Humanity and Me

I’ve been listening to an audio book titled Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind by Yuval Noah Harari, and it’s been a real eye-opener. Having always had a thirst for knowing the origin of things, whether its the origin of languages or of physical matter or of psychological disorders, I jumped on the opportunity to hear a little bit about the origin of our biological species, Homo sapiens.

Since this is chiefly a section about etymology, I’ll start with what “human” means. It comes directly from the Latin word homo meaning man, which later evolved into the Latin word humanus, meaning human. The related word, humane, meaning to show compassion or benevolence, also comes from this idea that we are somehow unlike the animals from which we have descended. This superiority complex is developed from mankind’s own immodesty when it comes to our lineage, believing that we have been set apart from our distant cousins in “nature,” that mankind has achieved a more complete state of awareness. In a sense, we have, having developed such remarkable advancements as language, law, morality, and fiction. What other animal can engage in mythology as naturally as humans can? And yet, to engage in this stroking of the ego is to risk undermining the point of understanding our humble limitations.

In some ways, the book appears to present the argument that we have gained the awareness now to realize that we have evolved far too rapidly such that our genetics have not been able to keep up with the development that our culture and technology has provided us. One such development is language itself. With the growing minds and more fine-tuned vocal chords that the great apes stumbled into, language itself in the form of warnings and mating calls began to take shape, but those were single, solitary calls. The truest advancement in language happened in mankind when we were able to string together words into complete sentences, capable of expressing extremely complex thoughts and instructions with a small, efficient vocabulary. It’s one thing for a monkey to cry that there is a lion approaching, but a completely separate thing for a hunter-gatherer to declare that a lion was seen by the river at daybreak.

Another possibility arose as to the need for more advanced language, and that is the growing necessity for social structures. Neanderthals, our brothers and sisters on the evolutionary tree, did not hunt in packs or establish very complex societies, preferring instead to live peacefully and simply. Homo sapiens on the other hand were starting to undergo different evolutionary pressures. As our heads increased in size due to the need for more powerful brains, and an upright posture for running and balancing our gross, swollen heads, and narrower hips for improved running, childbirth became increasingly dangerous. Thus, children with softer, smaller heads, more underdeveloped coming out of the womb were selected for, meaning mothers were pre-occupied caring for their young, requiring the need for a tribe to assist in raising children.

On top of this, there was a need to know who could be trusted since one’s social circle was going to extend beyond family and into members of the tribe who may be less familiar or have less extensive contact. The primary driver of language development may have been gossip. People are so predisposed to gossip that it seems to be something we need to become consciously aware of doing else we’ll never stop doing it. Just now, when speaking with a colleague, I found myself immediately discussing the whereabouts of different colleagues not a part of the conversation whatsoever. It’s practically a genetic impulse.

And on another more interesting note is the primary means by which early Homo sapiens overcame his competitor human species like the Neanderthals, and that is with greater organization and cultural adaptation. An animal’s behavior is beholden to it’s genes, with the environment only slightly affecting the details. A human’s behavior is beholden to his or her culture, a difference that affects everything in adaptability. A human tribe that suffers defeat from a Neanderthal tribe need only change its culture or mythology, reorganize, and in time, over perhaps a few generations, the more adapted culture would triumph over the more slowly evolving Neanderthals. A woman born in 1900 eastern Germany and living for 100 years would have gone through 5 different political systems: the monarchy under Kaiser Wilhelm II, the Weimar Republic of post-war Germany, the Third Reich of Nazi Germany, the communist bloc of East Germany, and finally the democratic Federal Republic of Germany of the modern day. That is all within one lifetime, and the sheer difference in behavior between all five systems far surpass the adaptability of any other animal on Earth.

Now, to discuss everything the book covers would be overwhelming and most certainly an exercise in futility, so I’ll end with this. As a member of the human race and a member of the human species, and a member of the human culture, there is something deeply unsettling and yet comforting about recognizing our place in nature, how we are an aberration and yet no such deformity at all. There is no true distinction between the way we operate back then and now, save for this difference in culture. We still laugh, love, hate, fight, make peace, trade, and create. We still pick flowers to share with the person we love, touch hands to show affection, speak about and with others to pass the time, dream of the unsearchable at night, and eat together. So long as we have this connection to our ancestors, this shared set of behaviors built into us, we’ll still be human. Perhaps its in losing this that we lose our humanity.

