Realdra was dark. The moons that rose over the realm gleamed pink and red, bleeding into the black of the sky. Rustling and falling, the leaves of the trees gathered on the supple grass below and the wind scattered them into the clearing where the castle stood.
The castle loomed over the trees that surrounded it. In the dark, it was just a shadow, but in the light, each stone gleamed silver. There were three high towers topped with watching decks on which the guards slept. No one had threatened the castle in over two hundred years, until now.
The giant, double oak doors to the castle creaked open and a short silhouette stepped out, pulling hair out of a loose ponytail and tucking a knife back into a boot. The shadow hopped quietly over the dead guards on the stone walkway—murdered by skilled archery--and headed into the forest, careful not to crunch leaves underfoot.
At daybreak, Adelyn knelt by the river, her knife-blade in the water, the blood running off it and into the curling whirlpools by the rocks. The water was quiet, the grass still, as Adelyn watched the blood mix with the current. Certain it was clean, she lifted the knife from the water, the sun catching and glinting off the silver steel. The reflection of the sun in the blade blinded her. Taught never to be caught off guard, Adelyn gasped when she heard the knocking of an arrow in a bow behind her, the creak of the bow’s string tautening.
Adelyn did not freeze, but turned on the spot and raised her leg in the air, intending to kick her attacker in the temple and render him unconscious, but a strong hand grabbed it out of the air and twisted before she could land her blow. She felt the muscles in her ankle strain and was sure her bone would snap, but her attacker stopped twisting just before the break. He pulled hard and Adelyn lost her balance. Knowing not to catch herself by her arms or hands at the risk of breaking them, she angled her back toward the ground and put both hands behind her neck to keep from slamming her head. She landed with a dull thud, her back aching immediately. Before she could stand and defend herself again, she heard a familiar, drawling voice above her.
“Always be on your guard,” Lord Tavish said, kneeling down to stare into Adelyn’s silver-blue eyes. His own deep brown eyes met hers and he smelled of fire and iron, his black robes cascading to the grass beside her head. She pushed herself into sitting position and grabbed her ankle, which had already begun to swell. It throbbed, shooting pain up her leg and into her lower abdomen. Where his hand had been, her skin was red and quickly turning purple. “Silly girl,” he muttered under his breath, eyeing the clean knife she had dropped. “Is it done?”
“Yes master,” Adelyn replied between gritted teeth.
“Good,” Lord Tavish replied. “If only I had a more competent apprentice.” He spat on the grass beside Adelyn. “Get up.” Adelyn knew a command when she heard one and dared not disobey, however hard the task might prove. Pushing herself off the ground and shifting all of her weight to her good foot, she stood, her twisted ankle touching the grass lightly as possible. Tavish’s dark eyes searched hers as he took a step forward, grabbing her chin and bringing his face so close to hers that she fought tears from his hot breath. “Now do something about that ankle. You’ll need to be ready for your next mark in a fortnight.” She nodded, and Tavish looked her over once more before releasing her face, leaving red scratches on her cheeks where his fingernails dug into her skin. Adelyn watched as a black cloud engulfed him, and he was gone.
As soon as he disappeared, Adelyn fell to the ground in agony, relieving her injured ankle from any pressure she had put on it. She dared not scream, though. She was still too close to the castle, and the guards would come looking for her soon enough. The reach of the king’s arm was long and they would stop at nothing to apprehend his murderer. His assassin. Resolving to crawl as long as she could and then wrap the ankle when she was far enough away, Adelyn headed further into the forest.
* * * * *
Inside the castle was bright, lit once again by the early morning sun as it streamed through the trees’ branches. The lanterns had been recently extinguished, leaving trails of smoke rising to the high ceilings. Prince Jareth noticed none of this—not the sun rising nor the smell of the sea coasting in through the open windows. Instead, Jareth sat in the hallway, his head in his hands and his shoulder blades pressed against the wall. All around him, people were rushing in and out of his father’s bedchamber, making notes and drawings of the room. He felt dizzy and weak, his head heavy in his hands.
The smell of blood like copper lingered near the door to his father’s room and people were still moving in and out, slower now. He had gathered most of his information from the people talking around him—it had been a murder, a carefully premeditated murder, at that. The killer had left no traces: no footprints or even the tip of the arrow in his father’s muscle. Jareth wondered who could have committed such a crime and left him with no family but his older brother. His father had been loved, too. He was not feared, for he was just in his decisions and caring in his actions. Everyone in his kingdom knew of his kindness. Jareth was left to wonder who would want to kill him. In the commotion, Jareth heard a familiar voice talking in whispers to who he guessed was someone in the guard, then recognized the heavy footfalls of his brother approaching.
“Jareth,” Traygrad offered his hand to his younger brother. Jareth lifted his head from his hands and wearily allowed his brother to pull him to his feet. Standing next to his older brother, Jareth suddenly felt very young. Traygrad was twice his age at fifty, yet still young in the eyes of the Realdra elders, who were over two hundred years old. Traygrad was easily half a foot taller than Jareth, and his dirty blonde hair longer and falling in front of his chocolate eyes. He was handsome. Jareth was leaner than Traygrad, and faster on his feet, though Traygrad’s guard-trained eyes were quicker to pick up movement far away. Jareth and Traygrad had not always been very close, with their age difference so pronounced. However, they became closer after their mother died from a disease that made her nauseous and feverish. Now they had lost their last family member. They only had each other.
“Mourners have arrived in the foyer,” Traygrad said, his gravelly voice solemn. “They have come to offer condolences, and we have to offer them hope in return. If you want me to handle it…” Traygrad started, but Jareth interrupted.
“No, I can come with you,” he replied.
“Thank you, Jareth. Also, we will have to meet with the council to decide when it would be best to hold the Crowning Ceremony,” Traygrad continued. Jareth had not even considered the idea of his brother being king—it had not occurred to him yet, but he knew as well as Traygrad that the Realdrians needed a king. He wondered briefly how Traygrad could think of all these things when their father had just been murdered, but remembered that someone had to. “We will find out who did this, little brother,” Traygrad said, “and we will return the favor.”
*****
Days passed without Jareth’s notice. On this particular day, he sat in his father’s study, his cheek resting against the cool wood of the desk. In front of him lay maps of the Realdrian Forest—numerous thick, creaking trees that surrounded the heart of Realdra, including the castle and the outlying city, made up of tree houses and markets. There were black X’s hastily drawn over large sections of the forest.
A knock came at the door, and without waiting for an answer, an eager guard named Gage stuck his head into the study, his body quickly following.
“Prince Jareth,” he said rapidly, as if wanting to give the news and leave before Jareth could react. “So far, still no telling footprints have been found. We just searched the Eastern Quadrant of the forest, but there was no sign of anything suspicious,” Gage finished, wiping his brow with the sleeve of his shirt.
Jareth raised his head from the desk and looked up at Gage lazily. He was not surprised. The guards were looking for footprints in all the quadrants because it was rare that anyone left the city and its outliers. Footprints in any of the outer quadrants would at least tell them where to begin. But all the other quadrants came back clear all the way to the Vraygar Mountains. Why should the Eastern Quadrant be any different?
“Thank you, Gage,” he responded under his breath, waving a hand and looking back down at the maps. The uneasy guard quickly disappeared behind the door. Jareth picked up a quill, dipped it in black ink, and drew another X over the Eastern Quadrant. That was the last section of the forest that needed to be swept. Jareth swore and threw the quill across the room, wishing it had been heavy enough to do some damage to the opposite wall, but it floated sluggishly to the ground. There was no trace of his father’s murderer, no answers as to why he was killed or who could have done it. Whoever it was, Jareth knew they were skilled at what they did. Very skilled, if they left no indication of their existence in the soft ground of the Realdrian Forest.
* * * * *
Adelyn had been soaking her foot in the cool river every night for a week, and the swelling had gone down drastically. The bruising, however, had gotten worse. Its menacing purple, red, and yellowish shades haunted her skin. It did not help that she had to climb trees to find fruits to eat, or that she slept in the thicker, larger branches so as not to be caught on the ground. She examined her injury now, at the edge of Realdrian City. The purple and red-tinged area was in the perfect shape of a hand. Angry again that her lord had disabled her before her next mark, Adelyn stuck her foot carefully back into her boot before rearing back and punching a nearby tree. Its bark cracked underneath the force, splitting like shattered glass before falling to the ground at her feet. She did not feel an answer in her knuckles. Her strength did not baffle her. She did not understand how sturdy the trees that grew for thousands of years were, and the tough old bark giving way to her knuckles so easily was not new to her, though to anyone else’s eyes it would have been nothing less than a feat fit for gods.
