Imaginary Friends

When we were very young, we had friends who were toys, whom we assigned lives to, and who were what we now call imaginary friends. And supposedly, as adults we are supposed to grow out of such imaginings. But that is not it at all.

You see, the imaginary is the most powerful form of cognition. Whether it is a formal (in several senses) construct like a memory palace, used to recall a myriad facts, or a stuffed bear with a too-small red shirt and now become a cultural icon, we use the hologram images of our imagination to store an abundance of our lives.

Here's the thing. Even if (as Daniel Dennett and Sam Harris assert) our cognition of self and the world is merely an emergent illusion stemming from chemical complexity, all that illusory richness retains structure better if the basis of illusion is more complex. It is like having a back-story that is never published, but forms the basis for a fantasy realm.

And so, Christopher Robin and Pooh, Calvin and Hobbes, and a host of other half-real and half-imagined friends, here's to you! May you never fade except as the tired old illusion of life fades, and may you greet us as we pass from illusory existence to illusory ending.

My previous cat was a smokey darkness with white socks. He waited on the roof, with only the shadow of his pricking ears to show his presence. Then you opened the door, and that would galvanise him into some frantic process of descent which would end with him in the house at your feet, hoping for a rub-and-scratch. He is gone now, buried in a little plot to the side of the house. But I, the illusory resident in this illusory realm, still look up seeking pointy ears some evenings. That illusion of memory, of life other than my own, it makes me seem more real even though Dennett and Harris might very well be right.

Who's to know? These days, marmalade sun-cat looks upon me with curious green eyes, miaows softly, comes for his morning head-rub. Over the years, I have come to associate intelligence and warmth with that cat. It is no doubt an illusion. But it gives me an illusory warmth far greater than the chilly sad confusion of Sam Harris's Free Will, in which he asserts that he had none when he wrote the book and I had none, reading it.

And so again, here's to imaginary friends, even those we have the luxurious illusion of thinking are real. Here's to the friends of my childhood: Darwin, Tesla, Newton, and the powerful ghosts who once lived within an imaginary five-mile radius of my imaginary birthplace in that great imaginary, the Isle of Ely. Cheers, and a solemn sherry to you all.

Redefining Murder

The current definition of murder is anthropocentric across all jurisdictions. You can kill any other animal and it wouldn't be murder. Human laws, for human interests.

But the growing body of research on cetacean brains, for one, shows that these brains are as complex as human brains but in a different way. While the human brain is somewhat more layered, cetacean brains are less layered but with more 'vertical' connections through layers. They are clearly intelligent, perhaps more so as a class than any other kind of mammal, when we consider only mammalian intelligence.

Farther afield, we come across the anomalous cases of corvid intelligence — ravens for example — where birds show strong evidence of forward planning, co-opting other animals as partners in an enterprise, and facial recognition with emotional response. And as we metaphorically walk out even farther from home, we meet the cephalopoda; an octopus keeps two-thirds of its neurons in its arms, shows strong evidence of structured memory and observational learning, and comes from the only class of invertebrates which uses tools — in 1986, the octopus became an honorary vertebrate according to UK law, and enjoys the same protections as vertebrates as far as animal rights are concerned.

What is it, then, to willingly (and intentionally, and deliberately) terminate the life of a crow, an octopus, or dolphin? It is the termination of a thinking, emotion-bearing, mind-using organism. These creatures had hopes, fears, ambitions — until they were killed. It is nothing less than murder, but it is not murder yet — for humans still define murder in terms of human-termination.

Fried Eggs

If all the eggs are fried, there will be neither birds nor fish. If they are fried earlier, neither will there be any other thing that creeps or crawls or walks. Reptiles, of course, are just birds with flattened feathers. And thus endeth the egg meditation of the week.

Each Death Diminishes Me

At the start of the 20th century, there were perhaps 150,000 tigers in the world. There are now 3,500. Half of those are in zoos. In 1900, there were roughly 1.5 billion people in the world; there are now 7 billion. Each day, my significance decreases; each day, somewhere, a last tree frog, a last beetle, a last hummingbird perishes, its significance much greater than mine.

