Month: October 2009

While waiting for my latest YouTube contribution, a recording of Seneca’s Epistles, to finish encoding, I ventured upon Hulu to entertain myself. Destination Truth was on the front page, the episode entitled Lost City/Thunderbird. Great I thought, a show about truth, something I am very interested in, perhaps a gonzo style documentary about a remote city or a mythological creature. Much to my dismay, the show was the most terrifying variety of nonsense and skulduggery (to mime the venerable James Randi) I have seen in memory. The recipe is simple.

Take a bunch of spoiled, soft, white liberals and drop them into a foreign land, make sure they have no training in history, anthropology, geology or archaeology, wait for them to encounter the natural sounds and sights of nature, and then record their process of discovery as they panic and label all as supernatural by virtue of their endemic ignorance. Oh, and give them tons of expensive sound and video equipment so they can pretend to be experts on the “paranormal” (whatever that means) as they stare doe-eyed at photoshopped images of supposed ghost finding software and the ominous fruits of their expedition. Some scary/hilarious instances of incredulity:

A thermal camera reveals a warm section of underbrush and this indicates the presence of an ancient burial site where the spirits of the dead call for aid. Closer inspection reveals a tunnel into the earth, and putting the camera down into it, nothing is detected. Later analysis of the audio picks up a clicking noise. One of the crew members states that no sound should be coming from the tunnel so this is proof of the supernatural. So no animals can live in the cavern, the structure is perfectly solid and rocks cant roll around, and it was impossible for the camera to knock against the wall of the tunnel you lowered it into? If you take a brochure about refinancing your house, and if you look hard enough, and randomly amplify and rearrange the letters, you will find a doomsday prophecy. Did anyone stop to consider that the tunnel might be a naturally formed vent for hot gases to escape, hence the thermal signature?

The city slickers hear what is clearly a wild animal howling in the night, a fact that would be obvious to anyone who has ever been in the wilderness before, and conclude that it is a ghost crying to be noticed. If a singing loon is the cries of the long dead calling for remembrance, then the forests of upstate new york are filled with such spirits.

Barely audible sounds, supposedly amplified on said software detects a human voice saying “touch him” in response to the expedition leader’s request for contact with what he presumes are supernatural beings. It dawns upon no one that ancient Incan spirits might not know English.It dawns upon no one that the hardware they were using to detect the audio would pick up all the sounds of the wilderness and of the other members of their expedition nearby, forming apparently coherent sounds. And what does “touch him” even mean? Nothing, because nothing said it.

Occam is turning in his grave in contemplation of such drivel. That anyone could find this show compelling is a devastating thought to me.

When the hall was complete Cato gathered the children in the early morning on the grounds before the statue of the goddess. Fight, and who wins will have a place of honor in this school. At first the boys remained silent, and then one struck out across another until the whole company was in battle. Cato saw that most boys threw fists and bludgeoned the others. A few though looked to the goddess and grappled their foes. They used their mass against them. In this fashion smaller boys were able to submit stronger ones. It was this species which remained standing. Cato grinned and said these will be my class leaders. Let it be so said that he who is prudent will steer away from the rocky shoals of life and find serene waters. To embrace the world in its collision against us, and to move with that force, rather than pull from it, is wise. Let your bruises remind you of the error of your ways.

Half of the boys did not return the next day. Those who did not return lack the fortitude to serve or lead others. They will be schooled in the crafts, and instead take pride in pleasures rather than virtue. As they lack the liberality of mind to minister the needs of the people, we shall do so for them. Those who refuse this will not be welcome among us, as a rotting leaf is not welcome to a thriving tree. That rot attracts mites.