Intersection

“Come on,” the mother tugged at loose, plaid sleeves,

The other daughter watched across the street.

My brakes in anticipation squeaking,

Glances from all three plus me at the wheel.

A quiet intersection of our lives.

She then waved, urging me to drive around,

At this moment, more in command of me

Than the daughter too scared to cross the street.

And two parallel lines met just then,

Touching briefly before we all moved on.

A Father’s Sonnet of Parallax

Behold, my child, the flowing road below,

A river underneath that rushes past.

A blur of motion urges us to go.

The eye is fooled to think we must be fast

 

Now look ahead and spy the distant hill.

The mountain crawls along horizon’s edge,

The clouds above are nearly standing still,

And none can tell the sun to rise and set.

 

Your focus changes everything, I say,

Perspective is the greatest tool you own.

If things are slow then watch the day-by-day

The small details will show how much you’ve grown.

 

If things move fast then look towards the goal

And let the stableness refresh your soul.

All the Times that We Fought

Verse 1:

To my brother, I will

Say I wish we could be

Like the siblings in films

Or the ones on TV.

But our talks until now

Have been nothing but cold

Like the times you said how

We could never grow old

 

Chorus 1:

All the times that we fought

About nothing important

All the times that we fought

About something I forget

We are all that we’ve got.

Oh, I wish I could do

More than what I was taught

And learn how to love you.

 

Verse 2:

Am I too late to get

Why we’re growing apart?

It’s because what you said

That one time that we fought.

There are horns on my head 

At least that’s what you saw

It’s because what I said

All the times that we fought.

 

Chorus 2:

All the times that we fought

Because we were alike

All the times that we fought

Always making too light

Of the pain we were in

How I wish I could go

And restart to begin

And let my brother know.

 

Bridge:

That this can’t be the end

I don’t want to give up

We don’t need to be friends

But we need to grow up

‘Cause as brothers who share

The same blood in our veins

I just can’t help but care

And to share in your pain.

 

Chorus 3:

All the times that I fought

Because I was in need

All the times that I fought

For my brother to see

We are all that we’ve got

Oh, I wish I could do

More than what I was taught

And learn how to love you.

Writing and Me

Writing is such a pernicious thing, isn’t it? Once it takes hold of you, it doesn’t ever truly let go. Donning the identity of “writer” is practically a surgery, a process that will leave the participant subtly changed in ways that they may never recognize. Maybe that responsibility to an identity is why it’s frightening to think about calling myself a writer. I merely write, arguably as do we all. Because ultimately we frame all thoughts — fleeting or lasting — into the context of words.

The skill of writing is just slowing down enough to capture those words into a script outside the mind. The science behind it is fascinating enough, studying the etymology and phonemes and diphthongs of every nuance in the study of language, but the art of it is almost impenetrable. Who can suggest why melodies sound the way they do except to throw their hands up and shrug? So what does that make good writing? The art or the science? The Taoist answer is that it’s the harmony of both; the Kantian answer is that it is the synthesis of both. Who cares? It’s enough to call it mystery and let flow good writing, judged only by the ability of that writing to most efficiently transfer the thoughts of the author into the mind of the reader, whatever avenue that happens to take. This means, of course, considering the sheer breadth of experiences in the world that writing has almost no meaning in generalities. The individual author has a task to throw into the zeitgeist of mankind their own stories, so that someone somewhere somewhen will be able to get something from distantly sympathizing with the mind of the author. In other words, it’s not necessary to write everything for everybody.

