Home from Greece

After a loooong travel day yesterday, Marcia and I tumbled into our (best) bed (ever) in Des Moines to try to get our body clocks readjusted for regular life again. Our 30th Anniversary Trip was truly amazing, with great stops in Santorini, Mykonos and Athens. Some quick thoughts and observations from a still-travel-addled brain:

  • Santorini was sublime, unique, and captivating, though with the caveat that it has become one of the main cruise ship stops in the region, so its hip destinations (most especially sunset at Oia) can be annoyingly swamped and commercialized, their magic tamped out by hyper-tourism. (We are not fans of cruise ships, as they tend to blight their ports of call, alas). We stayed on the quieter Eastern shore of the island, in Kamari, and I would recommend you do that as well if you visit. The sunrises on that side of the island are spectacular too, and you can get over to the crowded/sunset side of the island fairly easily if/when you want to. I would also most heartily recommend taking a sailboat cruise around the archipelago, with a stop at the volcano at the shattered island’s heart. And also eat lots of the local Santorini Fava, om nom nom!
  • Mykonos was probably our least favorite (barely) of the three destinations, as it really favors the sort of tacky money/party/beach/rave scene in ways that aren’t quite aligned with our lives at this point, and that tend to attract a bit more drunk/criminal element than is optimal. That said, we stayed at an isolated resort called Kirini My Mykonos Retreat that may well have been the most spectacular destination we have ever over-nighted, and the boat trip to Ancient Delos was well worth the stop at Mykonos in its own right. I guess I would have raved about Mykonos if we just went there and nowhere else . . . but seeing another Aegean Isle and spending time in the Capital just made this stop seem a little bit crass, comparatively speaking. Plus, we had the experience of getting into a cab one afternoon, only to have our vehicle pulled over by armed police officers a few blocks later, one of the gendarmes using a power drill to remove its license plates while we sat inside, caught in the middle of a local power/shakedown play. That put us off our feed a bit.
  • I loved Athens. Which, honestly, was a little bit of a surprise because so many people have complained (crowded, noisy, smelly, hot, etc.) or said “one day was enough” to me about their own visits there. It’s a big city, sure, but I guess having lived in one of those for most of the past five years, my tolerance for the urban experience may be a bit higher than that of a casual suburban tourist type. We had great food, great walks, a great hotel, our visit to the Acropolis was no more harried or frenzied than what one experiences in any major global destination, and I found the parts of the city we explored to be lovely and engaging. I hope to return with more time at some point, and will gently chide anybody who makes sniffy noises to me about it in the future. Philistines.
  • We booked this trip using the independent travel option with our long-time favorite U.S. Travel Agency, Gate1 Travel, and I have to say they absolutely hit it out of the park in terms of the quality of the package, and the support available in-country from their local teams. Just superb. You could book it yourselves here. When you get to the lodging options, I’d recommend you upgrade to the premium level . . . it was totally worth it, every penny, in terms of the quality of the experience.

Okay, that’s about as much as the brain can handle this morning, so let’s send you to the photos, if you care to see more. Click the image of Marcia and I doing our best jobs to find the selfie lens below, and see what it looked like for us while were there:

30 Years

This photo was taken June 24, 1989, at The Church of the Incarnation, in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Marcia and I had just said “I do” and “I do,” been pronounced man and wife, I’d gotten to kiss the bride — and then we stepped off down the aisle together, arm in arm, for whatever life was going to throw our way, with smiles on our faces.

30 years later to the day, we still walk arm and arm, with smiles on our faces. We’ve moved around the country numerous times over the past three decades, bought and sold several houses, earned a couple of degrees, lost many of the dear people who were with us on our wedding day, raised an incredibly interesting and accomplished young woman to independent adulthood, worked really hard in multiple jobs, celebrated victories and joys, and endured struggles and hardships, together.

We still go to bed every night holding hands and saying “I love you,” and we mean it.

The ancient Greeks had different words for different types of love: eros, philia, ludus, agape, philautia, storge, and pragma. The last one of the seven is described thusly:

The everlasting love between a married couple which develops over a long period of time. Pragma is the highest form of love; the true commitment that comes from understanding, compromise and tolerance. It is pragmatic, which is why it is referred to as “standing in love” rather than “falling in love,” because it grows over time and requires profound understanding between lovers who have been together for many years.

I could not have understood that concept as a 20-something young Naval Officer in 1989, but today, that concept resonates with me to my core, and I can’t really imagine aspiring to many things more desirable than living in that state, every day. Which I do, and which blows my mind each and every time I pause to think about it. I am so very fortunate to have walked a life path with Marcia on the road to pragma (among other loves), and I am so very excited by the prospect of doing so for the next 30 years and beyond.

It seems fitting, as I think about these ancient and profound Greek concepts of love, that Marcia and I are actually in Greece this week to celebrate our 30th Anniverary, with visits to Athens, Santorini and Mykonos on the itinerary. Lots of history, lots of walks, lots of culture, lots of time together, just the way we like it. Happy Anniversary to We!

