Welcome to Issue 5

Here is the place, my lord; good my lord, enter,
The tyranny of the open night's too rough
For nature to endure.
—Kent, as Caius, to Lear in William Shakespeare's King Lear, 3.4.1

Greetings,

This installment of the magazine is somewhat tardy, but I hope that fact does not prevent patient readers from finding its essays cause for asking what is natural.

What is natural?

Another one of those big, abstract questions easily shrugged off for the day, and then the week, and before long piling up with other "important" questions into a seemingly insurmountable heap of laundry that starts to stench subtly in the corner of the room at the same time you find fewer and fewer clean clothes to wear to work.

I began writing this introduction outside, at peace, within earshot of waves lapping at the shore, children's joyful shrieks on a playfield, airplanes droning overhead, and birds singing beneath a summery deciduous canopy. While a county park may not meet everyone's definition of nature, I was assuredly outside my own private environs and inhabiting, for the moment, a space shared by life and light and air. A few weeks ago, however, I had made a note to myself to use the following detail in some way because it seemed to speak volumes about how unnatural my, and perhaps your, modern world can be: I didn't know it was cold outside until I opened the window. The climate control inside my building was such that I had no idea of the outside temperature. With the windows shut, I was safely ensconced in my own little homeostatic world, seemingly cut off from the discomforting variability of the weather and the persistent stimulation of nature. (Though, of course, I was not really cut off except mentally—playing the civilized game of pretend that creates the semi-shared platform of our society where all manner of things amazing are casually deemed natural but nature herself.)

Another real detail—the kind novelists dream of making up, though I swear to you it happened to me—forced me back inside. Picture me, sitting cross-legged on a picnic table and pecking at my laptop, under some trees, overlooking Lake Michigan. Though ants and other insects approach me and my computer, they are easily swiped away. When suddenly, my arm gets wet and something has splashed onto my laptop like rain. But it's sunny. There is no rain. Did a bird poop on me? I look up. I see nothing. Did someone, unseen, squirt water on me? I look around. I see nothing. The small splash on my laptop appears slightly amber. I wipe it off with a leaf. It has splashed on my hat, on my arm, on my shirt, on my shorts—laundry I just washed last night now soiled by a mystery liquid. Suddenly, I hear a rustling high above. And I realize what has happened. I have been peed on by a squirrel.

This is the kind of thing that drives one indoors, away from nature. It's the kind of thing humans have built fires and roofs and roadways for over thousands of years, culminating in something resembling our sprawling civilization. It's why HVAC is big business and why my fifth grade social studies teacher, Ms. Giuliani, imparted on us the "three As"—air conditioning, automobiles, and aqueducts. These three technologies opened up the hot, harsh American southwest to colonization and development. Without them, the land would have been too hot, too harsh, and too dry for the kind of lifestyles enjoyed by millions of Americans today. I believe applying this kind of thinking is not just an American tradition, but one of all humans wielding technology. We seek to control and contain the world in ways that we hope will make us more comfortable. But as the power of our innovation has increased in its capacity to recreate environments to suit immediate human desires, where does that leave whatever is natural? And, are we intelligent and willing enough to approach the natural world more sensitively, with an appreciation for more than our own immediate comfort?

Contemplating the nature of the natural naturally (pardon me) raises such issues, posing an ethical challenge at the same time it opens a philosophical discussion. In this issue, each contributor touches on both the ethical challenge and ponders something of our human nature.

Luke Balsavich draws on a lifelong love affair with snakes, frogs, and other herps—plus a little inspiration from the likes of Aldo Leopold and Richard Dawkins—to introduce us to the innocence of two American children in "To Save the Whales." Charles and Jennifer could be any of us or any of our children. Charles delights in the outdoors his father reveled in, and Jennifer empathizes with the plight of whales and manatees though she has never seen the ocean. Their parents provide perspective for our noble youngsters. Charles' dad is a living reminder that the "wild" his son appreciates is a far cry from the "wild" he knew as a child. Jennifer's mother encourages her to actualize her hope by joining with the collective efforts of others. The stories of Charles and Jennifer provide an entryway into Balsavich's discussion of why we seem innately curious about nature. To have the best chance to save entire natural habitats, Balsavich suggests we focus our natural fascination—which may be an adaptive trait that has served humans throughout time—onto species sensitive to the onset of environmental degradation. Species like amphibians. Placed in a precarious position by human activities, amphibians are canaries in the coalmines that comprise our biosphere, but in the past two decades, approximately 160 species have gone extinct. Balsavich provides the reader with links to learn more about amphibians and what some are doing to help them.

In my own essay, "A homily on human nature," I raise questions about what is or should be natural, suggesting that whether to locate humans within the category is perpetually problematic. I further suggest that, to put it bluntly, "our" technology is domesticating us much as we domesticated plants and animals. Following that assertion, the question I'm left with is what psychological alternatives remain to us humans (at least the technologically "plugged-in" among us) if our relationship with technology continues to dominate more and more aspects of our social culture? Are we co-evolving along technological lines? Are our historical and biological strategies for relating to one another, and for finding or creating meaning, resilient enough in the face of new patterns of connecting made not only possible but culturally compulsory by our evolving technology?

Taking a less abstract and likely more accessible approach to the question is Brandon Lorenz in "The Art of the Natural." Informed by years as a newspaper reporter and now a magazine editor, Lorenz points out that if everyone agreed on what was natural there would be no news business. These days, he's refined his ability to identify "greenwash"—when products are misleadingly labeled or advertised as being environmentally friendly or more natural than they really are. Greenwash has piggybacked on the skyrocketing cultural appeal of the green movement, because "nature" sells. But in his essay, he turns inward, considering his evolving perception of what was natural, or normal, throughout his life. Lorenz presents a candid reflection on some of his personal transformations—from adolescence to adulthood, from overweight to in shape, from in the closet to openly gay. "I would like to think I'm unique, but I'm not sure that's the case. I'm more than likely just another journalist full of self-doubt with an untidy personal life," Lorenz bravely writes. "One of the biggest lessons I have learned over the last few years is to stop viewing The Art of the Natural as a Venn Diagram that I'm left outside of."

Finally, while not an essay drafted for this magazine, I want to provide you with a link to Will Allen's "A Good Food Manifesto for America," in which Milwaukee's own urban agricultural advocate (with literal and figurative superman stature) lays out a case for reorienting our food production system (surely relevant to the topic of the natural). The Growing Power leader depicts a silent crisis not dramatized by breadlines or food shortages but rather an insidious malnutrition hitting the poorest most: "And this is coming to haunt us in health care and social costs. No, we are not suddenly starving to death; we are slowly but surely malnourishing ourselves to death," Allen writes. To face this crisis, Allen, recently profiled in the New York Times, proposes the creation of a national public-private partnership, the Centers for Urban Agriculture, to be a Milwaukee-based "do tank" rather than a "think tank." Comparing the seed money estimated necessary to the billions injected into Recovery Act infrastructure projects, he calls on Congress to provide $63 million over two years to a newly formed CUA, which he argues would provide long-lasting social, economic, and health benefits. "It simply had not occurred to anyone that immediate and lasting job creation was plausible in a field such as community-based agriculture," Allen writes. What else has simply not occurred to us because of our perception of the way things are?

Air conditioning, aqueducts, and automobiles. I find myself thinking about my fifth-grade social studies textbook and how straightforward some things were made to seem. Funny how the tide has turned. Our vision for the future seems to have shifted from grandiose outward expansion (space-age skylines with glittering towers and not a farm in sight) to cultivating local resources more wisely (with farms counterintuitively as cornerstones within cities). If this even qualifies as a shared vision yet, I don't know. But if it is, perhaps it's simply the result of there not being any more physical natural frontiers on the surface of the planet to reach or breach. Perhaps we must inevitably turn inward, to our technology, to "our" land, and to each other.

I wonder if one day our descendants will stumble outside on the planet that once we thought was ours, rub their eyes in the light and wind, and point around them at the spaces surviving whatever physical remnants of our culture still stand then as the antiquated marvels of the Roman aqueducts stand among our own cities today. I wonder if they will say to one another knowingly before returning inside, "This used to be nature."

Michael Timm
July 14, 2009


P.S. I am altering the stated topics of the upcoming issues, returning to the "question" format of the first four issues. I reserve the right to change even these, but here they are.

Fall 2009: What is our purpose and how do we know it?
Winter 2009: What is happiness and how do we get it?
Spring 2010: What is democracy really and is it really a good idea?

The Art of the Natural

By Brandon Lorenz

"You're not gay, are you?"

In seven years as a journalist I've discovered that asking questions for a living has given me the ability to evade them when asked by others.

Unfortunately, that question was asked of me during my first three months as a professional journalist. I would have expected it from one of the cops I covered, but not a fellow reporter and the person who was informally assigned to be my professional mentor.

"No."

"That's good, otherwise it means there'd be something wrong with you," says my coworker, who is in her early 40s and clutches the few curves she has left. The curves combine with blonde hair and Texas twang to make her moderately exotic in rural Wisconsin.

My coworker found this a perfectly natural question to ask while standing in the middle of our tiny newsroom. Moreover, she found it a perfectly natural question to shout across the newsroom.

I was of course lying—the only time I've had to directly lie about the issue. I'd not yet come out to anyone, including myself, and this was hardly the time or place to start.

It's been nearly seven years since that day and I can remember exactly where in the newsroom I was standing, the rumpled blue shirt I was wearing, and how my face burned when she asked me the question.

I consider it a reminder that just because one becomes an adult doesn't mean one will leave behind the gawky self-consciousness and sense of not-quite-belonging that so often comes with adolescence.

What is natural?

As a magazine editor, I've spent the last four years exploring that question on somewhat technical grounds by writing about energy, buildings, and real estate.

And so as a specialist of sorts I'm quite qualified to answer that question. Today, every company wants to prove its products are green. The words vary (natural, green, sustainable, healthy) but the meaning is the same: Buy this because it won't hurt the planet.

