The Comfort of Bleeding

Circa 2007. Self-explanatory.

Every twenty eight days,

belly bloated,   eyes red,

body soul exhausted

I confess my ritual wish

to my partner

With any luck,

I will start bleeding today

Every twenty eight days,

my partner nods, shakes

his head, eases me

into his arms, confesses

he still has trouble

getting used to the sound

of that

Solitaire

Too hard to put a date on this one. I started a version of it in 1993, the year my ex and I probably should have gotten divorced, and finally finished it in 2003, the year we actually got divorced. 

I sacrificed

twenty years

to be with you

At first I was captured

by the solitaire surrounding

my finger, sparkling so fiercely

I was blinded by the physical

beauty, blinded by

the promise I believed

it held

I thought we would become

One

And your love would fill

all the empty spaces

It hurt us both

when you realized

you didn’t want the life

I’d forfeited for you

when I realized

I wanted back the life

I’d surrendered to you

But after too many years of playing

solitaire in the dark ‘till 3 a.m.

then crying myself to sleep

I finally decided

to escape

the kind of solitary confinement

your love put me in

I was terrified:

I thought we would become one

Writer's Block

Circa 2000: I was trying for humor :-)

Under the desk,

still warm, hides

a mechanical pencil,

the point lost

inside the barrel, the

eraser rubbed flat.

Next to the desk,

still cold, spills

a stockpile of

crumpled white paper:

cannibalistic snowballs

eager to feed

on the next litter.

On the desk,

still ambivalent, rests

a single sheet of

lined white paper,

blue lines creating

row after row

of tiny, empty

shelves waiting

to be filled like Old

Mother Hubbard’s

cupboard.

“The children are hungry,”

cries the paper

to the pencil,

“But Mother is too poor

to feed them,” answer

the gluttonous snowballs,

mockingly.

Revelations

Circa 2002: The result of navel gazing, not a formal writing prompt.

One linguistics course

and one manic summer

later I discovered God

is Universal

Grammar and

I am

just one more

imperfect speaker,

uttering one more religion,

one more dialect, one more creole,

at home only in my own vernacular.

Returned to Sender

Circa 2001: I was asked to write a found poem. I supplemented instructions from a packing label.

No strapping tape allowed.

There is no standard 
conventionalacceptablenormal

Form    for this            content.

Inspect and ensure the shipping label is addressed properly.

Why               do we              try        to put _____ in            a

box?    Is there            only one                      variety of _____?

Why                are there          so         few      boxes

from    which to         choose?

Use bubble wrap or foam peanuts and secure properly to prevent damage or loss.

How much      will I    have to pay  to            deliver

this?     where has it                delivered

me?                             

Oh,      no,       did I    forget

to use the foam pea-

nuts?

My Child's Eyes

Circa 1999: I was asked to write a haiku.

Two brown suns rising
slowly above my kneecaps,
my waist, my own eyes

Fine Tuning

Circa 2005: I assigned a name acrostic poem exercise in a creative writing class I was teaching and had fun creating one of my own.

Just don’t call me Dee Dee— or beware the

Anger buried beneath layers of lace and laughter

Nearly purple but not too blue, my rainbow, an

Inch or two too short, heavy with candles,

Cosmetics, compound sentences, Coca-Cola with crushed ice and a straw

Easily too much chocolate, but never enough when

Cats escape and turn into tigers, questions escape and turn into

Avalanches. The answer, I discovered, decked out in

Renaissance-style Stevie-esque handkerchief hems and high-heeled boots:  

Everyone suffers—even Eric, my

Love, whose Tibetan singing bowl I covet. Some days he finds me

Lingering in the aisles in Barnes and Noble,

Ogling books instead of grading, imagining possibilities.

[Extinguishing] The Lamp on the Stand (Luke 8:16-18)

Circa 2001: the year of the mid-life crisis and bout of depression. Though I was only 31 at the time, and I plan to live past 62, so I suppose "life crisis" is more accurate than "mid-life crisis."

“No one lights a lamp and hides it in a jar or puts it under a bed.”

You keep the anti-Christs

in your make-up case,

swallow eight pink pills

twice a day

as directed:

Take and eat. This is your body.

“Instead, [s]he puts it on a stand, so that those who come in can see the light.”

You forage to find

the right shade of red

lipstick that will make flesh desirable

to flesh, to find the perfect flesh-

colored concealer to shade

the scars and blemishes.

