Humans in Society

Imagine three people naked and separate in the woods.  They have nothing with them, no one with them, no starting point.

One recognizes his coldness and gathers wood, and struggles for a spark, until he has a fire.

Another recognizes her hunger, sharpens a rock, and kills an animal for food.

A third recognizes his thirst, and searches far and wide for water, until he finds a spring.

The first is warm, but dies of thirst.  The second is full, but dies of exposure.  The third is slaked, but dies of starvation.

But if instead the three meet, and recognize what each the other can bring, what each the other needs, and what they themselves have and need, they can share one to the other and live.  The water carrier is fed, the hunter is warm, the fire-builder does not thirst: this is society.  

When humans come together and agree that they will do better together than alone, we build a social contract.  Perhaps I can build my own fire, grow my own food, and find my own water; perhaps so can you; but I will eventually sleep, and my fire will go out.  You will walk alone, and so you will meet the tiger alone.  The hunter who has fed herself will get too old to hunt.  So we agree: I will find food, and you will find shelter, and she will find skins, and they will keep watch in the night, and we will survive together.  None needs be starved or hunted or naked.

Thousands of years pass, and we find that you build homes, and I bake bread, and he raises chickens, and she weaves cloth.  And still later, she teaches, and he nurses, and I make machines, and he builds roads, and on and on towards finer and more minute actions.  The things we share one to another, the needs we have and things we can offer, are different now, and more abstract and separated, because there are thousands of us and millions of us, each with different needs, different skills, different knowledge, and the beginning absolutes of water and fire and food are very remote, now.  But we are still a society, still each putting in and taking out and absolutely reliant on the other.

It seems to me that now that we are so far from those absolutes, all so content and assured that we can turn the tap and have water, turn on the gas and have heat, and go to the store to find food, that we have developed the luxury of forgetting what a society is, what benefits we take from it, and what responsibilities we owe to it.  We have created an illusion of absolute independence, of solitary self-sufficience, because we make our money and pay for our goods and never need to agree to trade one service or one kindness or one promise to another human being who needs to do the same.  We come to a place and we are not naked, and we are not cold, and we are not hungry, so we can fail to recognize the person who sews as someone we rely on, the person who farms as someone we are beholden to, even though were we to suddenly be without clothing or food, we would just as surely die.  Our social contract has worked so well for us that now there are people who believe absolutely that they need nothing and owe nothing.

But I am not machining the factory that produces my heat.  And you are not paving the roads you drive, or that the trucks carrying your food drive.  Without those who are, we are cold and hungry.  So even though I don't give you fire for water, I do put a little in the pot so the water keeps coming from the tap.  And even though you don't build a roof for someone so that they will dig out a sewer, you put in a little so that the sewers keep moving.  Each of us benefits daily from utilities, from trade agreements, from infrastructure generally, so each of us gives a little back to maintain our utilities, make our treaties, and build our roads and schools and hospitals.  Otherwise, we are failing our side of the contract; we eat but provide nothing for the warmth of those feeding us.  We drink but provide nothing to the water-carrier.  In the short term, this is cynical exploitation of a society we rely absolutely on.  But in the long term, this destroys the contract, and consequently, the society - when we have no contract, we have no heat, no water, no sewer, no access to food and clothing, no one to watch for the tiger in the night.  

This is not a plausible system; this is not a livable world.  Without a society, we are all more or less doomed to die alone, whether of exposure or starvation or disease or attack.  So be wary of anyone who tells you that all will be well when we stop supporting our society; this is nihilism.  In the most basic terms, this is the end of civilization.  If they have already reaped enough benefit from the society that they have fire and meat and water to last them for now, they won't be the ones to suffer when the contract is broken--they may walk away without paying their due or owning up to their responsibility for the society that sheltered them so far.  But we are all only one cold night away from the fire going out, and one lonely walk away from the tiger.  The lines aren't as clear as they used to be, but we may still look face to face to face and see our survival in the eyes of the other. 

The righteous sleep worse than the wicked

I think about that moment when someone asks the bad guy, "How do you sleep at night?"  The person who is exploiting other human beings or outright endangering them for some gain or another; "How do you sleep?" the outraged dissident asks them.

How well?

