My submission for a contest held by the New York Times, Calling All Carnivores, which answers the question "Why is it ethical to eat meat?"
Ethical questions rarely, if ever, are a matter of good actions versus bad actions. The more we try to objectively determine what is right and wrong, the more likely we are blinding ourselves to the very real suffering that our actions inflict upon the world around us, regardless of our intentions. We viciously reject the hard, cold fact that our good and virtuous actions also result in the suffering of others. Every action is committed within a complex spectrum, as if we are all nodes in a fractal. It is within these shades of grey that we attempt to determine what actions are permissible to the extent that they cause less suffering than all other possible actions. It is a common belief that animals have a greater capacity for suffering than plants, and but I argue that this is not the case.
Science can inform our ethics in two modes: as paradigm-consistent or paradigm-shifting. Great scientific progress is marked by discovery of physical properties and consciousnesses of which we were previously unaware, not by data that reaffirms old models. It was in 1901 when Dr. Jagadish Chandra Bose presented his groundbreaking findings on the consciousness of plants, a study called “On Electric Response of Inorganic Substances.” His invention, the crescograph, is able to measure plant response to stimuli, and by multiple experiments Dr. Bose was the first person to scientifically prove an empirical parallel between plant and animal tissue. The Royal Society of England refused to publish his work. Many more scientists since have collected paradigm-shifting data that suggests the perplexing (at least to Western minds) hypothesis that plants can feel, think, and have their own intelligent behavior. It does not fit within our current understanding of consciousness to attribute these characteristics to flora, making it nearly impossible for many to accept the evidence that plants also have a Spirit.
The findings of Dr. Bose and others invested in understanding the unique consciousness of plants are nothing less than a revelation that Consciousness, or the Spirit, is the pervasive element in the universe. Humans do not have a monopoly on it.
It is not sound logic to determine a creature’s right to life based on their level of consciousness, nor on their capacity for suffering. These arguments are premised on a form of human-centric bigotry where we make prejudiced claims on how much intelligence and self-awareness is necessary to call a creature “sentient” or “endowed with consciousness.” As our society becomes more aware of the consciousness of plants, we will need a new model. Reverence for all life is the new moral model that we should adopt.
We must not continue to make the mistake of ignoring the right to life of any living thing. So what does this mean for our appetites? If science shows us that plants have consciousness, and thus can suffer, do we need to stop eating them? No. Eating animals is permissible only insofar as we revere them all as beings capable of suffering by virtue of their Spirit, and the same goes for plants. It is not a coincidence that the more pain we inflict on our crops and livestock, the less healthy the food is.
Every being in the universe has just as much of a right to be here as we do. Once we accept this, we will have made an indispensable step toward making ethical choices about how we treat the plants and animals we choose to ingest.
I've come here more often lately. It's something I picked up when I was young, maybe thirteen years old -- breaking into abandoned buildings in the middle of the night -- and now still, when I pass old dark buildings walking the streets at night, my heart opens up to their silence, as if I've entered the aural proximity of sacred grounds. They are unnatural places of remoteness hidden within the cities of writhing staring strangers.
I found this wonderfully alone and silent apartment building one unusually warm March night in Minneapolis. It had rained the day before so the broken widows let in a fresh wind that occasionally swept away the reek of mildew and decaying lead paint. It's a big red-bricked place that was once rented for a moderate price, considering how spacious the rooms are. Newly married couples in their 20s thought it the perfect space to get their lives organized. Not to "settle down," that idea repulsed them. No, a place that offered just the right dimensions to "work with." When the massive boiler was on and working, the radiators strained to throw their heat up into the high ceilings. In the cold winter mornings they, the radiators, would look at each other and sigh, another day of hard work ahead of them once the young lady in flannel pajamas flipped the switch.
How little are we all aware that the bright and holy dream of our country has turned into a nightmare. A nightmare that I've begun to enjoy because of its wonderfully alone silence. The more empty buildings, the more silent our cities become, and the more sacred spaces we'll find hidden in the hive.
If you're into local music and
have lived in Madison for a year, you've seen it happen a dozen times. DIY and other non-traditional venues get shut
down within a couple of months of their inception. The most infamous case being the shutdown of
a punk warehouse venue after some dip-shit reporter wrote a show review that
included the name of the venue, the basic location, and a list of "fire
hazards," such as insulation falling out of the ceiling. To be fair, the reporter could have simply
been naive - maybe he had just finished reading Hell's Angels and was so
inspired to get Gonzo on Madison's counter-culture that his enthusiasm
overshadowed his discretion. But notice
how I chose to omit the name of the warehouse venue above...Years after it's
been good-and-dead! It's the principle
of the thing and, most of all, a habit we need to adopt in order to protect our
coveted unofficial, non-bar, all ages, DIY, BYOB, donation based, et cetera,
venues.