I know that there are new changes coming in the next few years in how we live our lives, and what we do with them, and where we do it — and those changes are exciting and scary in equal measure, as I consider them. But whatever may come to pass, I know that Marcia and I will be doing it together, arm in arm, with smiles on our faces, and love in our hearts. What an incredible gift it is to spend a life-time with my best friend, and to still wake every morning excited about what the day may bring, because I know she will be a part of it.

 

Credidero #6: Creativity

When I was in First Grade, our class was introduced to haiku, the classic Japanese form of short poetry structured in three lines, of five, seven and five syllables each. After our teacher explained the concept, read us some examples, and showed how to count syllables (do they still do the thing where you put your hand under your chin while enunciating words?), we were told to take out a sheet of paper (this stuff, remember?) and pen our first haiku. I thought for a few minutes, dutifully jotted one down, counted to make sure the syllables worked out, and handed in my work.

Some time later that day, I was summoned to speak with our teacher, and there were a couple of other grownups behind her desk, though I did not know who they were. Uh oh! Trouble! The teacher asked me where I got the poem I had submitted. I told her I wrote it. She nodded and asked if I wrote it by copying it out of a library book. I said no, I just thought it up and wrote it down. She kept pressing me on other possible sources for the little poem, and I kept telling her that I made it up, following her instructions. She then asked me to define a specific word within the poem, and to explain a specific phrase. I answered her as best I could.

I do not recall or have that entire poem intact anymore, alas, but I do remember that the issues that led my teacher to call in the guidance police and interrogate me on whether I had actually written it or not were my use of the word “ere,” the elegance of my alliterative phrase “gray-green grass,” and the fact that I inadvertently did exactly what a haiku was really supposed to do — juxtaposing images around a seasonal reference — while most of my classmates were writing straight literal odes to their cats or toys or mothers. Clearly, no little country cracker from South Cackalacky should have been able to do that, right?

The thing that finally convinced the teacher and the school-yard Stasi agents that I had not somehow plagiarized the poem was the fact that when I was asked to read it aloud, I pronounced the word “ere” as “err-eh,” (I had only seen it in my favorite poetry book, but had never heard it spoken), so my middle syllable count was actually off by one.  So apparently, I really hadn’t been carrying around a little Bashō masterpiece in my Speed Racer lunchbox just waiting to spring it on someone for my own gain at an opportune moment. I was dismissed and off to recess I went, a bit concerned and confused.

Some time soon thereafter, I was promoted directly from First Grade to Third Grade,  branded smart beyond my limited years, at least in part because of that little poem. I learned three key things from this confluence of events:

  1. Being creative can cause trouble
  2. Being creative can open doors to opportunity
  3. People correlate artistic creativity with full spectrum intelligence

I also picked the Beloved Royals to win the 1978 World Series. Wrong again.

I have never stopped writing since then, for pleasure and for pay. My first real job was as the “Teen Editor” of the Mitchel News when I was 13 years old, per the photo at left. I was supposed to be a beat reporter, doing interviews with new kids and documenting the things in which the young people on the military base where I lived were presumed to be interested. But after a column or two like that, I got bored, and I started doing record reviews of Jethro Tull and Steely Dan albums instead, or handicapping sports seasons (Remember the NASL? I went out on a limb and predicted that my beloved Washington Diplomats would win the 1978 title. I was wrong), or writing creepy poetry about some of the weird old buildings and spaces on the base. I also gave the way-popular movie Grease a thumbs-down, one-star, bomb review, eliciting howls of rage from most every girl I knew on base, and the guys who wanted to impress them. That might have been the bridge too far.

I was fired from the job after about a year, because my creative voice was not the creative voice that the newspaper’s publisher desired me to have, or at least to create, for his readers. So I learned a lesson there, too: creative writing and “technical writing” (for lack of a better term) were not the same thing in the eyes of publishers and readers, and there was a difference in the things that I wrote for myself and the things that I wrote for others. (Well, I also learned, much to my chagrin, that my cushy desk job writing stuff was a whole lot easier than cutting grass, delivering newspapers, clearing brush, or washing dishes, all of which I had to do at one time or another to earn my scratch after I was chucked out at the press room, alas.)

That distinction between creative and “technical” writing is true to this day, of course, although then and now, there’s always been one thing that sort of sticks in my craw when I actively ponder it, and it’s the fact that I do not perceive either form of writing as requiring any more of less creativity than the other, though only gets called “creative.” One type might require research, one type might not. One type might require the creation of characters, one type might require creatively describing real characters. One type might require me to write in dialog or dialect, creating a voice for other people to speak, one type might require me to speak in a voice other than my own to appeal to the whims and tastes of the people or organizations who pay me for my efforts. But they all require creativity.

