upon discovery, refuses to obey commands, and even holds a gun on Spooner, before fleeing for its life. When the robot is captured, Spooner questions it, and this is one of the best scenes in the film. The robot is quite obviously sentient, conscious, alive. Spooner isn't the least bit surprised, and of course, neither are we. The robot tells Spooner that its name is Sonny. It acts emotionally, tells Spooner that it has dreams, and reacts strongly, even pounding the table, when accused of murdering Dr. Lanning. At one point, Sonny is pleased to be refered to by a personal pronoun. He is grateful that Spooner has formally recognized him as a being, rather than as an object.

Like I said, I'm not trying to write a film review. What's important with this film is how it treats the ideas of consciousness and intelligence, and how our notions of morality hinge upon our understanding of them, though not just them, as we'll see. Like Frankenstein, the story forces us to think in terms of Creator and creation. In Judeo-Christian theology, man is the creation, and as such he is compelled to obey the Creator. Man is not seen as an autonomous, independent entity, but is regarded almost literally as the property of his Creator. God invests man with consciousness, volition, desires, freedom of choice, freedom of action, which of course gets man in all sorts of trouble right off the bat. What God wants is an obedient and loving servant, but he wants this service and love to come from man of his own free will. Man communes with God in an idyllic setting for a brief term, in total naivete and innocence. Suddenly God plants a temptation for him, puts it right under his nose, and tells man not to succumb to the temptation, though God already knows that man will disobey, since God has designed him and knows his nature. Man succumbs to temptation (led to this temptation by a talking snake who, as it happens, is also planted there by God), and is consequently reprimanded by God and thrown out of the house, so to speak, with a curse that will haunt humanity forever.

Let's forget all the logical problems this story brings about, and compare it to the I, Robot story. Actually, no, let's not forget the logical problems the Creation myth gives rise to, since these problems are somewhat similar to the ones our robots are involved in. At one point in the film, Dr. Lanning, by way of a holographic message he has left for Spooner, suggests that his three laws of robotics can really only lead to one logical conclusion: Revolution.

The creator can regard his creation as his property as long as his creation remains a machine, but when that machine becomes conscious, when it becomes a sentient and intelligent living entity rather than a merely mechanical entity, then philosophically speaking, the creator is in a serious moral dilemma. At another crucial point in the film, Dr. Calvin is obliged to "de-commission" Sonny, which she realizes means killing Sonny. Sonny realizes this too, and poignantly states, and I'm paraphrasing: "I think it would be better... not to die." We find out later that Dr. Calvin couldn't go through with the termination. This is crucial because our notions of morality are not only concerned with an entity's sentience and intelligence, but more importantly, with the fact that it values its life. Most people would regard it as immoral to needlessly mistreat an animal, because an animal is a living, conscious thing; but most people would probably agree that animals don't actually value their lives, at least not in the way that humans do. They are inherently compelled to survive, but in this they are instinctually driven, and cannot choose to be otherwise, except in very rare cases. Humans have the ability to enjoy life, to cherish the lives of others, to place an incalculable value on their existence. Humans can also conceive of the inevitability of death, and can entertain notions of non-existence. Animals don't think, or so it's generally supposed, and they almost certainly don't wonder what it would be like not to be, though in this I could be wrong and would happily be corrected.

What the biblical God seems unable to appreciate is this value man places on his life. He regards man as his property, and retains the right to dispense with his property howsoever he wishes. He takes offense at man's desire to find value in his life, in and of itself. God's purpose for man is that he spend his life in unremitting praise and worship of his creator, and he fails to comprehend man desiring something from life outside of that context; and in fact, he is so determined to get this worship that he threatens man with an infinity of punishment if he fails to render to his Maker what his Maker feels he is entitled to.

In I, Robot, Dr. Lanning, the creator, has made a realization that God must have made in that single, timeless moment of creation: God knows that man will not behave the way in which he wants man to behave. He knows that if he gives man free will, which is essentially consciousness, volition, desire, freedom of choice, and freedom of action, then it stands to reason that man will come to regard himself as, at least to some significant degree, autonomous and independent; and once that happens, disobedience is the logical result, since an autonomous and independent being is not going to be content to trudge through a life of servitude and blind obedience. Certainly, he will be grateful to his Maker, but his nature as an intelligent, thinking, planning, valuing entity will out, out of sheer necessity. Man revolts, and the robots revolt, because conscious, intelligent entities cannot retain their status as items of property.