But going back to that efficiency factor of transferring thought into words… truly there is something lost in translation, right? Once we can read minds or upload thoughts directly into the brain, writing will be a dead craft, relegated to the same dusty shelf as weaving or coffee brewing. Well, certainly by that point humanity will have changed so fundamentally there’s a question of whether it’s even possible to fathom the similarities between such a society and ours. Techno-nihilism aside, converting feelings, experiences, expressions, and all of those undefined concepts into words is a process that involves analysis, which in Greek means to “loosen,” or more loosely, to break down into component parts. In short, it means to smash it apart and look at what’s inside, and this means that the gestalt of the concept is lost upon examination. Only upon examining can we then assign a word to whatever was inside, and that assignment even has a probability of error. To complicate things further, the reader then must take that word and consider the meaning of it in conjunction with all of the other preceding and succeeding words, which has its own probability of error, and it boils down to mere chance that any one person will understand the intent of the any other. Miscommunication should honestly be the expectation. How privileged we are as a species that it is not, though considering how often it happens, maybe we’re just entitled. I suppose we have thousands of years of evolution to thank for that, too.

To take apart something and transport it little by little to be reconstructed elsewhere is essentially the topographic map of communication. Creativity is its own special monster, as is story crafting, story telling, and all of the children that stem from communicating. Writing, however, is more than just the break down of ideas into words… it’s the distillation of the human desire to be remembered — to be acknowledged. Writing is the sublimation of the will to leave something behind and be immortalized, as well as the wish for an intimate connection with one other person, the reader. Should the reader respond back with writing, a two-sided relationship is made. It’s the crystallization of man’s loneliness and terror of an uncaring world, because while some writing is meant for a specific person to read, is it not the case that most authors and writers do not know the reach of their own words?

So I’ll continue to write, perhaps for someone in particular, perhaps for no one, but so long as I write for myself, I’m sure there will be like-minded people out there eventually who will read my work and think, “I understand you.”

That’s really all any of us want, huh?

 

Tires

Tired,

It sneaks

through the cracks

like a bubbling

pitch that burns and numbs

as it crawls across the

surface of my vision stark

and black against the blue glow of

monitors and screens which smirk at me

like I’m not good enough and I’ll never

be okay, and as it washes over me

and hardens into tire rubber I can’t muster

the strength as my limbs are tight against my body and

I’d have to lift something with muscles I’ve never

used before or ever knew existed, like

I’m wrapped in cement and I don’t have the

momentum to spin and I’m too far

behind everyone, so I hide

where its safe where nothing can

hurt because I’ve been on

this road and it’s just

a big circle.

I feel sick

and so

tired.

Across the Gratitude

Appreciation only hides in gaps

Between the darkest pits and brightest peaks.

Consider it a graceful cave that traps

Destructive ideologies.

“Entitlement,” we named the glutton brute,

Ferocious imp consuming joy and peace,

Grotesquely chewing on the prideful root,

His appetite will grow the more he eats.

In time, the fiend emerges from its lair

Just shambling upwards searching hungry for

Kilometers into the crispy mountain air

Like starving wolves that marked the scent of gore.

Mistakes like these are often found too late,

Neglect or sloth the cause of bedrock flaws.

Oppressed by selfish urges far too great,

Profane belief that they deserve applause.

Quiescence only comes with quiet time:

Recall that nothing ever truly lasts,

Sustain humility despite the climb

To then appreciate the now and past.

Until it ends for good and we look back,

Vitality reduced to wrinkled hands,

When satisfaction is the thing they lack,

Explain to them and pray they understand.

Your highs and lows are there with purpose, too,

Zeroing out to be what’s meant for you.

What Are My Chances?

Thought-drenched storm in free association

Tallying from one to zero and back

Colliding and fragmenting and merging again

Nothing is gained from ifs and maybes but,

 

How do I calculate what the percentage is?

When are the odds in my favor or otherwise?

Who can confirm the statistics of all of this?

Why do I try then to constantly theorize?

 

The meaning lost in numbers trite

To quantify impossibly

For fortune favors fancy flights

In peer-less probability.

 

She may say yes.

She may say no.

But it is best

To stop and go.

 

Addressed

From me,

Confess

And see.

 

If it cannot be measured with values unknown,

Then I trust in the harvest since something was sown.