As Adelyn surveyed without interest the damage she had done to the tree, her thoughts strayed to her past. The King was not her first murder, but he was the first one who had mattered. Everyone before that had been for training purposes only. She had killed people in villages all the way from Gitral, five thousand miles away, now to Realdra. Lord Tavish had wanted her to train on real people, so she had. Their deaths were nothing but shooting starts to her—beautiful, eerie, almost going without notice, so deep was she under Tavish’s command. She had been under Tavish’s command as long as she could remember. There was nothing before him except darkness.
All she remembered was opening her eyes and seeing his own brown ones hovering over hers, his long fingernails in her hair. She remembered that he murmured a spell under his breath and she could see only him and smoke and dull lights overhead. The only sound was water dripping and his words. She felt clammy and sick as she awoke, and after a while, she felt better. That was all she remembered. There was nothing before Lord Tavish, his murmured words in the dark, the smoke, and the dripping of water. Everything was new to her after that. From then on, she was Tavish’s servant. She learned everything from him—what trees were and how they could speak. He taught her the lay of the land, where each country ended and another began. He taught her every speck of the earth, from the pebbles under their feet to the peaks of the highest, snow-capped mountains. He also taught her that the world was against them and that they alone deserved power and that, with her help, they would get it. He explained to her that his power was to be concealed until the right time, so she would have to dispose of those in his way until he could release his magic upon the world.
Shaking off the vivid memories of the first days of her life, Adelyn went over the story in her head and picked her game off the ground. She had felled ten pheasants, and six hung now by their feet across a tree branch she carried on her shoulders. The others she had cooked over a fire and eaten. She decided that she could give the people her real name, for it meant nothing to anyone in Realdra. She would tell them she was a traveler on her way to the realm of Helderon, and she was hunting in the wood for a few days before selling her game on the market. She needed the money to buy more supplies to last across the Falarac Desert. It was a simple enough story, for it was hunting season, and the guards would have come across many people hunting in the wood while they searched for the assassin; they would not suspected these hunters, for who in their right mind would kill the king and stick around to be hunted by his army? She also rather doubted that they suspected a woman had done it; only men were allowed training in Realdra, so it became an assumption that only men were allowed training anywhere else, which was mostly true anyway.
Adelyn walked with a small but detectable limp, making her way to the city and closer to her next target.
* * * *
The Fall Festival was underway. In Realdra, they celebrated the coming of fall every year with an elaborate festival where the people could mingle with the members of the castle, eat, drink, and dance. Tents were being set up and torches hung, tables set out with plates of food piled taller than the people carrying them. There was beef, pork, chicken, peafowl, fish, different cheeses, onions, baked tarts, custards, plums, apples, dates, potatoes, corn, and lots of wine. Jareth watched the bustle from his open window, sucking his lip into his mouth and drumming his fingers on the windowsill. He could not believe that in two short days, his brother had been crowned King of Realdra and life had kept going on. In the shock of his father’s assassination, Jareth had forgotten all about the plans for the Fall Festival, but Traygrad had assured his people that they would carry on and show the former king’s attacker that Realdra would not crumble, would not bow its head in defeat.
A soft knock came at his door and Jareth turned from his musings to open it. A messenger named Aeron was standing in the doorway, rocking back and forth on his feet. He was short with pointed ears and a mouth that looked like it was about to explode with his voice like the end of a whistle when suddenly blown. Jareth raised an eyebrow at him.
“Prince Jareth, your Highness, I hope this isn’t a bad time Your Highness,” Aeron said, blinking furiously.
“Give your message, Aeron,” Jareth replied.
“King Traygrad sent me, Your Highness. To fetch you. He wants your help decorating for the Festival.” Jareth heaved a sigh before nodding briefly to Aeron and following him down the hallway. His feet felt heavy on the carpet. His head even felt heavy, but he imagined it was because he was so exhausted. He had not slept much since his father’s death. He could not imagine how Traygrad could pull this Festival together so fast, even after pouring over their father’s plans.
Jareth climbed down the stone stairwell behind Aeron, following him all the way to the foyer and out the double oak doors. Traygrad was standing next to a group of men giving orders and pointing at tents being set up and tables still waiting to be placed.
“Ah, little brother,” Traygrad said, holding out a hand in greeting. Jareth shook it.
“You called for me?” Jareth said, a smile playing on his lips. The men around Traygrad bowed to Jareth, saluted, and went together to the tables.
“I just wanted to check on you,” Traygrad said. “You know you have to be at the Festival, but I will not blame you if you take off early.”
“I will be there,” Jareth said.
“Have you asked any of the court ladies to join you?” Traygrad asked, grinning. His grin reminded Jareth of the same smile Traygrad would give him when he played tricks on him, like pouring water on his face when he was sleeping or putting spiders in his hair. Jareth shook his head.
“None yet,” he said, smiling back.
“You know, there are plenty of ladies who would love to be in your favor.” Traygrad nudged Jareth in the ribs.
“I have other things on my mind.”
“Leave the other things to me, Jareth. You are young. Find a lady to bring to the party and have fun! There is no shame in that. Father would want that for you.”
“He always did,” Jareth replied.
“Meanwhile, you should help set up for the Festival. It will keep your mind off everything.”
* * * * *
Adelyn emerged from the forest’s edge, trying to disguise her limp as she did. All around her, people were carrying trays of food. Tents were being erected and men were hauling large wooden tables under the tents and covering them with cloth. Other people were milling about, watching the set-up. A man about her age with long, brown hair and green eyes came up to her.
“Are these your contribution to the feast?” he asked, indicating the pheasants she carried on her back.
“Oh, yes,” Adelyn said, unsure but determined not to seem that way.
“My name is Lafathnin. Let me help you carry those to the cooks,” he said. She obliged, handing them over. “I brought a couple of chickens to them earlier. I wanted to help out the new king as well as I could, what with King Reithar’s assassination. King Traygrad will be very grateful.”
Lafathnin smiled, and Adelyn returned his smile. He led her toward the castle.
In the daylight, Adelyn glanced at the castle she had been inside not very long ago. At the entrance stood four guards, each with a stern look in his eyes. They nodded at Lafathnin and gave her a wary look, but let her through. She wondered why security seemed to be so lax, but did not complain as Lafathnin pushed open the heavy front doors.
Even the foyer looked different to her during the day, with the sun streaming through the magnificent floor-to-ceiling windows. The floor was marble and glittered in the sunlight. A distant echo of children laughing floated to her ears and she turned to look for them, but saw nothing. Lafathnin seemed not to have heard as he continued to lead her down a hallway toward a large banquet room.
“I have not seen you around here before,” he said suddenly. Adelyn tried not to be startled.
“No, I’m just passing through on the way to Helderon. To be honest, I was going to sell those pheasants at the market, but they are much better suited going to the new king for his Festival,” she said smoothly. “I’m Adelyn.”
“We are always very pleased to have visitors, especially during the Fall Festival!” Lafathnin led her toward the kitchens, chatting all the way there. Adelyn nodded at the right times. She had perfected the ability to seem like she was listening when her mind was elsewhere. If Lafathnin broke conversation for a moment, she would nod, smile, or even say a word or two to encourage him to go on. She had been trained to hear only what was important, so unless he mentioned her next mark, she was uninterested.
Instead, Adelyn surveyed the castle in the light. As they moved further down the hall toward the banquet room, the light dimmed for a while. When they reached the banquet room, though, it was like opening her eyes for the first time—the dim, shadowy hallway gave way to the biggest room Adelyn had ever seen. The length of half the forest, the banquet room was grand. People were milling about and there was a lean man with a heavy jaw barking orders.
“You, there! Take those dates out to tent number five. You, with the chicken—please try not to drop the bird on your way out! A-ha!” he exclaimed as his eyes fell on Lafathnin and Adelyn. “Pheasants! Not cooked, I see. So be it. Nëath, take these pheasants from this man and bring them down to the kitchen! See that they’re cooked immediately!” The frail, black-haired boy named Nëath did as he was told immediately, and Lafathnin transferred the pheasants to Nëath’s back. The boy hurried, hobbling, toward the door on the far side of the banquet room and disappeared into the hallway.