In this way Cato schooled the boys of the village on the character of a wise man. Cato warned that there would be an exam at the hall one day. Those who scored well would go on to become the heads of the village, while those who failed would execute the directives of this former group. They had proven their courage, and expedience, but this test would prove their justice. On the day of the exam Cato laid outside the hall, clutching the goddess. He was disguised as a beggar and looked to be bleeding from the gut. The boys came by first light and rushed past the prostate man into the hall. Cato called for aid but was not answered. At last a few boys stopped to check his wounds and helped him to his feet. These boys brought their teacher to one of their homes and fed him. Cato washed his face of the grime and dirt and loosed his rotting tunic, revealing his armor. You have done well my sons, Cato said. You are fit to rule others.Many were wrestlers, though a few were not.

Cato called for the young ones and gathered them together. Dirty and vicious, spitting and clawing. Tell who reared this one, Cato said, pointing from child to child. When Cato saw that the children were bastards, he spoke to the warriors. While your people cannibalized each other in the field, you could not. Something inside rebelled against that custom, and you found solace in strength, order and spirit. The forests whispered to be tamed. And you took up the camp bed and cloak as a fish in the stream is compelled to follow the current. Though few, you are worthy captains all. You are the fathers of these, and if any other say no, show them spear tips.

You, the others, you shall not eat your leaf today, nor work up a vicious sweat. This day you shall sweat sweetly. Go forth and build a great hall. Before the door erect a monument of a woman as such. In her are vibrant eyes which conjure in men a will to do great things. A right straight posture with the gaze of an eagle. She holds a shield. Painted on the face is the great owl clutching a sword. Her beauty is serene and made modest by a simple tunic, a broad helm, the locks secured for war. A confidence of one who has warded off the molestations of your kind. She is posted at ready with a spear in her white hand, a snake coiled about the bare feet. Cato’s heart swells with remembrance of a time not far removed when he gazed upon her. This goddess shall be your mother, and the mother of all to come.

I walked outside of my room with the dog walking in front of me during the night, right before Orcus goes to bed. I spot Orcus readying her lunch for tomorrow in the kitchen, I slip into the bathroom. I hear “no, no, no, no!” implying that she doesn’t want me in the bathroom. I pull the bathroom door behind me and grin, holding it so it does not closed yet. I close it a few seconds later and lock it. And then the most awesome thing happened. I spontaneously delivered a super villain laugh and an insidious grin, but without consciously doing it or trying to be funny to myself. When Orcus came to nag me “how long are you going to be in there?” as she always absurdly does, I answered “Your nagging will not rush my tempo to any extent whatsoever” in a moderately evil voice. I am… the Bathroom Lurker!

Should the job of a reference librarian in assisting patrons be to “Serve Their Needs, Not Their Wants?” In other words, if you couldn’t be both, what would you rather be: popular or right?

This question is tricky to answer because it can only be answered after a deeper ethical issue beyond library science is addressed: should those with the wisdom and power do what is right, or should they do what works? I think the implication of the question is that how we perceive our relationship to other human beings might have ramifications in regard to our service to them. As Vanessa succinctly put it: most people come to a reference desk seeking help in finding a specific item, or they come for general advice on a topic of research. In the former instance, there is no ethical dilemma, but there may be in the latter. In the former we encounter a would-be expert who is looking to inform himself on a specific topic in order to answer a question, in the latter we are asked to be a teacher, at least in the sense that we are given authority as a gateway to new knowledge. What collections we choose reflects upon our own ethical dispositions: are we offering them what is easiest to understand and to find, just to satisfy them, or are we offering them something which will serve the needs of a virtuous citizen?

This is the classical dichotomy between Erasmus and Machiavelli. Erasmus through Education of a Christian Prince advocated leaders who upheld moral imperatives in order to raise their charges to noble states of mind, while Machiavelli’s Prince advocated a ruthless and pragmatic politic based on what is, not what could be. If Erasmus was a librarian, I think he would cater to the needs of the individual, based on knowledge of the good and of virtue, what would nourish the individual. Machiavelli might look upon it differently: giving them what they want so that they are pacified, and less likely to cause problems. Of course, it’s bad philosophy to conjecture in such a manner, but the underlying themes are relevant and so is the fundamental question underpinning both works: what is the role of a leader in influencing the habits and knowledge of those who ask for him to lead? A librarian who considers himself a professional in the technical sense might cater swiftly to the wants, but a librarian who considers himself a librarian in vocation might think differently. For a vocation is more than simply a means of acquiring a paycheck, it’s a work which defines a person, and so with it the person looks beyond its mere technical obligations. How will you be remembered in death?