“For there is nothing hidden that will not be disclosed, and nothing concealed

 that will not be known or brought out into the open.”

Prescriptions are spiritual

cosmetics: FDA approved faith

healers/ concealers/ stealers

pitching a sale

you can’t refuse.

“Therefore consider carefully how you listen.”

Listen carefully: the script

calls for cosmetic sponges,

but instead of applying

they’re trying to absorb

an insatiable desire.

“Whoever has will be given more; whoever does not have, even what [s]he thinks

[s]he has will be taken from [her].”

I had the light of God in me,

you said. Refuse the wine,

refuse the bread, they said:

This is the only communion

you need now:

A bit of Lithium, a dram of Amitryptiline,

and a pinch of Valproic acid too—

a custom pharmaceutical brew 

to conceal the witch in you— 

burned at the State,

if you don’t swallow

as directed:

Take and eat. This is your body. 

Engendered Pyrotechnics

Circa 2000: I have no memory of what inspired this poem, just a memory that one of my female profs avoided making any comment on it. 

His anger

like a wildfire

ignited

consumes

every convenient combustible contiguous object

violent flames

reach reach

resist yet invite

bodies to quench the rage

Her anger

like a fireplace

fueled

savors

every twig branch marshmallow

smoldering embers

linger linger

resist yet invite

fire irons to tend the flame

Their anger

like a firebug

growing

greedy feeding on

every firecracker firework, firing line

powerful pyrotechnics

play play

resist yet invite

rhetoric to raise the blaze

Cleaving

Circa 2000: In response to a writing prompt that challenged me to use the structure of a published poem to create my own poem. I used Etheridge Knight's "My Life the Quality of Which" as inspiration.

Two strangers

whose fervor

from their first

spoken syllables

created a desire

to marry two pasts

two presents

two futures

whose words have made them

ONE

cleave in Silence

but you have to listen for it 

Answer

Circa 1999: Based on an exchange I had with another student while I was working as a writing tutor at SUNY Brockport

 “Two kids,” I say

and you, unable to see

the wrinkles in my face,

suggest a poem about

dirty diapers.

“Nine and Twelve,” I say

and you, unable to see

my face in their faces,

require proof.

But I say nothing

Belgian Beer is Best

Circa 2003: In response to one of those writing prompts where you are given a few random words and  integrate them in a story. Platypus and Belgian beer were two of the words. I forget the others.

“Belgian Beer is Best.”

This time the slogan had been scribbled on a slip of coffee-stained stationery and slid under Ania’s front door. Lavazza. It had to be. It was the only brand of coffee Davin drank. This month. He was so obsessive about his beverages. That’s what had started the Belgian beer campaign in the first place.

Davin was no food snob: he savored a Whopper as much as smoked salmon, if he was in the mood for it. When it came to food, he was simply interested in exploring new tastes, new textures, new versions of old favorites. That’s how he had discovered the casual comfort of popcorn in tomato soup and the nostalgic gratification of frozen HoHos and fruit-filled snack pies devoured right from the freezer. But when it came to drinks, especially the potent potables, Davin was on an unending quest for the best.

Of course, the only way to determine the best is to try the rest. And Davin made it his life’s work to try every alcoholic beverage ever made. This was a full time job in itself. Not that Davin was an alcoholic. Or even that his desire was insatiable. It was a matter of experimentation, evaluation, trial and error.

Davin’s favorite explanation for his fixation was to quote Blake: “The road to excess leads to the palace of wisdom.” Without excess of rum how would he have learned that Black Seal was supreme and that Bacardi was better suited for mouthwash than firewater? Without excess of agave, how would he have discovered that mezcal was the finer cousin of tequila? So far, Lajita Mezcal had earned his vote, but he would need to become familiar with more gusanos before the next election. Unlike politicians, liquor didn’t lie.

In vino veritas: In wine there is truth. Davin was seeking truth. The only problem was that falsehoods came in too many enticing flavors: some tart, some sweet, some bold and sassy, some cool, distant, and refreshing. Unable to part with the past, Davin’s solution was to maintain a harem of hard liquor and a supply of wine concubines. When looking for a new beauty, packaging was certainly a consideration: a shapely, smooth bottle added to the allure, like lingerie on a mysterious woman. But a virgin display was not enough. Davin was convinced that truth lies only in experience, not in imagination. So he indulged in experience.