Probably pretty well, is my guess.  Poor sleep is a sign of guilt or worry or that nagging voice in the back of your mind, or that upsetting confrontation replaying itself over and over; if you've made the decision to behave in a way that disregards human dignity, and to continue to behave that way, you've probably decided that (a) it's worth it, (b) they deserve it, or (c) that's just the way the world works.  You're satisfied with that answer and have abdicated any responsibility you might feel for it.  There will be nothing to trouble your sleep until something worms its way past the surface.  If anything ever does.

I think about the ethical repercussions of everything I do; my purchases, my causes, my behavior.  I have an idea of the world I want to live in, a few clear principles I value, and I make my decisions based on those values, on making that world come to be.  I behave as rationally and compassionately as I can.  I apply this as broadly as I can.  I try to respect my fellow human beings and take responsibility for my actions as they extend out beyond me to touch those fellow human beings.  And when I play out the repercussions of policies I think are destructive or inhumane, I also try to find a way to not paint someone who supports that policy with that color, try to give them the benefit of the doubt in considering what aims they might have or what different theories of behavior, of government, and so on they might ascribe to.  Or if that fails outright, try to believe they're still a good person--just one with some gaping holes in their understanding.

I'm the one who doesn't sleep at night.

I believe I'm right; I don't believe everyone who disagrees with me is evil; I satisfy myself that I am doing my part to make a better world and living up to my own standards, while still allowing myself enough slack to not go insane.  But I lie awake having imaginary arguments with people I believe are good people, trying to get them to understand a point of view I think is righteous.  I replay moments of people I know expressing some sentiment I think is abhorrent, and of me being too struck dumb to say anything to propose an alternative--and then imagine alternate endings, standing up to their ignorance or unkindness either destructively, by indulging my insult and taking them apart, or constructively, by starting a conversation, sharing information.  But I lie awake when I think I have managed to do that, too, dissecting the conversation, wondering about the fallout, wondering if I've done any good, and wondering whether I have lost a friend or failed a cause or both.  I look forward in fear to the next conversation, the next confrontation, the next election.

I wonder whether I have done any good at all.

I'm the one who doesn't sleep at night.

Surrounded by community and lonely

I feel pretty lonely, right now. I've been struggling with this for a while, and with whether to even write anything about it, but here goes.

 I finally feel like I've built some community, here - that I have made some friends, that there are people here that I love. But I always have this aching feeling that in a lot of those cases, that love will never come back to me. Some of it I hope is just ungrounded fear, a symptom of depression and anxiety and insecurity. And sometimes I think it has to do with a a personality defect I suspect I have (maybe a topic for another post). But lately it has been a more existential loneliness.

 I live, now, in the church capital of the country. Almost everyone I meet here is a person of faith--of strong faith that plays a large role in their lives. I understand and appreciate that - it can give community and wholeness to a heart, and direction. It makes the existential terror of death livable, and there is no reason to live your life in terror and insecurity if you have something to believe in. And faith can sometimes bring out the very best in people, propel them to great acts of good, give them the strength for kindness, and I deeply respect and admire that. I am not willing to dismiss the importance of someone's faith in their life.

 But I have no belief of my own. I am something like an agnostic in the original Greek sense, because I know that there cannot be an absolute proof of one faith or another or none, that any one may be right or may be wrong; I know that I cannot know. And in the face of that I cannot dismiss anyone's beliefs, but I can't make myself have a belief in any one thread of millions, either, be it a belief in a god, an afterlife, or the absolute absence of either. It isn't part of me.

 Which is a lonely place to be, especially here.

 I don't talk to people of faith about my lack of it--it's my general policy to leave it be; no one would gain from it. But in a culture of faith, it's probably no surprise that strong believers do talk about their beliefs about the faithless; it's part of their lives and worldviews. It does mean they're telling me what they think of me as part of this nebulous class of people, though.

 For instance, last week I was told about a couple who were terrible to each other, didn't love each other and wouldn't care for each other in their times of need--and that they couldn't, because they hadn't built their marriage on Christ. And I realized that this person I know and am friendly with believes that I wouldn't change a colostomy bag for the love of my life, that I am incapable of care and devotion. I build my life on a love and respect for life, and cherish my loved ones, and believe that people on any path are capable of that, but that doesn't enter into it for her. I didn't know what to say. I was quiet.