Unfortunately such claims are rarely true.

The shaving cream in my bathroom, for example, has a green label on the back proclaiming the can's "ECO INFO." The label consists of a giant recycle logo encircling the word "steel." Next to that, the label states "No CFCs."

Unfortunately this happy iconography is designed to hide that the can wasn't produced with recycled steel. Virgin steel requires three times more energy to produce than recycled steel. And CFCs—which deplete the ozone layer—have been banned in aerosol cans for decades.

What is natural?

As a former newspaper reporter I spent the first few years of my career chronicling behavior that at least one other person considered natural, if only for a few brief moments. As an observer of human behavior, the range of activities that people think can pass for natural never ceases to amuse me.

There was a police chief who was accused of taking alcohol and guns from the department's evidence locker, and the college president who was raking in large raises while freezing faculty pay, to name two examples.

Clearly if a universal definition of natural existed there would be no news business. Watching the tug of war that inevitably occurs when people try to define "natural" always intrigued me. In this case I'm considering the word natural as a placeholder for the word normal, as people sometimes use it.

I've spent time over the last few years moonlighting for the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel, covering local government in Waukesha County. Every few weeks the residents (and sometimes local officials) I ran into during meetings would complain about the newspaper's "liberal bias."

Nearly as often but on a curiously delayed cycle, friends or acquaintances who found out I wrote for the newspaper complained they had stopped reading the paper because it was "too conservative."

Clearly then, without getting too postmodernist, natural must be like some sort of landscape that shifts depending upon where one is standing. That's hardly breaking news. So how about we shift positions and consider just what is natural from another point of view.

Even though I've spent a few years working in a business predicated on there not being a universally-adopted definition of natural, I've been looking outward for an answer when perhaps I should be looking inward.

I have no illusions what my coworker meant when she asked me that question seven years ago. It was not a question at all, but an accusation: You're different.

I didn't need her to point it out to me. I thought about it daily. And here we come to the heart of the matter because for years I've looked around and felt like the crowd discovered The Art of the Natural long ago like some sort of oasis in the desert, and has been hiding it from me ever since.

As a child, I had a recurring thought that eventually, my family would no longer be around, and when that happened, I'd be alone. Forming my own family was something I knew would never happen.

I went though college overweight and with terrible acne, a pair of developments that didn't completely destroy my social life, but did prepare me for embarrassment when my coworker started questioning me seven years ago in the newsroom. I was embarrassed on two levels.

There was of course embarrassment about feeling forced to lie. My normal defense in those days was simply not to talk much about myself in social situations—especially with new people. What I had learned after college was that if you ask a certain level of polite but shallow questions, you can usually deflect the flow of conversation away from anything personal that would be troublesome. But reporters can see through that trick eventually.

But the second and deeper embarrassment was lying about a world I had not yet been invited into, because I had passively let my weight become a barrier. Even though I knew I was gay by then, I hadn't yet taken even the slightest action in recognition of that fact.

Shortly after my coworker's question, I began a more serious exploration for what I considered The Art of the Natural. I moved away from home to take a job in a new newsroom. I went on a diet and in the year that followed lost 100 pounds. And I decided to try the whole dating thing.

Along the way, it became clear that taking the steps toward The Art of the Natural was going to be just as awkward an experience as all those years spent in silent self-denial.

I returned home after losing the weight to aunts and uncles who no longer recognized me. The person I sat near in high school during lunch for three years no longer recognized me when I returned for a wedding. My parents—after years of hinting that I should lose weight—complained that I was "too thin."

Reaching for what felt natural meant losing what had been for years familiar.

Douglas Coupland wrote that loneliness is the most universal human emotion. I think uniqueness is the same way—everyone thinks they are unique. Even the boys dancing at the bar in their bright Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirts and flawless hair—the boys who make going out feel like a weekly costume parade—even those boys like to think they are unique.

I would like to think I'm unique, but I'm not sure that's the case. I'm more than likely just another journalist full of self-doubt with an untidy personal life.

One of the biggest lessons I have learned over the last few years is to stop viewing The Art of the Natural as a Venn Diagram that I'm left outside of. The path I'm on today has just as much awkwardness as the one I left seven years ago after my coworker's question. But it is at least my path.

The other lesson I've learned since that is that I need to keep asking myself "What is natural?"

Too often it seems, life's little assumptions go unchallenged and soon life's little routines assume an importance all their own. I've not yet come up with any satisfactory answers to the question. But if, for example, I'm going to end up one of those boring suburbanites scorned in Revolutionary Road, it will at least not be by accident.

So I ask you:

What is natural?

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Brandon Lorenz is senior editor at Building Operating Management magazine. As a freelancer, his work has appeared in a variety of newspapers, Web sites, and magazines. He lives in Bay View.

A homily on human nature

By Michael Timm

To ask what is natural supposes two avenues of inquiry: What is the way things actually are? What is the way things are supposed to be?

Tension arises because ideas conflict about the nature and content of the natural, especially if related to the second question. Is it something that once was, independently of and prior to the appearance of and observation by human beings? Or does it include humans and our behaviors and their impacts? If so, does it include all actualized behaviors or only a subset of those possible? And if it includes a significantly large set of possibilities, does such inclusion negate the value of the natural as a term? Does it become meaningless?

Is it always a politically loaded term, a lever to and from power? We seem inclined to accept arguments based on a degree of naturalness. Regardless of the content of such arguments, does this inclination reveal something real or important about us or the natural? Perhaps a vestigial connectedness with any or all "environments"—a sense that we belong within some larger structure, whether wild or godly, sacred or profane, so long as we recognize a sort of firmament of not-ourselves by which we can measure our own existence.

What about the role of technology—not to mention culture—in what is or is not, should or should not be, natural? Is technology necessarily not natural—counter-natural? There's a feeling I have, which I sense others share and which is not terribly unique or profound but nonetheless relevant: that we humans have not evolved for the world in which we create ourselves. This is the world in which I type at my laptop computer, the world where every other bar patron is playing with their iPhone, taking pictures of themselves or their spouse, where we drive our bodies across cities in metal boxes through concrete alleys, and spend our evenings staring at bright blue undulating screens that soothe by presenting images of people where actual people might instead agitate us from the shared technocultural dream.

I feel, more and more, that we are not only excluding native animals and plants and ecosystems from their historical patterns, but also increasingly excluding ourselves from our own natural cultural environments.

What is the natural state of man—humankind?

If we humans evolved to value family and clan structures because of both the stability and flexibility these provided both individual members and family groups, then what of our modern technologized culture in which digital networks and atomizing technologies divide and conquer vestigial instinct and recreate our humanity as bits of democratized network relations? Is this unnatural? Is it a natural phase of human evolution? Should it be the way? Is it simply another way we are proving our adaptability and the flexibility of our innate human tendencies for curiosity and tinkering and self-improvement? Or is it a turn around a corner toward something inhuman, a reprogramming of our consciousness, a new exclusive playing field for socialization of technological elites? Is it an extension of our clannish tendencies or an abandonment of them? And, if the latter, should we worry?

And for those who might argue that clannish tendencies were not all that great to start with, perhaps it ought to be argued that they at least provided the framework through which individuals could survive long enough to persevere and overcome and discover more of oneself—self-determination. If we no longer participate in small-scale social clan structures, and instead are subsumed into larger more diffuse and decentralized social networks, does the same opportunity for individual/minority/outlier/deviant exist? Faced with the almost infinite connectivity through technology, are we paradoxically more isolated than ever, staring into that vast and almost-empty white room peopled only by specs of personae? Does, then, the minority or the deviant become exacerbated by this artificial isolation rather than strive for some form of integration with the social whole or reformation of it? And, in those other vast white rooms peopled and popular, the homes of eager echoing majorities, do we only become heads of cattle, swarming according to the ass-ends of cattle in our view, those swarming after ass-ends of cattle in their heads' views? (This is how humans made a killing, literally, of herd animals, because geography ensures there are always cliffs somewhere.) Who would guide us across this new digital geography? And where will we go?

When I see a deer in the vacant lot behind the Cudahy McDonald's, just looking at me on my bike on the asphalt K-Mart parking lot as I simply stare back, as not 100 feet away motorists obliviously order their Big Macs and fries at the drive-thru, I whisper "Hello, Beautiful," and think first that it's incredible how humans have altered the landscape so that there is a deer behind this urban McDonald's. But as I stare longer and the deer trots on, toward the foliage by the railroad tracks behind K-Mart adjacent to the McDonald's, I think more about how our human-created landscapes intended for humans have affected us. The deer has found its little corner of nature among the undeveloped land, and no matter how much we shortsightedly constrict environmental corridors with encroaching development, plants and animals—admittedly not all of them, but almost certainly some of them—will find a way and a place to survive. They'll adapt or they'll perish in our places. But what about us? We've adapted to what are in many ways self-hostile environments. Cities support high population densities with relative peace, all things considered, but also spew carcinogens, prop up commercialized medicine, feed upon industrialized agriculture, and inject artificial time structures into human life. The electric light, the indoor toilet, the washing machine, the automobile, the clock, the computer, the cheeseburger—these are all marvelous inventions and we take them for granted such that they populate the environments we find natural for ourselves.

But just as our domestication of plants and animals benefited increasingly dense and specialized human populations, the plants and animals benefited from the bargain—getting humans to devote time and energy to tend and care for their survival needs and assisting and accelerating in reproduction of their relatives to the exclusion of would-be competitors. Our technology is domesticating us in similar fashion. We are caught in a bargain like the domestication bargain, only operating across different scales of our experience. No longer is our physical labor alone domesticated—our social relations and psychological health, once and perhaps naturally catered to by fulfilling clan obligations, are also domesticated by the very technologies and legal and social structures we believe we've developed to enhance our lives.