I don't know for whom the bell tolls. But for the other species on this planet, it must now be a howling siren, each second announcing the departure of some unknown genotype to the great beyond. For humanity, arrivals exceed departures. The airport is filling up, and we have nowhere to go.

I visited the zoo yesterday. There are fewer animals to see. For some, their only hope of survival is in zoos; they have ceased to exist anywhere else. Cuteness has become a survival trait. It is sad in the sense of watching something leave the world forever.

Global Themes (Part II): Humans & Other Species

Our dealings with the other life-forms that share this world with us are tainted by the unavoidable biases we have. We are anthropocentric and anthropomorphic by nature; it is very hard, or even impossible, for us to put ourselves in the skin, scales, fur and/or feathers of another chordate species without basing the projected experience on our human template.

And this is where my adventure began.

Lords of Creation

In the last few weeks, I've been researching a topic called 'Humans and Other Species'. On closer reading, the curriculum calls for analysis of the ways in which humans interact with other animals, so I threw out the material on plants and fungi. It's interesting to see how in our long history humans have assigned various roles (implicitly or explicitly) to animals. I think I can identify almost a dozen such roles:

1. Predators: animals that eat humans.
2. Food: animals eaten by humans or which produce food (e.g. milk, eggs).
3. Vermin: animals that steal human food and do other irritating things.
4. Material Production: animals that produce useful materials on a continuous basis (e.g. wool, feathers) or on a single basis (e.g. leather, ivory).
5. Guards and Hunters: animals trained to stop predators or kill vermin.
6. Guides and Herders: animals trained to look after other animals or assist humans.
7. Transport and Labour: animals used to do work, or to move things and people faster.
8. Companions and Pets: it's hard to tell the difference, sometimes (even between humans).
9. Entertainment: ranging from caged birds to fighting fish and circuses.
10. Experimental Subjects: using animals to test technology where using humans is risky, costly or both.
11. Objects of Religion and Mysticism: in some cultures, certain animals are considered holy; sometimes, they are not worshipped, but their qualities are admired greatly and have special significance in a supernatural way.
12. Creative Subjects: animals as metaphors or as protagonists (and other things) in human creative works.

It's a curious list, and I'd be obliged if anyone out there could add to it.

At the same time, human tendencies towards anthropomorphism and anthropocentrism tend to create attitudes that impact these roles significantly. We kill 11,000 sharks every HOUR just because they have a single tasty part or because they look like threats. That's 100 million sharks a year. The shark is of course the most intelligent and highly developed fish — the latest research shows that it has at least some ability for introspection and a lot of capacity for learning — but that doesn't save it from mass extermination. And we don't even eat most of the meat; a typical shark victim can provide perhaps 200 kg of meat, but this is eaten only in some countries (Australia and India being key consumers). East Asian consumers eat mainly the fins (which at USD220 per kg are a pretty expensive food source).

On the other hand, rodents like hamsters and prairie dogs can be bred quickly and relatively cheaply. But most humans wouldn't dream of breeding them for food. They're too cute.

Doggone

The oldest dog went to be with her Maker some time during the night. She was the one with the fluffy coat and the snuffling 'heh heh' style of greeting. Last night she was wandering blindly (cataracts) and restlessly (senility) all over the garden, more so than usual. This morning's sunlight greeted her lying stone cold and at peace beside a spreading bougainvillea bush. It was her favourite spot in the sun; I'm glad she found it in the dark.

We got her from the SPCA fifteen years ago, a light brown and white pup with a sort of innocently engaging gaze and a very undemanding nature (except when it came to sneaking food from the cat). She greeted people mostly with kindness and often with drool. She was a lovable dog, much more so than her two colleagues who tended towards over-exuberance and roughing up others for fun.She wasn't a particularly healthy or unusually beautiful creature. She survived surgery for a large tumour two years ago, and we thought we'd lost her then. She proved to be tougher than we thought. Then again, she's always been a surprise.

Some time later this morning, we thought to take a look at her license. Heh. It expires today. Goodbye, Sandy!