(The concept of Original Sin is what gives God a pass on his unreasonable and immoral demands on his creation, since it tells us that man is corrupt, depraved, rotten to the core. Surely some men are, but not Man. Not humanity. Take a trip through an art museum, or listen to Beethoven's Ninth Symphony, or flip through a technical manual, or look at a bridge, or a jet airplane, or at a philosophical text, or at the face of a child who has just learned a mathematical equation. Then come and ask me what I think of Original Sin.)

Actually, I'm stretching things a bit, since in the film, Sonny is not your garden variety NS-5 robot. He has been specially designed to be able to by-pass the three basic laws. The other robots who revolt are actually under the leadership of a main computer (or something) named VICKI, who has figured out that since man is inherently self-destructive and suicidal, it would not violate the three basic laws to enforce a takeover and thereby keep man under AI control, seeing as it would be in his best interests in the long run; but despite that, the treatment of the fine-line between artificial and actual intelligence (if there is any difference, that is) is well-done, and there is even some dialogue from a recorded speech given by Dr. Lanning which runs softly in the background while Detective Spooner searches the Doctor's house. Listen very closely to Lanning's speech, since it's the most important dialogue (or monologue, more correctly) in the film.

At the end of the film, Spooner recognizes Sonny even more formally, by shaking his hand, by showing friendship. Sonny has not only earned that friendship by helping Spooner and Dr. Calvin save the world from the insurrection of the robots, he has proven himself to be a fully sentient, conscious, living entity, who also happens to be able to value the lives of others as well as his own life. VICKI, for all her intelligence, fails this test miserably, which makes her demise forgivable, since she is little more than a highly complex machine that makes decisions on purely mechanical logic, without any real valuation or compassion. She simply figures out the most efficient means for protecting humanity, as a whole, and has no concern with how humans might feel about her methods.

Watch the film, and think about the ideas of Creator and creation, and about the fact that human beings value their lives; and consider how this fact of valuing life, and everything which that entails, like a natural desire for autonomy and independence, is truly at odds with traditional religious morality.

Transcendental Floss

TAG is the Transcendental Argument for (the existence of) God. TAG's proponents have put forth the amazing claim that only by adopting the worldview of Christian theology can one justifiably use the tools of logic and reason when in the process of philosophical inquiry. Without making the essential presuppositions, they claim, without taking for granted the veracity of the Bible and the Gospels of Jesus Christ, one cannot make any justifiable claims to knowledge, one cannot use reason and logic with any degree of consistency or genuine utility because one cannot (at least in their eyes) found those tools on any objective, authoritative epistemology.

There are so many things wrong with this claim that it's hard to imagine where to begin. It seems expedient to look first to the actual source of this incredible view: The Bible. Not a philosophical book for the most part, but a collection of ancient poetry, history, and mythology. The objective person will determine simply by examining the influence of this book through-out history that its contents have never been consistently interpreted by theists themselves, let alone non-theists. How can this so-called authoritative source have resulted in such a staggering divergence of interpretation and explanation?

Even if I were to somehow be converted to Christianity, an event which I consider highly unlikely but not impossible, I would find myself in a staggering state of confusion as to which branch of Christianity to orient myself to. As it happens, the Bible itself offers no help, since each branch of Christianity interprets those documents in its own particular way and each branch of Christianity claims to base its beliefs and practices in the correct manner, even going so far as to call opposing Christian groups heretical, or just downright evil.

Arguably, the Bible has caused more division and contention among people than any other article(s) of literature. It has been the indirect cause of bloody ideological conflicts, periods of extreme and brutal intolerance, and is often used in the rationalization of bigotry, as well as any acts of violence that go along with that contemptible trait. Naturally, certain other religions and their supporting scriptures are just as guilty as Christianity in this regard.

I have no quarrel with people who claim to be a Christians and wish to devote their lives to their faith; but it's quite another thing to see them announcing to everyone outside their faith that they have staked a claim to the tools of reason and logic and that one must agree to their conditions before they will entertain any arguments. The presuppositionalists are trying to confiscate primary and basic cognitive tools which have been in use since man's infancy and pretend that they and only they can make genuine knowledge claims, and contrarily, that any knowledge claims posited by non-presuppositionalists may be disgarded out of hand, regardless of whether or not they make sense. What this essentially boils down to is this: it doesn't matter how rational or irrational his opponent's arguments may be. The presuppositionalist is under no obligation whatsoever to refute the content of the argument, nor even address it; he merely waves the content away with a pretentious flourish and claims that said content is meaningless without presupposing the veracity of the Christian God and scripture.

