We Could

Do you know this hunger? It is for the sky overhead, and it is for the miles of green below. I hunger for the sun and the moon. I wish the stars were a salt upon the Earth. I would take it up, mound by mound, and devour it whole. I would drink the seas, too, and the air, and the darkness of space. Oh, my stomach aches! For everything I wish to eat is just beyond my reach.

Am I sitting at this table alone? Pull up a chair, or we could run from our cars and our carts and the lines on the road. We could stop counting our money and paying our bills. We could burn down our houses and pop all our wheels. We could ball up our towels and shake ourselves dry. We could reach for our toes and fall from the trees into bunches of grass. We could share our food with the birds and the squirrels. We could mess up our hair and muddy our feet and make footprints wherever we pleased. We could break sticks and throw rocks. We could steal the leaves on the ground, and pile them high. We could howl and hoot when the wind steals them back. We could run through green fields. We could shower in sunlight and drink the clear streams. We could forget about tomorrow. We could chase one another and laugh from sunrise to sunset. For dinner, we’d eat pine-cones and sunshine, and clouds all pink and orange. We could slip on slippery rocks and tickle on moss-covered logs. We could hide behind tree trunks and find secret roots. We could zip up our zip codes and live where we live. We could vote for the wind. We could. And it would be grand.   

But we don’t. We plug in our lives like toast that needs toasting. We go round in circles on roads that are circles. We stare at our faces and our faces stare back and we paint them like pictures of faces. We set our clocks and the hands spank us from morning til night. Then we set them again. We turn on the water, and the water flows out, then we flush it or mop it or stir it with sugar. We cough into tissues and keep our hands to ourselves. We trespass in fields and in meadows and mountains. We starve in the streets while the trees shake with apples. We breathe from inhalers instead of from air. We watch our life’s earnings on digital readout, and throw ourselves from windows when the readout says zero. We put on our rings when company is family, and we put them on nightstands when we bed down with strangers. We take pictures of pictures we’ve seen in our travel guides. We shampoo our hair and brush our teeth and drop drops in our eyes. We’re living lives that we read about in books. We’re spending our time, but who is making it?  

The Window

 

One need not live without care, to live carefree.

 

I wake to the glare of sunshine, and wish it were I out there, among Nature. Each morning, I stare through that window and pray a bird to pass. My longing consumes me. Like so many things that ache, it comes from dining upon memory. How spare is that meal! How mad, our return! In time, our hopefulness is our starvation.

 

All the years long, we fill our heads like precious boxes. We tax our moments, and squeeze them until a single, sweet drop rolls upon our palms. Then greedily, we stash it away. When life darkens, we return with keys to unlock our stores. The lid pops aloft from the fullness of that cache, and for a moment, we laugh joyously. All the best that was, lies now before us. We reach in, and take into our hands, once again, the moment of our lives. It is much smaller than we remember it, much briefer. There is little upon which to feast. In awe and in terror, we gaze. That tiniest of morsels trembles at the edge of our forks. We dare not to move in a muscle for fear we should tumble it. But stillness will not keep. It slips through, like a petal through the walls of a canyon.     

 

We see then, that Memory is the stalest crust. Even as the box overflows, we are poor. Collecting our keep, one drop at a time, finally, we despair to find the amount no more than a handful. Our stomachs ache, and we grow faint with the sadness of life. Have we no more to show than this? Have we lived at all?

 

I recall my longing: the bird that flies faster than its past. Its head does not brim with what was, but with the exhilaration of its present. I yearn to look up from my book just the moment before it flaps its wings; to see, then, tyrannical Memory reaching behind it like a shadowy claw, only to grasp upon nothingness, for the bird has flown.

 

I wish that victory for myself.

Intelligent Design

The past few days, I’ve given serious thought to the subject of intelligence. Certainly, the most direct means of persuading someone of an animal’s right to live, is to demonstrate its intellect. Human thought holds thought itself to be the singular feature without which a creature ceases to appreciate its own existence. Thus, creatures who do not appear to think do not care that they would go on living or else die. Untouched by the sobering contemplations of life and death, therefore, they remain indifferent to them. But all things fear death. We see as much in the action of a bird that builds its nest high off the ground to avoid predators. We see it in an animal’s suddenness to run. We see it, then again, in a mouse that goes surreptitiously through a cat’s territory. If we can admit that animals take measures to self-preserve, certainly we can admit in them, an appreciation of self.

Yet, a creature’s desire for life is not, alone, sufficient proof of intelligence. There are those who would differentiate thought from instinct. A human thinks; an animal acts. In this way, a human protects its life because it understands it beyond mere survival. Whereas an animal desires its life should go on, though it does not understand the complex meaning of that wish. Those loath to ascribe intelligence to animals might also ask, what is a life worth preserving if not the quest to find deeper meaning in action? And so we go about the labor of attempting to find in animals, a capacity to learn words or symbols, to see the world abstractly, as we do.