I still feel sad.

Ecclesiastes 3:20-21

Animal States

Cats are fluid, dogs are solid, with all the semantic and semiotic nuances that these words entail.

Today I sat at breakfast watching the two animals I call 'Flumpy' and 'Frumpy' (names withheld to protect animal rights). Flumpy is a five year old male cat and Frumpy is a fifteen year old female dog, both of the gingerish persuasion and both as mongrelised as anything, being nice animals saved from the alleys, and very affectionate.

Flumpy was... flumphed. I guess there's no other word that adequately and onomatopoeically enough describes the boneless liquid pool of fur that a cat can become at an instant's notice. He had collapsed into a puddle at the bottom of his hammock, the indoor groundsheet we'd suspended above his home. If you looked hard and long, you could see one ear erect, like the fin of a particularly lazy shark swimming in a sea of ginger fur. Occasionally, it would twitch, as if the shark were changing direction.

Frumpy was just being a doorstop. If you missed the thing on the brown tiles that seemed a little like a cross between a small tent and a mousedeer, you would bump into it and fall down. But she had a clearly defined shape, was an obvious obstacle to ambulatory progress (i.e. walking around). Actually, nobody ever bumped into her because she was always in the same place at the same time, like a lighthouse or a shoal. Flumpy, on the other hand, tended to evaporate from sight, as is the way of all cats.

I think they are a little like that when up and about as well. Frumpy will bang into your leg. Flumpy will ooze over your foot. Again, the solid/liquid analogy maintains. Yes, there is a whole theory of physical states waiting out there for the intrepid researcher.

Dromedary

You look around you, and everything does not move. Has time stopped? Or are you just moving too quickly? Stand there, on the balance point between hyperactivity and stasis, and you will know the pleasure of stillness. For if you do not move, you are faster than you think.

You are also the meanest, the most practical water-conserver and course-racer of them all. For that is what a dromedary is: a race-bred and somewhat intractable steed (if that is what you must be), a violator of norms and of aesthetic conventions.

From Hawk To Wolf

I recently came across an old article on Ted Hughes in which the poet's work is described in terms of primitive energies, shamanism, spirit-journeys, and other related anthropological terms. I think that's what I would describe as 'literary primitivism' – the idea that we should look at poetry as something that can be trapped and described in terms of anthropological history. Robert Graves overdid it, and so do many others.

But that kind of jargon obscures the simple fact that poetry is just human language describing human feelings for other humans. Even if it is urban poetry or steampunk, it will come back to the naked eye, the naked heart, the sense of loss or of beauty or of exposure to the elements. The primitive can't be isolated by time ('it was long ago when we were living in caves') or space ('on a savage island far away') or both ('a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away'). It is in us, always, in the sense of it being the original material of the soul, the prima materia, the tissue of our basic needs and hopes and dreams.

When one reads a poem like Penelope Shuttle's "Three Lunulae, Truro Museum", one tends to think of something ancient, a hidden animistic or shamanistic past locked up and archived and put behind glass. But the female nature, the mysteries of beauty and of human touch across the years, these are always with us.

And here I sit, sometimes a hawk roosting, sometimes a wolf watching, sometimes even two ravens or a herd of goats – and yet, always human.

Serengeti

I was looking through this grand account a short while ago when I came across one particular post which reminded me briefly of the savannah and the smell of the wild and open lands. And through it all runs that immortal, omnipresent entity – the River.

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The River runs through the Land. Huge herbivores wallow in the mud along its slower banks. This is the home of Hippo, the bulky eater of reeds. You find little birds grooming her. These little birds eat parasites and groom the mighty beast. The mighty creature booms lazily, a warning to nearby rivals and predators. Little hippo calves snuggle nearby, happy in the knowledge that big hippo will protect them out of pure genetic imperative.

The River gives rise to pools of water, pools of life and death. A herd of horned ruminants (springboks, wildebeest, whatever) is normally found at one of them. While the more paranoid and dutiful elements look out for a predator, the rest drink, demudifying themselves and remudifying themselves as the great spirit takes them. There may be a gazelle, sleek and graceful but ready to bolt at any opportunity; there might be a rugged old kudu or eland or gnu.