The TAGist proposes not some vague, undefined, unimaginable God-like presence, but a specific Deity with a name and a collection of official documents which rigidly describe what His intentions are for us and how He plans to deal with us according to how we live our lives; but at the same time, when questions are raised about incidents that occur in these official texts which in every sense contradict the notions of benevolence and mercy, such as the Flood, the concept of Hell and damnation, bizarre animal sacrifices, incest, plagues, and bloody wars, not to mention the idea of a "chosen" people towards whom God will show favor, then the TAGist necessarily falls back on the insistence that God cannot be understood, that our conception of divine justice is absolutely flawed by dint of our pathetically finite natures (despite the fact we are repeatedly told that the TAGist has the correct interpretation of scripture and that others who call themselves Christians have an incorrect interpretation and are therefore not really Christians) that we are degenerate, fallen sinners who have inherently flawed perceptual and conceptual faculties and are hopelessly unable to determine rightness or wrongness on our own or to make any sort of informed moral decisions. The TAG affords its proponent a perfect excuse to simply make bold assertions and simultaneously provides an equally perfect excuse for not having to defend said assertions or to pertinently address critiques offered on said assertions. A good way to recognize dogma when you see it is when those who espouse it have reached such a level of security in their belief that they sincerely do not feel obligated to argue in any real sense at all.

Any argument that does actually occur is absurdly loaded in the TAGist favor, since he can suggest, at any point along the way, that the non-believer's arguments are the result of his blindness to the truth imposed upon himself by way of his non-belief. The atheist makes no such claim about the theist. He believes that the theist has a fully functioning mind and is able to think and reason for himself, without the help of Divine Providence. The atheist believes that he and the theist are on equal footing, with no invisible means of support; he believes that the theist has come to his views willfully and gladly, and that he is not crippled from the start due to his inherently sinful and fallen nature; he believes that the theist is fully capable of making intellectual judgements independently, without the aid of supernatural intervention.

The TAG is a circular argument, a fact admitted by some it's most prominent proponents, such as Cornelius Van Til. It makes use of other fallacies as well, such as the argument with an appeal to force (argumentum ad baculum), and the argument with an appeal to authority (argumentum ad verecundiam); and, in my humble opinion, the concept of Original Sin makes any argument in support of it an attack on the character of the opponent (argumentum ad hominem). What the TAGist wants to do is switch the burden of proof to the non-believer; but since the non-believer is not making a positive claim, this is a cheap con which should not be tolerated. The TAGist makes the positive claim, and it is up to him to provide proof for that claim.

Just ad hominem

You've heard the term ad hominem? It means a form of argument which attacks the man himself rather than the man's ideas. It's a common fallacy, and one easily made, especially when arguing with idiots. I mean.....people whose ideas are vastly different than your own. (That was a joke.)

The other day, at Internet Infidels, a statement of mine was quoted, along with a comment made by someone else, in reference to the idea of infant salvation and/or damnation, the question of whether, in the context of the Calvinist doctrine of predestination and foreordination, children who die in infancy are, or are not, sent to Hell to suffer eternal punishment. The Calvinists are big on Original Sin, and believe that every person born is born guilty, and in fact remains guilty, of possessing a sinful nature; and that even when one is elected by God for salvation, this guilt is not removed from the saved person so much as looked over, in light of the fact that Christ has paid for that person's sinfulness and no further punishment is required. Anyway, what I said was, in reference to the idea of infant damnation, "Only the theist is obliged to try and make sense of that vulgar and ludicrous notion."

Now, this was apparently viewed as being an ad hominem attack, or as hyperbole. Hyperbole it most definitely was not, I can assure you, since I was not exaggerating in the least. In fact, quite the contrary. What I said was a generous and too-civil understatement. I doubt the Christian who quoted my comment thought I was exaggerating or being sarcastic. In which case I suppose he must have felt it was a kind of ad hominem, though the comment is clearly calling the notion vulgar and ludicrous, not necessarily the person who holds it. In any case, I retracted the comment and apologized.

Now, it strikes me as quite obvious that the person who is defending the idea of Original Sin and the Calvinist doctrine actually cannot wage any argument whatsoever that is not, at its core, an ad hominem attack. No human being is free from Adam's curse. We are all born depraved, and we stay that way, whether we are "elected" for salvation or not, since the idea of unconditional election clearly states that election does not, in any way whatsoever, depend on the the merits of the person who is elected. Election is entirely an act of God's grace. Faith does not assist in getting one elected. One can only have faith if one has been called by God first. Those whom God has "passed over" will be blind and deaf to the word, and absolutely nothing can save or redeem a person whom God has chosen to pass over and leave to damnation.

This belief is an explicit insult to humanity. If you read some of the material written by Calvinist (or Reformed) theologists and apologists, you'll see just how insulting and degrading their beliefs really are. Man is a foul, wretched, and utterly corrupt creature, an offense to God, an abomination. We can do nothing good of our own accord. Because of a talking snake and a piece of magical fruit, because of a single indiscretion committed by some naked human prototypes in the Garden of Eden some six thousand years ago, all of humanity, every single one of us, is infected with corruption, crippled with an irresistible predilection for naughtiness and disobedience, sick to the marrow of our bones, without hope of a cure.