Adelyn stood, waiting on some sort of further instruction, but Lafathnin put his arm around her shoulder and steered her back down the same hallway they had just walked. “I know you’re new around here, Adelyn, but when Faird starts giving orders, it’s best to just get out of the way as quickly as possible,” he laughed. Adelyn was not used to laughter and the sound of it so close to her ear, his breath tickling her shoulder, sent chills down her arms and legs. It was a happy noise, one that Adelyn was not prone to hearing. She turned to look up at Lafathnin and noticed for the first time that he was handsome. His long brown hair fell pleasantly around his shoulders, with pieces braided back behind his pointed ears. He wore a deep brown tunic that fell to his knees and forest green hosen underneath. Around his waist was a leather belt that housed a knife on each side, their handles gleaming gold. The trim on the collar of his tunic was silver, and embroidered into the fabric were beautiful silver swirls. The fabric clung to his chest, allowing an eyeful of muscles to ripple underneath. He was smiling down at her, his dark green eyes dancing to her silver blues. Adelyn caught her breath and looked toward the floor again, sending her own black hair back over her shoulder, caressing Lafathnin’s hand. He squeezed her arm.
“So, you can’t wear this old thing to the Fall Festival!” he joked and she felt her cheeks redden, though Lafathnin did not notice. “Let’s get you to Brea, she’ll have something you can wear.”
Friday, January 28, 2011
Non-fiction: short story
Oak Mountain
Jordan, Maria, and I sat on the cobblestone dam at Oak Mountain, our feet red and blistered from the burning rocks. We watched a brown-breasted nuthatch flit above our heads, sailing through the clear sky, his reflection swimming in the lake below. Behind us, a waterfall beat on the Pampas grass, moss-colored rocks, and water oaks below while a squirrel dug in the brick-colored mud, fishing for treasure. Maria jumped into the water, and a swell of emerald green pushed over the lower part of the dam and joined the waterfall. While I waited for her to reappear, bubbles popped on the surface and crickets screeched to their mates.
There were times when I wasn’t really sure she would come back up. The sun would beat in rhythm with my heart, waiting on her head of black hair to break the plane of the water and hear her gasping for air. I knew how cold the water was beneath the surface, despite how warm the sun made the water on top. It always paralyzed you when you went under, left you struggling to remember which way was up. She always remembered though. She always came back up.
That summer when we were sixteen was days upon days filled with Oak Mountain and that dam. Sometimes we would visit the petting zoo and play around with the baby goats and pet the horses, their coats polished to a brown luster, their tails swishing to disturb the flies that landed on them. In Alabama, though, the summer hits a sweltering ninety-five degrees and you can see heat rising from the ground, hear the throbbing rays from the sun like they are pulsating in your eardrums. Staying at the petting zoo for too long would leave your throat dry and the back of your neck sticky with sweat. Jordan ignored his discomfort most of the time, stroking the chestnut fur on the horses’ noses. He cooed to them and cracked a smile when I snapped a picture. He had one of those gaps between his two front teeth that you could stick a quarter into but you never did because you knew it’d taste bad.
Maria always drove us to Oak Mountain in her BMW, which sounds nice except that it was black and the seats were leather, and her air conditioner was broken. We had to roll down all the windows so no one would pass out. We’d stop at the Chevron just a couple streets away from the entrance and I’d buy us Cherry Coke or pre-made sandwiches they keep in those freezers. I was the only one with a credit card and since my account was connected to my dad’s, it never ran out of money. I took advantage of that a lot. Other times, we’d pack lunches to bring with us—Maria would make turkey breast sandwiches with mustard, mayonnaise, and cheese. She’d throw some bottled waters in there, and maybe a couple of cookies. She was the motherly one. When we got to the dam, Jordan would scarf down all of his sandwich and half of mine before taking off his clothes and jumping in. It was hot on the ride over. Needless to say, we always ended up back at the dam, eager to feel the cold water on our skin, forgetting for a while how cold it really felt when you jumped in.
The dam was something we alone discovered, or at least that’s what we liked to believe. To get there, you had to crawl over a bar that clearly suggested no entrance into the woods behind the parking lot. At sixteen you ignore things like that. We’d climb over that bar and star the trek to the dam. There was a slightly worn pathway through those woods. One time Jordan even spotted a rattlesnake and sent Maria and I screaming into the Bermuda grass, which hadn’t been cut in years because no one ever ventured through there. Jordan stood nearer to the snake, examining it as Maria and I screamed at him to leave it alone. He laughed at us and called us wimps, poking at the snake with a stick as his black curls fell in front of his eyes. I finally resorted to begging for him to drop the stick and let the snake be. You don’t taunt snakes, especially ones that had to come equipped with warning devices.
That Bermuda grass was waist-high and itchy. A few weeks after Jordan spotted the rattlesnake, we were stalking through the grass when we noticed a swarm of hornets hovering and buzzing right in the path. There was no way around them, so we held our breath (as if that would somehow keep them from stinging us) and ran through them, up the hill, and onto the rocky hiking path. The path led straight to the dam. A sign on a tree near the dam clearly stated “NO JUMPING,” but we ignored that like we did all signs, straightforward or not. That dam was our getaway. No one ever came walking down that hiking path either, so no one ever saw us there. We could go there and just sit and think if we wanted to, but we never did. We just jumped.
It wasn’t always easy to get back up to the dam once you jumped off of it. There was a much lower part of the dam that the water ran over, so we’d swim to that and stand on it like a sandbar in the middle of the ocean. Then, the lowest platform was about seven feet in the air. Jordan always stuck his foot in a big crack in the brick wall and pull himself up onto the platform with his arms. Maria and I weren’t strong enough to do that, so we’d climb onto the lower part of the dam and wait for Jordan’s slippery, prune-like hand to reach down and grab ours. He could always pull us back up, though not without injury. I scraped my knee on the brick a couple of times, but quickly forgot about it as I took another bite of my cookie before Jordan pushed me back in.
That summer was four years ago.
I always thought swimming was our forte. That’s what we did. We swam at the dam. When I got the phone call that shattered that naïve reflection, I’d been having a really bad day. My purse had been stolen at some podunk bar in Montevallo that had been a garage for coach buses early 1940s. I was just sitting down for a Jack and Coke when Maria called me and told me that Jordan had been the one who hadn’t come back up. He’d been at the beach and just hadn’t come back up for air.
I felt like I was sixteen again, jumping into that water in the ninety-five degree weather, forgetting it was freezing under the surface. I couldn’t breathe either.
Jordan, Maria, and I sat on the cobblestone dam at Oak Mountain, our feet red and blistered from the burning rocks. We watched a brown-breasted nuthatch flit above our heads, sailing through the clear sky, his reflection swimming in the lake below. Behind us, a waterfall beat on the Pampas grass, moss-colored rocks, and water oaks below while a squirrel dug in the brick-colored mud, fishing for treasure. Maria jumped into the water, and a swell of emerald green pushed over the lower part of the dam and joined the waterfall. While I waited for her to reappear, bubbles popped on the surface and crickets screeched to their mates.
There were times when I wasn’t really sure she would come back up. The sun would beat in rhythm with my heart, waiting on her head of black hair to break the plane of the water and hear her gasping for air. I knew how cold the water was beneath the surface, despite how warm the sun made the water on top. It always paralyzed you when you went under, left you struggling to remember which way was up. She always remembered though. She always came back up.
That summer when we were sixteen was days upon days filled with Oak Mountain and that dam. Sometimes we would visit the petting zoo and play around with the baby goats and pet the horses, their coats polished to a brown luster, their tails swishing to disturb the flies that landed on them. In Alabama, though, the summer hits a sweltering ninety-five degrees and you can see heat rising from the ground, hear the throbbing rays from the sun like they are pulsating in your eardrums. Staying at the petting zoo for too long would leave your throat dry and the back of your neck sticky with sweat. Jordan ignored his discomfort most of the time, stroking the chestnut fur on the horses’ noses. He cooed to them and cracked a smile when I snapped a picture. He had one of those gaps between his two front teeth that you could stick a quarter into but you never did because you knew it’d taste bad.
Maria always drove us to Oak Mountain in her BMW, which sounds nice except that it was black and the seats were leather, and her air conditioner was broken. We had to roll down all the windows so no one would pass out. We’d stop at the Chevron just a couple streets away from the entrance and I’d buy us Cherry Coke or pre-made sandwiches they keep in those freezers. I was the only one with a credit card and since my account was connected to my dad’s, it never ran out of money. I took advantage of that a lot. Other times, we’d pack lunches to bring with us—Maria would make turkey breast sandwiches with mustard, mayonnaise, and cheese. She’d throw some bottled waters in there, and maybe a couple of cookies. She was the motherly one. When we got to the dam, Jordan would scarf down all of his sandwich and half of mine before taking off his clothes and jumping in. It was hot on the ride over. Needless to say, we always ended up back at the dam, eager to feel the cold water on our skin, forgetting for a while how cold it really felt when you jumped in.