I enjoy both types of writing, in different ways, and in different times. When I sit down with a blank page or a blank screen before me, and I get up some time later leaving a big blob of words behind, I feel that I have created something. It may be a newsletter column, it may be a poem, it may be a story, or it may be a Credidero article. All equal in my mind in terms of their worth (though I know from experience that in the eyes of those who pay for my blank paper and computer screen, my “technical” writing is of far greater value), all requiring the same basic sets of linguistic skills, all involving creativity. I have to start with an idea, I have to formulate structures around the idea, I have to put the idea into a meaningful context, I have to deploy resources to ensure the idea is valid, I have to find the right words to share the idea with others. When that’s done, I have made something, from nothing. Voila, creation!

Interestingly enough, this concept that humans can be creative and practice creativity is actually a shockingly modern one in Western Culture. In Plato’s Republic, the wise old Greek philosopher is asked “Will we say, of a painter, that he makes something?” and he replies “Certainly not, he merely imitates.” For centuries, the widely-held philosophical belief was that only God could create something from nothing — creatio ex nihilo — while we mere mortals were stuck with imitating, or discovering, or making, or producing, oftentimes guided by inhuman forces, like Muses, or Daemons, but certainly not creators in our own right. Poetry was one of the first arts to be granted license to be seen as an act of creation, with other written texts, and other arts genres following in the 19th Century. It was only in the early 20th Century when Western people begin to speak of “creativity” in the natural sciences and technical fields. So whether they realize it or not, the creative folks today who (somewhat pretentiously, to these ears) call themselves “makers” instead “artists” are actually invoking a 2,000-year old paradigm that (again, to these ears) devalues the fruits of their labors, rather than (as likely intended) anchoring them as somehow more “real” or pragmatic that the stuff that the arsty-fartsy types produce.

I find the long and wide-spread cultural reluctance to embrace and value creativity as a deeply personal, deeply human, deeply individual endeavor or trait to be fascinatingly awry with own beliefs and experiences on this front. When I interview for jobs or freelance assignments, or even in just regular conversations (because I’m like that) and I am asked what I consider to be my greatest skill, I always default to “communications” — I am a story-teller, at bottom line, and I can make people believe in my organizations’ work and mission, by talking to people, and by writing to people. If you hire me, I’ll do the same for your organization!

I create narratives on the job, sometimes from scratch, sometimes from consolidation of extant texts, but there’s a deep creative element to both of those activities. I also tell stories on my own time, fictional ones, poetic ones, accounts of events yet to come, documentation of events gone by. A concert review is a story. A fundraising appeal is a story. A speech is a story. An explanation of a research finding is a story. I am a story-teller. And I would not be a story-teller if I did not possess a finely tuned sense of creativity, and a desire and skill to create something that did not exist until I turned my mind to it. I can’t imagine my mind, in fact, if it was not anchored in that desire to create stories. I have done lots of creative things in various creative fields over the years (a bit more on that later), but my stories and my writing are as intrinsically me, myself and I as anything else I do.

I generally think of this a good thing, though research may indicate otherwise. A study involving more than one millions subjects by Sweden’s Karolinska Institute, reported by the Journal of Psychiatric Research in 2012, found that, as a group, those in the creative professions were “no more likely to suffer from psychiatric disorders than other people, although they were more likely to have a close relative with a disorder, including anorexia and, to some extent, autism.” Phew! But wait . . . within that surveyed cohort of creative types, the researchers did find that writers (!) had a “higher risk of anxiety and bipolar disorders, schizophrenia, unipolar depression, and substance abuse, and were almost twice as likely as the general population to kill themselves” (!!) and that dancers and photographers were also more likely to have bipolar disorder.

Well, uhhh . . . yeah. That. Kettle, pot. Pot, kettle. We writers are apparently the most damaged creatives, the Vincent van Goghs and Roky Ericksons and Francisco Goyas and Nick Drakes of the world notwithstanding. For the record, if I look back at the my family tree just for a couple of generations, and across a couple of close cousin branches, every single one of those disorders appears, often multiple times. So is the creative drive that I think of as a gift or a blessing actually just a side symptom of a spectrum of mental illnesses passed on to me as part of my innate genetic code?

Maybe. The suffering artist stereotype probably didn’t emerge without evidence, after all, and when I think about the periods in my life when I was most floridly, obsessively creative (not just in writing), they probably do correlate closely with the periods when I felt the most vulnerable or damaged. Being driven can be a good thing. And being driven can be a bad thing. Beautiful stories can emerge from dark spaces, and dark narratives can emerge from a happy place. Keeping busy and being productive can be cheap forms of self-administered therapy, or they can be positive manifestations of a mind well, truly, and happily engaged.

This way madness lies.

I think of big part of managing my own creativity is being self-aware enough, through long experience, to know which of these conditions are in play at any given time, and to create accordingly. In the 1990s, to cite but one time-place-topic example, I wrote a novel, called Eponymous. It was about a dissolute musician-writer named Collie Hay, beset with a variety of substance abuse issues and mental health problems, written in the first person, explaining why and how the writer wrote, and knitting a narrative about how creation and destruction often go hand in hand. The epigraph of the book, the very first words you read when you open it, say “For the Demons . . . Fly away! Be free!” The very last page of the book, in the author’s bio, says “J. Eric Smith is not Collie Hay. Honest.” But, uhhh, y’know. Of course, I’d say that. I’m a writer, and not to be trusted.