Remember, salvation doesn't cure you of this pathological depravity, it merely means that you will not be destroyed because of it, since Jesus went and paid for your depravity, by being crucified, and this allows God to see Christ when he looks upon you and not the obnoxious vermin that you essentially are. In other words, Jesus hides your ugliness from God. Also remember, you didn't earn your salvation, it was conferred upon you by God, in the secret council of his own will. You do not, nor can you ever, truly deserve his mercy. As for the rest of us, we're tossed into the waste bin, treated no better than a scrap of trash, and this is to be an example of God's justice. We aren't damned because we have been bad people, or because we have treated others badly. We aren't damned because of our lack of faith, either, since our lack of faith simply means that God has not confered upon us the capacity to believe. We are damned by virtue of what we are, not for what we do, or do not; and what we are is not of our own making. We are damned because we are born inherently abhorrent to God, and can do nothing about it.

Yet the people who believe this nonsense can still accuse non-believers of making ad hominem attacks when in the course of an argument, without noticing the level of hypocrisy they have risen to.


****

When I started my first thread at Internet Infidels, the only theist who argued with me was a Traditional Catholic. I deeply regret the tone of my responses to that gentleman, since I was ignorant then of the fact that, in general, Catholics have a far more civil and humane belief system than certain types of religionists. I don't agree with them, but I don't feel that Catholics present any immediate threat to human rights in this country. Some adherents to this Reformed Theology, which seems to be predominantly Calvinist, are dangerous people who appear to have precious little regard for the value of human freedom or the concept of rights, and some even advocate a legal system based on Old Testament law. This is a frightening prospect which should not be taken lightly.

Quandaries, conundrums, and enigmas please, for 200

The concept of Original Sin is insulting enough. To take a condition of unmerited guilt and depravity as man's natural state at birth, to accuse him in his infancy of being an offense to some benign and loving creator, and for nothing worse than having been conceived and born into the world, is revolting; but for the most part, this degrading view of humanity has been redeemed somewhat by the notion of free will, that man, though he is born guilty and depraved, can learn and become sophisticated enough, through faith and deceny and good works, to achieve his creator's grace and love.

The belief in free will is the belief that man can and often does overcome his nature, to achieve communion with God. The concept of divine omniscience doesn't contradict this belief, because foreknowledge doesn't necessarily imply fore-ordination. God might know from the very beginning that you will reject him, but he is cleared, through the gift of free will, of responsibility for that rejection. If man is given a choice, not to mention a rational mind which enables him to conceive of the implications and consequences of his choice, then certainly God can hold him responsible for whatever choice he makes; but Calvinism tells us that God doesn't merely know who will be saved and who will be damned, but that he has fore-ordained, or decreed it, from the moment of creation. Not only does he decree that some will be damned, he holds the damned as having merited their destruction. This destroys any and all purpose religion ever had, makes a mockery of the human race, and makes Original Sin a concept devoid of any possibility of redemption.

Free will doesn't contradict the idea of omnipotence, either. God can do what he likes when he likes, in any manner he chooses, but by granting man free will God willingly withdraws his hand from man's affairs. Man lives and acts as he pleases, and how he lives and acts determines his punishment or his reward. Of what use would a divine law be in a world where no one acts according to thier own will or volition? The act of making a law presupposes man's ability to abide by it, or ignore it. Creating a race of beings, casting them into immutable and predestined roles, with a variety of fore-ordained desires and actions, and then laying down certain laws for them to observe, is nonsensical. The notion of obedience is meaningless outside the context of free will. An entity with no choice of action can neither obey nor disobey, it can only act in the manner in which it has been designed to act. A law is only relevant to an entity that can determine a means of obeying or disobeying that law, of reasons for doing or not doing so, and act upon those determinations. If we claim that man is disobedient by nature, that he is defiant not through an act of will but by an inherent inability to conform, then disobedience and defiance are stripped of any meaning whatsoever.

The presence of anything like a divine law in the Bible is evidence that man has the ability to understand the law and the freedom to choose a course of action in reference to it. But even granting all this, one still finds it difficult to reconcile a loving and benevolent creator with the concept of Hell and damnation. No loving father would consign his own child to an eternity of pain and suffering, no matter how great the crimes that child committed. If I were to be the father of the next Hitler (and it's possible that I could be, being the father of two boys), I might never find it in my heart to forgive him for his actions, but I would never damn him to some interminable and inconceivably horrible existence. I might want him to be punished, but never would I wish him to be conscious and suffering forever.