After last weekend, I'm worried
we're going to loose another one: a “shop” that recently hosted a benefit for a
Native American Tribe in northern Wisconsin.
There are many reasons why it sucked to have the show busted, the main
one being the fact that the tribe lost potential donations from more people
entering or buying raffle tickets.
But the incident also points to an over-arching issue for
local music. This undisclosed “shop” in
Madison was being supportive of an honorable cause in a way that official
venues rarely offer: opening their doors on a strictly donation-only basis, and
welcoming all ages. The owner is very
communicative with his neighbors, monitors the sound level, and ends the music
at midnight sharp, which goes above and beyond the usual level of courtesy
you’ll get from most Madisonian party hosts. Still, the city and law
enforcement treats these shows like are crawling with unruly punks causing
trouble on the streets, and under-aged drinkers, and just a nuisance. Well, they are. ALL parties are! Cops single out these gatherings because
there’s a stigma attached to a party with live bands that doesn’t apply to good
‘ol keg n’ beer pong parties. They can’t control it, so they’re afraid of it.
It wasn't clear why the cop was
there in the first place, but the organizers and show-goers said that they
suspected that he was "just driving by" and saw and/or heard a band
playing. This is a reasonable assumption
since the cop didn’t tell us there was a noise complaint, which they usually do
if one was made. However, I have
suspicions that social media was the culprit.
Minneapolis, where I’ve lived for
two years now, has similar sad stories.
For a time (and perhaps still) there was a woman employed by the city
whose sole job was to seek and destroy “anarchist/DIY” venues. (Guess how she did her research?) There were a couple tragic casualties in the
summer of 2009 and 2010 - but one venue, a staple of Twin Cities local music
culture, survived, and is still up and running today. It’s called the... just kidding. I won’t even hint at what or where it is - in
fact, no one in the scene will. And
that’s why it’s still there. On fliers,
facebook events, forum posts, even in speech the venue “name” is obscured,
twisted around, and made fun of; the venue doesn’t have a facebook page, and no
one EVER posts the address ANYWHERE.
Even better, it doesn’t have an address.
There’s something to learn from
this undisclosed carnival fun house in Minneapolis. If you want to host bands to play in your
basement, warehouse, garage, studio, shop, where ever, then make it clear that
the location is a secret. Hell, keeping
it hush-hush and mainly word-of-mouth creates hype anyway. Everyone will be better off.
In the end, the show at the shop
in Madison wasn’t a complete bust. Word
was out in about five minutes that the show would be moved to a basement. I got to the basement early, tidied up a bit,
and within a half hour we were playing for a fun group of people who wanted to
see a rock show.
Comfortable (with)in abundance. His royal throne is on a rooftop, a long walk from the main castle. His robe sprouts grapevines, and these reach out to the vines growing out from the cracks in your castle walls. Your eyes are closed, meditating on your fraternity with the armor, stone and overgrowth. It's cozy, and it continually gives you a sense of accomplishment. Like a web of comfort, the wild vines blanket the stones and your armored leg. He could be a good husband who provides, or he could also be ruthless in his corruption and greed - or both at the same time. He has the sitting posture of an old mafia boss...old money...loyal to family and especially to honor. Family honor. Having good character can be used viciously too (heros can be viscous too).
He may be greedy. If he believes he needs something, he may use any means to achieve the desired end. He will help you in matters of money, but only if he can foresee a material benefit for himself in the deal. His greed is not inherently bad-spirited -- it's a logic and a way of life. He doesn't question himself, as the fish does not question the water. He lives in his material comfort, he is a gall on an oak leaf, and also as the oak itself. He is symbiotic with the economic (ecological) system that he operates within. Symbiotic with himself, he is both the reaction and the catalyst.
Turn the card and see where his tentacles unnoticed reside.
I'm stunned by the dreams. The dreams surpass the limits of my imagination, yet they are mine. Dreams are colorful and mysterious, but reality is dark and obvious. The dreams wake me up in the middle of the night, they leave behind traces of holy sunshine, and residues of the light dance across the dark ceiling of my bedroom. I close my eyes and hope the dream is still there. Go back to that dream. To sleep is to obey nature, but when dreaming I can transcend sleep, and therefore I transcend nature.