This technological domestication may or may not be natural, but it gives me, at least, pause. Sometimes much more than pause. That deer behind McDonald's—a coyote shot and killed by local police—a dead beaver on the sidewalk—a frog smashed on my parking lot—these are all examples of organisms which discovered themselves suddenly in an alien environment, not always actively hostile, but most often indifferent to their needs and thus harsh for life. The parking lot seems to me a perfect example and metaphor for one scale, the macroscale, of our denaturing of the planet—developing monocultures of substance that serve particular, explicit human desires at the expense of an arguably natural and almost unfathomable complexity that operates in many ecosystems and depends upon at least some degree of interlocking and counterbalancing plurality. Parking lots are the domestication of rock. And like Hegel's master, who is equally a slave to his master/slave relationship as the slave is to him, humans are enslaved by their asphalt/auto relationship. Potholes demand attention. Cars demand repair. New developments demand parking spaces. And on and on, this is part of a cycle of defending and recreating normalcy that seems natural to our modern world.

On a behavioral/psychological scale, social networking internet applications are domesticating human relationships along digital lines. Humans become enslaved by the satisfaction of connection, while digital connections are predicated upon the atomization/democratization of self into re-presented avatar. Our online behavior is restricted by the format and we play along, morphing and compressing given names into a user name of fewer characters, a sort of bifurcated shorthand self divided. Our avatar, using the term loosely here to mean any online identity, is packaged and marketed for effect within specific but always potentially infinite arenas and ruthlessly subject to the rules governing those spaces. There's no allowance for ultimate psychological satisfaction because identities expressed are endlessly open to fundamental criticism or undermining by users who are not discriminated by any real or earned and demonstrated social hierarchy (witness any unmoderated blog comment section where some immovable object is repeatedly hammered by an unstoppable force). Our identities are just "out there." We caricaturize ourselves in such digital environments, but the caricature becomes more and more real the more time we spend using it. In a network, unlike within a clan, anybody's comments are deemed valid unless a discriminating mind edits or moderates participation (or until a majority cadre of users attacks and subdues the minority voice); and unlike in real space, no proof is required to urge the acceptance of an argument. And so ideas good and bad can be perpetuated virally and without empathy regardless of their utility or value or real-world direct social consequence (such as recipient body language). We are alienating self from self, but we can't turn away because we smell limitless freedom for expression and exploration.

This is something Felicia Day's web series The Guild has tapped into to use for comedic effect, but it seems meaningful to me on several levels: it understands and appreciates but also mocks the intrinsic appeal of, in this case, online gaming communities; it takes humans whose relationships have previously existed only through the internet and examines how they interact in real space; it showcases that even in cyberspace, clan structures (the guild) are resilient, valuable, self-regulating, compelling, and in concert with human capacities; it shows how the absence of physical proximity and observation of body language and psychoemotional context affects communication strategies among the "guildies" when they talk to each other on their headsets (to all of each other at once rather than to just one person in a two-way, real-world conversation).

The flattened frog on my parking lot didn't have a choice about its environment; its species did not create, at least not on a massive scale, the particular environment it was born into. Our species, however, is the predominant earthshaper. And each individual human is also able to shape his or her consciousness, perhaps not fully or easily, but immediately and directly. We have a choice about what kind of world we create to be natural—at least for ourselves. What kind of landscape will we make? Will we rush unreflectively and headlong into an environment as indifferent to our human needs and capacities as the asphalt was to the frog? Is there a more natural alternative?

While we may lament habitat loss for deer and frogs and beavers and all manner of wild things, I wonder also about us. What parcels of undeveloped psychological ground can we turn to at the end of the day when email and voicemail and day-calendars and fast food and web surfing and late-night television—hollow surrogates for clan relations that would perhaps satisfy our ancestors 10,000 or 5,000 years ago—have crowded out one's day? Have we gone from living in one cave to another? Are we restricting ourselves to fertile cracks in the asphalt or vacant lots behind the McDonald's of the mind?

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Michael Timm is a freelance writer. He has written and is seeking representation for a novel, The Philosopher of Milwaukee. He has been assistant editor of the Bay View Compass newspaper in Milwaukee since 2005. His writing has also appeared in the Alliance for Children & Families Magazine, Ripon Magazine, Riverwest Currents, Shepherd Express, and Wisconsin Trails Magazine. He earned his B.A. at Ripon College in Ripon, Wis., in 2004 studying both anthropology and English. His totem animal is the platypus.

To Save the Whales

By Luke Balsavich

Charles
Charles was so excited. He was about to embark on another great adventure. His father had been bringing him to Wisconsin every summer since he could remember, and he was at last going to return to what he knew to be “God’s Country.” His father had shared stories of his own childhood in the very same area, and Charles felt a sense of pride having the same summer haunts at the lakes, streams, and woods his father had enjoyed.

Like his father, Charles loved animals. His home in the suburbs sported little in the area of wildlife, though he did enjoy catching the crawdads in the drainage ditches near his elementary school, and the European Starlings that nested at the church pavilion. He most particularly loved reptiles and amphibians. He was mystified and awed by these resultants of natural selection (though he did not realize it at the time) and projected himself into these creatures, personifying them.

He loved nature, though he lacked understanding of the many processes involved and the existence of life outside humanity, occurring in the absence of understanding, ingenuity, or sentience.

Like all humans, Charles was a curious creature. And like so many others, he was completely captivated by the natural world. Charles' trip was wonderful as it had always been. He did not realize any of the significant differences to the area that had occurred since his father’s childhood.

His father, however, grieved a little more with every visit to his home state. His son would never walk in the field that he as a boy played in: the need for parking had again overcome the need for prairie. Charles would never hear a Northern Leopard Frog around the ponds in the countryside… they seemed to have disappeared completely from the area. These days, the sound of the road, lawn mowers, and air-conditioning units seemed to mute the birdsong in so many places he had once considered wild. He still took his boy out to the wildlife areas though, and this was the wilderness that Charles came to know and love.

Jennifer
Jennifer lived in Kansas, and had never seen the ocean.

Like Charles, she also had a particular love for nature. After a couple of book reports on marine life during second-grade English, her zeal led her to start a "save the whales" campaign, which she supplemented with a "save the manatees" campaign. She thought it was wrong to do nothing when creatures are threatened with extinction. However, she was utterly perplexed at what to do about saving these creatures.

One evening, young Jennifer asked her mother, “What can I do? It’s just me? Can one person make a difference?”

Her mother wiped the tears glistening on her cheek and replied, “It is simple. You alone can do nothing. You must appeal to others to achieve these goals.” Both of her parents were impressed with her affection, and encouraged her to collect funds to donate to conservation groups.

While Jennifer neither saved the whales nor manatees, she was able to raise some money to send to conservation groups and her efforts did make a difference. Most notable is that this attachment she formed to these marine mammals led her to pursue biology, and further her knowledge about the many threats facing our natural world.

What about us?
Her love of these creatures she hadn’t even seen is incredible, but not really surprising, is it? What caused her to have a passion for these creatures? And how can we so easily relate to her? Why do we, like Charles and Jennifer, feel compelled to know about nature, and most particularly, animals?

It seems that our interests in knowledge and understanding of function define us as humans. We seek rationality in everything, and attempt to discern meaning (even sometimes when there is none) in whatever we behold. We are keen observers of cause and effect, and derive pleasure through our apprehension. Other creatures without these characteristics present us with fascination. We see function but not understanding: elaborate systems in play with no tangible designer. We sometimes project agency where there is none. It has been suggested that these characteristics have provided humans with an evolutionary advantage: to seek agency in all situations could have provided early humans with necessary advantages to avoid formidable predators. By studying nature, we note that life is a constant struggle for all members. There is neither mercy nor hate nor love, where all is chance and whatever is best suited to it triumphs.

Charles, Jennifer, and a few billion other people attempt to connect with nature in one way or another. This seems to be true of people worldwide, although there are many different ways we do this. Whether it’s a camping trip to the boreal forest, a hiking trip in the redwoods, a float trip down the Illinois River, or going on a walkabout in Australia, people attempt to connect with nature. Our understanding of nature often dictates the level and kind of involvement.

Kids seem particularly prone to developing a zeal for nature, even if their parents do not show interest themselves. This suggests perhaps a genetic predisposition for such interest. A common picture at the zoo: 25 kids at the big cat exhibit completely captivated as a tiger paces lazily in its enclosure. The parents see the cat and are momentarily amazed, but the kids are floored. The entire group gasps as one as the big cat yawns, showing an array of huge white teeth. Most kids could spend all day at the zoo.

It is understandable to think that those early humans that developed a strong understanding of nature would flourish (so long as they did not try to pet a lion as a child). Someone with an interest and curiosity toward nature would be more likely to domesticate animals for human use, cultivate crops, and avoid predation than someone without an interest or curiosity. This is true on a societal level as well as on an individual level, and is true today. The more we know about snakes, for instance, the less people will succumb to snakebite. On a societal level, we have kept venomous animals, studied their toxins, and developed antivenins for many species. Because of these undertakings, the United States has an incredibly low mortality rate for venomous snakebite: approximately 8,000 people are bitten each year, and approximately 12 people die. The more we know, the better equipped we are to handle situations. It is that simple… Curiosity and interest in nature would undoubtedly lead to evolutionary advantage.

Understanding Environments
Most people would agree that the extinction of a species is a grievous, irreparable loss to the world. One could go so far to say that most people would consider knowingly facilitating such a situation to be utterly reprehensible, even criminal. Simply contemplating the disappearance of a species touches us in a very real way, and knowing that our actions can destroy other species is a major force in driving environmental movements.

It is easy to believe that in seeking to prevent the end of an entire species (projecting humanity on other life), we are in some way preserving ourselves. We have taken significant measures to protect many species, and it is often the interest in one species that creates protection for entire habitats (Endangered Species Act is a good example of this). We protect something we take interest in (in many cases a species), and the habitat is also protected.