One review by a trusted colleague who was also a damaged writer type noted “Eponymous is a hall of mirrors. J. Eric Smith, the author, who’s been an upstate New York rock critic, has written a book about an upstate New York rock critic who is himself writing a book. The book-within-a-book device is hard to pull off, but when it works (see Tristram Shandy and Adaptation) — and it works well here — it’s lots of fun.” And it starkly lays bare the correlations, at least in my case and in my mind, between written creativity and dysfunction, without even really bothering to explain them, since they just seem(ed) to me to go hand in hand, as a given. It also felt good to write, and some demons did, in fact, flitter off as result of having written it. Poof! Therapy!

(Side Note #1: If you want to read Eponymous — and 20+ years on from creating it, I’m not sure I’d really recommend it to you — find a cheap, used print version of it, not the Kindle version. It was adapted as an e-book without my permission or supervision, and a lot of the internal formatting [there’s poems, lyrics, other stuff of that ilk] got messed up and is very difficult to read on an e-book reader. I don’t make a penny from it either way, so it’s your call if you want to score it, but I just don’t want you to have to struggle with a nasty mess of on-screen gobbledygook if you do wade into the thing).

While I’ve focused my personal observations here on writing, I should note that I have been and remain creative in other ways too. I’d claim photography as the visual art form in which I have the greatest interest and skill, and I’ve been a songwriter, singer, musician and lyricist over the years as well, though mainly in my younger days. Until precisely 1993, in fact, I would have cited music as my primary creative skill, and the one which I was most willing, able and likely to achieve success (critical, if not commercial) over the years.

How can I date that end point so accurately? That was the year when we got our first home computer and I got online for the first time. My home recording studio began gathering dust soon thereafter. For a long time after that when people would ask about how my music was going, I’d say “I’m in remission as a musician these days,” so once again, even way back then, I was lightly associating creativity with illness, even if I laughed it off in so doing. But we all know that every joke has a bit of truth behind it.

(Side Note #2: If I could snap my fingers and have any job in the world, hey presto, right now, I would want to be the principal, non-performing lyricist for a commercially and critically successful musical act. The Bernie Taupins, Roberts Hunters, Peter Sinfields, and Keith Reids of the world have got good gigs! I have had the pleasure of having my poems recorded as lyrics by a few musicians, and it’s deeply satisfying, let me tell you. That’s likely to be one of the areas I’m going to focus creative attention on when I retire from my last day job accordingly. Maybe the group or singer that hires me would let me provide the photographs for the album covers and promotional materials too. A fellow can dream, right? Even a broken creative fellow?)

So creativity has touched and shaped my life in a variety of ways that fall under the “artistic” umbrella, but the amount of time I spend on those pursuits pales in comparison to the amount of time I spend at my job. Sure, writing and speaking and story-telling are cornerstones to that, and as noted above, and I feel that those facets of my professional work are every bit as anchored in my core, latent sense of creativity as are my most absurd and fantastic pieces of fiction and poetry. But just as the concept of creativity evolved and was adapted in the early 20th Century to include the sciences and technical endeavors, the latter part of the Century saw the definitions expanding further into organizational, operational, and business dynamics, and the ways that groups use creativity to build and sustain corporate culture.

Look at tech behemoths like Apple, Microsoft, Amazon, Google and Netflix, just off the cuff. Sure, there were certainly some blindingly creative people within their corporate structures who made the technical products and business services they provide, but they would not be what they are today without other visionaries imagining, designing, and implementing completely new business models and marketing approaches unlike anything seen or experienced before them. The brains behind those new business models were certainly engaged in forms of creativity, making new and valuable things (many of them concepts, not stuff), filling market spaces that nobody knew existed before they dreamed them up and monetized them. If you had told me when I was a teenager that by my 55th birthday I’d be able to listen to any song in the world while watching a movie, doing my banking, typing to a pen pal in Australia, and playing a video game, on my phone, at the beach, all at the same time, I’d have said you were watching way too much Jetsons for your own good. That’s just silly, Astro.

The transformative nature of the tech sector means that much of the recent and current research into and writing about creativity in the workplace focuses on organizations and individuals within the Silicon Valley sphere of companies, because the cause-effect-impact relationships there are easy to identify, evaluate and explain. But the work that many of us do in non-technical sectors can involve just as much creativity, and can have just as transformative an impact within our organizations, or within the smaller external spheres in which we operate. I’m confident that 100 years from now, the types of activities that are granted “creative” status by default will expand to include countless more fields and activities, many of which are unknowable or inconceivable today, even in the creative minds of the most brilliant futurists.