Machiavelli might say that it’s important to be both popular and right in the sense that you have two faces. One face caters to the wants and expectations of a capricious public, while the other is hidden and knows the right, working skillful machinations to bring it about for the greater good at expense of momentary righteousness. Erasmus might say that we leaders, the librarians, should always attend to the right, and hopefully by our example, inspire those who seek us to lead them to favor the right rather than the wants themselves.

Personally, I side with the Erasmus line of reasoning, as it is an ethical credo which underlies everything I do, not only librarianship. If possible show people the right, so that we might live in a world befitting of our nature. Ultimately the wisest individual has knowledge of what is and what is not needed, as derived from reason, and so might rightfully want. Perfect virtue exists in wanting what is righteous.

***

You’re right in the sense that what is popular and right (or want and need) is not necessarily mutually exclusive, but they do tend to be opposed. For example: a heroin addict wants heroin, but living day by day in a drug-addled haze, exploiting everyone around you to get your next fix, is not right, or needed (the chemical aspect of the addiction excepted). In this scenario what is popular and right is mutually exclusive. This is an extreme example, but it’s a clear one to most people. There are more subtle examples that are just as clear to those with greater shares of knowledge and wisdom, and those with the latter must have the inclination to steer those with less a share to the right.

As I said, the wise man wants what is right, what is needed, so they are not mutually exclusive. Yet, the unwise often want what is neither right nor needed. If we have the opportunity to steer them right, why don’t we? Herein the big issue is revealed: we must have a notion of our relationship and duties in regard to other human beings before we can answer the superficial questions.

That night Cato lodged in the house of the chieftain. In the darkness he found the girl rifling through bins of purple leaf, stuffing the plant into her mouth with fever. Cato rose and she lunged forward to attack, punching him in the chest and scratching first at him then at her own eyes. She tried to eat more of the plant and Cato held her arms and pulled her in closer. She screamed that Cato had taken her father and husband and Cato said nothing, holding onto her tightly so she could eat no more. She said that she had not taken enough for the pain to go away, that she would still be here when the gouging started. Cato said I know. Endure and be reborn. She was in a rage now, punching the knight and scratching at his face. He did not release her. He shook the leaf from her clenched fist.

For a time the punching stopped and she grew silent. Her eyes were milk white like a shark before its death blow. She thrust her mouth toward his his with passion and he turned his head away. Use me she screamed. She turned her head angled to catch his lips agape, while tearing her clothes off. Cato imagined the horrible ritual that must have happened behind closed doors every night and pain shot through his heart. Fuck me she screamed, hurt me. He stayed with her in that house as day came and went, holding her as the fight turned to sobs. Soon she was not being held by Cato, but clutching to him, and he redressed her wounds and combed her hair as she loosed the spirits which had coiled around her encumbered soul.

She sat staring at a bin filled with purple leaf as Cato cooked at the hearth. The pain has not left. It will not. Yet it will change. Know its nature and you will know the way to throw it away as a hot coal. She looked at him with hopeless, terrified eyes. What is my nature? Cato sat beside her with a cask of millet and looked deeply into her eyes. Divine, beautiful, a part of the sublime Nature which comprises all things. If I am as you say, she said looking away with tears in her eyes, why do the men take me? They do not know their Nature. As we share thought, that makes us beings of reason. And if so, we are bound by a common law, and thus are fellow citizens. And this fellowship is the world. They are ignorant to these ties, as they consume poisons which blind and possess them. Such a man is vicious, and knows only vice. They will soon know this. Eat, the knight said. She was still half naked. Her bosom was exposed to the open air. She sat with a distant stare, the look of a soldier who had spent too many months slaughtering on some terrible winter campaign. He dressed her and then walked out. But he did not stride far. He peeked through the cracks in the timbers of that house.