A significant problem with implementing environmental conservation in this way is that the bullet has often left the barrel of the gun before we rally to take action. By the time we note a decline in species x (plant or animal), what else has happened? The same is also true of various systems humans have created. By the time you hear, for instance, piston noise emanating from the engine of your car, you are already in trouble (or your car is at least). The more ignorant of the system we are, the further the development of the problem before it is noted and addressed. Some people do not understand the importance of changing the oil on the vehicle. Through neglect with something so simple, the timing chains, gears, and pistons can prematurely wear, eventually causing engine failure. The more you learn about a car, the better you are able to diagnose issues before you are stuck on the side of the road. Still, some things happen without warning, and when they do, parts need to be replaced or repaired. Nearly everyone who drives cars has been, at one time or another, on the side of the road waiting for a tow. Unfortunately, we understand nature less than we understand cars, and nature does not have replacement parts…

It is common knowledge in the area of ecology that some species are more susceptible to environmental degradation than others. Problems manifesting in these species often reflect serious environmental issues in their respective biological communities. When we see problems with these indicator species, the bullet may not yet have left the barrel. As we see these problems, it is imperative that we react if we are to hope for success in environmental preservation. Even then, there is still a good chance damage will be irreparable.

Amphibians are long known to represent the health of their habitats due to their sensitivity to change. They are generally unique in that their life cycle requires aquatic, terrestrial, and often arboreal lifestyles. Their skin is permeable and allows easy passage of many pathogens, and many species are extremely susceptible to pollutants. Many species are poor dispersers, very limited in movement by geographical constraints. It should then be very worrisome to know that roughly 160 species are believed to have gone extinct in the past two decades, with hundreds more under serious threat of extinction. Their disappearances mark not only a substantial loss of biodiversity in our natural systems, but also are a sign that their biological communities are changing and a manifestation of our ineptness in the area of conservation.

Since it is already evident that people have an innate curiosity and interest toward nature, I think it important to steer that interest toward these indicator species, whose preservation will likely aid in the preservation of so many others. Amphibians seem a good choice for such a movement, since they occur throughout most of the world and their disappearances are so conspicuous. By cultivating interest in these creatures, we might lead ourselves to better environmental conservation practices. Who knows…getting kids interested in frogs just might be what we need to save the whales.

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While Charles and Jennifer are fictitious characters, their stories are not unique. My intention in using them is to present backgrounds that most readers could relate to. I am providing a list of references for the reader’s convenience with information about and opportunities for involvement relating to amphibians. Thanks for reading.

Amphibian Resources:
treewalkers.org
amphibianark.org
amphibiancare.com

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Luke Balsavich has had an interest in herpetology since childhood. He lives in Madison, Wis. with his wife Jamie, two dogs, and some 70 or so frogs, lizards, and snakes. Any questions regarding this article or frogs in general can be addressed to lrbalsavich [at] gmail [dot] com.

Welcome to Issue 4

What is freedom? On the first day of spring in the northern hemisphere when the world seems open with life and warmth and possibility, I'm proud to introduce a strong crop of contributions addressing this question.

In the issue's flagship essay, "The freedom to become free," Ripon College's Cody Pinkston and David Joyce team up to present a marvelous work of rhetoric—a sort of invisible conversation on the many facets of freedom that eventually hones in on their target: learning leads to freedom and combats fear. Ebbing in one paragraph from wisdom gleaned from lyrics of the band Rush to a maxim of ancient historian Thucydides in the next, Pinkston and Joyce walk their talk, wandering peripatetically in words designed to open rather than close the conversation. They do offer a challenge (or warning) to all, however, regardless of one's political leanings, society, or lifestyle—"many who perceive themselves as free are not, while others who covet freedom already have it." To ground-truth whether we are living lives of freedom or shackled by some unconfronted fear, they urge at once the exercise of curiosity and responsibility. These are neither revolutionary nor new ideas, but given our tremendous psychological capacity for forgetting what's good for us and acting shortsightedly, it's useful to reflect along these lines.

James Mlaker reminds us of two examples of such forgetting—or voluntary ceding—of human liberties on societal scales. The Milwaukee digital artist is usually creating artworks that challenge viewers' perceptions, but in his "An alternative perspective of freedom in America" he has crafted an essay reminding us that we often are blind to the constraints we ourselves erect about our own freedoms. He posits a "freedom scale" along which societies shift between anarchy and totalitarianism over time with regard to constituent liberty. He compares the internment of Japanese Americans during World War II to the Patriot Act passed in wake of the Sept. 11, 2001 terrorist attacks—both instances in which he argues America slid toward the totalitarian side of the scale.

If you are looking for a laugh but like protein and starch with your sugar, then click early and often on writer Ryan Kresse's delightful "Notes from the beyond." It is the year 2115 and one of the scattered survivors of various catastrophes on planet Earth writes home to 2009, describing how in just about one century "perfect freedom" has been attained. In this future, neither totalitarianism nor anarchy threaten that freedom, but is such a world of harmony, mutual deference, and simplicity worth living in for humans? Perhaps for their bees... Kresse has already left his mark on various projects at Discovery World, including the live show Tesla Lives!, about underappreciated but farsighted Serbian American inventor Nikola Tesla. Although it's not written in his tell-all from the future, I predict we haven't heard the last of or from Kresse in Milwaukee just yet.

Then on to my contribution. With the exception of my first essay, "Fascinating! (Life is)" last June, I've had difficulty focusing on how best to articulate something meaningful about the broad topics for each quarter (even though I'm supposedly in charge). I had no less difficulty focusing this time around, but my discussion and my exploration of this topic led me to some unexpected territory. In "Free agency, hypnotic surrender, and the final frontier," I first confess my childhood fear while watching Star Trek V, in which characters are brainwashed. Unpacking my observations as an adult about why this frightened me as a child led me to an exploration of what seduction is, what it does, how it works, and what our responses to it are and should be. This discussion threads through literature from the New Testament and the Odyssey, but also touches on the power of hypnotic suggestion and how we "derail" our willpower to varying degrees all by ourselves every day. I also consider the tragic case of a minor league baseball player traded for $665 worth of bats who recently overdosed on drugs.

This issue completes the first volume of this online magazine. I feel fortunate to have published 12 unique essays over the past year and I thank all of you who read or contribute. Please let me know you support this publication and consider leaving comments after the essays to broaden the discussion beyond these pages. If you like this magazine as a forum for discussion, please let others know about it via email, the internet, and word-of-mouth.

The next four quarterly issues planned will continue to address broad themes: Nature (June 21, 2009), Culture (Sept. 22, 2009), Purpose (Dec. 21, 2009), God (March 20, 2010).

I invite your essay contributions addressing some specific aspect of any of these themes. The deadline for unsolicited submissions on each topic is the 1st of the month in which the issue is planned.

Forget 2115. Next year is 2010. The future is now.

Michael Timm
March 20, 2009

The freedom to become free

By Cody Pinkston & Dr. David C. Joyce

The subjectivity inherent in the question “What is freedom?” is actually part of the answer. Ask it of a thousand people and you will get a thousand different replies—therein lies its beauty. As flattering as it is to think that someone might be interested in my definition of the word, I must first make one thing very clear: A definition of freedom by one who has known it all his years is further from the truth than that of anyone who has been bereft of it for even a single day.

It is tempting to say that freedom is a state of mind and leave it at that. Consider the case of concentration-camp prisoners in World War II—myriad accounts from survivors suggest that they saved themselves from irreversible despair by allowing their minds to roam beyond the walls and barbed wire. One could argue that freedom of thought is the purest of all freedoms because it is the most difficult to take away. After all, is it not comparatively easy to restrict or deny freedom of action or speech?

As long as we’re talking about freedom of thought, perhaps we should explore the notion of degrees—or types—of freedom. If you are free to think what you like but not free to say it or act upon it, is freedom truly yours? Is it possible to be somewhat free, or is it strictly a binary concept? If you were afforded freedom of religion and thought, for example, but not speech, would you be free? Many would say no, but consider what absolute freedom would mean in terms of ethics and morality. Even when we are free to indulge our whims, we routinely choose not to either out of a sense of right and wrong, for fear of the consequences, or both. A life unfettered by such concerns is arguably one of pure and unadulterated freedom but it is also one of chaos and selfishness, so perhaps limitless freedom is neither a useful nor practical concept.

It should go without further analysis that freedom, like many topics discussed in this e-zine, is a concept of almost infinite complexity. In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, most Americans view freedom in legal or political terms. Unlike their clumsy attempts to define obscenity, the courts have an unclouded, albeit narrow view of the term. It is interesting to note that, while freedom and liberty are unquestionably the framework upon which all democratic principles are founded, neither has a concrete legal definition in and of itself.

The Constitution guarantees liberty to its citizens along with life and the pursuit of happiness, but liberty is the most ambiguous of these rights. The Bill of Rights, of course, outlines specific freedoms to which all citizens are entitled: speech, press, assembly, and religion; freedom from unreasonable searches and seizures; and freedom from slavery or involuntary servitude. The underpinnings of this—along with much of our governmental structure—come from John Locke’s theories of natural law. Locke felt it was human nature to act in our own self-interest, so long as you didn’t interfere with another’s life, liberty, health, or possessions. In other words: mind your own business. The function of government, according to Locke, is to protect those who abide by so-called “natural law” from those who do not.

That has served us Americans pretty well, to the point where the individual liberties guaranteed by our Constitution have, for centuries, been coveted by people who do not enjoy them where they live. Countless men and women have fought and died to preserve these freedoms. I’m not sure that anyone in the world actually “hates” freedom, but it’s evident that plenty of unpleasant people out there hate the degree to which it empowers the individual, and that leads us to free will.