When I say, “Just looking,” I mean I am searching, I have my “eye out” for something. Looking is hoping, desiring, never just taking in light, never just merely collecting patterns and data. Looking is possessing or the desire to possess—we eat food, we own objects, and we “possess” bodies—and there is no looking without thoughts of using, possessing, repossessing, owning, fixing, appropriating, keeping, remembering and commemorating, cherishing, borrowing, and stealing. I cannot look at anything—any object, any person—without the shadow of the thought of possessing that thing. Those appetites don’t just accompany looking: they are looking itself.[1]

The only liquid Ania indulged in was body lotion. She collected new fragrances like Davin collected new flavors: Relaxing Anise, Stimulating Spice, Hot Toddy. Her latest acquisition was Concupiscent Cucumber-Melon.

Ania was also seeking truth. The only problem was that there were too many truths, too many interpretations. She wanted intellectual anarchy, not an election. She found fulfillment in formulations of fantasy and reality, in compositions of natural and artificial ingredients, in emulsions of lanolin and FD&C Red No. 5.

It wasn’t really an argument. And it wasn’t really about beer. It was about Ania’s refusal to participate in Davin’s elections. The problem wasn’t that she questioned Davin’s obsession or his distribution of superlatives. The problem was that she imagined.

She imagined that Davin was her lover. Sometimes. Sometimes she imagined that he was her father. And her child. And her friend. And her enemy.

Ania actually kissed him once. It happened at the State Fair. They had literally been throwing money away, trying to land dimes on glass saucers. It took Davin two hundred and forty two dimes, but he finally won the fuzzy stuffed purple platypus.

Ania wanted it. She was fascinated by platypuses, having read that male duckbills are the only poisonous mammals. Ania imagined that they used their poison as an aphrodisiac, when it worked, and as a tranquilizer when it didn’t. Davin offered to trade the platypus for a kiss. So Ania kissed him once and realized that Davin was also a part of herself. A part that petrified her.

Desire here is enacted as a restlessness reversing the libidinal economy of ownership; instead of wanting to possess or even “know” the other, we want to sustain the experiential excitement of not knowing, the seductive wonder we feel at discovering that the other is beyond us, unknown, inexhaustible.[2]

Ania actually kissed him once, but she imagined kissing him a thousand different times. She imagined she kissed him every time she found one of his notes, one of his not-so-subtle suggestions that she experience more of life. She imagined long, wet kisses in the living room where he slipped notes under the door; soft, stolen kisses outside, by the mailbox, where he wasted paper and 20 cent stamps sending her postcards; hot, breathy kisses in the laundry room where she found messages scrawled on used dryer sheets; full-bodied full-body kisses in the bedroom where he hid notes under her pillows. And after each imagined kiss she shredded Davin’s note and swore under her breath.

Explanation

 What if

I open my eyes

sing out my secrets

and those dreams drown

in your eyes?

By keeping my silence

I cannot disappoint

and the dreamer never dies[3]

Davin rejected Ania’s explanation. Ania continued to reject Davin’s intimations. Davin rejected Ania’s rejection and continued on his quest for the perfect drink.

“You want that on the rocks?”

“No, Sir, I take mine neat.”

Davin couldn’t imagine how anyone could dilute experience. Who would vitiate a shot of Oban with ice?  He didn’t even indulge in mixed drinks because he likened it to participating in an orgy. What might be gained in pleasure is definitely lost in control. Davin wanted control, so he stuck with serial monogamy.

Ania didn’t know how not to dilute experience. When you can’t manage experience with your hands you manage it with your imagination. What might be lost in pleasure is gained in control. Ania wanted control, so she stuck with masturbation.

Irony is about contradictions that do not resolve into larger wholes, even dialectically, about the tension of holding incompatible things together because both or all are necessary and true.[4]

---

[1] Elkins, James. The Object Stares Back: On the Nature of Seeing. San Diego: Harvest, 1997.

[2] Davis and Schadle, “Alternative Research Writing and the Academic Act of Seeking,” CCC 51.3 (2000):  422.

[3] Janice Carello. 1993.

[4] Haraway, Donna. Simians, Cyborgs, and Women: The Reinvention of Nature. New York: Routledge, 1991.

Petals for Eveline

 Circa 2000. Another piece I wrote for an independent study in my MA program. I was asked to write a piece in which I blurred fact and fiction.

 A Short Story

The ant climbs up a trunk

carrying a petal on its back;

and if you look closely

that petal is as big as a house

especially compared to the ant that

carries it so olympically.