But how does abstraction indicate a presence of mind more than the simple acceptance of the laws of a physical world? Humans often lose themselves in thought, even when the basic reality will not be changed by interpretation.

Reality is as one sees it, make no mistake about that. But to accept sensory evidence without question makes living too easy, and consequently more like surviving. Therefore, when reason refuses to accept the simple time and place of a thing, and our senses return to us with unacceptably simple news, it is then that we contrive meaning where meaning is not. A red rose is only a red rose, until we tire of its being as such, and then we interpret it as a token of affection. Why is a red rose not extraordinary by its own merit? Why must we make it a symbol? And do we thus elevate the measure of our intelligence when we see a token of love where there is only a red rose?

An animal expressing love, expresses it physically. But a human relies upon words and symbols; he finds his own capacity to express love, inadequate. In his mind, love is finer realized by an object or by a word than by touch, or taste, sight, smell, or sound. When a human feels passion so great that he but scarcely contains it, it is in the shape of a diamond or some other thing of great expense that he finds a most fitting expression. There, he binds it, and considers its showing a job-well-done. Why not, then, a gaze held longer, or a hand held tighter? Why not a kiss more pressing, or a hug longer-lasting?

Why would the heart allow a feeling that physicality alone can not express? Animals know the answer to be simply, that it does not. Yet humans deliberate, and this is the hallmark of our so-called intelligence.

To discover the innate brilliance of animals, we must recognize a new standard for intelligence. We must trust to our senses, though it will appear we are trading down. We must restrain our longing to see things that do not exist, and in this way, we must keep from dreaming, though dreams are beautiful. Life is, yet, more beautiful.

Look See

He who will not be had, goes always to walk amongst friends in high-up places. Success stiffens his gait, and he clenches his fists tightly against frailty. In the eyes of his cronies, he marks cloudiness, like smudges upon a clear pane. He knows these marks to be indelible, for they stain below the surface. It unnerves him not to see the eyes of his friends, and so he blinks until his own eyes show what theirs show. If it is blindness he must suffer, so must they. But why must they look so insincerely?

 

Through the day, he marches unshakably, and passes its end through a blaze of admiration and most terrible envy. He is traceless and unknowable. His actions inspire the desperate longing of his fellows. They know him only by his steadiness.

 

When he returns to his home that night, no person awaits his company. He has yet to meet the man or the woman whose eyes show everything. Until then, it is he and his dog. 

 

He stoops to the floor and puts out his hand for the dog to nuzzle. But the dog hangs back, as if from an unseen vapor. Reaching up, he rubs his eyes for many moments. When he draws back his hand, they appear spotless.

 

Now, with the glee of old friends reunited, the dog rushes into his waiting hands. But barely can the animal contain his happiness, and his eyes grow lazy with pleasure.

 

The man puzzles the creature’s artlessness, as he has done many a-night before. He wonders what possesses the dog to lay down its guard. Trust so thoughtless seems yet so foolish. And surely the dog will lose by its too sweet nature. But perhaps not.  

Pondering leads him from his day and the eyes that forbade him to enter. He allows himself to smile. For tonight, at least, he rests easily with what he sees.     

Knowledge and Wisdom

To speak of the character of scientific fact, one must first acknowledge that its respectability stems from the rigors of its methodology. Without process, its conclusions may never be taken for incontrovertible truth. This is the case even when the object of its question is very clearly real to the senses, though the reason for its being may not be altogether obvious.

 

Rather, we would choose to ignore or else defer something that is not yet treated in books than to admit its importance. Much of the Natural world escapes our senses in this way. We fail to understand its meaning as a system unto itself. We must place it side-by-side with the world that we have created. It must become relative or else nothing at all.

 

For example, to appreciate the height of a tree requires the loftiness of a skyscraper. The luminousness of the sun is by comparison only with the brightness of a light bulb. The beauty of wood is comprehended by its material usefulness. The unevenness of the Earth gains significance from the flatness of a sidewalk. An animal’s fur seems very much like a human’s clothing.  All of these things exist independently of our civilizations, and yet we do not recognize them as such.

 

We refer them to objects of our own making, to our contrivances, and thus, too, do we rob them of true meaning.

 

In reality, the meaning of a thing is simply the thing itself. It requires no analysis to create its effect in a physical world. A leaf will still be a leaf no matter how we may tag it referentially. The sun will rise, no matter that we associate its rising with a particular time of day. And an animal will exist and seek the perpetuation of its existence no matter how we many argue the finer points of its intelligence. Life is to live, but not to examine.

 

Our own stylizations of life prove this point most dishearteningly. We spend our days pining after a depth in things that will nonetheless fail to alter their fundamental significance. We long to prove that light travels at a particular speed; that air contains two atoms of hydrogen and one of oxygen; that dinosaurs existed; that certain foods sustain us more healthily than others. But while we take pains to prove these most self-evident realties, we forget that in analyzing them, we will not change them. All we have to lose is the time of our life, and yet, that is everything.