The dam was something we alone discovered, or at least that’s what we liked to believe. To get there, you had to crawl over a bar that clearly suggested no entrance into the woods behind the parking lot. At sixteen you ignore things like that. We’d climb over that bar and star the trek to the dam. There was a slightly worn pathway through those woods. One time Jordan even spotted a rattlesnake and sent Maria and I screaming into the Bermuda grass, which hadn’t been cut in years because no one ever ventured through there. Jordan stood nearer to the snake, examining it as Maria and I screamed at him to leave it alone. He laughed at us and called us wimps, poking at the snake with a stick as his black curls fell in front of his eyes. I finally resorted to begging for him to drop the stick and let the snake be. You don’t taunt snakes, especially ones that had to come equipped with warning devices.
That Bermuda grass was waist-high and itchy. A few weeks after Jordan spotted the rattlesnake, we were stalking through the grass when we noticed a swarm of hornets hovering and buzzing right in the path. There was no way around them, so we held our breath (as if that would somehow keep them from stinging us) and ran through them, up the hill, and onto the rocky hiking path. The path led straight to the dam. A sign on a tree near the dam clearly stated “NO JUMPING,” but we ignored that like we did all signs, straightforward or not. That dam was our getaway. No one ever came walking down that hiking path either, so no one ever saw us there. We could go there and just sit and think if we wanted to, but we never did. We just jumped.
It wasn’t always easy to get back up to the dam once you jumped off of it. There was a much lower part of the dam that the water ran over, so we’d swim to that and stand on it like a sandbar in the middle of the ocean. Then, the lowest platform was about seven feet in the air. Jordan always stuck his foot in a big crack in the brick wall and pull himself up onto the platform with his arms. Maria and I weren’t strong enough to do that, so we’d climb onto the lower part of the dam and wait for Jordan’s slippery, prune-like hand to reach down and grab ours. He could always pull us back up, though not without injury. I scraped my knee on the brick a couple of times, but quickly forgot about it as I took another bite of my cookie before Jordan pushed me back in.
That summer was four years ago.
I always thought swimming was our forte. That’s what we did. We swam at the dam. When I got the phone call that shattered that naïve reflection, I’d been having a really bad day. My purse had been stolen at some podunk bar in Montevallo that had been a garage for coach buses early 1940s. I was just sitting down for a Jack and Coke when Maria called me and told me that Jordan had been the one who hadn’t come back up. He’d been at the beach and just hadn’t come back up for air.
I felt like I was sixteen again, jumping into that water in the ninety-five degree weather, forgetting it was freezing under the surface. I couldn’t breathe either.
Philosophy - Critical Analysis
Prompt:
“I don’t want to talk about how I feel, all right?”
“Harry, suffering like this proves you are still a man! This pain is part of being
human!”
“THEN – I – DON’T – WANT – TO – BE – HUMAN!” Harry roared.
-- J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
Materialism in J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
This excerpt is from J.K. Rowling’s most recent novel, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. From these few sentences, I infer that Dumbledore, the character speaking to Harry Potter in this passage, suggests chemical and physical reactions (such as those that cause suffering) constitute human beings. I argue from the materialistic standpoint: humans are only reactions.
Materialists maintain that everything is matter. In saying so, they stress the point that there is no “thinking matter,” and that everything that exists is in physical form. That which is not explainable in physical form does not exist. Human beings are trapped in a physical state of matter. Not only is the physical state of humans matter, but their “mental states” are physically observable—making them physical states as well.
According to the article “Is God in Our Genes?” by Jeffrey Kluger, even the idea of God is materialistic. In the article, Dean Hamer, a molecular biologist, was doing a study on 1,000 men and women who smoke. He conducted a side-study that asked participants how they would rank themselves spiritually. In his study, he found that those who ranked themselves high on Cloninger’s self-transcendence scale had nucleic acid cytosine on one specific part of the gene VMAT2, and those that ranked themselves lower had nucleic acid adenine on the same spot. Through his study, Hamer came to the conclusion that even the belief in God can be defined by science; faith, a feeling, a thought is a genetic code, is matter.
However, George Berkeley’s abstract idealism casts a shadow onto materialistic views. He stipulated that by using Ockham’s razor, one could throw out matter, because one can explain experience without it. Objects, matter, cannot be experienced without perception—they are only ideas. However, a materialist would counter with the statement that material objects can exist without an idea of them. Before we knew other galaxies outside the Milky Way existed, they still existed. Therefore, matter can exist without ideas. In fact, thoughts and feelings are only illusions. The feeling a person undergoes when having a “spiritual experience” is only the genetic code for belief in God, as Hamer deduced. This genetic pattern existed before Hamer was aware of it, perhaps before Hamer had any idea of it. Yet, the genetic pattern was still there without any idea. Matter can exist outside of ideas.
In another article, scientists conducted a study on 18 college students who claim to have just recently fallen in love. While scanning their brains using magnetic resonance imaging (MRI), they found that while looking at a picture of the person they feel a romantic attraction to, the parts of the brain with excessive amounts of receptors of dopamine—the euphoria messenger—became activated. These MRIs were compared to MRIs in other studies, and scientists found that the romantic love pattern was consistent and unique. Therefore, as the studies show, the feeling of romantic love is simply a physical reaction of the brain – materialistic. A skeptic would ask what part of the body feels love – hands, blood? The reaction in the brain causes it, but where is it felt? The feeling is not felt anywhere specifically – it is simply many physical reactions throughout the entire body that occur as an effect of the physical reaction of the brain. Therefore, it is not even a feeling, for it is only what the brain allows. It is only the physical reaction to a certain stimulus. As seen in the genetic trait that codes for the existence of God, the feeling of love is also publicly observable, and is therefore matter.
Another argument against materialism, and perhaps the most famous, is Descartes’ cogito ergo sum, “I think, therefore I am.” This statement is a true counter-argument of materialism, which stipulates that thoughts are only matter. Descartes said that one could not rely on one’s senses for truth. To prove this theory, Descartes utilizes his “Wax Argument.” In this argument, Descartes lists all of the physical characteristics of a piece of wax. When he puts it in the fire, the wax changes; in conclusion, one cannot rely on one’s senses, because melted wax is still wax. But what changed the wax into its new state? A series of chemical reactions caused the change, and it is possible for wax to change and be observed in its new state as wax, also.
Thomas Hobbes was the most important advocate of materialism. In his various writings, he explained his then revolutionary ideas that all things could be equivocated to motion or mechanical action. He stated that “All that exists is matter; all that occurs is motion.” However, this is a rather rudimentary vision of materialism that no one believes today, because philosophers and scientists over the ages have discovered such things as magnetic and electrical fields, mass energy.
Consider spots in front of your eyes, for instance. If you reach out with your hands, you cannot touch them. Where are the spots in space? They are surely not publicly observable, but you can see them because perhaps you are dizzy, or have just had a hard knock to the head. Materialists say that because they are not publicly observable, then they do not exist. But you are seeing them, so don’t they exist? Perhaps they do exist in your own state of mind – but there is something that causes them, and this is where materialists regain composure in their argument. It is a state of physical events—the blow to the head and the following action of the brain—that causes the spots before your eyes. It is matter; the firing of neurons and the responses of the brain and body make these spots before your eyes observable by only you. They exist in the physical world in that they exist in your brain.
Immanuel Kant also throws an obstacle in the pathway of the materialists. His entire philosophy is based on the inherent “reason” that all rational beings possess. Kant maintains that in order to act morally, one must act under the presupposition of freedom. Why? Morality and freedom go hand-in-hand. One cannot be moral but also be lawless, so one must act under laws, and these laws are the laws one imposes on oneself. Where do these laws come from? The rational being’s presupposition of freedom, which gives him or her the freedom to do what he or she wants, while “reason” decides which is “moral.” Because one decides between two options, one must have reason, and one’s reason must prove that one is free. But, what causes human beings to reason, to deliberate between two choices, and to decide which decision to make? It must be something going on inside our brains that determine which way to go when one comes to a fork in the road. Once again, the brain’s complex processes occurring in the correct order give us reason (and thus a reason to act morally, of course).