You ask me: Why couldn’t I carry

a petal twice as big as my body and my head?

Ah, but you can, little girl,

but not petals from a dahlia,

rather boxes full of thoughts

and loads of magic hours, and

a wagon of clear dreams, and

a big castle with its fairies:

all the petals that form the soul of

a little girl who speaks and speaks. . . ![1]

--David Escobar Galindo

            “It could still go either way,” Eve said, struggling to lift her heavy, droopy daughter, Eveline, out of her crib. Eveline felt heavy and droopy because she was two years old, no longer an infant, and also because she was still half-asleep. “They’ve only been deliberating for a week. If the deliberations had taken longer I would be strongly convinced that we’d won, if you can call it that now. But after only a week . . .it should take nearly a week for most of the jury to simply understand what we’re talking about, let alone consider the ethical, economic, and legal implications of their verdict. Hell, I barely even understand it all, and I’ve been studying it for years.”

            “You’re certain the decision will come today?” asked Lorena, Eveline’s nanny. “Shouldn’t you be at the courthouse then?” Lorena handed Eve a pink barrette that had fallen from Eveline’s unruly brown curls.

            “Only the lawyers have to be there. I’m just one of the witnesses. One of the flies caught in the political web. Michael promised he would call and let me know when they’ve reached a verdict.” Eve fastened the barrette back in place and gently combed Eveline’s hair with her fingers. Eveline closed her eyes and started to fall back asleep as she rested a chubby pink cheek on Eve’s shoulder.

            “I know this has been hard on you, ma’am. You’ve published so many articles and books about this. People are finally listening, but now, well, since Eveline . . .” Lorena stepped back and began fussing with the hem on the skirt one of Eveline’s dolls: the antique doll that talked when you pulled the string on her back. The doll’s dress was a bit tattered, but she could still say seven different phrases.

“I understand how hard this must be, ma’am. And I hope I’m not speaking out of place. But at least it’ll all be over after today.” Lorena stopped fussing with the doll and stretched her arms out toward Eveline. “Would you like me to take Evie to the park so you can rest, ma’am?”

            “No, thank you, Lorena. I’ll look after her myself this afternoon. In fact, you take the rest of the day off. You deserve it. You’ve been putting in so many extra hours since the trial began.” Eve ushered Lorena to the door. “Before you go out, though, please ask Carlos to take the call from Michael for me when it comes in and to bring me the message right away.” Lorena opened her mouth, raised her eyebrows, and started to protest, but Eve cut her off, “Thank you, Lorena. Really, thank you.”

            After Lorena left, Eve sat with Eveline in the rocking chair. Eve wasn’t ready for the jury’s verdict. As a philosopher, she had been preparing for it for the last twenty years, but as a parent, she wasn’t sure she would ever be fully prepared. What would the consequences be in a world like this? she thought.  What would happen to Eveline? She didn’t want to think about that. “Only a few minutes longer, sleepyhead,” Eve said to her daughter, “then you have to wake up.” This had all been so much easier when it was just theory, Eve sighed as she rocked slowly, rhythmically.

Philosophers and scientists had begun defending, criticizing, and debating the implications of the Argument for Moral Consistency as far back as the 1970s, during the first population and energy crises. Eve herself had been defending it since 2036, when Macphail’s theory about the evolution of consciousness had finally been supported and widely accepted by philosophers, experimental psychologists, linguists, and neurologists, first in China, then in the United States after the 2034 Energy Crisis. As the new decade approached, fewer people were dying each year as a result of mass starvation, but the practices of infanticide and geronticide continued to spread. People didn’t openly discuss these practices, of course. They didn’t want to believe they ever happened, let alone still happened. Eve didn’t understand their reluctance herself until she had Eveline. So much had changed since she’d had Eveline.

            “Time to wake up, Eveline,” Eve said. Eveline lifted her head, but was struggling to keep her eyes open. “Come on, darling. It’s time to wake up.” Eve spoke more calmly this time, but rubbed Eveline’s back briskly, trying to rouse her. Eveline’s yellow cotton T-shirt crept up as she rubbed, and Eveline reached back to yank it back down. “What’s the matter, Evie? Are Mommy’s hands cold? I’m sorry. Come on and wake up, now. Mommy will read you a story.” Eveline responded with a yawn.