 

I believe that while we question animal intelligence or their ability to feel, they are suffering. Suppose we could quantify it, and say for certain an animal’s capacity to think, would it then change the simple existence of that animal? Would it suddenly disappear from our view, or evaporate like some figment of our imagination? Would we debunk its existence, as if a lie? The answer is no! It would remain before us, as ever, a living, breathing creature. The existence of its intelligence means nothing to its physicality. And when its eyes show fear or pain, there is no deeper interpretation to be found. It is a creature of flesh and blood, nothing more, nothing less.      

Proof

In our ventures to establish indisputable proof, often, we cast aside the purest forms of evidence. This tendency to complicate that which is simple, is a flaw peculiar to the human animal. Perhaps it is the boredom of acceptance that we fear, and thus we refuse to admit that things can indeed be as they seem. With what would we fill our hours and days if not the quest to expose things not readily apparent? In this way, nothing may exist in the human mind that does not also hold some promise of depth. To appreciate a thing requires our belief that its surface is but one of countless layers. Else we tire of its simplicity and discard it. But suppose the value of a thing were of a piece with its outward appearance? How simple! But could such a thing be possible? Would that it were, might our days be filled rather with the experience of things than with their examination?  

 

Wisdom warns that to trust appearance is to go down willingly to the art of deception. And so, the less artful a thing, the more we mistrust it, the more we interrogate its existence. We punish simplicity with incredulity. And, of course, the more elaborate a design, the more easily we place it among the objects of our admiration and acceptance.

 

The abstract mind is regarded always the superior of the literal. Action informed by forethought is finer than impetuosity. And in all things, generally, we are instructed not by Nature, but by our experience of civilization, to counsel our thoughts before our feelings.

 

In this way, too, knowledge precedes intelligence.

 

Now, animals suffer the unkind judgment of their intelligence merely by the exuberance of their actions. Forethought exists, perhaps, in some measure, but they appear uncomplicated and perfectly happy to do as they feel and not as they think.

           

To act is, itself, proof of intelligence, though to the human mind, it appears well the opposite. I offer that before we lay bare the surface, we may yet discover profundity in the simplicity of form.

In The Beginning

In the beginning, Time passed unknown to the hearts of Earth’s creatures, but in the cauldron of the brain, it seethed hideously. The terminus of that long stretch called life remained far and away, though Thought threatened to stand it where all would see it and fear it. Death approached ineluctably, as ever and always; like a fisherman, it reeled hence its far-off catches, closer and closer, to the boat that would whisk them away. Yet without minds to contemplate endings, none among the animals and plants allowed that grim thought to possess them. Their lives remained whole, the perfect union of feeling and action. They leapt eagerly like billowing sails through the warmest breeze. When they drank from stilly pools, it was with the sense of deepest fulfillment. The sun shone upon their heads and upon their backs. Nothing was ever so simple or so life-giving.

 

In that time, questions existed not. The heart paved ways that the mind refused. So long as a creature made real the feelings of its heart, no fiber of being remained thereafter to be fashioned into thought. The realization of the heart was immediate and entirely consummate, leaving in its wake, no reminder of what had been. It was a well drowned to an impossible depth, then suddenly emptied to the barest nothingness.

 

It was a bird on the wing, in ecstasy flying to the speed of its heartbeat. Faster and faster, it flew, until it felt it must perish in a blaze. From the ether above, it plummeted like the soul returning to its body. And when, upon the Earth, it heaved its breast for dearest life, skyward-gazing, it felt a potency indescribable. Exhaustion forbade the bird to think. Nothing remained of the well that had moved its fearless descent. Nothing could remain for an experience so complete. The heaviness of its breath enlivened its heart not less than the plummet itself. Every action brought forth thankfulness, and giddiness.

 

Such was the way, now changed by the tyranny of Thought. Moments pass as seconds, and teem about our brains like needles steeped in poison. Our lives begin to resemble scenes of crime in which are scattered a slop of clues, the vestiges of experiences only partially lived. We become the parts unconnected. At night, we bother ourselves and scold the projects that Time wished we had completed. In the morning, we despair of the fullness of our schedules, and stir resentment in our hearts. Time is never enough to speed us on our ways to abstract ends. Fulfillment evades us effortlessly, yet on we press. Our feelings die even as thoughts persuade us of the rightness of our trajectories. We question all, and accept nothing. We accept not even ourselves. So truly is doubt the most terrible plague of all. How can it be that the facts as we write them can reveal something more about life than life itself? Do not we bury ourselves in knowledge even long before the Earth receives us withered and sere? Do not we die before our bodies, of that terrible disease emptiness? Wherefore that malady seemingly incurable?

 

We must return to simplicity. We must live unapologetically and in defiance of Thought.

Introductions

Greetings!

My name is Marlon Reis. I’m a writer and an animal-rights activist living in Boulder, Colorado. I’d like to welcome you to my new blog! 

The theme of my writing each week will be what we can learn from animals and why we should respect them as equals.

Please have a look around and don’t hesitate to comment on any of my posts. I’m excited to be here!