 I also hear stories of fear, that loved ones who haven't seen the light will be lost and condemned; and stories of hope and peace, that those who have should not be missed or grieved, for they are in paradise. And I am so grateful for the comfort they can take from that, and that they can feel free to express it, to share fear and love and comfort, to have rich community in times of sorrow. But part of me is reminded in those times of my own losses--and that I never feel that comfort. And part of me is reminded that many of the people I know and love, friends and family, believe I will burn in eternal damnation; that regardless of my kindness or my love or any other goodness they might see in me, I cannot be part of their universe.

 And I wonder which of them know that I am one of those, and which ones don't; which ones suspect it, and whether or how our relationship would change if they knew, and whether some of them will never be close to me because of it.

 At those times I feel just how apart I am from so many of the people I love, and it's hard not to feel lonely.

 I don't know that there's anything to be done about it. I'm just hoping if I can talk about it somewhere it'll ease the feeling a little.

Wonderful New Year

It's a time for introspection, I suppose.

(Wow, was that the most clichéd opening line to a New Year's Blog Post™ ever?)

I'm one of the few who liked 2009 moderately well--primarily because it wasn't 2008, I suppose, but that's me. It was like how in high school I got senioritis out of the way in 10th grade, free to move on to the hell of the final year with better spirits and on stronger footing.

Which is to say: after the disastrous shit fest of loss and death and anxiety and existential distress that 2008 was, 2009 didn't seem so bad, loss of promise of security and onslaught of up-in-the-airness besides. "2010 will be the year to deal with that," I promised myself, by way of making way for what joy and comfort could be had in 2009. I made it the eye of the storm, because if you don't take the time for that sort of thing while you can, it's just going to be that much worse when the easier bit is over. It's always best to take joy when you can get it.

But now 2010 is here and it's time to settle in, I suppose.

State of the household:

There have been, in case you haven't heard from us yet, no takers yet on any of the jobs Chris has applied for. No non-takers, either--no feedback at all. I'm hoping that, because it was the holidays, people were on hiatus and not really making decisions for a little while--or not acting on them if they did. I'm hoping that typing this will shame fate into making me a liar by getting us some responses. Hopefully the next week or two will bring some word, one way or another, so at least so we know where we stand.

I've been a busy bee writing and knitting and drawing and working variously, and generally existing in a holding pattern. Lee--bless his soul--has said that my job is here for me as long as I am, though we don't know how long that is. Part of me (the part that is working through the stages of grief about the thing in no particular order) is bargaining--with no one--about keeping the job even if we've moved. Most of my work, the argument goes, is virtual anyway. All of my work for Consulting is--and sometimes there's a lot of that. My job has grown! My work spans two states and three countries! And you know, most of my local work is (or can be) done online/by mail, as well.

But, says the counter argument, what does that leave? What would be leftover for a replacement to do? Only the physical errands. And a very, very small number of physical errands per month. Which is to say: not much of a job to advertise. While I would love to sit at a distance and do every bit of the database work I can, and maybe swing all of the petty cash by mail, and do all of the little assorted things that come to me online, and have all of my meetings by Skype... I can't imagine many people out there are looking for a few hours a month of bank and post office runs. (Although if they were mailing me receipts to process and hours to code &c...)

...No, probably not.

Not that I won't ask about it, though. I don't want to leave NESsT. Not one bit.

Generally speaking, on the potential move-front, though, I can already see myself making my traditional cutting-my-losses gestures. They've been fended off, 'til now--and maybe it's just the weather right now--but I've really never been good at being a social or material creature, however lonely or packratty I tend to be; my loyalties are few and carefully guarded, and the endangered ones are starting to slip, already, starting to be divided into piles. I'm feeling easily frustrated, easily discouraged, ready to stop going out, ready to sever or loosen ties, ready to give away or sell possessions, ready to consolidate plants into fewer pots, ready to use up or give up or put away--it's a kind of slow and cynical panic. Wouldn't that tree be happier in my mother's yard? Should I really go to knitting group? Maybe I should be popping in on that writing group instead, remind myself how to make new acquaintances. Or maybe I should take a class at the adult school with a finite time limit and little chance for attachments..... . .

Etc.