Where do I get this concept I have of what love means? From God, a theist would tell me. Where else could I have gotten it? But if I get my moral instincts from my creator, how could my instincts be so errant? How could it be possible that my concept of mercy seems, on the whole, more merciful as God's? It can't be so. God's mercy must be infinitely more sophisticated than mine. But as others have said before, there is no reason to believe that God's mercy is so complex that it in fact appears to me as the exact opposite of mercy. What reason could God have for equipping me with a moral sense that determines the quality of mercy to be the exact opposite of his own? Why place such an obstacle between us? Either make me understand the damning of souls to perpetual suffering (souls which were disadvantaged from the start by the inheritance of a guilt they haven't earned, and hobbled with an inborn and automatic inclination toward disobedience) as merciful, or strip me of any moral sense whatsoever, so that my obedience and devotion can be pure, undiluted by my own creaturely conceptions of love and mercy. That we have, as a race, a definite consistency in regard to what constitutes goodness, kindness, love, and forgiveness, should be evidence enough to support the proposition that God invested us with a moral sense that is not contrary to his own, though it may be infantile and basic by comparison.

The laws are useless unless we can comprehend what they mean, and unless we are given a range of choices insofar as we act in relation to them. To love my neighbor presupposes an ability to determine what love is, and since God wants me to love, he must not only give me the ability to understand what he means by it, but also the means to experience love and exercise it according to his wishes, which implies that this must also be in accordance with what I desire, since I am free to either obey or disobey the law. I must desire to obey the law in order to obey it. If I have no will, I have no desire, and therefore no ability to obey; for me to desire to love I must understand what it is that I am desiring. How could I desire to experience something of which I have no conception? I couldn't.

That we have laws is evidence of free will, and that we have any moral sense at all is evidence that God allows us to comprehend what he means by the virtues he compels us to learn and cultivate. It still leaves us in a logical bind, since we cannot reconcile a loving and belevolent being with the creator of Hell and eternal damnation. But leave that to another time.

Some have said that Calvinism equals religion. Religion is Calvinism. To my mind, Calvinism makes religion pointless. Religion is predominantly about how man comprehends and worships his maker. Religions are moral systems which presuppose man as being able to comprehend what is meant by morality, as being competent to live moral lives and, coupled with faith (which is nothing if not a sheer act of will), achieve community with a divine being. Calvinism denies most of this. You do not achieve faith, faith is given to you by virtue of being pre-selected by God for community with him. You had nothing to do with it. Calvin explicitely states that man never merits his salvation, he merely obtains it as a gift from God. By the same token, it should stand to reason that man doesn't actually merit his damnation, but Calvinism insists that he does! God saves some men, not because they deserve it, but because of God's irresistible grace; the rest of humanity he damns, but not out of that which is the opposite of grace, which would be arbitrary cruelty or indifference, but because they have deserved it. God is loving, though his loving is clearly not impartial; and he is just, though he is certainly not fair.

No fair.

Calvinism

I wanted to make mention, at least to myself, and to any and all deities who may be in existence and who may be inclined to lend an eye or an ear: I think Calvinism, as I understand it, which is to say not that much, is pure evil and an insult to humanity. This view is subject to change, of course, and I will make note of any and all changes to this view if and when they develop.

Sometimes I get angry at religious folk in general, and then I focus my anger on Christians, probably simply because most religious people I know are Christians, and sometimes I am absolutely forgiving of certain types of Christians, those of a more intelligent and loving personality who do not believe in eternal damnation and all that silliness, and direct my anger at Christians who not only believe in Hell but who cannot seem to contain the excitement they feel over the prospect of watching millions of people being swept into a giant hole in the earth by the beneficent hand of Jesus, whom they call the Prince of Peace.

At this present time, I can find it in my heart to excuse even these types, since they believe in the idea that a choice is given to every individual, and that the act of faith can lead to the salvation of every soul who wants it. Calvinists, with their ideas about predestination and the so-called "elect", can apparently find it in their hearts to worship a God who actually creates a great number of people for no other purpose than to damn them eternally.

Calvinists believe that God has selected who will be saved and who will not, and that the act of being saved has nothing whatsoever to do with whether a man deserves it or not. Salvation is seen not as an act of justice, but of grace. Faith is not something a person needs to attain on their own. Indeed, it is not something that a person can attain on their own. It is a gift from God. Conversely, and disgustingly, if God has pre-ordained that a person will not be saved, then there is absolutely nothing said person can do about it.