But maybe we shouldn’t wait 100 years to afford “creative” status to certain endeavors that aren’t seen as “earning” it today. We’re all creative, each in our own ways, every time we produce something that wasn’t there before we cast our hands above the waters and say (to ourselves) “Let there be a thing,” whether anybody else knows we did it or not, whether it has any use or value at all to anybody, whether it can be experienced in the world of the senses, or only within the spheres of our minds. We may create alone or with others. We may create to heal ourselves or hurt ourselves, others likewise. It may feel good, or it may feel bad. We may intend to create, or we may create by happy accident. It’s all the same: “Let there be a thing,” and there will be, and sometimes it might even be really, really good.

Creatio ex nihilo was long the sole province of God, or the Gods, or Muses, or Daemons, or other inhuman forces swirling in the vapors around us. Maybe by claiming creativity as our own human right, in all the things we do, and celebrating its fruits, we don’t denigrate the God(s) that inspire us, but instead become ever more like them.

Note: This article is part of an ongoing twelve-part writing project. I’m using a random online dice roller to select a monthly topic from a series of twelve pre-selected themes. With this sixth article complete, I roll the die again . . .

. . . and next month I will consider Topic Number One: “Community”

Deftly using every single one of my creative skills here in coherently explaining the recorded canon of the great UK band Wire. It made sense at the time . . .

All Articles In This Series:

Credidero: A Writing Project

Credidero #1: Hostility

Credidero #2: Curiosity

Credidero #3: Security

Credidero #4: Absurdity

Credidero #5: Inhumanity

Credidero #6: Creativity

Credidero #7: Community

 

Honoring the Real Tree Care Heroes

Note: Here is my “Leading Thoughts” column from the June 2019 edition of TREE Press, the monthly gazette of TREE Fund. You can read the latest and back editions, and subscribe to future installments, by clicking here.

As I write this column, there are about 100 days left until the Tour des Trees rolls out from Nashville, Tennessee for five days of community engagement and fundraising on behalf of our research programs. I woke up this morning planning to get a good training ride in, but . . . Ugh, rain! And more rain! And floods! And wind! And cold! It’s been just awful for cycling in Chicago and in Des Moines all spring, in fact, and the forecast for the next week is much more of the same. How am I going to get ready for the Tour if this continues? And what a bummer to have to spend another spring day indoors, harrumph!

I was muttering and grumbling to myself about this most unfortunate personal inconvenience with a warm cup of tea in my hand, looking out from the third-floor window of my new apartment building, feeling very self-aggrieved, when I happened to glance downward, and I saw a crew of half-a-dozen workers who were putting in new trees, irrigation systems, sod, mulch and gravel around our building, out in the cold and the rain. Looking further upward and outward, I noted a utility truck on the other side of the Des Moines River, lights flashing, crews out of the street directing traffic, likely engaged in water or power management activities as the river continues to rise here.

They had no warm tea. They had no nice bikes. Nor did they have an option to call it a day and hang out indoors instead of getting a good ride in. My grievances about the weather suddenly felt very petty and small. Don’t get me wrong: training and fundraising for and riding the Tour des Trees is hard work, and I am extraordinarily grateful to the amazing volunteers who take the time off to do it year after year, while I’m getting paid to be with them. But it was a timely and important reminder to me today to also always remember that the people we ride for – our working arborists, our urban foresters, our ground crews, our utility lines people, our landscapers, our municipal manager, and so many others – work even harder, all the time, all year long, in jobs that actually become more intense and urgent when the weather is at its worst, after storms, ice, floods, etc.

As Tour des Trees riders, we get a lot of kudos and compliments around the country at the various industry events we attend, and those are all fine and deserved and appreciated. But the real heroes in our industry are the men and women who are usually sitting in the chairs in the audience at those events, watching us being feted without comment or remark, taking the time from their own busy schedules to make themselves as professionally effective, efficient, and safe as they can be in often crushingly challenging and difficult work settings. I’m an office worker at bottom line, while they are doing the heavy lifting that truly makes a difference.

I use my column space this month to say “thank you” to them all, and hope you’ll join me in sharing your own appreciation, publicly, whenever and however you are able.

I ain’t ridin’ today . . . but our tree folks and colleagues are workin’ anyway . . .

Credidero #5: Inhumanity

When I was framing my Credidero writing project for 2019, I spent a fair amount of time and thought developing the list of 12 one-word topics that I intended to ponder and write about over course of the year. I clearly remember that the very last edit that I made to the final list was turning the possible topic “Humanity” into the actual topic “Inhumanity.” At the time I did that, the edit was largely to eliminate what I thought could have just produced a fuzzy wuzzy glurgey article, and to better balance what I considered innately “positive” reflections among the list of 12 with what I thought could be innately “negative” reflections, and thereby perhaps more intellectually difficult to parse. In other words, it seemed to me at the time that it would be easier for me to fall into writing piffle and tripe about the concept of “humanity” (“La la la, let’s all get along, people are great, yay!”) than it would be to consider its opposite, which could far more fraught with dark feelings and unpleasant realities and difficult realizations. Those seemed to be the spaces that would be more challenging for me to explore, and since this project was intended to be a personal challenge, that final edit stuck.