I am able to discern the veiled figure of my dreams. If he's not in my dream, then neither am I. He stands in a cup, arms slightly raised, lifting the veil, resembling a white mushroom. This is not a ruse, hidden behind the veil is a truth. Whereas the veil of this worlds covers nothing, and is empty of clues. A veil in a dream is a sure sign of something needing to be discovered. Something worth discovering...
The veiled figure, dragons, a laurel wreath, the lemniscate, the blue lady - these wonderfully unlikely characters, held by the seven cups floating mirage-like in the clouds! They speak to me in the clear tones of what was, what is, and what will be again. I trust them as I would trust the advice of my clones.
As I dream, my own personal micro-mythology unravels before my very eyes. I would not be real without them. I should be careful to not let my dreams overshadow me, but I let them enslave me anyway. Making sure the door is left open a crack! Then I turn another card.
Sitting in this cafe attracted
to all the boys and girls even
the unattractive ones especially
them
Making poems that you will
read in the shower
paper intellectually soaked and
sudsy
Preaching unedited
sermons
even mom and pop will
think they're hip
This world is so beat
up and gone man
I hope you like my style
4 o'clock in the morning birthday decorations hangin in outer space, vacuum-black grotesque burlesque faded clown makeup kiss the bartender 4 o'clock in the morning the birds in the brambles sing scary diminished slowed down ragtime, I know those birds better than some people at the party, how their voices remind me half amiably that I'm out of time, out of the righttime when those still resembling humans pitch their ships and jawbones into the frozen paper, the thin flat smile of the beak split open slat v-ed 4 o'clock in the morning, 4:03, reminds me of the terror of other hours, the dismal fright always opening wider wider like sinking into the ocean chopping water as that sad look on the face of the Earth smiles with grief, this wrongtime of point of no return, feeling the apocalypse creep up on the species with hindsight, so even beauty becomes hard to bear - not only will it not last, but impending doom impregnates the sunflowers and such with a Never that pokes its head bulging under the skin, kicking around so the Never is ever so present. 4 o'clock in the morning reminds me of that choice I've made to be halfway between here and there now and then, shirtless all day under the Minneapolis mist. If I grew old and told a friend about 4 o'clock in the morning, he'd have reason to believe I'd lost it, such things are not preserved for more than a minute or two, and it's true, no one was around at 4am last night, 4am didn't happen, the birds made sure of that. I certainly wasn't there as I'd imagined, eating regurgitated berries and nuts and making love with the menstruating sunrise.
has eyes of another species, orbs that symbiotically attach to his face.
the orbs are really more of a plant life in their natural habitat, only when he chances upon them and makes his call do the orbs become animal, they are potentiated into a symbiotic sight organ, but one whose animal nature is completely latent until activated with his song sign.
they latch onto his throat and emit a poison, the poison is lethal to most, to him, but surviving the intoxication stimulates an ether between the nerve nets. the rhyzomic root culture of the orb is electrically intertwined with the web of his sensory system. is imbibed though painful to him,
endurance of the suffering conceives a new raw sense, the orbs have evolved into the fleshy organ of another.
he roams about.
this happens on land, where the orbs are barely visible (from up high they are very obvious), they hover just out of reach of him and those like him, so most mugs don't bother even if they can see their phosphene glow, dim and shortlived like a suicide bomber firefly, they are many, especially in the city, and you can spot them if you stand very still and stare into the sky, just out of reach, but he climbed a pole about the width of a tree, just in reach of about three, seized his chance and ended up with two young ones, not damaged from the snatch.
they would last a while as his eyes, until fading out to die.
The time-release Nightmare Justice Pill includes crime narratives in semi-chronological sequences encoded within our patented chemical formulas. The sleeper will experience terrifying dreams with scenarios revolving around likely criminal intensions. These dream codes are customized to the client’s particular (conscious or subconscious) ill-intentioned fantasy, effectively deterring potential criminals from committing violence against the good of the people. Those considered within the hazardous community are all those capable of dreaming. Therefore, this technology should be implemented to all.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
There is no way to say "I see that" without someone saying "I see you."