Thus there is no escape from physical reactions of the brain. Even something humans have held onto for centuries as existence beyond the physical world, God, has in a study been suggested as genetic. More so than the number of people that believe in God is the number of people that believe in love as something beyond physical, but love is just another physical reaction of the brain. Everything one deems something beyond physical, a “spiritual experience,” a feeling such as “love,” a deliberation—these things are all matter. Humans are matter because they are a series of reactions, and these reactions are inescapable.
Date: 3/09/05
Words: 1051
Links with syllabus: Core Theme—Mind and Body
Bibliography and references:
Rowling, J.K. 2003. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. New York. Scholastic
Press.
Descartes Web site: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ren%E9_Descartes
Hobbes Web site: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Hobbes
Rosen, Stanley. 2000. The Examined Life. New York. Random House.
Article: Carey, Benedict. “Feel dopey when you’re in love? Scientists say it’s all in your
head.” Los Angeles Times.
Article: Kluger, Jeffrey. 2004. “Is God in Our Genes?” TIME magazine.
Hospers, John. 1988. An Introduction to Philosophical Analysis: Third Edition. New Jersey. Prentice Hall.
Lange, Frederick. 1950. The History of Materialism. New York. The Humanities Press.
“I don’t want to talk about how I feel, all right?”
“Harry, suffering like this proves you are still a man! This pain is part of being
human!”
“THEN – I – DON’T – WANT – TO – BE – HUMAN!” Harry roared.
-- J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
Materialism in J.K. Rowling’s Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix
This excerpt is from J.K. Rowling’s most recent novel, Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. From these few sentences, I infer that Dumbledore, the character speaking to Harry Potter in this passage, suggests chemical and physical reactions (such as those that cause suffering) constitute human beings. I argue from the materialistic standpoint: humans are only reactions.
Materialists maintain that everything is matter. In saying so, they stress the point that there is no “thinking matter,” and that everything that exists is in physical form. That which is not explainable in physical form does not exist. Human beings are trapped in a physical state of matter. Not only is the physical state of humans matter, but their “mental states” are physically observable—making them physical states as well.
According to the article “Is God in Our Genes?” by Jeffrey Kluger, even the idea of God is materialistic. In the article, Dean Hamer, a molecular biologist, was doing a study on 1,000 men and women who smoke. He conducted a side-study that asked participants how they would rank themselves spiritually. In his study, he found that those who ranked themselves high on Cloninger’s self-transcendence scale had nucleic acid cytosine on one specific part of the gene VMAT2, and those that ranked themselves lower had nucleic acid adenine on the same spot. Through his study, Hamer came to the conclusion that even the belief in God can be defined by science; faith, a feeling, a thought is a genetic code, is matter.
However, George Berkeley’s abstract idealism casts a shadow onto materialistic views. He stipulated that by using Ockham’s razor, one could throw out matter, because one can explain experience without it. Objects, matter, cannot be experienced without perception—they are only ideas. However, a materialist would counter with the statement that material objects can exist without an idea of them. Before we knew other galaxies outside the Milky Way existed, they still existed. Therefore, matter can exist without ideas. In fact, thoughts and feelings are only illusions. The feeling a person undergoes when having a “spiritual experience” is only the genetic code for belief in God, as Hamer deduced. This genetic pattern existed before Hamer was aware of it, perhaps before Hamer had any idea of it. Yet, the genetic pattern was still there without any idea. Matter can exist outside of ideas.
In another article, scientists conducted a study on 18 college students who claim to have just recently fallen in love. While scanning their brains using magnetic resonance imaging (MRI), they found that while looking at a picture of the person they feel a romantic attraction to, the parts of the brain with excessive amounts of receptors of dopamine—the euphoria messenger—became activated. These MRIs were compared to MRIs in other studies, and scientists found that the romantic love pattern was consistent and unique. Therefore, as the studies show, the feeling of romantic love is simply a physical reaction of the brain – materialistic. A skeptic would ask what part of the body feels love – hands, blood? The reaction in the brain causes it, but where is it felt? The feeling is not felt anywhere specifically – it is simply many physical reactions throughout the entire body that occur as an effect of the physical reaction of the brain. Therefore, it is not even a feeling, for it is only what the brain allows. It is only the physical reaction to a certain stimulus. As seen in the genetic trait that codes for the existence of God, the feeling of love is also publicly observable, and is therefore matter.
Another argument against materialism, and perhaps the most famous, is Descartes’ cogito ergo sum, “I think, therefore I am.” This statement is a true counter-argument of materialism, which stipulates that thoughts are only matter. Descartes said that one could not rely on one’s senses for truth. To prove this theory, Descartes utilizes his “Wax Argument.” In this argument, Descartes lists all of the physical characteristics of a piece of wax. When he puts it in the fire, the wax changes; in conclusion, one cannot rely on one’s senses, because melted wax is still wax. But what changed the wax into its new state? A series of chemical reactions caused the change, and it is possible for wax to change and be observed in its new state as wax, also.
Thomas Hobbes was the most important advocate of materialism. In his various writings, he explained his then revolutionary ideas that all things could be equivocated to motion or mechanical action. He stated that “All that exists is matter; all that occurs is motion.” However, this is a rather rudimentary vision of materialism that no one believes today, because philosophers and scientists over the ages have discovered such things as magnetic and electrical fields, mass energy.
Consider spots in front of your eyes, for instance. If you reach out with your hands, you cannot touch them. Where are the spots in space? They are surely not publicly observable, but you can see them because perhaps you are dizzy, or have just had a hard knock to the head. Materialists say that because they are not publicly observable, then they do not exist. But you are seeing them, so don’t they exist? Perhaps they do exist in your own state of mind – but there is something that causes them, and this is where materialists regain composure in their argument. It is a state of physical events—the blow to the head and the following action of the brain—that causes the spots before your eyes. It is matter; the firing of neurons and the responses of the brain and body make these spots before your eyes observable by only you. They exist in the physical world in that they exist in your brain.
Immanuel Kant also throws an obstacle in the pathway of the materialists. His entire philosophy is based on the inherent “reason” that all rational beings possess. Kant maintains that in order to act morally, one must act under the presupposition of freedom. Why? Morality and freedom go hand-in-hand. One cannot be moral but also be lawless, so one must act under laws, and these laws are the laws one imposes on oneself. Where do these laws come from? The rational being’s presupposition of freedom, which gives him or her the freedom to do what he or she wants, while “reason” decides which is “moral.” Because one decides between two options, one must have reason, and one’s reason must prove that one is free. But, what causes human beings to reason, to deliberate between two choices, and to decide which decision to make? It must be something going on inside our brains that determine which way to go when one comes to a fork in the road. Once again, the brain’s complex processes occurring in the correct order give us reason (and thus a reason to act morally, of course).
Thus there is no escape from physical reactions of the brain. Even something humans have held onto for centuries as existence beyond the physical world, God, has in a study been suggested as genetic. More so than the number of people that believe in God is the number of people that believe in love as something beyond physical, but love is just another physical reaction of the brain. Everything one deems something beyond physical, a “spiritual experience,” a feeling such as “love,” a deliberation—these things are all matter. Humans are matter because they are a series of reactions, and these reactions are inescapable.
Date: 3/09/05
Words: 1051
Links with syllabus: Core Theme—Mind and Body
Bibliography and references:
Rowling, J.K. 2003. Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. New York. Scholastic
Press.
Descartes Web site: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ren%E9_Descartes
Hobbes Web site: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Hobbes
Rosen, Stanley. 2000. The Examined Life. New York. Random House.
Article: Carey, Benedict. “Feel dopey when you’re in love? Scientists say it’s all in your
head.” Los Angeles Times.
Article: Kluger, Jeffrey. 2004. “Is God in Our Genes?” TIME magazine.
Hospers, John. 1988. An Introduction to Philosophical Analysis: Third Edition. New Jersey. Prentice Hall.
Lange, Frederick. 1950. The History of Materialism. New York. The Humanities Press.
Philosophy - Dialogue
Philosophical Dialogue on Morality: Kant versus Moral Relativity
Mercutio comes to Friar Lawrence’s cell after seeing Romeo and Juliet exit.
M: Dare I ask what mockery here hast thou just committed?
F: A mockery? What dost thou hold against me?
M: To marry a Montague and a Capulet ought not to be, in this case, moral.
F: It is a question of morality, you say? In all my days, I have followed just which morals I believe apply to me. As I have always been, I shall always be—my business is my own. It is not for you to judge what is right and what is wrong.