My sense of that potential challenge has proven accurate for me over the past month, and this is the first of five scheduled articles to date where I’ve missed my self-imposed monthly deadline (by just a few days, though) as I knocked the topic around in my brain housing group a bit longer than I have earlier installments before finally sitting down to organize my mental noise and write. One of the key difficulties for me has been that this topic is ultimately defined by its negation: you can’t actually consider or define “inhumanity” without considering and defining “humanity” first: basically and etymologically speaking, “inhumanity” is simply the absence of whatever its opposite is. Then, adding complexity, “humanity” itself carries two simple/common uses, one of a noun form (“the human race; human beings collectively”), and one of an adjective form (“humaneness; goodness; benevolence”).

But here’s the rub: by most objective measures, on an aggregate, macro, long-term, global basis, humanity (noun) does not practice humanity (adjective) very effectively, at all. Our history is shaped, defined and recorded not through long eras of benevolence and kindness and care, but rather through endless, constant, unrelenting war, subjugation (of our own species and others), depredation of resources, conquest and assimilation of assets, and a host of other day-to-day and century-to-century activities that skew far from the concepts of compassion, tolerance, goodness, pity, piety, charity and care that are embodied in the common adjectival use of the word “humanity.”

It’s almost like humanity (noun) hired some supernatural marketing agent to spin the emergence of the English word humanity (adjective) in the 14th Century just to make us look good and gloss over the horrors imminent whenever we rolled up into your forest or savanna or jungle or oasis. “Oh hey, look, it’s the Humans! Word is, they are kind and benevolent! Humanity, Huttah!” (Said the Lemur King, before we turned him into a shawl, and then killed all the other humans who didn’t have any Lemur Wear).

I kept knocking this conundrum around, not really getting anywhere with it, until it occurred to me that maybe I needed to parse the word “inhumanity” a bit differently. In its common modern form and usage, we think of it in these two parts: “in + humanity,” i.e. the absence of humanity (adjective), and we generally take the combined word form to be a bad thing, even though “humanity” (noun) is pretty awful, if we’re frank about our shortcomings. Perhaps a better way to consider the subject word, though, is to parse it thusly: “inhuman + ity,” i.e. simply the state of being not human. Plants exist in a state of inhumanity, when defined that way, and there’s no value judgment assigned to saying that. They are not human. Fact. Likewise all of the other gazillions of species of animals, protists, fungi, bacteria, viruses, and unseen and unknown entities (ghosts? angels? demons? gods?) that share our planet with us. Not human, and all existing in a state of inhuman-ity accordingly.

The collective set of inhuman-ity engages in many of the same practices that humanity (noun) does: its species and members eat each other, cause diseases, go places they shouldn’t, do harm, deplete things, despoil things, over-populate, over-hunt, over-grow, overthrow, fight, bite, copulate, propagate, locomote, respirate, expire. But their collective abilities to break things on a truly planetary basis, and their willful, ongoing, compulsive drives to engage in the mass exterminations of creatures of their own kind in pursuit of meaningless shiny things or mythical mental constructions or physical homogeneity all pale in comparison to the wide-spread horrors which Homo sapiens is capable of, and seemingly revels in.

Should some miracle suddenly and completely remove the biomass of human beings from our planet today, the other living and unliving things upon it would likely, in time, return to some slowly evolving state of punctuated equilibrium that would allow life to continue in perpetuity here, occasionally blasted and reorganized by comets or asteroids or other stellar detritus, until the time, billions of years from now, when our star explodes and incinerates the little rock we all call our home for the final time.

But I believe it would challenge the most optimistic human futurists to consider the trend lines of what our own species has wreaked upon our planet since we emerged from East Africa, and imagine a (mostly) peaceful progression where humanity (noun) practices care, compassion, kindness, and goodness in ways that promote planetary well-being, human dignity, respect for all species, equality, justice, brotherhood, and the peaceful distribution of assets to all who need them for billions and billions of years.

The accepted scientific consensus, in fact, is quite the opposite of that: the actions that a relatively small number of human beings in positions of political and economic power are taking, right now, largely for the short-term material gain of their own cliques and cabals, are forging an irreversible glide path toward long-term global human suffering that will be orders of magnitude greater than any experienced in the history of our species, and that will more than offset the benefits of centuries of scientific gains, e.g. disease mitigation, crop yield and nutritional density, etc. It’s bad, and it’s going to get worse, fast, and it’s going to take down a huge percentage of the collective set of inhuman-ity on its way. Our current government, to cite but one illustrative example, doesn’t even want its scientists to publicize climate forecasts beyond the year 2040, because the list of probable futures are so dire beyond that point. But they’re coming, whether they write about them or not.