Maybe we'll start busking at the Borders. It might be a good investment, time-wise. Force us out of shyness, and maybe store a couple bucks for times ahead. Maybe I should start knitting my stash into things I could sell, and have the space, have one less bag to move.

...I feel like I should make resolutions. Like...

No more yarn?

Plot out crafts to use up or clean up debris and unwieldiness?

Focus writing efforts (not exclusively, but regularly) along productive lines. Try to actually finish things.

Vanity: lost ten pounds last year, try for ten more. Or at least five; want to fit in that choir dress comfortably again, in May, in case it's the last time I get to wear it.

Maybe more existential things should go on the list: Like embracing the wanderlust again, so when a move comes I'm not terrified of the leap. Like finding productive ways to divert tension, anxiety, and depression. Like not dwelling on arguments or tense situations in the first place, like not having arguments with imaginary (or at least imagined) opponents in my head. Like not feeling like I have to help fix everyone, or like I'm failing the world if I fail to argue or educate someone out of a perspectiveless vacuum they're existing in. Like letting go a little of the reins and embracing the helplessness. Like not being so afraid.

Get back to the yoga. And stop reading comments on news, politics, and video sites--at all. Seriously. I'm not sure how to get people to stop baiting me, or what the best way to deal with it is when it happens anyway, but I imagine it has to do with a balance between principles re: a topic and principles re: my behavior, and figuring out how much patience is the right amount of patience. I've never been good at that. No one has ever accused me of picking my battles correctly, even though sometimes I'm sure I'm doing exactly that. Not really any telling.

And remember to embrace joy and music and happiness wherever I may find it. Love and be loved and give love. Play with the cats more. Play with Chris more. Play the piano more. Sing more--yes, more. Bring on the wonder.

I hope--I am ever a creature of hope--for the best, for everyone. May you all have a 2010 full of joy and hope and wonder.

Here is a little to start with: Bring on the wonder. - LOVE

Music and Arts demonstration; student rally

Bless our students at CSU Stanislaus. The arts know how to put on a fucking protest.

This carol came after about an hour of gorgeous, mournful, and sometimes seasonal music from the Chamber Singers (slated to be cut next year) and the Wind Ensemble (slated to be cut next year). Wore all black. Marching in and out, and in between songs, they were silent.

Chris said: "They're holding their own wake."

There is hardly a more beautiful sound in the world than this ensemble singing, and next year, if our cuts roll on, it won't be.



Definitely encourage you to listen/watch. Earlier on in their performance, lyrics included "Fare thee well, my own true love..." and "I am tired, I am weak, I am worn... Take my hand... lead me home," and other sounds of loss and homesickness - music is these students' lives, this school and these programs are their home. I wept like a baby.



Less heart-breaking and amazingly optimistic, here, is Chris (the eternal pessimist). The day before the arts demonstration, there was a huge walkout, rally, and march (couple hundred students), most of the speakers for which are posted online, too. So if you want to see my hot honey being a rabble-rouser, you can here, starting at 3:56. (He is also wearing the first thing I ever knit, that rainbowy scarf.)



(At 6:54, you he's moved just off screen, but you can see three of his students running through to blindside group hug him, which made my day. <3)

Emotional coaster a bit.

Loved Julie&Julia. Apart from the frustrations that come from true stories (when people sometimes don't behave quite how you want them to), it was delightful. I love the idea. The food was gorgeous. Meryl Streep was unsurprisingly brilliant. It makes me want to cook--it's making me want to have a project. And I want the roast duck recipe. (Though I may actually take Barbara Kafka, queen of roasting all things, over Julia in this matter, if we've got hers. If you ever want to know how to roast anything, and have it come out better than anyone's you've ever had? Go to Kafka.)

I spent the movie in and out of tears, basically unrelatedly. I started crying on the way out of the get-together this morning (had to beat a hasty retreat), and just... it's been drop of a hat, since then. I'd guess at least a dozen times, during the flick? And mostly inappropriately. However, I definitely needed the joy and delight and giggling, and I got a lot of that, too, so that's good.