M: Nay, my dear Friar, I do not agree. Romeo and Juliet are quite sprung on love. However, I do not believe that it is solely to their benefit that you married them. With their bond, you also hope to be the one to bring about peace between the families, and that would make you greatly revered. Are Romeo and Juliet, then, not a means to your desired end?
F: And, if so, what then? Is not happiness of all a greater achievement than following strict moral laws?
M: I say to you that in order to assure freedom, one must consider all rational beings as an end in themselves, and not merely a means to an end. By using them as a means, you do not act under a categorical imperative. To achieve universal freedom, one must act as though through your actions your maxim would become universal law. It is the only way. There are strict moral laws that apply to everyone, everywhere, that all ought to follow.
F: Let me take your first point. Romeo and Juliet were a means to an end, of course – but are they not also an end? For, if their marriage were to bring about peace between the families, would they not be able to take pride in their love? Would it not make them joyous? As for your categorical imperatives and your universal laws, I cannot be swayed. All statements of “right” or “wrong” are only preference claims. There is no set moral code which everyone must obey. Each culture, nay, each human being has his or her own set of moral laws which reflect his or her upbringing. Is it fair to say that one person’s opinion on a moral issue is “wrong”?
M: I think so. If I understand what you are saying, it would be considered moral if I killed all Capulets because I was taught that from youth?
F: You speak of moral choices as one would consider what to eat for dinner. Morality is not only dependent upon oneself, but upon one’s culture and those groups surrounding that culture. If one were to decide to follow a certain set of moral laws, one not only applies them to oneself but to those around him or her. In order to remain part of a group, and be regarded with respect by other groups, one must act in a way that does not offend either group.
M: I agree morality should be also dependent upon others. But, what if a certain group has no connection with other groups? It would not be okay to kill members of your own group, because it would not be okay for them to kill you. The matter at hand is that moral law comes from oneself, and that as rational beings, reason gives us that moral law. It would not be a moral law to kill all the Capulets, as I suggested before, because there would be no basis for that moral law. If one were to come up with some sort of basis for moral laws, one would most likely come to some sort of Golden Rule conclusion, and in that case – it would never be considered moral to kill another.
F: It may be considered moral to kill another, in some cases, especially in groups, as you have suggested. Take the Eskimos, for example. The Eskimos kill their elderly, because they slow down the group, and eat what they have not earned. It is a matter of survival, and who are we to judge? In order for their group to survive, they must do what they do. Would it not be immoral to allow the eventual extinction of their group simply because it was immoral to kill the elderly?
M: You are suggesting that the existence of the group as a whole is more important that one person’s existence, and, while I take your point into consideration, you must put yourself in the shoes of the elderly in this situation. If I were an elderly person, would I want to sacrifice my life just because I grew old?
F: Then you speak of conflicting moral laws. “Do not kill” and “Help your family when they are in need” are two moral laws that people ought to follow, usually. However, which is more important? In the case of the Eskimos, helping the family is more important.
M: You have a good point, however, in the case of conflicting moral laws, one must think of the implications of the law becoming universal. The most important aspect of the categorical imperative is to think of the consequences if everyone in the world were to act in such a way. The Eskimos should not kill their elderly, because it would not be moral for every society to kill theirs. We have already agreed that morality should be dependent upon others – and in the case of the categorical imperative, morality is dependent upon all. Absolute moral truth comes from the synthetic a priori proposition that everyone in the world could act in such a way and it be considered moral.
F: You speak of absolute truths again, but you misconstrue the number of people that would find a certain act moral or immoral. There could never be an absolute set of moral laws, because not everyone thinks the same way. One person may think, “It is moral to steal from others,” while most would not agree. However, the person at hand has a different perception of morality. Perhaps this person lives off stealing from others, and does not think it wrong for anyone to steal.
M: Yes, but is he not making an exception of himself? The categorical imperative applies to not only everyone else, but to the self, and would he think it moral for others to steal from him?
F: Your point is well taken, dear Mercutio—but ho, those are laws that involve others in their statements. What when one speaks of cultural laws that do not imply treatment of others, like “Do not waste food,” which would be applicable in places where food is expensive and the population is poor and starving – perhaps in Ethiopia. But how those in America live! wasting food without thought to the less fortunate. The two places, so culturally divided, cannot dream of how the other half lives. Morality in these two places is as different as the abundance of food and money. Nay, morality must depend not only upon the action but upon the context of the action.
M: See I your point, cos, and I must argue your assumption that the morals in the two places must be as different as the living conditions. While societies hath different ways of viewing morality, constant is the basis for all morals – the Golden Rule – “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you” – is generally accepted as moral principle.
F: Ah! But you see, there are problems with the Golden Rule. As I have previously discussed, not everyone hath the same wishes. Some people like to treat others kindly and be treated the same, and some people like to abuse others and also like to be abused. You see, it all depends upon one’s wishes as a rational being. Not all rational beings want the same things, which is what makes culture such a difficult barrier between societies. Physically and mentally, it doth serve as the great divider that separates us. While I have taken all of your points into consideration, I have not been swayed. It is because of cultural separation that there can never be absolute moral truths, only preference claims.
(A threatening voice is heard outside.)
M: As much as I enjoyed this conversation, the Prince of Cats seems to be luring me away from your cell at the moment. It is time for this feud to end. (Shouting as he exists.) A plague o’ both your houses!
Date: 3/6/05
Words: 1058
Links with syllabus: Core Theme—The Human Condition
Optional Theme 8—Principles for Moral Actions—Normative
Ethics
Bibliography and references:
Hospers, John. 1988. An Introduction to Philosophical Analysis: Third Edition. New Jersey. Prentice Hall.
Wood, Allen W. 2005. Kant. Massachusetts. Blackwell Publishing Limited.
Bowie, Andrew. 2003. German Philosophy: Kant to Habermas. Cambridge. Polity Press.
Wong, David B. 1984. Moral Relativity. Berkeley. University of California Press.
Kant, Immanuel. 1997. Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals. Cambridge.
Cambridge University Press.
Shakespeare, William. 2003. Romeo and Juliet. USA. Lorenz Educational Publishers.
Mercutio comes to Friar Lawrence’s cell after seeing Romeo and Juliet exit.
M: Dare I ask what mockery here hast thou just committed?
F: A mockery? What dost thou hold against me?
M: To marry a Montague and a Capulet ought not to be, in this case, moral.
F: It is a question of morality, you say? In all my days, I have followed just which morals I believe apply to me. As I have always been, I shall always be—my business is my own. It is not for you to judge what is right and what is wrong.
M: Nay, my dear Friar, I do not agree. Romeo and Juliet are quite sprung on love. However, I do not believe that it is solely to their benefit that you married them. With their bond, you also hope to be the one to bring about peace between the families, and that would make you greatly revered. Are Romeo and Juliet, then, not a means to your desired end?
F: And, if so, what then? Is not happiness of all a greater achievement than following strict moral laws?
M: I say to you that in order to assure freedom, one must consider all rational beings as an end in themselves, and not merely a means to an end. By using them as a means, you do not act under a categorical imperative. To achieve universal freedom, one must act as though through your actions your maxim would become universal law. It is the only way. There are strict moral laws that apply to everyone, everywhere, that all ought to follow.
F: Let me take your first point. Romeo and Juliet were a means to an end, of course – but are they not also an end? For, if their marriage were to bring about peace between the families, would they not be able to take pride in their love? Would it not make them joyous? As for your categorical imperatives and your universal laws, I cannot be swayed. All statements of “right” or “wrong” are only preference claims. There is no set moral code which everyone must obey. Each culture, nay, each human being has his or her own set of moral laws which reflect his or her upbringing. Is it fair to say that one person’s opinion on a moral issue is “wrong”?
M: I think so. If I understand what you are saying, it would be considered moral if I killed all Capulets because I was taught that from youth?
F: You speak of moral choices as one would consider what to eat for dinner. Morality is not only dependent upon oneself, but upon one’s culture and those groups surrounding that culture. If one were to decide to follow a certain set of moral laws, one not only applies them to oneself but to those around him or her. In order to remain part of a group, and be regarded with respect by other groups, one must act in a way that does not offend either group.
M: I agree morality should be also dependent upon others. But, what if a certain group has no connection with other groups? It would not be okay to kill members of your own group, because it would not be okay for them to kill you. The matter at hand is that moral law comes from oneself, and that as rational beings, reason gives us that moral law. It would not be a moral law to kill all the Capulets, as I suggested before, because there would be no basis for that moral law. If one were to come up with some sort of basis for moral laws, one would most likely come to some sort of Golden Rule conclusion, and in that case – it would never be considered moral to kill another.