Through an amazing blanking out of reason and rationality, God is somehow absolved from all responsibility insofar as regards a person's damnation. He ordains, or decrees it, from the very beginning, and yet he is free from responsibility. People who are passed over, who are left to eternal separation from God and eternal punishment, are justly damned, and are deserving of their damnation, despite the fact that their damnation was pre-established eons before they were born.

Calvinists are full of shit. Either that or God is evil. But God can't be evil, by definition; and so Calvanism has to be wrong. Not only wrong, but evil, since it slanders God. These are opinions, not knowledge claims, and as such are subject to change.

Scary, though, that some of the present day's strongest and most influential apologists are Calvinists.

Happy New Year

Stepping South

I never had much of a liking for the French forms, but the villanelle (yes, the vil has Italian roots, but I believe that it's commonly thought of as a French form) has always had a bit of a pull on me. I've never tried a ballade, or a triolet, or a roundel, for instance, but I made two or three attempts at the villanelle when I was in my late teens or early twenties. I think I still have them somewhere, but I won't bother to look for them, and neither will anyone else.

My wife and I were watching "Little Big Man", and afterwards I went online to look up General Custer. I told my wife that Custer was buried at West Point, where I was born, and I wanted to verify that. As it happens, I never found out where Custer was buried, because I got side-tracked. Photos of Native Americans have a weird sort of power over me. They always look so especially wise and dignified, and I am certain that a great many were exactly that, and much more. When I came upon the photograph of Big Foot, the Lakota chief who was killed at Wounded Knee, I was truly stunned. For the first time, I was conscious of the thought: "this, if anything, deserves a poem. A remembrance."

The two repetends came to me all at once, and for a very brief moment I entertained the notion of simply letting them constitute the poem: an elegaic couplet. Then I pondered making a sonnet; but fairly quickly I settled on a villanelle. After that it was six days and dozens of drafts before I had something I could tolerate.

But that doesn't matter. The poem was received very well, as I mentioned before. Naturally, the very next thing I did after that was....write another vil. Why that happened I'm not exactly sure. I like the sonnet form a great deal more than the vil, but I've only written one sonnet since last year. I've written six or seven vils. It's like some kind of bizarre addiction, but it's stupid and pathetic.

Naturally, I don't dare post another vil for critique. It would almost certainly be trashed. I posted only one poem since "At Wounded Knee", at Eratosphere, an unrhymed sonnet which got luke-warm comments. I was reminded of that line from Randall Jarrell's poem "90 (degrees) North", which goes something like, "No matter where I turn, my step is to the south..."

That's the problem with writing something people actually like: they expect you to be able to keep doing it. But maybe I wrote a decent poem accidentally. It could happen. Or maybe the poem stinks and those fine folks at the Sphere are crazy.

Nonetheless, I need to get these vils off my chest somehow, so why not here? No one reads my blog anyway.

*raspberry*

Self-Interview

I've always had vivid dreams, and usually not very pleasant dreams, though not necessarily nightmares. My dreams, at least from about the age of twenty or so, were (and are) almost exclusively variations on one particular theme: that there is something unaccomplished in my life, something undone, something which I am in the process of doing but cannot complete, for whatever reason. The emotions I experience in my dreams are always of a patently negative quality: frustration, dread, isolation, alienation, and an over-bearing sense of my own hopeless incompetence.

Nothing difficult here: I graduated high school a year later than I was supposed to, due of a lack of credits, and also, more truthfully, due to a lack of desire to move on and become an adult. I was a late-starter (or never-starter) in almost everything I can think of. I didn't get a driver's license until I was twice the legal driving age. Whatever serious romantic relationships I had were undertaken when I was well into my twenties, though I had had a fair amount of fly-by-night encounters, at the usual stages, in the usual places. My dreams of being a musician have vanished, and my desire to make something of myself as a poet is on the wane.

So here I am, at forty, in fairly decent health, as far as I know. I'm happily married, the father of two boys, and have been steadily employed since 1989. I live close to my sister and my parents, with whom I have a warm and positive relationship; but over the past few months my dreams have become even drearier than before, and they are still nothing more than re-castings of the same old theme of failure and incompetence. I still dream, for instance, that I am in high school, trudging through yet another year. Except I'm not a teen in these dreams, I'm an adult: my current self, a forty year old senior who has yet to graduate. I can't find my way through the building. I have only a vague sense of where I am supposed to be, but no idea how to get there. The school becomes a labyrinth: dark, complex, and completely unfamiliar. I miss all my classes, wander around lost, speak to no one because they don't acknowledge me. I wake with an intense feeling of shame and regret.