Now we're listening to some Maurice Chevalier (spent some time with Charles Trenet, earlier), and the utter sweetness promises to help. So does Chris's cooking (if you aren't well aware of this by now, Chris is the Philosopher Chef, Saucier Than Thou - a whiz at French cooking - all cooking, reared on Julia Child's show as a kid, and born on her birthday). I've successfully campaigned for some Pommes de Terre à la Maitre'd'hotel to go along with the lamp loin chops sautéed in butter and dressed in pan sauce, and a Child recipe for green beans. Cap it off with a little cognitive dissonance in the form of a Chilean Cabernet, and I think we'll be able to stave off the demons a little longer.

Show; campus

It's weird to think of it this way, but I was having a similar reaction to opening night of Crazy For You to the one I had at the end of doing Beethoven's 9th Symphony. Giddy tears and trembling excitement, and a whole lot of greedy, basking love for the audience and its standing ovation. Even if I was down in the pit. I could still crane 'round and see them.

(Btw, they moved us from backstage to down in the pit with the orchestra, mic'd. Which is a great thing. Besides, I like calling myself a "pit singer" more than a "backstage singer." I'm also defaulting to Backup Girl.)

The show was fantastic. It was a blast. A whirling, frantic putting-together, and a beautiful opening night. The theater has more than its fair share of technical difficulties, and some things blew up at the last minute--missing actors, breaking props--but they still got it off in great order. Everybody stepped up and were brilliant. I've said this before, but I've never really been much for dance shows (I can take a lot of Fosse, but chorus lines and follies have never thrilled), but I sat in awe of this group. These girls are professional quality dancers (there's a 15 y.o. teaching dance classes already, and a girl who just got accepted into the Rockettes, for instance), and they're stunning. The choreography and acrobatics were gorgeous, huge, clever, funny, delightful. There's a bit where the girls are bells, if that makes any sense, and a pinwheel, and and and...

I love it. I'm in love. I'm giddy. I even got over enough of my crisis-level shyness to go with my carpool mates to the cast party, and chat and be silly and play games in the pool. The acting was great, the comedy was spot on (even the cheesy parts - and the physical comedy was PERFECT), the music was grand, and, if I do say so myself, the singing went well. Giddy giddy giddy!

...

Well, be fair; I was giddy. The budget crisis has taken its toll. Chris is a union rep for our campus, for contingent lecturers (think: the college faculty equivalent of highly vulnerable wage slaves, with next to no protections, who make up the majority and do most of the work; the adage is that every lecturer is fifteen seconds from utter humiliation). There's been a slash-and-burn going on, and a lot of people are up in the air, and we spent the morning with a handful of lecturers who've been on tenterhooks and probably let go from the university-but-not-necessarily-completely, trying to hash out their rights and contracts and potential outcomes--the culmination of which was a last minute email (received by one of them by iPhone) with the nail in the coffin for all of them. Their small hope was a false one; they have no work, and no rehiring rights, and no continued affiliation with the university or the committees they man, this Fall. Which is to say, in a week and a half. They have no health insurance, they will not be getting a check this month. They're not even at the top of the rehire-if-we-get-some-money list. They have to give back their keys, and clear out their offices. This week.

These are people we know. Our campus, with its 400 faculty, has lost 187--no, wait.. now it's 192, after this morning, isn't it?--of its faculty. Cut in half. Everyone the university could cut without declaring an official layoff, they cut. Fellow lecturer reps from other campuses are working with the union through the summer, even though their teaching jobs are no longer waiting for them in Fall. These are dedicated, passionate teachers, and most of the people we were with today graduated from this campus, went through the very programs they're teaching in, worked most intensively with the most vulnerable students, in the most fundamental classes.

And they're just... gone, now.

(This doesn't even get into the issue of the hundreds of classes cut on our campus alone--classes that were full, and whose students have not even been informed of the cuts and schedule changes and who will most likely get to campus on day one with no idea their classes and teachers are gone and that several of their class days will be furloughed &c, but who have been pulled for an extra $500 for this semester, or $1000 for the year, already. Or all the students who just aren't going to be accepted at all, come Spring and next year, despite state law dictating that this system accept all eligible students. And all the basic remedial classes the bulk of new students will need to complete in their first year to be kept on at the university, but which will be unavailable to them, since they've been cut. And--)

...Sorry for the whiplash. That kinda' where we're at, right now.

I think we're going to spend some of my blood on Julie&Julia (...I can get comp movie tickets, with all the blood donations I've racked up), try to get something a little joyful going.

Love, all.