Eventually, though, you will face one of the Big Five (really, the Big Six, but one is almost extinct).

The African lion is the first on any list. The male of the species is a heavyweight, massing at least 180 kg and sometimes reaching a quarter-ton. Occasionally he is assisted by a junior male, and a large pride can have up to six males in it. Male lions defend territory but never hunt; the females form a cooperative sisterhood which hunts and nurtures the young. When you meet a male lion, with his distinctive mane and posture, recognize that his thoughts about you are: 1) Are you a threat? 2) How big a threat are you? 3) How do I dispose of this threat? – in that sequence. By 'threat', he means 'an entity which will take territory and food supplies from my pride'. However, if he thinks you are food and not a threat, he will leave you to the womenfolk.

The African elephant is famed for its huge ears and invulnerable appearance. The adult elephant is a grazer with an excellent sense of smell, but with poor sight and hearing. Predators take advantage of this fact to harass and kill the smaller elephants from the downwind zone. No serious animal predator goes for the adult; the record for an adult tusk mass is about 103 kg and each tusk is a deadly weapon somewhat akin to an entrenching tool on steroids. Remember that typical adult can weigh five tons or more.

The leopard is one of the Big Five by virtue of ubiquity. The most striking of the lot, it is an opportunistic hunter which goes after any prey presenting itself as somehow being injured or having lost its way. It isn't a very nice beast, or a very clever one, but it will drag down and kill smaller animals and be very happy about it. The leopard won't take on larger prey; it knows only too well the dangers of having to defend a kill after expending too much energy. The lion might just come along and appropriate the food without a struggle.

The buffalo is the fourth of these great animals. Massing 800 kg or so, this squat-looking monster ruminant with terrifying horns is actually surprisingly light on its feet. They're odd animals, being gregarious and able to form herds of non-productive singles. When unsettled, they become nocturnal. The main thing to note about the buffalo is that it gets angry, and when infuriated or injured, it will attempt to utterly destroy the perceived source of its discomfort. It takes little to infuriate one, and many hunters have shot and injured the buffalo without killing it – to their subsequent discomfort and eventual demise.

The last (two?) of the Big Five (Six?) is the rhinoceros. The rhino comes in two varieties. The black rhino would be extinct without the excellent care of national parks. It is small (well, only up to 1400 kg), shy, solitary and nocturnal – it is almost a ghost presence. It is secretive and will browse in bushy and wooded riverine areas, using its hooked lips to great effect as it selects, strips, and consumes various plant munchies. The white rhino is a far bigger and more common animal, massing up to 2500 kg and able to strip entire areas bare. The white will eat anything (and looks like it too) – it has a square jaw and a belligerent attitude. Both species are notable for their large nasal horn, a slashing and stabbing weapon which can be used to slice through vegetation or spear a predator.

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I have always been enthralled by the idea of the veldt, the vast sea of grassy plains and the shrubby woodlands around them. The savannah to me is typified not so much by Kruger National Park, but by the Serengeti. Yet, it is neither. The idea of the huge tapestry of animals interacting in their vast and savage ecosystem is great enough for me. It echoes in my head.

Zoological

"Survival," said the autist to the landscape-painter, "is a matter of making friends with the rhino."

The landscape-painter merely grunted as he added a tiny dot of ultramarine violet to the canvas on his easel.

"In fact," said the autist, warming to his task and rubbing his broad hands together, "you might want to think about why the largest of the ferocious are leaders in their own categories. It's like a matriarchy of blood in the wilderness."

A slash with the palette-knife, an odd twist of the wrist, and the landscape-painter added another two antelope to his tableau.

"Think of the dying lion leading his pride in the Serengeti."

The artist looked up. "A lion lives and dies by his lionesses, the scavengers around him, the larger beasts, and the amount of food available. And a lion in his winter is dangerous to men."

"What are you painting?" asked the autist with a slight twinge of unease.

"The Serengeti as it should have been."