Where does any classical sense of humanity (adjective) as a state of goodness and grace fit within that reality, and how does one reasonably envision the human species a thousand years or more years from now as anything but, at likely best, a small rump tribe of survivors holding on meanly after the vast majority of our species has perished, horribly?

That may be the inevitable progress of our unique species, and it is inherently human accordingly, but it’s certainly not inherently humane. So the linkage between those two uses of the word “humanity” grows more and more difficult for me the longer I think about them, because it really seems to me that, on many planes, humanity is at its most humane when it is being its most in-human, and humanity is at its most inhumane when it is being its most human. Oh, the humanity! Look how inhumane it is!

I suspect alien interplanetary observers would come to the same conclusion, and then might want to hire that supernatural 14th Century marketing firm themselves before they head onto their next assignations: “Oh, hey, look, it’s the Aliens! Word is, they are decent and good and fair, despite their different colored skin and hair! Aliens, huttah!” I mean, we English speakers are just really full of ourselves and bursting with linguistic bullshit when we use the very word with which we name ourselves as a synonym for all the goodness in the world, right? It boggles this already boggled mind.

Let’s pause and take a deep breath at this point. I certainly appreciate that this is high-minded rant that I’m embarking on here, and I certainly do not wish to imply that I am any better (or worse)(or different) that the rest of humanity, by any stretch of the imagination. While I may not be one of the 100 Human Beings Most Responsble for Destroying Our Planet in the Name of Profit (if you click no other link here, click that one, please), there’s still plastic in my trash can, and dead animal parts in my refrigerator, and hatreds in my heart, so I would not set myself up as any sort of paragon of the ways in which human beings can, actually, be and do good. I’m doing my part to destroy the planet too, whether I want to or not, because I am human, and that is what we do, collectively.

But even in the face of our unrelenting, unstoppable destructive natures as a collective, there are individuals around us who do good, and act benevolent, and show kindness, and practice care, representing that classical 14th Century marketing sense of the word “humanity” in their everyday lives and activities. There might even be some small groups of people who can do that on a consistent basis over time, but I think that it is an inherent flaw in our in species that when you put too many of us together, by choice or by circumstance, we become inhumane to all those beyond the scopes and spheres where our individual perception allows us to see individual goodness shining more brightly than the collective awfulness to which we inevitably succumb. Jesus’ teachings were sublime and profound, to cite but one of many examples. But most churches that attempt to teach and (worse) enforce them today are horrible and cruel, with the largest ones usually being the most egregious, inhumane offenders.

How many humans do you have to put together into pockets of humanity before our innate lack of humaneness emerges? I would suspect the number aligns with the size of the average hunter-gatherer communities before we learned to write and record stories about ourselves, and then justify why one communities’ stories were better or more correct than its neighbors’ were, and I suspect that in our twilight years as a species, after we’ve mostly destroyed the planet, we’ll rediscover that number again as we cluster in small groups, optimistically in our ancestral savannas, but more likely in the wreckage of our great cities, after they have spread to cover the inhabitable surface of the Earth, and implode upon themselves.

I found close resonances in my emergent thinking on this topic in the writings of Sixteenth Century French philosopher Michael de Montaigne, most especially in his essay “On Cruelty,” where he wrote:

Those natures that are sanguinary towards beasts discover a natural proneness to cruelty. After they had accustomed themselves at Rome to spectacles of the slaughter of animals, they proceeded to those of the slaughter of men, of gladiators. Nature has herself, I fear, imprinted in man a kind of instinct to inhumanity.

Along similar lines, St Anselm of Canterbury has served as a sort of a quiet mascot for me in this series, since I indirectly captured the word “credidero” from his writings, and I’ve been researching some of his major works in parallel with this project. In De Casu Diaboli (“On The Devil’s Fall,” circa 1085), Anselm  argued that there are two forms of good — “justice” and “benefit” —and two forms of evil — “injustice” and “harm.” All rational beings (note that Anselm is including the inhuman angelic caste in this discourse) seek benefit and shun harm on their own account, but independent choice permits them to abandon justice. Some angels chose their own happiness in preference to justice and were punished by God for their injustice with less happiness. We know them now as devils. The angels who upheld justice before their own happiness, on the other hand, were rewarded by God with such happiness that they are now incapable of sin, there being no happiness left for them to seek in opposition to the bounds of justice. Poor humanity (noun), meanwhile, retained the theoretical capacity to choose justice over benefit, but, because of our collective fall from grace, we are incapable of doing so in practice except by God’s divine grace, via the satisfaction theory of atonement.

At bottom line, then, Anselm ultimately found humanity collectively damaged, closer in temperament to devils than angels, and salvageable only by the intervention of the humane, though in-human, God of Abraham, and his Son, who became human, so that other humans could kill him. As humans do.