The girl sat shoveling the millet into her mouth. After minutes she rose and walked to the bin of the purple leaf. She stood for awhile over the poison, her hand hovering over the vibrant throng. Finally she knocked the bin over and began to sob silently. Cato wiped his eye sockets and tended his mount. He checked the shoes for splinters and massaged the beast’s mane. When he was satisfied that there was enough grazing ground to sustain it, he called for the villagers to assemble.

The chief stumbled out of his hut in a stupor. The girl cast her eyes down. The chief grabbed the girl violently off the mount and began to molest her saying thank you for bringing back my whore of a daughter. Eat this, it will make you feel lighter, he said, forcing  a purple leaf toward her agape mouth. Cato took off the chieftain’s head, holding it by gnarled locks toward the other villagers. Cato thought of the decaying cedar. The tree had fallen and his father had dug up the soil, revealing termites amidst the roots. He thought of the tomato plant and the aphids. I am your king now, if no man has virtue to oppose it, he said. None answered. Some circled the body like wolves circling a wounded elk, picking for his bag of gold. Cato showed them his sword and stood over the carcass, calling for wood.

Burn him so that he returns. He is not taken by the conflagration, he is given back. The chief was burned and his ashes blew into the wind. But Cato did not ward off the birds as he did the savages. He ordered the village to chip off pieces of that black snow angel and to feed them. Cato was warmed by the sight, he knew that the way would not be forgotten. There would be hope for the coming generations.

When she awoke they mounted Cato’s horse and rode to her home. Coming upon a path leading to her village, Cato saw savages digging into the soil with bare fingers. They were scourging the earth for flecks of gold, but the rider knew it as pyrite. When one digger would find his treasure in the earth, the others would beat him and take his findings. Others would strangle and stab with hidden blades. Other groups lay prostrate across the path, eating a blackish purple leaf which sent them into a euphoria to tear and scratch at their eyes. Heaps of spasmodic flesh. Cato felt the hands wrapped about his stomach tighten and a quaking.

The village came into sight and Cato dismounted, calling for the chief.

The exile tended his garden, freeing the roots of the broad oaks so that they might breath easy again. The weeds withdrew to the edges of the vale. An owl passed overhead and perched on a tree limb which protruded over his camp. He removed his helmet and looked into the bird’s eyes, dropping to his knees and reciting a prayer under his breath. The wise one cocked its head toward the mouth of the vale. A bloodied girl in the rags of a savage wandered hastily toward him, as if running from that old hateful wave. Cato knew he was not the last one.  He raised his hand as if to calm a spirited charger and spoke in a melodic and deep voice, saying come and eat, let your wounds be tended. She spoke in a dialect which Cato could barely comprehend, for the tongue was harsh and primitive. Cato dressed her wounds as the owl looked on. He fed her the last of his rations. She shook when Cato moved to tend her bruises and cuts. She said that she was molested by the men of her tribe, and that this was the way of her people. She had in the past come to hide here under the thick underbrush of weeds. Cato fixed his bedroll against the tree’s trunk and motioned for her to rest. He promised to return and walked down to the base of the mountain, where there was a clear spring.

Cato stripped naked and washed the ash from his hair and the dark stains from under his eyes. He rubbed the grime from his steel. He looked to the south, the country of his ancient fathers and saw it was gone. He continued to scrub the spots where there was once ash, until blood was drawn. He dressed and returned to the girl. The owl took flight toward the north, deeper into the mountains. He squat near to the girl, watching the edges of the vale and looking upon her, pain shot through his heart.

A knight rode north with a hateful wave of scoria and ash at his back, the remnants of his homeland devoured in his step. Entering into the wild Cato sought refuge in the mountains overlooking the vale where he wed his wife. What Nature had given it was now taking away, as it does all things. Cato entered into the shadow of the mountains and came across a glade with broad trees, their roots manacled by a mass of weeds. This shall serve as my new home until Nature take me too, thought Cato.