Free will arguably represents the most important philosophical problem since Adam tasted the apple, and it is a many-faceted gem. From an existential standpoint, it is a matter of endless debate whether one’s choices are ever truly free, or merely the inexorable outgrowth of one’s circumstances. There is also the religious aspect of free will, specifically whether the consequences of a choice that goes against the dictums of a particular religion are ended by death, or begun upon it. There is even a scientific/mathematic argument that suggests we are at the mercy of determinism. Whichever side of the nature/nurture/science debate you fall in, it’s obvious that no one’s decisions are made in a vacuum. If we define free will as “the discretion to make a choice without external constraints”—which we can’t control—then the internal constraints which inform that choice—which we can control—are highly relevant to this discussion.

Life is a series of interconnected choices all leading eventually to the same thing. External constraints can limit or even force those choices, but such circumstances are often the result of an earlier choice somewhere down the line. Since the long-term repercussions of our choices cannot be foreseen, all we can do is make the best decision possible and live with the results. But what are the ingredients of a good decision? Certainly the poorer our choices, the greater likelihood that external constraints will come into play. Ask any criminal. The extent to which we can make smart choices depends upon our ability to recognize them and the conviction to act on them when the chips are down. If we choose not to decide—I’m paraphrasing the band Rush here—we still have made a choice.

The Greek historian Thucydides said, “The secret of happiness is freedom; the secret of freedom is courage.” Indeed, history has shown that freedom not given is frequently taken, bloodily so in most cases. It follows that courage is the essence of freedom, for any freedom afforded us but not exercised ignores the fact that, whatever it is, it once had to be either defended or wrested away at immense human cost.

I might extend Thucydides’ quote to say that the secret of courage is mastery over fear, because in doing so I believe we draw nearer to the truth. Tyranny seeks to diminish freedom through fear. The more fearful we are, the more readily we surrender our liberties. Once we do so, reclaiming them becomes more perilous because, in ceding them, we also cede power.

A discussion of freedom in the context of fear goes back to the question of how free we truly are at any given moment, and the degree to which freedom is a state of mind. It allows us to use broader strokes in our definition of freedom, because a freedom afforded us but not exercised is often—if not always—a result of fear. A pious man’s capacity for free will is colored by his fear of damnation. A political dissident’s will to act is tempered by his or her fear of imprisonment. A child’s free will is limited by his or her fear of punishment or rebuke. The examples are endless, but the point is the same: Fear is to freedom as kryptonite is to Superman.

Still, just as some degree of fear is healthy and necessary for self-preservation, the maintenance of society, and myriad other reasons, so, too, are the tempering of certain freedoms germane to real life. One example is the freedom of speech; just because you can say what you want, when you want, to whom you want, doesn’t mean it is always in your best interest to do so. Regardless of the degree to which our freedoms are exercised, what matters is that they are still available to us. Perhaps the most valuable freedom any society can offer, then, is the freedom to become free.

I am in the business of liberal education. The etymology of the word “liberal” is rooted in freedom and liberation, not the political term. The original seven liberal arts were conceived as a path toward intellectual enlargement, with the goal of “freeing” its subscribers from fear and ignorance. In describing the aim of a liberal education in this way, I believe we arrive at the essence of freedom. A life unencumbered by fear and ignorance is fundamentally free, for these are the true prisons. Who could argue that Nelson Mandela was not free, despite his years of imprisonment? Who could say that Anne Frank was not free, despite her confinement to a dank attic? Who could say that William Wallace was not free, despite his torture and execution?

If freedom is liberation from fear and ignorance, then it follows that many who perceive themselves as free are not, while others who covet freedom already have it.

Hate groups and religious radicals believe that everyone else is oppressed when, in fact, they are held hostage by their narrow-minded views. But our nation was settled by people who opened themselves to the possibility of life outside a draconian regime. Freedom is our birthright, a gift passed down from the countless men and women who have died in its defense. The idea of America is a beacon of hope to the oppressed peoples of the world because of the liberties to which all citizens are entitled. As responsible human citizens, we must not only embrace whatever freedoms we possess at birth, but also expand them as we age through the lifelong acquisition of wisdom and the constant rejection of fear.

Because fear and ignorance are within our ability to overcome, the essential question isn’t so much, “What is freedom?” but rather, “Am I free?” If you lack the curiosity to learn the answer or the courage to ask it of yourself, then freedom can never be more than a word.

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Cody Pinkston is the director of media and public relations at Ripon College (and the golf coach). He is the author of an unpublished novel and eight unproduced screenplays, as well as numerous short stories and satire pieces. He lives in Ripon with his wife Amy.

Dr. David C. Joyce has been the president of Ripon College since 2003 and has more than 30 years of experience in private higher education. He holds a bachelor’s degree in psychology from Pfeiffer University, a master of divinity in pastoral psychology from Yale’s Divinity School, a master of science in psychology from North Carolina State University, and a doctorate in human resource development from Vanderbilt. He lives in Ripon with his wife Lynne.

Notes from the beyond

By Ryan Kresse

Greetings, friends. I most pleased to be writing to you from the year 2115. You read that correctly. I am writing to you from the future.

Your esteemed editor Mr. Michael Timm contacted me about writing something about Freedom for his website (people with websites can bend the laws of the Universe, it’s one of the laws of the Universe). I was deeply honored, of course. And curious. And hesitant. Not because Freedom is a complex subject to which finer minds than mine have provided abundant insight, but because I might let slip some details about what the future will be like. If I inadvertently mention what will happen in the future then you would have the opportunity to go ahead and change it. And we can’t have that. (Of course, if Existence is completely deterministic then you can go ahead and do what you want because it doesn’t matter. But if we live in a decoherent, Schrödinger’s cat kind of a Universe, then all bets are off. Or on. Both, probably.) Regardless, Mr. Timm was most vigorous in his assurances that no word that could possibly alter the future would slip past his vigilant eyes.

The good news is that there is a future. You will be relieved to know that it’s fantastic. We have perfect freedom.

In 2032 an Asteroid hit the Earth, wiping out 88 percent of the population. Maybe that doesn’t sound fantastic, and at first it wasn’t. Humanity struggled to survive. But survive we did. And I’m not alone in thinking that we’re much better for it. Jean-Paul Sartre wrote that, “Hell is other people.” And since we’re all other people to other people, and since there are a lot fewer other people now, it turns out that he was right.

We also got very lucky because mostly the smart people survived. So instead of the dystopic hellscape depicted in films of your era such as Mad Max, we are a utopian agrarian society. I use the term “society” loosely because we mostly keep to ourselves. We live in harmony with Nature. I have a fairly large farm, which keeps me busy. My nearest neighbor is three days away by bicycle. I get power from a few wind turbines and solar panels. The Earth has healed itself from the scars of the Industrial Age and subsequent abuse. Most of us raise bees. The rest of us are generally involved in some sort of bee-related profession. Raising bees, studying bees, training bees to perform tricks, dressing them up in little hats, finding new uses for honey and beeswax. Did you know you can make clothes from beeswax and power a starship with fuel made from honey? You can. We’re like the George Washington Carver of bees. It’s great fun.

Except for the zombies. The Asteroid that destroyed most of the human population of Earth brought along a space virus that turned 80 percent of the rest of us into zombies. They do what you might expect zombies to do. They maraud. They eat the flesh of the living. The living become zombies. The usual. Fire is a fairly effective weapon. Lasers are good too, and firing a laser gun is much cooler than poking at them with a flaming stick. And lasers are better because zombies hunt in packs. You run and shoot, run and shoot until you can get somewhere safe-ish.

Eventually they get tired and wander off. One night I decided to follow them, which was reckless, but it turns out that they stick together in little groups in the woods. They bring back food for the rest of the zombies that didn’t go out hunting that night. Surprisingly, they don’t just eat brains, but consume every part of the human. And they're social. Zombies are very social, really. They have quite a little home life. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they communicate with each other. I almost envy them. Anyway, that’s not the point. The point is that we are now perfectly free. There’s no one around to tell us what to do and what not to do.

The last time a bunch of us got together was when the aliens landed back in 2097. At first they were all like, “We come in peace.” And we were all like, “Hey, that’s cool. Have some honey.” And they were like, “Super, have you ever been, like, outside your solar system?” And we were like, “Nope. Is it cool?” And they were like, “Totally, guys. Do you want to go?” And we were like “Sounds like fun.” And they were like, “Hop on board our spaceship.” And we were all like, “Wow! This is crazy fun.” And they were like, “Ha! We were totally lying. We’re going to enslave you.” And we were like, “Not if we enslave you first.” And they were like, “Dudes, that’s not even cool. We’re going to eat you.” And we were like, “Not if we eat you first.” And they were like, “But you wouldn’t eat us. You’re a peaceful, loosely connected agrarian society with vestigial clannish tendencies.”

Anyway, the aliens were delicious. And they left behind some cool alien technology including a spaceship and some laser guns. We left behind our vestigial clannish tendencies. And we tried to leave the Earth behind too.

Space travel is fantastic. Thanks to the aliens, we can now travel at faster-than-light speeds. Some of us can. There’s only the one spaceship. I don’t know quite how it works, but I assume it has something to do with wormholes. Anyway, we can go wherever we want. I have been to the other edge of our galaxy and back a few times. Space is beautiful. Really beautiful. So tiresomely beautiful. My third trip out and back I started to wonder if there’s anything outside our Universe. Maybe it’s all some weird, empty hologram. Don’t misunderstand. I’m not complaining. How could I? But space is really nothing but stuff that will kill you dead interrupted by other stuff that will kill you dead. I know that some of you might give anything to go into space. Space exploration is a noble, noble cause that I wholeheartedly support. But space is so completely huge, and everything is so utterly far away. And it’s really empty. We didn’t see any sign of the aliens or any other civilizations. If you’re going to travel through space for any significant distances, bring a friend and a deck of cards is all I’m saying.