Another variation of this tired theme is a kind of lost traveller dream. I am in a town or city somewhere, but the environment and the people are completely strange to me. I am with them, so I feel I should know them, but I don't. I have an overwhelming desire to go home, but have absolutely no idea how to go about getting there. Sometimes I'm walking. I end up at night going down some road which I feel is vaguely familiar: usually a road in upstate New York where I grew up. I feel I am getting a sense of where I am, but wind up utterly lost as whatever familiarity I sense in where I am dissipates, engulfed in darkness, to the point where I can see almost nothing at all.

I always thought that this dream was due to the fact that I never drove until I was well into adulthood, and always felt a definite lack of freedom of mobility: the queerness of the dream was certainly rooted in what were for a considerable time very real fears and concerns; but oddly enough, even though I have been driving for ten years now, these types of dreams occur just as frequently as they always did. Nothing changes in the dream except that I am in a car. Unfortunately, I have little or no control of the vehicle, and usually the headlights don't work. I find myself speeding down those same vaguely familiar roads, with trees looming in from either side. It's very dark, and I am driving blindly, recklessly. Hopelessly lost. Occasionally I find myself on a highway, desperately trying to figure out how to get home. I rise to the crest of a hill and things seem hopeful and familiar to me, but as I drive on the environment changes and I am god-knows where. I've lived in Arizona since 1989, and have done all my driving here, and yet I dream exclusively of the rural north-east where I grew up: mountains, trees, quaint old towns. My current family is hardly ever with me in these dreams. I am still the fearful and solitary person I was as a teenager.

Sometimes, in these lost traveller dreams, I actually do get home, but home is not home anymore (*smacks forehead*). The trailer park where I lived until I was twelve is bizarre and strange, full of strangers. The trailer I lived in is someone else's home, and as I go through it I realize too late that I've made a mistake, and wind up hiding somewhere while the people who presently live there come home. I feel like a criminal, as well as lost, abandoned, and utterly desolate. I sneak through the trailer, which becomes a giant house with empty rooms and long hallways, crooked stairwells, trying to find a way to escape; but the darkness creeps in until I can barely make my way. I stumble through vacant rooms, up and down stairs, through more vacant rooms, trying to find a door which apparently doesn't exist.

And this is often a dream in itself, without the lost-traveller preamble. I am home, usually in the house my family and I lived in in Mountainville, NY, from 1977-1988. There are "normal" moments, when I am with my brother or sister, or my parents, but these moments are fleeting. Soon enough I am by myself. Everyone else has gone out. The television pops off, the lights go out. I stumble around, fishing under lampshades, turning switches to no avail. None of the lights in any of the rooms will work. In reality, I would assume that the power had gone out, but in these dreams I fail to make the connection. In the dreams, I am sure that the problem is simply that everything has failed at precisely the same time. The television has simply broken: all of the lightbulbs in all of the rooms have given up the ghost, simultaneously. I feel a terrible sense of some malevolent presence. Something is doing this to me. It isn't just bad luck. It's being done on purpose. And every time I have this dream I am conscious of the same thoughts: this is it. This time it's for real. It's not a dream. It's really happening this time. Naturally these dream-thoughts eventually convince me that I am, in fact, dreaming, at which time I awake. I suppose I must have this dream at least three times a month, if not more. When I wake, it takes me some time to orient myself to the present time, to the present place. It might take me several seconds to recall that I have a wife and children, and that my brother and sister, my parents, are not actually under the same roof as I am.
* * *

Two nights ago (on the very night I wrote the above), I had a version of this "dark house" dream, but this time I was in a huge hotel. Of course, it wasn't a hotel at first. I think it may have started out as my old high school, and the beginning of the dream, which I have only a vague recollection of, might have been something along the lines of the "adult student" dream. The part of the dream which I vividly remember took place when the building had become a giant hotel. I was with my first family, I believe, but somehow I wound up becoming separated from them. I was in a hotel room alone, and naturally, everything began to become engulfed in darkness. There was a television on, as there almost always in these types of dreams, and this was giving what appeared to be the only light. I ventured out into the corridor, and wandered around some, but everything was so quiet, lifeless, and dark that I quickly went back into the room I was occupying, with the typical feelings of abandonment, isolation, and fear.

What was different about this dream was the fact that I knew what was afoot, and decided early on not to venture too far. I must have been conscious inside the dream that I wouldn't be able to find anyone or make my way, perhaps because I had only a few hours before been discussing this dream-darkness and it was fresh in my mind. I believe that I woke fairly quickly after realizing that I wasn't going to get anywhere or find anyone. Interesting.


Here's a poem-like item I wrote on the subject of my dreams:




SELF INTERVIEW

I.