Timeless angled flight-patterns mapped out in carbon emissions , greenlit house gas , calming sketches like gestalt therapy in the skies eyes and brain construct it to appear as a human face up there , huge publicity flashing in the sky , wreaths of fire domino effect into hell contained in heaven , the skies (there’s something between me and them) , a face , sparks of platinum light , misfiring neurons a symptom of ascension , no , no one is broken , our diseases crack the veil of concrete thises and thats , I’m sure you’ve had to question the reality of a tumor…. 18 wheelers in the sky leaving trails of cotton candy clouds , sparkling like heat lightening , might touch the ground, might not , but there’s no storm yet , just the billowy pink and blue face sparkling like its agelessly about to burst into flame , irises flared up like multi-faceted Suns smiling down perfumed acid rain down on Independence Day’s sightseers , plumes of boring white cigarette and marijuana smoke dissipating far too soon , looking up and letting the droplets fall into my eyes , looking up straight down , looking west straight east , soft-rubber tires rolling over our bodies like some ancient massage technique made marketable and decent , strange organic odors rising from sewage plants , hyper-evolved organism mimicking scent of trash (so the sifting machine wont mistake them for recyclables) , summer day smelling like monsoon night in the targeted jungle replica , teenagers swallowing vials of perfume intended to attract same-sex wild animals , Hollywood dumping megatons of magnification epoxy onto summerfun island , Disneyland modge-podging “starving kids in Africa” –
All on display in the polluted sky.
Friday, May 7, 2010
A taxidermied ape stares blindly at a room of teacups. The teacups are tink stacked and piled tink and very still tink.
A mouse little mouse cannot hide his excitement scuttling through the tens of thousands of porcelain flowers, he holds his little paws up in the air and yells with frenzied rapture, EEEEeeeeeeeeeee!
The tea-time china towers topsy-turvy and mountainous. It’s what every little mouse dreams about. Weaving playfully through the lips and arms fur rubbing quick and smooth across the cool milky glass, tink, tink, tink, there’s even ones to climb.
The stuffed ape stares with huge brown crystal balls at the teacups piled like forgotten loot. And the mouse little mouse gambols through his empire of old-time tableware and thinks, “From all the cupboards in all the world it’s all mine, Mine, MINE!”
A squeak, a rustle, a fallen whisker, the simian’s never-blinking eyes reflect the white squares of the checkerboard kitchen. Blind, Blind, Blind, is the unheard whisper, Blind, Blind, Blind, is the thought of the non-thinker, Blind, Blind, Blind, is the lie of this simian trickster.
music is bullshit. tricks and catches, a scam, false stops and starts, a bungle, full of ingenuine positive-reinforcements. fade in, fade out. making believe existence is powerful, enchanted, knowable. fucking sing me to sleep, you pulchritudinous everpotent placebo. stick your deft fingers in my heart and make little changes in spacing. swell, release. like the jar of water hung tantalizingly in front of the camel I walk out into the desert until the water spills or just vanishes into thin air and my spirit with it. Then the next track plays so I do it all over again. I always come back to you, you sneaky little whore. As if the fact that you're intangible, that you have nothing to physically grasp, as if that weren't enough to warn me you don't really exist. Con. Coyote. Bull Ring Clown. since you came I haven't once held my feet firmly to the ground. but i still love you.
mechanical efficiency is largely wasteful.
the motion of your extremities is the healthiest quality.
If you make something yourself, your quality of life improves. Use your hands to make food. eat it. consume what has emerged, carry a gun and eat the bullets, carry a gun and your eatingbullets, garglin’ bullets. a factory making giant slabs of broth or the lover making broth cubes in the kitchen, tell me, Who can feed more? Share your pain in the molten sex organism living downstairs under the floor boards only a few inches below the soles sometimes rising back into the stomache your sore clay mixed with his-sore-her-sore clay mixed and slightly festering like soft bugs, consume what has emerged, cuz it wont last long before a new thought comes along, red altar red red red alert red alert red alert different red voice red alert red alert enterprise red alert at work red altert in the car red alert inspection red alert inspredection alert good night red alert life is not merely a red dream alert data red alert daddy red alert read alert lights off red alert (Ok, birthyday cake… I absolutely dispise it, why waste such good frosting?). Use your hands to adore something – if it is in your hands, it is yours, you possess it as much as anyone could poses anything, even putting small things in your blood is the same, focus your entire being on the texture of a rock you find in the toy box amongst funny money and a book with a picture of a dog on the cover.
Skull Cancer.
Your head
changing dimensions
Possessing the rock
in side of the rock
From the past kicked
it along the side of the road with a play buddy kicked it all the way home and then i saw me pick it up and bring it inside, thought it was a good memory, the rock, or just a nice dirty brown rock, anyway I kept it in this toy box and its still there today.
Super sonic quagmire abundances of greenlit paper, church in the attic, paper, church, in the attic, church attic, still better than the standard florescent room, abundance of greenlit papers, stacked white boxes, sparkling light shining through ersatz furniture, blocks of tinted plate glass, whats the word greenlit paper whats the name for it, shades of purple sun, whats the word for it
Stainglass, fake.