Still, we have perfect freedom here on Earth, here in the future. There’s no war, except with the zombies. No disease, with the exception being the zombie virus. No want, no need. We leave each other alone. That’s what freedom is, right? The freedom to not need anything from anyone. The freedom to be left alone. And not alone like that Thoreau guy who went off to the woods to live deliberately but went home on the weekends to see his friends and then wrote a book about it. That’s not freedom, that’s performance art.

I don’t really blame Thoreau for going home on the weekends. I kind of miss people. I can only imagine what it was like back in your day—walking through a big city, meeting strangers. And all those voices. A whole world filled with people speaking dozens of languages. How brilliant would that have been? Talking to people you can’t understand and figuring out some way to communicate.

You probably live in a city or have been to one. I live near what was once Milwaukee. Milwaukee has changed a lot from the old pictures I’ve been able to find. The buildings are gone. It’s warmer than it used to be. I’ve never seen snow... There’s a lot more vegetation. The people are gone. From what I read it was the people that made Milwaukee a wonderful place to be. The same could’ve been said of any city, I suppose. I haven’t actually talked to anyone in probably a month. I talk to Ralph my robot butler. Ralph is very concerned with pressing my shirts. But since my shirts are made of spun beeswax, not only do they not need pressing, they don’t survive it.

There was a writer and critic back in your day, maybe a little before your day. His name was Mikhail Bakhtin. He was big on the idea of dialogue. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. I only have a few fragments of one of his books. From what I can understand, Bakhtin thought that instead of hell being other people, other people are life. Dialogue, other voices, other people are the only way we can exist.

Blasphemy, I thought. I’ve got my bees and my wind turbines and my laser guns. I don’t need other people. Other people are the problem. But now I think there might be something to what he had to say. I mean it’s so quiet here. Sure the air is clear and the water is finally clean. We live sustainably and still have fantastic technology. We can travel anywhere in the Universe. Is that freedom? We don’t really have a government. There’s no money. We all worship in our own way if we choose to because what else is there? Freedom of speech only makes sense if there is someone else to speak to.

What if our very existence depends on other people? And not like for food or sex or stuff, but just to talk with each other. That means we’d have to rely on other people. That means we’d be responsible for them in the same way we’re responsible for ourselves. But that’s not freedom either, is it? It can’t be. We in the future are perfectly free. We’ve solved all our problems.

Still… I really miss talking to people. Even if it was just a stupid conversation about bees. Hell, I’d talk to a zombie if it would stop trying to eat my brains for half a second. I mean, yeah, you can always talk to a dolphin. Back in 2052 someone taught dolphins to talk. You’d think that would be awesome, but they’re squeaky and always demanding fish and going on and on about how great the ocean is. Dolphins are very smart, but they’re super smug and really friggin’ annoying. So maybe if you could change one thing about the future, don’t teach the dolphins to talk.

The light is fading. The zombies will be out soon. More brains, more flesh of the living to consume, more new zombies. It’s a completely unsustainable lifestyle, if you ask me. Someday they’re going to run right out of people. But at least they’ve got other zombies to hang around with.

I don’t know how much longer I can hold them off.

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Ryan Kresse graduated from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee with a degree in English literature. Most days you can find him at Discovery World Museum working as a copywriter. Ryan believes in the awesome power of being awesome and hopes to one day be inducted into the Hall of Fame Hall of Fame. Maybe even the Hall of Fame Hall of Fame Hall of Fame. Ryan and his wife live in Whitefish Bay with their two standard poodles. Their oldest poodle, Jak, will be attending Yale in the fall.

An alternative perspective of freedom in America

By James Mlaker

As president of the United States of America, George W. Bush frequently used the term freedom in many of his speeches to the American public.

I often wondered if the freedom he frequently referred to was the same freedom that I would refer to. Even more importantly, is the rest of the American public on the same page when it comes to Mr. Bush's freedom?

Freedom in the broader sense of the term as used by Mr. Bush actually refers to a large set of freedoms. I believe the broader concept of “freedom” is very subjective and would have very different meanings implied by different groups and individuals in America.

Thus, I have come to ask myself two questions. What is my perspective of freedom in America? And, how does it relate to my vision of America's past, present, and future?

Upon researching many different definitions of freedom, I have come to realize, at least in a societal sense, the term freedom is often misinterpreted as free will, when in reality freedom and free will are separate, but related, concepts.

In a society, free will is the ability to act without any constraint, whereas I believe freedom is the ability to act reasonably within a set of constraints. Societal freedom requires a set of constraints in order to function in an orderly and effective manner. Totally unconstrained free will would result in an anarchistic and chaotic society where the impositions of one’s free will most likely act in opposition to another’s free will, resulting in total chaos. The degree of constrained free will imposed by a society determines the degree of freedom relegated to members of that society. I believe the degree of freedom imposed by a society lies at a point on a scale (which I will refer to as the freedom scale) somewhere between complete totalitarian societal control (full constraint) and total societal anarchy (total lack of constraint). An ideal society would have a freedom point that is balanced perfectly between totalitarian control and anarchy on the freedom scale.

Where does the degree of freedom in America lie on the freedom scale?

I believe it has been fluctuating in between the extremes since the birth of the nation. The freedoms granted to the citizens of the United States were initially documented in the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights amended to the Constitution. The earliest freedoms excluded many members of the American society, such as slaves, women, and even males who did not own property. Although the Declaration of Independence stated “all men are created equal” in its declaration of the “unalienable rights” of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, “all men” were not treated as equal when it came to freedom. It has taken over 200 years for the freedoms guaranteed to the citizens of the United States in the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights to actually include “all men,” regardless of race, gender, and/or economic status. In this regard, the general degree of freedom in America has been slowly shifting from the totalitarian extreme toward an ideal balance point on the freedom scale.

Historically there have been other counteracting aberrational shifts on the freedom scale in the opposite direction toward totalitarianism.

The common denominator in all of the aberrational shifts toward the totalitarian direction is fear. Whenever fear is allowed to prevail, the American citizens come to accept more constraints on their guaranteed freedoms. Historically, there have been many instances of fear used a means of constricting the guaranteed freedoms of American citizens. A prime example is the internment of Japanese American citizens, which occurred during the American participation in World War II. Acting out of a fear that Japanese Americans would show allegiance to Japan rather than the United States during the war with Japan, the majority of the American citizenry accepted the very tight constraints of freedom placed on some American citizens (Japanese Americans). More than 40 years after the last Japanese American internment camp was closed, the United States Congress passed legislation that awarded formal payments of $20,000 to each of the surviving Japanese American internees, once again providing a shift from the totalitarian extreme in a direction toward an ideal balance point on the freedom scale.

As I reconsider George W. Bush’s concept of freedom, I recognize the freedom he must have been referring to is one encumbered in fear and skewed toward the totalitarian extreme of the freedom scale.

Since the terrorist attacks on Sept. 11, 2001, American citizens have once again allowed their guaranteed freedoms to be compromised and further constrained due to fear. The extreme fears generated by the terrorist attacks were amplified throughout the media and used in a political manner to enact the Patriot Act. The enactment of the Patriot Act has essentially placed further constraints on many of the basic guaranteed freedoms of the American citizens.

Fear was used to such an extent that American citizens were willing to allow further constraints on their freedoms in the name of safety. The Japanese American citizens were placed in internment camps during World War II in the guise of providing safety for the rest of America. Just as it took more than 40 years for American citizens to recognize and correct the totalitarian shift on the freedom scale regarding the Japanese American internment camps, I have hope the constraints of freedom imposed on the American citizens by the Patriot Act will be recognized and corrected some day as well, moving the United States closer to the ideal balance point on the freedom scale.

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James Mlaker is a professional artist living in Milwaukee, Wis. His academic achievements include a bachelor's degree in psychology from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee and an M.S. in professional counseling from Concordia University Wisconsin.

Technically rooted in the union of digital photography and computer graphics, Mlaker (JMlaker Artworks) uses his art to convey explorations of alternate perceptions of reality expressed through diverse themes which result in creatively complex images visually exploding with intense color and psychological impact.

His past exhibitions include the New York Art Festival, the DLG Gallery (Chicago), MIAD Venado Tuerto 2006 Exhibition (Argentina), the Los Angeles Center for Digital Art Snap to Grid exhibition, the Art Bar (Milwaukee), Sven’s Café (Milwaukee), Gallery Night & Day (Milwaukee), and 4Art Inc Gallery (Chicago). His awards and distinctions include invitations to participate in the Biennale Internazionale dell'Arte Contemporanea (2005 and 2007) in Florence, Italy, being named the featured new artist in the Digital Abstract website for the month of April 2005, awarded a third place commendation ("Lost in Song" - Spirit and Creative Force) in the 2005 Artists Helping Artists & Creative Line Magazine Call to Arts International Juried Art Competition (Cal Poly Downtown Center, Pomona, Calif., June 25, 2005), and receiving a second place award in the Mosaic Globe’s 2007 Creative Community Competition.

He is currently exhibiting in the Purloin Studio (Menomonee Falls, Wis.).

Free agency, hypnotic surrender, and the final frontier

By Michael Timm

It was 1989. I was seven years old. In a movie theater which no longer exists, I was watching Star Trek V: The Final Frontier with my parents.

I was scared by this movie. What scared me was that Doctor McCoy, Uhura, Sulu, Chekov, and a whole bunch of other fine men and women get brainwashed by Spock's half-brother, Sybok. Sybok has "freed from pain" an entire ad-hoc terrorist army of downtrodden settlers at Paradise City, the capital of the so-called "Planet of Galactic Peace" in the Neutral Zone, allied with neither the Earth-led Federation or its enemies, the Klingon and Romulan Empires. Sybok has made psychic contact with a being at the center of the galaxy he believes to be God and he wants to hijack a starship to take him there. ("God" turns out to be a hostile psychic alien exiled to the center of the galaxy and imprisoned beyond the "Great Barrier.")