F: It may be considered moral to kill another, in some cases, especially in groups, as you have suggested. Take the Eskimos, for example. The Eskimos kill their elderly, because they slow down the group, and eat what they have not earned. It is a matter of survival, and who are we to judge? In order for their group to survive, they must do what they do. Would it not be immoral to allow the eventual extinction of their group simply because it was immoral to kill the elderly?
M: You are suggesting that the existence of the group as a whole is more important that one person’s existence, and, while I take your point into consideration, you must put yourself in the shoes of the elderly in this situation. If I were an elderly person, would I want to sacrifice my life just because I grew old?
F: Then you speak of conflicting moral laws. “Do not kill” and “Help your family when they are in need” are two moral laws that people ought to follow, usually. However, which is more important? In the case of the Eskimos, helping the family is more important.
M: You have a good point, however, in the case of conflicting moral laws, one must think of the implications of the law becoming universal. The most important aspect of the categorical imperative is to think of the consequences if everyone in the world were to act in such a way. The Eskimos should not kill their elderly, because it would not be moral for every society to kill theirs. We have already agreed that morality should be dependent upon others – and in the case of the categorical imperative, morality is dependent upon all. Absolute moral truth comes from the synthetic a priori proposition that everyone in the world could act in such a way and it be considered moral.
F: You speak of absolute truths again, but you misconstrue the number of people that would find a certain act moral or immoral. There could never be an absolute set of moral laws, because not everyone thinks the same way. One person may think, “It is moral to steal from others,” while most would not agree. However, the person at hand has a different perception of morality. Perhaps this person lives off stealing from others, and does not think it wrong for anyone to steal.
M: Yes, but is he not making an exception of himself? The categorical imperative applies to not only everyone else, but to the self, and would he think it moral for others to steal from him?
F: Your point is well taken, dear Mercutio—but ho, those are laws that involve others in their statements. What when one speaks of cultural laws that do not imply treatment of others, like “Do not waste food,” which would be applicable in places where food is expensive and the population is poor and starving – perhaps in Ethiopia. But how those in America live! wasting food without thought to the less fortunate. The two places, so culturally divided, cannot dream of how the other half lives. Morality in these two places is as different as the abundance of food and money. Nay, morality must depend not only upon the action but upon the context of the action.
M: See I your point, cos, and I must argue your assumption that the morals in the two places must be as different as the living conditions. While societies hath different ways of viewing morality, constant is the basis for all morals – the Golden Rule – “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you” – is generally accepted as moral principle.
F: Ah! But you see, there are problems with the Golden Rule. As I have previously discussed, not everyone hath the same wishes. Some people like to treat others kindly and be treated the same, and some people like to abuse others and also like to be abused. You see, it all depends upon one’s wishes as a rational being. Not all rational beings want the same things, which is what makes culture such a difficult barrier between societies. Physically and mentally, it doth serve as the great divider that separates us. While I have taken all of your points into consideration, I have not been swayed. It is because of cultural separation that there can never be absolute moral truths, only preference claims.
(A threatening voice is heard outside.)
M: As much as I enjoyed this conversation, the Prince of Cats seems to be luring me away from your cell at the moment. It is time for this feud to end. (Shouting as he exists.) A plague o’ both your houses!
Date: 3/6/05
Words: 1058
Links with syllabus: Core Theme—The Human Condition
Optional Theme 8—Principles for Moral Actions—Normative
Ethics
Bibliography and references:
Hospers, John. 1988. An Introduction to Philosophical Analysis: Third Edition. New Jersey. Prentice Hall.
Wood, Allen W. 2005. Kant. Massachusetts. Blackwell Publishing Limited.
Bowie, Andrew. 2003. German Philosophy: Kant to Habermas. Cambridge. Polity Press.
Wong, David B. 1984. Moral Relativity. Berkeley. University of California Press.
Kant, Immanuel. 1997. Groundwork of the Metaphysics of Morals. Cambridge.
Cambridge University Press.
Shakespeare, William. 2003. Romeo and Juliet. USA. Lorenz Educational Publishers.
Poetry Collection
The Perfect Men
Meredith
With her, it has always been the same:
she finds the so-called perfect men
bearing heart-shaped boxes.
Valentine’s Day, birthdays, Christmas
filled with packaged truffles and crimson
roses—but the thorns.
Years of paid dinners and still
she hungers for something more
than later, rinse, repeat.
Until him.
Now it’s the way
he plays guitar, how he inspires
her, something about spare
change in a jar, hashbrowns, wine
straight from the bottle, how
she’s forgotten the so-called
perfect men.
Before him, I saw her look
down, shiver in the cold,
startle, cry. She said
she felt lost, but now I see
her write and smile
in the silence, and while I wish
I had someone to steal
t-shirts from or interrupt
me while I’m speaking
just to kiss, I like
to know she’s traded
in roses for lilies.
Observations at the Shell
Jennifer
Stocking Sun Chips, chocolate-covered
everything, my ponytailed hair sticks
to my skin. Then she trudges in.
She eyes the frozen candy bars,
picks up Twix and cradles
it in her long hands like glass.
“Is that all for you today, sweetie?”
“And a pack of Camel Lights.
I’m trying to stay healthy.”
We laugh but I can tell she
hasn’t really smiled in a while.
She is always alone. Like me.
Time. She walks in and trailing her,
a young man with hands
in his pockets. She ignores
the ice cream, steps slowly up
to the counter, and I place
the cigarettes before her. She beams,
reaching behind her
to grab his hand.
For months when she walks in, he holds
the door, she grins. When the door
holding stops, his car still waits
for her outside. She is not alone.
Oak Mountain
I took you to the dam—the terra
cotta and crimson bricks, cobblestoned
warmth on our feet. The water halts
here—collects, slops over the lower
part of the dam when you jump.
You dive in, deny the cold
that settles after rain, motion
for me to follow. Instead, I think
of the path—blocked by hulking
bees, pampas grass, rocks jammed
into torn skin, and I don’t
jump in after you.
The second time we met
for Drew’s memorial service.
Under the pavilion, we were swarmed
by fifty people dragging memories like lame
feet. We lit candles blown out by the wind,
talked over each other—who knew
Drew best. The storm chased
us, skin water-logged.
You wrapped your fingers in mine,
rubbed one nail on my palm like picking
a guitar, told me “I love you. It’s alright.”
We skipped the petting zoo that third
time, went straight to the boats. My dad
always insisted on canoes but the fading
blue of the paddle boats drew
me in and you agreed, though now
we know how hot plastic scorches bare
skin. Still, we shared sandwiches,
bottles of water,
and this time, ignoring the cold,
we both jumped in.
Yard Sale
Justin
Worn guitar picks, coffee-stained
hardbacks, flowered sofa, plastic
vases with earth clogging the cracks,
red t-shirt, picture frames, candles with black
wicks, blankets that smell of summer
picnics and horse-trampled grass—
things unused for so long they
crowd the garage, the room
where they want to build a library,
the guest room of an old house.
I pick out a few scratched CDs, carry
them up to the girl with her hair
in a ponytail. “Five dollars,” she says,
glancing at the boy, twenty feet away, face
hidden beneath a yellow trucker hat. He is running
his fingers over a just-bought guitar, hesitant
to let it go. As if she’s just called
his name, he looks up at her.
Her lips part and she smiles,
doesn’t count the five ones I’ve handed
her before stuffing them in her back pocket—
as if money was just change in a jar.
She touches her lips like the only
thing she really needs
had already been placed there.
The Perch Café
Can’t you see us at the Perch Café?
Flushed red, modern glass, like a giant
old telephone booth but with ginger
maple bread pudding inside.
My laptop on the ochre
table, me, ponytailed and watching
the cursor blink, ignoring the editor’s red
ink on my three hundred stacked pages,
the novel I wrote, the date at the top—deadline.
You rush in, smelling like mahogany
and bronze, the cologne
of guitars and music, order a scarlet
glow herbal tea—kiss me,
kiss me, kiss—and people
shift, clear their throats.
Can’t you see us Brooklyn-bound?
Not on our way but tied down,
studio-owned and book-contracted.
You sit across from me, close
my computer, lean in
and all I see is your lips,
forget about the ink, the date,
the crooner in your studio,
kiss me, kiss me.
Quit California
Come back to me, back
to where the wind stirs
reds, yellows—
away from palm
trees that never wilt,
the fountains cloud-blue and raining
because the sky can’t.