Why decorate a school like a church? Teacher meetings in fabricated steeple, no-fire fireplace, fold out chairs, fill in the blanks of light blocks of light, fill in the blanks of light with all upper case capital letters so the machine can read it, get a new one if you contaminate this one, your name, window of sun, green, in the little white boxes, digits of your number, no slash through the Øs, unpunctuated.
This guy isn’t very funny. I can make up funny things about him – but he’s not funny sitting askew under the arc, the arc separating two fake rooms in the fake attic church, the high school kids didn’t know their building even had a 6th floor, a church in the attic where federal employees sit and receive training on how to get personal information from people The Federal Bureau of Information is it? Investigation? I’m pretty sure I work for the Information office, but the finger printing pallet had FBI written on it in small bluelit letters… tho I could have this all wrong – write your name in the sparkling boxes of light all upper case, no serif on the J, but serifs on the I, like in me, Ian, that’s how I write it, right now I am writing my name Ian with serifs, now put that bottomdown in your folder. And take your time getting home, you’ll get paid for travel.
GPS routing past junk yards, wind energy, in another car you could feel the wind, more snow in piles, even though it’s been warm outside. Eating at the Hilltop Café soon. Don’t be abstract, you have time for that later.
Transgressionsinto effortlessness, there’s the swans dippin their heads in the water, having to love your disease before you can love other people, yourself is another, vast equations based on contingencies and exceptions, ;yielding pockets of ?question, rolling tongue in song,made up little half melodies breaking into jibber jabber, not cloudy all day, breaking into home home on the range something something into a’s and e’s I’s and us and sometimes whys, speaking bastard english, radio suddenly on, surfing static, rim shot pop standards, visions of unlivable future, wearing sunglasses at night, visions of visions, hypermontage, death country radio, radio songs with no discernable instruments, chorus heavily washed, separated fidelities mashed back together to appear cacophonous, paper beats, the 666th mile town, Drink Water, Saskatchewan, let’s toast to the future, a down-the-road where everyone has become too individualistic, then we won’t agree on what’s real and what's not and therefore nothing is, colors, meanings of words, all different so they float in the psyche like turquoise rock flour floating in the glacial river, turquoise currents winding through snow capped mountains in Banff the onamonapoetic vacation spot, hedgers hegemony, fake windows painted on the sides of foreclosed buildings, here comes the train hauling scrapes of metal and wire, cable, probably some car parts in there thinking of Dan’s fastbook that I should have read now he’s gone, I’ll never see him again or anyone, they’re all gone, disappeared into the Plains or somewhere in South America, gone bye-bye (I’ve found a way to journal without falling back on the play-by-play doldrums of a crappy diary he-called-she-called) railroad tie piles along canada HW39 on the way to North Dakota, except Doug, he’s gone, ironic, he’s not gone, he’s the gone who stayed stayed even closer than I, and yet he’s still far away in a way I never thought my friends would be, so Reisha says my life will change big in the next year or two, my judgmental part leave some part of me behind, just like daddy packing up in the morning before everyone wakes up and leaving, but if I really think about it I don’t think this will happen because im going to be a rock star or at least im finally giving it a real try and that means more bars and parties. Drink Water.
Take it lightly, on the tip of the tongue gradually tracking wheels on rolling cement, odd time signatures replete squandered upset frequently discarding small plastic boxes, white elephants, which patch are the Christmas trees? Greater than before, 18 wheeler, more space to move in to fill up to expand to contain, closed through opening.
I try to get into people where they are closed and scared and open them up. Self doubt, conceit, fear, what if, gone I don’t want to see you limit, anything day book, right in a book everyday in someone elses book many places at once so its impossible to ever reconcile, compile, synthesize, that way a synthesis is not scary, just an ideal and writing becomes a practice like running, were you always warm up before a jaunt, jot, jingle, joint – living spilt lives and only telling the Earth people the good things about your getaway, there’s always scandal at vacation spots, affairs, robberies, rape, love at first sight re re rerererererererereunrequited.
Usually I’m afraid I won’t remember everything. I could loose something good, or I could make something better, edit, plan out, logicize… but fuck it, loose everything, remember nothing.
Eat to write create forget
Install artifacts everywhere both false and true
Mystify history
Last long care, eternal acceptance of loss, How you wrote when you were 23, 31, dead
How you gripped the pen, thinking how the word “the” came from a dead person some friend of a friend.
Vegetarian by 7 degrees of Kevin Bacon
Eat
sleep
Lie
Down
Bow before Before, something to forget (forgotten)