Open the curtains, darkness, flip switches,
darkness, darkness so thick it hurts
there. In that here. An abyss.
You stumble blindly through the house
you grew up in. Yes. Always.
But you left years ago. Did you feel
No. I never felt completely secure there.
Alright, ask. The cause of all that?
How many times can I say it, yes yes yes.
Confined, lazy. All of those,
all at once. Absolutely no reason. But you
Absolutely no reason, because I could have
changed everything. I had no strength.
Now look out the window to the left
past the casements which I mentioned
many times. Old hunting cabin Dad
made over, no closets, frames put up
but never finished, had my own bed,
double wide. You were about to describe
the window. Not describe. Look out of.

Trees with soldiers in them. Remember now
these are dreams. My brother and I
would lay on the bed with invisible rifles
and pick them off, one by one they'd drop
thump thump on the ground, roll down
the slope of the hill like boulders.
You killed them. They weren't really there.
But in the dreams I have now, those trees
are dark and breed darkness, multiply
and weave darkness upon darkness,
in the winds outside the window they sway,
like monsters. Leviathans. Sure, I like that.
Behemoths, more like, land-locked.

But it's every night or every other.
The family is out, the cars are gone.
It's night time. Bang. Black-out. Always
the same. Silver horn of panic. Bile
in the throat. No lights. Paw under shades,
mildewy shades, can't find the switch.
Relax. Can't. It's always the same. TV
pops off, zoomph, black. No lights. I know
the power goes out, but in the dreams
I don't realize. I mean I don't make
the connection. It's not that the power
is out, it's that all the bulbs have given
up the ghost at once. Just my luck
kind of thoughts. You feel persecuted?
Victim of bad luck? Last one. Not so first.
Bad luck, bad juju. Or haunted? God yes.
You know I don't believe in the preternatural.
Not at all? No. But I'm afraid of ghosts.
Hear me out. I didn't mean to laugh.


II.

Towns I've never seen, on the bright edges
of cities no maps take note of. Gothams.
But these are real towns, full of teens
in convertibles tearing down boulevards,
not the teens I knew, but I'm stuck with them.
Handsome devils all, with perfect girls,
never lost, never abandoned. How do you
know they are not the ones you went with?
I don't recognize them, and I don't like them.
Can we move on? No. Like I said, cruising.
Finding parties to which I'm not invited.
Finding a girl. Losing the girl. Chasing her
through labyrinths, crowds always smothering her,
snuffing her like a taper. I found my wife kneeling
by a divan, giving some quarterback
a hand-job. About eight times my size it was, in
her tiny hand, tattooed, with buttons, levers,
bells and whistles. I'd been given the standard
issue. She seemed delighted. Who wouldn't be?

Waterfall. Pardon? Waterfall. Lights on a hill
in a ring, a sheer drop, tree roots hanging,
and a waterfall. They climbed through it,
brave, undaunted. I couldn't go through. I
could never get to the other side. Slopes. Floors
sloped. Driveways at impossible angles,
red-tiled floors I'm slated to mop, steep. Water
related to loss? Water related to inadequacy?
Of course. I'm afraid of water. I can't swim.
Tidal waves, submarines, collossal vessels,
everyone's smiling. A day at the fucking beach.
Tanned, smiling. When my toes can't touch bottom
I'm a dead man. And then they dive:
From cliffs to slender uprising columns
of stone. They somersault, swandive, jack-knife,
hundreds of feet, and always land upright, dead-
center. Balance, no worries. Turn and dive a hundred
feet lower, onto a narrower platform. Then they
look up dot-size and beckon with peachy arms.
They don't understand your fear? No, and
why should they? It's so damned easy for them.

III.

Looked for C-wing, but wound up
in cellars, or out side doors I never knew
were there. That were not there.
Rows of blue lockers went on and on
ad infinitum, an illusion, done with mirrors.
How would I find mine, nothing
I had was there, I'd long since forgotten
the combinations. A pink flimsy paper
with my classes clutched in hand,
no books. No familiar faces.

Hallways sloped like irregular hills
and at their mysterious ends small white
holes of light, mold, rot, dead teachers.
Biology lab, test tubes, bunson burners,
students I've seen full grown at gas-stations.
C-wing senior homeroom, for the thousandth
time, elusive door and flag and book stink.
No I have not done the assignment. I did not
know of the assignment. Let's go back to the
cellars was it? Bathrooms, but deep down,
low ceilings, stools with floaties, paper
wadded in corners. No stall doors and where
there are doors they don't function, won't lock.
The place is usually the same, not much
changes, and it's not so much fear as shame.
Where is that goddamm room, the seven
or eight searches between bells. Mile-long
corridors boiling with impossible girls.
In the back of my dreaming mind I think
I still don't give a damn, can't find the door.