These two quotes eventually carried me back to the very first thing I typed on this ever-growing page over a month ago, and likely the very first thought that you as a reader had, when presented with the word “inhumanity:” the oft-stated concept of “man’s inhumanity to man,” which has become something of a cliche through over-use. Do you know where the phrase comes from? I didn’t, though I guessed it was likely Shakespeare, since so many eloquent turns of phrase of that ubiquity in our language come from his works.

My guess was wrong, though: it was first documented in English in Man Was Made to Mourn: A Dirge (1784) by Robert Burns:

Many and sharp the num’rous ills
Inwoven with our frame!
More pointed still we make ourselves
Regret, remorse, and shame!
And man, whose heav’n-erected face
The smiles of love adorn, –
Man’s inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn!

Burns, too, accepts at face value the inherent awfulness “inwoven with our frame,” and notes that through our active choices and actions, we’re more than capable of becoming ever more awful yet.

Once again, we return to to the linguistic twist: humanity is at its most humane when it is being its most in-human, and humanity is at its most inhumane when it is being its most human. Can we extrapolate a statement of action from that conundrum thusly: the only way we will save humanity is to reject humanity, and the only way we will be humane is by being inhuman?

It seems and sounds absurd to frame an argument in those terms on the surface, and yet . . . human beings readily embrace the inhuman when they pray to God and ask his Son to come live in their hearts, guaranteeing their eternal salvation, and human beings embrace the inhuman when they accept a Gaia concept of the planet as a single living entity upon which we are analogous to a particularly noxious strain of mold on an orange, and human beings embrace the inhuman when we look to the cosmos around us in the hopes that we are not alone, and that whoever or whatever is out there might yet save us.

I could rattle off dozens of other examples of the ways in which humans embrace the inhuman in the hopes becoming more humane, and all of them carry more than a whiff of deus ex machina about them, as they all involve elements from outside a system being injected into a system to sustain a system. But you know what? That feels right to me. That feels like the one viable path out of an endless do-loop of inhumane humanity, and I suspect that’s why all cultures, throughout our history, have created stories and religions and narratives that seek to guide humanity’s future through the examples of non-human actors, be they other living things on our planet, or mystical beings beyond it.

I doubt that any one of them is any better or any worse than any other, so long as they focus individuals and small groups (remember, we get horrible en masse, always) on goodness at a scale perceivable to the perceiver, and receivable by a receiver. Maybe this explains why I feel compelled to speak out loud to animals when I meet them on my perambulations, as just a small personal act of embracing the inhuman around me, perhaps creating feelings and moods and resonances that might then make me a better human being to the other human beings with whom I interact. Maybe Marcia and Katelin embrace the inhuman in similar ways through their yoga practice. Maybe you embrace the inhuman in a church, or a temple, or a mosque, or in a forest meadow, or atop a mountain, or beneath the eyepiece of a massive telescope.

Maybe we all become better, more humane humans, the more we embrace the inhuman-ity around us. It’s a squishy proposition, sure, but my gut tells me it’s the right one . . .

Note: This article is part of an ongoing twelve-part writing project. I’m using a random online dice roller to select a monthly topic from a series of twelve pre-selected themes. With this fifth article complete, I roll the die again . . .

. . . and next month I will consider Topic Number Seven: “Creativity”

“Nice flowers, Burns. Gimme ’em, or else I’ll sock you one . . . “

All Articles In This Series:

Credidero: A Writing Project

Credidero #1: Hostility

Credidero #2: Curiosity

Credidero #3: Security

Credidero #4: Absurdity

Credidero #5: Inhumanity

Credidero #6: Creativity

Credidero #7: Community

 

 

Best Albums of 2019 (First Half)

It’s been six months and 10 days since I posted my “Best Albums of 2018” report, so per my slightly forward-skewed rubric, that means it’s now time to see how the first half of 2019 is shaking out for new music. There have been lots of new (to me) artists thus far, along with some welcome returns to form by old favorites, so I’ve appreciated having a nice blend of high-quality tunes spinning from a variety of genres through the winter and (apparently never-ending) spring. I don’t bother with long form reviews at this point in the year, and the albums cited are just presented alphabetically by artist with no qualitative hierarchies, since I know this list will evolve significantly before I do the full 2019 year in review, and I will lock them all in then. That said, if you’re looking for good new music, and you know and trust my judgment (or don’t, I guess), then I highly recommend you explore any of this baker’s dozen of very good discs via the embedded links, as some of these are already knocking around in my head as potential “Album of the Year” honorees come November/December, and they’re well worth enjoying now. Happy listening, as always!

Clinic, Wheeltappers and Shunters

F-DORM, COMMUNE

Focus, Focus 11

Imperial Wax, Gastwerk Saboteurs

Malibu Ken, Malibu Ken

Mekons, Deserted

Alice Merton, Mint

Piroshka, Brickbat

Sacred Paws, Run Around the Sun

The Specials, Encore

Tronos, Celestial Mechanics

White Denim, Side Effects

Xiu Xiu, Girl With Basket of Fruit

One of a few serious early contenders for “Album of the Year 2019.”