As I look back now, I can explain and grapple with what frightened me about the brainwashing: the characters' loss of control, the subjugation of their wills by an external force that functioned through persuasion rather than brute force—and with wide success. As I am now a bona fide adult, facing different forms of persuasion is a common, real-world concern to be confronted (mostly) on adult terms.

As a child, however, viewing adult characters of authority having their wills usurped—then willingly surrendering to a will not their own—was traumatic and troubling. (It unsettled in a way not like other cinematic or televised conflicts: In a gun battle or a car chase there may be violence and death, fear and loss, but characters are their own agents, pursuing their own goals, fighting one another and perhaps within themselves—but they fight and struggle and win or lose, they aren't taken over.) The brainwashing depicted in Star Trek V represented, to me at least, a pattern of any and all forces that can usurp the will of a conscious being. Forces like sex, drugs, music, religion, hypnosis, hysteria. It was seduction. It was surrender. For a child learning and confronting his sexual instincts and how these seemed oftentimes to trump the will, the prospect was evocative and distressing. What was to be done?

In the movie, Captain Kirk and Mr. Spock defy Sybok's brainwashing attempts. (Scotty defies brainwashing by being too busy and dedicated to the Enterprise.) Spock allows Sybok to enter his mind and share his inner pain, but he rejects Sybok's implication that he is trapped or defined by his childhood pain. Because Spock has already found a place for himself in the world, already crafted a sound identity that brings him meaning and allows him to create meaning in the world, Sybok cannot "free" him because he is already a free man—"I hide no pain," Spock says. Kirk resists even Sybok's attempt to share his pain. He argues that he needs his pain because his pain brings him strength, provides him with his identity and a reason to struggle, to fight, to live. He, too, is a free man—"I need my pain," Kirk says. So, ultimately, our heroes persevere and all ends well, with even Sybok convinced of the vanity and arrogance of his ways. The Klingons kill "God," beam Kirk up, and Kirk and Spock embrace as brothers who know themselves and each other.
But it's only a movie.


Navigating the Siren Straits

In the real world, we face numerous seductions—and I would argue most are more than mere temptations. A temptation would seem to be something that lures or distracts a free agent off course. A seduction would seem to be something that manipulates the free agency of the agent so that the agent's course changes.

One of the great rhythmical passages of the "Our Father" prayer is "Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."

Should we rather substitute, "Lead us not into seduction"?

Before a glib answer, let us recall Odysseus, that man of men described by a blind poet. When approaching the Sirens, whose seductive calls would entrance sailors to their deaths, Odysseus fashioned wax for his sailors' ears and instructed them to disobey him while their ship passed through the Sirens' territory. But he wanted to hear, he wanted to be seduced. But he didn't want to incur negative consequences, so he had his men lash him to the mast, ears open.

Odysseus tricks his way to be safely led into and through seduction, but without losing his life, his crew, or his ship. And, honestly, who wouldn't really choose that over not hearing the Sirens' calls to begin with? This is why we still read Homer's Odyssey today, and appreciate stories retold with this structure. There is great appeal in such an approach. We humans like to be entertained, but we also like to be seduced, aroused, borne beyond the familiar geography of our own will power—and we are more willing to take such risks if we can be safely lashed to a mast.

This raises a question.

Is our modern paradigm for facing seduction modeled on Odysseus, his crew, or Jesus' prayer?


Journeying into Seduction?

First, a note on "Our Father." I shouldn't have been, but I confess I was surprised to learn that the prayer authors/translators had taken some liberties with the biblical passages attributed to Jesus.

The passages relevant to the discussion on how to face seduction (if based on the "Our Father") are as follows: "do not subject us to the final test, but deliver us from the evil one" (Matthew 6: 13) and "do not subject us to the final test" (Luke 11:4). The "final test" is glossed in my Bible in this way: "Jewish apocalyptic writings speak of a period of severe trial before the end of the age, sometimes called the 'messianic woes.' This petition asks that the disciples be spared that final test."

Nothing here about "temptation" at all. Needless to say, nothing about seduction.

It's dangerous to trust Wikipedia, but as I have little time on my own deadline for more authoritative research, a brief mention will have to do. Apparently the Greek "peirasmos" is the culprit term here, which can mean "temptation, testing, trial, [or] experiment" depending on context. Assuming the historical accuracy of my St. Joseph New American Bible's interpretation of "final test," its editors presume that "peirasmos" means this really, really miserable time for people at the cusp of a new sociopolitical era. Thus, the root of the prayer does not necessarily, and certainly does not directly, lead to a petition to avoid "temptation" as we understand it today and as I was taught the concept growing up among movies like Star Trek V.

I will suggest why I feel parsing this translation is significant shortly. But first, what about Satan's temptation of Jesus in the desert? How does it compare to Odysseus' approach to the seduction of the Sirens and how does it compare with the Lord's Prayer text?

Jesus has trekked out into the desert for 40 days and nights of fasting and has what Native Americans might call a vision quest. We might reasonably assume Jesus' mind is in an altered state from the self-denial and meditative focus of fasting for 40 days in the desert. It's then that "the tempter," according to Matthew and Luke, speaks to Jesus, confronting him with three tests.

The voice of the devil suggests Jesus use his supernatural powers to convert stones into food to sate his hunger, which Jesus rejects by stating that "one does not live by bread alone." The voice suggests Jesus worship him and in return the devil will provide Jesus with all the power and glory of the kingdoms of the Earth, which Jesus rejects by reciting the First Commandment that there is only one God and God alone deserves worship. Finally in Luke (second in Matthew), the voice suggests Jesus throw himself down on the rocks, suggesting that God's angels will protect him. Jesus spurns this temptation by citing another text: "You shall not put the Lord, your God, to the test."

The common understanding of the story of Jesus' temptation is that Satan wants Jesus to abuse his own power and use it for selfish ends—to save his own life and serve his own self—while his greater mission beyond his own self-interest would presumably fall by the wayside. As a moral lesson, that's fine and good. The AIG derivative investors would have done well to consider it.
But considered against the actual text of the "Our Father" and bracketed against his all-too-human plea in the Garden of Gethsemane to not have to go through with the plan—to avoid his own final test—it reorients, to me, the meaning of the "Our Father." To flip the famous Steve Miller Band lyrics upside-down, here's the modern translation: Pray that you don't have to go through hell to get to heaven—do not subject us to the final test.

If accurate, this seems an incredibly psychologically immature position to advocate.
If he means what he says, Jesus here is not really hoping to be lashed to Odysseus' mast or put wax in his ears—it seems he'd rather avoid the straits and the Sirens entirely. But while we humans can choose how we navigate, we cannot choose the seas upon which we sail. So relying on circumstances to arrange themselves so that we are not tested is not a good strategy—especially if one is not a god.

Jesus' ultimate decision, of course, is to be fixed to a different sort of mast. And his actions in this regard ultimately accept psychological responsibility that his earlier words seem to belie. He faces his final test. And apparently passes with flying colors.

But one more point here, and the one I really wanted to raise by bringing up the temptation in the desert.

The traditional language of the Lord's Prayer suggests that the people praying it are seeking to avoid or defeat temptation. (This presupposes that there are bad, magnetic forces out there—sex, drugs, music, religion, hypnosis, hysteria—that can sway the free will into torrid valleys of sin. Temptations, to me, were and are closely related with any and all manner of Siren calls.) This relationship always seemed to go without question. (After all, who would want to be led into a torrid valley of sin?) But I am questioning it now.

For me, as a child and perhaps for many others, "lead us not into temptation" equated with an almost Buddhist desire to avoid desire and attachment, a Washingtonian desire to be free of entangling alliances, and a Hindu desire to be clean of untouchable filth. The words galvanized the moral hackles, aligning or realigning the will on a path toward righteousness—as though a bird whose internal migratory compass is realigned with the Earth's magnetic field after the disruptions of a fierce electrical storm.

But the original language of the prayer doesn't seem to have anything to do with keeping on the straight and narrow or plugging the ears to seduction at all—it's not about sex, drugs, music, religion, or hypnosis. It's about accepting psychological responsibility but wishing you didn't have to.

This point seems clear based on the kinds of tests delivered to Jesus in the desert. To me, they aren't seductions like those the Sirens offer—there's no positive allure of sex, wisdom, or mystery. And Odysseus knows the Sirens will destroy him if he weren't lashed to the mast. They would destroy him by utterly controlling his will and he would want to do whatever they commanded. He would willingly destroy himself. By lashing himself to the mast, Odysseus is simply and cunningly permitting his curiosity and desire to be sated, but severing his will from its usual agency. He can appreciate the beauty of hypnotic surrender to the Sirens without the usual consequences of a hostile takeover. It's about seduction and sensation.

Satan, in contrast, challenges Jesus about power—he can sate his hunger, he can build an empire, he can play frivolous games with his powers and his life. It's not about what the devil can offer Jesus but what Jesus could do for himself. The devil is not attempting to "take over" Jesus in the sense of subjugating his will. He's trying to persuade him to make the selfish choice. If Jesus were to fail these three tests, it is not because the devil has succeeded in becoming God but that Jesus as God has made the wrong decision. We might as well consider this story the metaphor of Jesus' internal struggle as being part human, which is reconfirmed in the garden.

It is worth noting, however, that the power of the voice is what carries both the Siren song and Satan's tests.

The biblical passages indicate the devil speaks to Jesus; they do not depict a red man with a goatee and a pitchfork, nor do they evoke the burning angel imagery that another blind poet would dictate centuries later on the British Isles. It is a voice that approaches Jesus when he is fasting in the desert.

Having recently learned some firsthand experience about the empirically amazing effects of hypnosis, I think this is highly significant. (In these and other myths and stories—think also: Phantom of the Opera—the power of the suggestive voice is a central story component with both empowering/liberating and enslaving/subjugating effects.)