            Eve hoped reading a story would help her stop thinking obsessively about the trial. And about Michael. Ten years ago, when she was a post doc and he was starting his own law practice, they were clearly on the same side. They were both young and idealistic and had combined their efforts to develop and implement effective solutions to the world’s problems. Three years ago, however, when she became pregnant unexpectedly and refused to abort Michael’s child, the sides began to blur. 

During the trial, Eve tried to explain the essential elements of Macphail’s theory to the jurors in the simplest way she knew how: According to this theory, consciousness evolved in human animals, and in human animals only, because they have acquired language. The rest of the theory is a hypothetical syllogism: If an animal does not acquire language, then the animal is not conscious of itself. If the animal is not conscious of itself, then the animal is not conscious of its feelings. If the animal is not conscious of its feelings, then the animal is not conscious of pain. Therefore, if the animal does not acquire language, the animal is not conscious of pain. It does not suffer.

            After a few minutes of rubbing, Eveline’s eyes were finally open and appeared to be focused on the banana-yellow and plum-purple alphabet wallpaper. Eve stood up and walked over to the bookcase. There were easily two hundred books on the shelves, and Eve had read each one to Eveline at least twice. She knew how important it was to read to children, how it was supposed to help them develop language skills. So Eve had filled the room with books. And dolls. The room used to be full of fuzzy, cute, mute stuffed animals that Eveline had received from family and friends. But Eve had replaced all of the animals with dolls: little girls with pretty names, porcelain faces, pink cheeks, and glossy painted mouths.

            Eve’s eyes were on the dolls, but her mind was back at the trial. Animals’ rights are determined by whether or not they suffer, she’d had to explain. Since Macphail’s theory links suffering to language, and language to humanity, the implications of the theory go beyond non-human animals. In other words, some humans who lack language abilities, such as infants, comatose patients, the hopelessly senile, or the profoundly retarded, are also not conscious. They are considered “marginal cases of humanity” and considered by some as virtually no different than non-human animals. Therefore, the whole argument basically came down to this: to be fair and to be consistent, marginal cases of humanity and non-human animals should be treated in the same way and be extended the same rights. Even a year ago this still all made sense to Eve. It was clear. Today she felt as bewildered as some of the jurors looked when she tried to explain.

            “Ready for a story?” Eve asked Eveline as she slid a book from the shelf. “Here’s a nice book, Evie. See the sailboat? I know, how about a poem?” Eve sat with Eveline on the window seat. “Here, you hold it,” she said, handing Eveline the book, hoping yet that she might be able to distract herself.  Eveline, oblivious to her mother’s distraction, had taken the book in both hands, pulled it to her mouth, and begun chewing on the corner.

            At Michael’s insistence, Eve had given an example in court to help the jury understand: “How many of you have ever been given a drug like diazepam as a sedative before a minor surgical procedure instead of being given a pain killer?” Eve had asked. “A drug that doesn’t take away pain, but rather takes away your consciousness, your memory of the pain? That’s what life is like all the time for non-human animals and humans who lack language abilities. They feel pain, but they don’t remember it. Not like humans. They are not conscious of it. Therefore, they do not suffer.”

            Eve took the book from Eveline, who was now trying to tear the pages out, and selected a poem. “Here’s a good one, Evie. Let’s read this one.” She pulled Eveline closer to her and held the book in front of her so she could see the words. “Ready? It’s called ‘A Short Story,’ and it was written by a man named David Escobar Galindo.

‘The ant climbs up a trunk carrying a petal on its back . . .’”  

            That’s what Michael had forced Eve to testify to: that Brandon did not suffer. That the head injury Brandon incurred when he was four left him severely brain damaged and took away his ability for language. Therefore, according to the syllogism, since Brandon no longer had language, he was no longer conscious of pain. Despite how difficult it was to accept, according to philosophers and scientists, marginal humans like Brandon were no longer “persons.” They were no different than non-human animals. Therefore, if it was legal for Brandon’s parents to euthanize their dog, it should be legal for them to euthanize Brandon.

            Three years ago, even one year ago, Michael would not have had to call Eve as a hostile witness. “Why are you trying to sabotage this?” Michael demanded after Eve testified. “Your whole career has been built on this.”

“It’s not just theory any more.” Eve replied, shaking her head. “You, of all people, should know this. It’s not just other people’s children we’re arguing about any more.”

Eve underlined the words on the page with her finger as she read the next lines of the poem: “‘and if you look closely/ that petal is as big as a house/ especially compared to the ant that carries it so olympically.’”