Forget gathering
the rest of your things,
the boxes of movies, the Dali,
that old pair of jeans
with the hole in the knee.
Come home to the tree
you taught me was a maple
in your front yard,
the weeping willow,
the four-o’clocks waking,
to summery September.
Come home to making
love in the morning, showering
together, cups of water
by the bed, tangled limbs,
strained breathing, my words,
your guitars, our wine-
drunk nights.
Let my whispered words
guide you back
to where I wait.
What I Have
Kerri
One sand-sunken
knee, diamonds unseen
under seashells—then a ring
on my finger, encircling the bone.
Our house, stuffed shell
pasta, sleeping tucked
in each other’s arms, milk
thistle bouquets, words
written in steam on the mirror, no
separate laundry days.
What she has: an empty
finger, frozen dinners, a lonely
calla lily, time
occupied by homework,
dreams unmet, stacks
of empty cigarette packs.
Picture memories lie
lifeless in a shoebox taped shut.
Outside the Marriott
Jeremiah
“Do you want some food?”
One hand-rolled cigarette, uncertainty,
benches, homelessness, loam, memories
of ‘Nam, stink—I know them. What
I don’t know is why this boy
wants to help. Most who stay
here are only
specters passing through, eyes
tracing cracks in the pavement.
They will be gone
tomorrow, home again,
don’t care about me
sleeping on this bench.
But he tells me his name, Nick,
buys me a hamburger, offers
papers to roll my weed in, listens
to me sing songs I wrote
for my old band. Nick
laughs, shares, but every
now and then looks
at his empty hands, glances
out the window at nothing.
He doesn’t have to tell me
there is someone he is missing.
Fall
Nick
Acorns snapping
under my shoes,
the smell of bark everywhere.
October, and I’m home.
I think how appropriate
that the air will cool
around us while
we stay in patches
of sun spilling
between tree limbs,
the tree I taught you
was a maple—but
the sun doesn’t keep
me warm. Your skin,
your mouth, your hands
keep me warm. We
lay in bed, legs
tangled, my fingers
in your hair, yours
tracing my stomach
and I think,
who needs the sun?
Meredith
With her, it has always been the same:
she finds the so-called perfect men
bearing heart-shaped boxes.
Valentine’s Day, birthdays, Christmas
filled with packaged truffles and crimson
roses—but the thorns.
Years of paid dinners and still
she hungers for something more
than later, rinse, repeat.
Until him.
Now it’s the way
he plays guitar, how he inspires
her, something about spare
change in a jar, hashbrowns, wine
straight from the bottle, how
she’s forgotten the so-called
perfect men.
Before him, I saw her look
down, shiver in the cold,
startle, cry. She said
she felt lost, but now I see
her write and smile
in the silence, and while I wish
I had someone to steal
t-shirts from or interrupt
me while I’m speaking
just to kiss, I like
to know she’s traded
in roses for lilies.
Observations at the Shell
Jennifer
Stocking Sun Chips, chocolate-covered
everything, my ponytailed hair sticks
to my skin. Then she trudges in.
She eyes the frozen candy bars,
picks up Twix and cradles
it in her long hands like glass.
“Is that all for you today, sweetie?”
“And a pack of Camel Lights.
I’m trying to stay healthy.”
We laugh but I can tell she
hasn’t really smiled in a while.
She is always alone. Like me.
Time. She walks in and trailing her,
a young man with hands
in his pockets. She ignores
the ice cream, steps slowly up
to the counter, and I place
the cigarettes before her. She beams,
reaching behind her
to grab his hand.
For months when she walks in, he holds
the door, she grins. When the door
holding stops, his car still waits
for her outside. She is not alone.
Oak Mountain
I took you to the dam—the terra
cotta and crimson bricks, cobblestoned
warmth on our feet. The water halts
here—collects, slops over the lower
part of the dam when you jump.
You dive in, deny the cold
that settles after rain, motion
for me to follow. Instead, I think
of the path—blocked by hulking
bees, pampas grass, rocks jammed
into torn skin, and I don’t
jump in after you.
The second time we met
for Drew’s memorial service.
Under the pavilion, we were swarmed
by fifty people dragging memories like lame
feet. We lit candles blown out by the wind,
talked over each other—who knew
Drew best. The storm chased
us, skin water-logged.
You wrapped your fingers in mine,
rubbed one nail on my palm like picking
a guitar, told me “I love you. It’s alright.”
We skipped the petting zoo that third
time, went straight to the boats. My dad
always insisted on canoes but the fading
blue of the paddle boats drew
me in and you agreed, though now
we know how hot plastic scorches bare
skin. Still, we shared sandwiches,
bottles of water,
and this time, ignoring the cold,
we both jumped in.
Yard Sale
Justin
Worn guitar picks, coffee-stained
hardbacks, flowered sofa, plastic
vases with earth clogging the cracks,
red t-shirt, picture frames, candles with black
wicks, blankets that smell of summer
picnics and horse-trampled grass—
things unused for so long they
crowd the garage, the room
where they want to build a library,
the guest room of an old house.
I pick out a few scratched CDs, carry
them up to the girl with her hair
in a ponytail. “Five dollars,” she says,
glancing at the boy, twenty feet away, face
hidden beneath a yellow trucker hat. He is running
his fingers over a just-bought guitar, hesitant
to let it go. As if she’s just called
his name, he looks up at her.
Her lips part and she smiles,
doesn’t count the five ones I’ve handed
her before stuffing them in her back pocket—
as if money was just change in a jar.
She touches her lips like the only
thing she really needs
had already been placed there.
The Perch Café
Can’t you see us at the Perch Café?
Flushed red, modern glass, like a giant
old telephone booth but with ginger
maple bread pudding inside.
My laptop on the ochre
table, me, ponytailed and watching
the cursor blink, ignoring the editor’s red
ink on my three hundred stacked pages,
the novel I wrote, the date at the top—deadline.
You rush in, smelling like mahogany
and bronze, the cologne
of guitars and music, order a scarlet
glow herbal tea—kiss me,
kiss me, kiss—and people
shift, clear their throats.
Can’t you see us Brooklyn-bound?
Not on our way but tied down,
studio-owned and book-contracted.
You sit across from me, close
my computer, lean in
and all I see is your lips,
forget about the ink, the date,
the crooner in your studio,
kiss me, kiss me.
Quit California
Come back to me, back
to where the wind stirs
reds, yellows—
away from palm
trees that never wilt,
the fountains cloud-blue and raining
because the sky can’t.
Forget gathering
the rest of your things,
the boxes of movies, the Dali,
that old pair of jeans
with the hole in the knee.
Come home to the tree
you taught me was a maple
in your front yard,
the weeping willow,
the four-o’clocks waking,
to summery September.
Come home to making
love in the morning, showering
together, cups of water
by the bed, tangled limbs,
strained breathing, my words,
your guitars, our wine-
drunk nights.
Let my whispered words
guide you back
to where I wait.
What I Have
Kerri
One sand-sunken
knee, diamonds unseen
under seashells—then a ring
on my finger, encircling the bone.
Our house, stuffed shell
pasta, sleeping tucked
in each other’s arms, milk
thistle bouquets, words
written in steam on the mirror, no
separate laundry days.
What she has: an empty
finger, frozen dinners, a lonely
calla lily, time
occupied by homework,
dreams unmet, stacks
of empty cigarette packs.
Picture memories lie
lifeless in a shoebox taped shut.
Outside the Marriott
Jeremiah
“Do you want some food?”
One hand-rolled cigarette, uncertainty,
benches, homelessness, loam, memories
of ‘Nam, stink—I know them. What
I don’t know is why this boy
wants to help. Most who stay
here are only
specters passing through, eyes
tracing cracks in the pavement.
They will be gone
tomorrow, home again,
don’t care about me
sleeping on this bench.
But he tells me his name, Nick,
buys me a hamburger, offers
papers to roll my weed in, listens
to me sing songs I wrote
for my old band. Nick
laughs, shares, but every
now and then looks
at his empty hands, glances
out the window at nothing.
He doesn’t have to tell me
there is someone he is missing.
Fall
Nick
Acorns snapping
under my shoes,
the smell of bark everywhere.
October, and I’m home.
I think how appropriate
that the air will cool
around us while
we stay in patches
of sun spilling
between tree limbs,
the tree I taught you
was a maple—but
the sun doesn’t keep
me warm. Your skin,
your mouth, your hands
keep me warm. We
lay in bed, legs
tangled, my fingers
in your hair, yours
tracing my stomach
and I think,
who needs the sun?
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