Like Spock, Jesus listens to the voice that promises to free him from pain but refuses to be hypnotized by the tempter's suggestions. In this, perhaps, he sets himself apart from mere mortals who are far more suggestible, especially after not eating for 40 days in the desert.
The point is that it's not the seduction or the temptation that is the problem in and of itself—it's the choice behind the seduction or temptation. What are we being seduced for or to do? What are we surrendering our will to or for?


Surrendering the Will

Surrendering to seduction is both freeing and binding.

It's freeing because the rational component of the mind is derailed from the will when someone "lets go," whether under hypnosis or in a deep (or shallow) trust relationship. Trust is earned through work and relationship building. Hypnosis induces an altered state where the psychological energy level required to do work is lowered and the will is then easily pushed or pulled. There's a spectrum of mental and psychosomatic effects between these two poles.

It's binding for the obvious reason that personal control is sacrificed, ceded to another controller. When this controller is external, we call this brainwashing. When the controller is internal, we call it acting on impulse or instinct. Either is a reminder that the agent, while seemingly autonomous, is not always or necessarily so. There's also a spectrum of possibilities between such external and internal forces—mediated by causes and catalysts the like of, you guessed it: sex, drugs, and music.

Seduction and surrender are a key component of advertising and marketing, enticing agents to modify their values and behavior according to exterior considerations. There always has to be some mutual advantage offered or advertising wouldn't work at all, but at the same time seduction always seems to offer something negative, guarded, secret, or dangerous as well. Enticement and an appeal to abrogate the will are some elements at play here: see that red Coca-Cola can—that looks good and the brand appeals to me, so I'll derail the rational part of my mind and simply plop it in my shopping cart without thinking. It's easier and more pleasurable to simply let go and just buy the Coke. Yes, I could evaluate the costs and benefits of each and every kind of liquid refreshment for sale, but that would take too long and besides, what I really want is the Coke anyway…This is a kind of self-hypnosis that programs how we behave in many, many repeatable everyday circumstances already. (I don't necessarily like it, but it's true. And the alternative, exercising conscious critical judgment about everything, is worse and possibly impossible, from a utility standpoint—if you want to ride a bike, you don't think about riding a bike, you just do it. If you want to throw a baseball, you don't think about it, you just throw it. Allowing autopilot to take over is what allows humans to get through the day without computational overload. We "free" our minds to handle the tasks that demand conscious attention, relegating others to nonconscious processes.)

Seduction and surrender are also a key factor in sexual relations. If human agents are not "turned on" they are less receptive to each other and are not as likely to conjugate anything except verbs. They get turned on by, in effect, turning some inhibitions off. If someone is "uptight" or "not in the mood," nothing's going to happen. Without some element of mystery or foreignness to the self, without some "letting go," tension, by definition, cannot be released, nor intimacy expressed.

While it's not always the Siren call or the voice of Satan whispering in your ear, there is always the trigger moment, always the two diverging roads in the yellow wood, the point at which the choice is made or not made to derail one's own will, to shift the chain as though shifting a bicycle gear. Hypnotic trance derails the entire chain, but in everyday life, we shift up and down regularly and automatically, according to external and internal stimuli—words we hear sung or spoken, music we hear that lifts or depresses our mood, work that sharpens or dulls the attention or intellect, food we've enjoyed for years despite its unhealthiness, keywords or images noted on the internet or magazines, habits we've developed that bring comfort, or those we've observed that drive us crazy.

To answer the hypothetical question posed at the outset of the previous section, I think we model our behavior with regard to experiencing seduction on Odysseus, even if we pay lip service to a pure, pious avoidance of seductions and temptations. We want to be seduced—it feels good and it's necessary to how human beings live life in the modern environment bombarded by stimuli—but we don't want to lose the ship. Problems emerge, however, if the ropes are too thin, the knots too loose, the mast too flimsy, or trust in the crew's wax misplaced. For if we engage into behavior patterns where we repeatedly lash ourselves to the mast, who is steering the ship and where is it headed?


Freedom Isn't Free

One maxim that has always resonated with me is that "Freedom isn't free."

I have seen this statement in many contexts, but the one that sticks with me was in Ripon, Wis. at a small veterans memorial across from my former bank. The pedestrian could enter a little stone area commemorating the fallen of the United States' many wars. "Freedom isn't free" was prominently displayed at this mini courtyard.

Depending on my mood, this area would mean different things to me. Occasionally, it seemed a shallow remark, an easy public note to honor soldiers living and dead whose service was remembered without regard for any particulars of that service or the politics of their conflicts. In that way, it seemed a dangerous cheesecloth to veil over military service of any kind, a way of valorizing it regardless of context.

But at the same time the broadness of this statement, "Freedom isn't free," seemed suspect, it also seemed deeply true.

On those other days, it meant to me that anything worth anything costs something, that everything costs something, that what we say we value is never guaranteed, that we must continually earn what we value, and that others have lived lives that serve as a reminder and example to this at times horrible and joyous truth.

Along these lines, "Freedom isn't free" also assumes a universe in which choice-making beings create the conditions for freedom, whatever it may be. While freedom may occur in nature or may occur naturally, freedom of this kind is neither natural nor necessary. It isn't free. You don't get something for nothing. This kind of universe is familiar to those who respect the most fundamental physics principle: the law of conservation of mass and energy. It is a universe of change, filled with Heraclitan dynamism and replete with opportunities, but a place whose contours are ever in doubt and always subject to new forms shaped by various forces. But these shapes and contours and forces are all contingent. They affect one another and depend upon one another. None of them happen in isolation or independence. They are not free. So the freedom in the "Freedom isn't free" universe is a shape, a contour, a particular kind of tension created by some force or forces stretching and smoothing surrounding surfaces so that they are sensitive to this particular quality, "freedom," which might be defined by assuming that this surface minimizes interference with other surfaces and promotes and preserves the integrity of the substance of the surface itself and maximizes its identity in relation to all other possible surfaces it may encounter.

Freedom of this kind does not come from nothing, but from work. It requires effort, it takes energy to maintain. It is like flying in an airplane. The shape of the airplane allows for flight, but movement is required to enact actual flying, and to achieve movement of sufficient speed, engines are used. Freedom is also like electricity in the same way. The natural properties of a coil of wire and a magnet allow for an electromagnetic field, but they must be moved mechanically to enact actual electrical current. A piano contains the same potential for sound, but a person must play it to enact actual music.

Ex nihilo nihil fit: From nothing comes nothing. More than just a theoretically sound sound bite, everything we really know follows and reinforces this assumption. "Freedom isn't free" is really just a layman's way of restating Ex nihilo nihil fit.


Free Agency & Slavery

And if that's true, then philosophically the Steve Miller Band—and the Ozark Mountain Daredevils for that matter—were right all along: "you got to go through hell before you get to heaven."

Unfortunately, sometimes this is too near the reality for many people who find themselves caught in circumstances beyond their control, but without the benefit of sufficient ear wax or strong enough oarsmen. I will just relate my reflections on one such possible person on whom I recently read a news story. The story was about a minor league baseball player who overdosed on drugs and died. I didn't know him. But his story was pathetic—in the sense of inspiring pathos, not in the sense of the common usage of having low value.

He had been traded for $665 worth of baseball bats. Like African slaves traded for molasses and rum in our nation's sordid history, he found others placing a financial value on his head. What was he worth within the system he found himself sequestered? What would balance him on the economic scale? Ten pieces of shaped wood.

I do not know why this man overdosed on drugs. But I can speculate. I speculate that his self-worth was unconsciously crushed by the casual and inhuman way in which he was equated to physical property. (There is an opportunity for a more lengthy Marxian divergence here, but I will stick to my point.)

My speculation is this: He was not free.

He became locked within a system that had branded him with an identity leaving him no flexibility or opportunity for escape. Had he excelled at baseball, perhaps he might have overcome the stigma, but it was his relative quality as a baseball player that had initially earned him his stigma of being traded for bats—all the worse because his trade was not intended to malign him: it was a consequence of supreme utilitarian indifference. So if he couldn't play his way out of this identity, he could walk away from the game. Which he reportedly did eventually decide to do. But the identity now tagged to him, I speculate, and overwhelmed his attempt to escape its shadow. Perhaps he turned/returned to drugs in an attempt to find freedom. He found death, which may or may not have finally freed him.

He was not a "free agent," literally.

After his trade, he wasn't actually any less valuable as a person. His trade for the bats hadn't changed anything about him except perception.

But perceptions form realities.

The human voice is powerful because our minds and bodies understand the world through a set of interrelated concepts. We have words for these concepts. The words and concepts hang together. Under certain circumstances, if the words are touched, the concepts are touched. The concepts are, in effect, the mind and the body as a system itself, and so words can and do change the mind and the body. This is why and how hypnosis functions. And on a larger scale, I speculate it is why and how the minor leaguer was made to feel crushed.


The Final Frontier

I do not consider Star Trek V one of the best Star Trek films. It has its problems as a movie.

And yet.

There is something about this movie that still appeals to me today, as I turn twenty-seven. It's about friendship, that some bonds are deeper than pain, deeper than pleasure. It's about self-knowledge, that it's attainable but that it continually needs attaining. It's about questing for the ultimate, but discovering the ultimate within. It's about how we deal with the fears that make us vulnerable and make us who we are.

The Final Frontier it refers to is not, and never has been, outer space. It is the exploration of what it means to be human. At its best, such exploration is like the freedom one feels when standing on a great open plain or on a cliff before a great body of water—a feeling that the whole world of possibility is open before you.

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Michael Timm is a freelance writer. He has written and is seeking representation for a novel, The Philosopher of Milwaukee. He has been assistant editor of the Bay View Compass newspaper in Milwaukee since 2005. His writing has also appeared in the Alliance for Children & Families Magazine, Riverwest Currents, Shepherd Express, and Wisconsin Trails Magazine. He earned his B.A. at Ripon College in Ripon, Wis., in 2004 studying both anthropology and English. His totem animal is the platypus.