            In theory, all of it still made sense. If marginal humans are not really “human,” and they do not suffer, then why should a healthy chimpanzee, pig, cat, or rat enjoy more or fewer rights than Brandon? Brandon’s parents were suffering, not Brandon. People don’t really put their pets or their children out of misery; they put themselves out of misery. Brandon’s parents, therefore, should be able to decide what was best for them, and what was best for Brandon.

            “’You ask me: Why couldn’t I carry a petal twice as big as my body and head?’”

Eveline had turned two a month ago, but had not yet spoken one word. The doctors were still doing tests. Eve tried not to worry, but the trial was making that difficult. It wasn’t just about euthanasia. It wasn’t just about Brandon. As much as Eve the philosopher felt that consistency was the only ethical solution, Eve the parent worried that consistency would mean she would lose her rights as Eveline’s mother. That even though she was suffering, she would not be allowed to decide what was best for herself or for Eveline. If Eveline would just speak . . .

“’Ah, but you can, little girl . . .’” Eve managed to read the words on the page, but her thoughts were drowning in twenty years of research.

            If no language equals no pain, then language equals pain. One hundred and fifty years ago, Moreau thought that pain was unnecessary in humans because they are intelligent. He understood that pain had evolved, but mistakenly believed it had evolved in both human and non-human animals. He was also convinced that pain would, and should, eventually evolve out of the human species. Obviously, he had overlooked the importance of language.

            “’but not petals from a dahlia . . .’”

            Moreau had made no connection between language and consciousness, or between language and pain. He, too, saw pain and suffering as a dividing point for humanity, but he saw it backwards. He thought pain and suffering were what made animals non-human. Eve remembered a passage from one of his notebooks: “So long as visible or audible pain turns you sick, so long as your own pain drives you, so long as pain underlies your propositions about sin, so long, I tell you, you are an animal, thinking a little less obscurely what an animal feels.”

            Eve had taken Eveline’s hand and was now helping her point to the words as Eve read them: “’rather boxes full of thoughts . . .’”   

Strauss and Nemur never made the connection either, which was a pity because Strauss and Nemur had documented performing operations on animals in 1960 similar to those Moreau had performed in 1896. Unlike Moreau, however, in addition to experimenting on non-human animals, Strauss and Nemur had experimented on a human animal named Charlie Gordon. In their experiment, which was well documented, they didn’t focus on pain, or even on language; they focused on intellect. And while the link was not explicitly made, as Charlie’s language abilities improved, he not only became more intelligent, he became another person. Or, rather, he became a person. He became conscious of himself and his feelings.

            “’and loads of magic hours, and . . .’”

            Unfortunately, as with Moreau’s experiments, the results of Charlie’s operation lasted only temporarily. Scientists had continued to experiment, but to date none had been any more successful. Of course, even in the 70s there hadn’t been a demand as there was now. After today, however . . .

“’a wagon of clear dreams, and . . .’”

Eve’s voice was growing loud, impatient. The same rules should apply. But what would winning the argument mean now? That it was not only acceptable to euthanize infants and the severely retarded or brain injured, but that it would also be acceptable to experiment on them, to use them as domestic labor, or to kill them for food? That sounded like a big leap to those unfamiliar with the argument, but it was not. Factors such as over-population, flooding, and famine were also part of the argument, not just pain and language. And . . .

            “’a big castle with its fairies . . .’”

            And what would happen to Eveline? Perhaps infants’ rights would be protected because they were “potential humans.” But what would be the cutoff age? Would children have to talk by the time they were eighteen months old? Two years old? Three? What if Eveline didn’t start speaking soon? Even if Eveline didn’t suffer, even if Michael didn’t suffer, Eve suffered. What if they took Eveline away from her? What if . . .

            “all the petals that form the soul of a little girl who speaks and speaks . . . !”

            Eve turned Eveline around so she was facing her. Eveline was plucking at a daisy appliqué on her shirt. “That’s right: petals! Say ‘petals’ for Mommy.” Eve was nearly shouting. “Look at me!” Eve said, grabbing hold of Eveline’s shoulders. Eveline shrank and looked up at her mother. “Say something!” she commanded her daughter, who, like Eve, had started to cry. “You are not an animal. Please. Speak. Little girls speak and speak . . .!”

The shouting and crying were so loud that Eve did not hear the phone ring, nor did she hear Carlos step into the room a minute later.

            “Speak!’” Eve sobbed again. She was startled when Carlos spoke instead:

            “I’m terribly sorry to interrupt you, ma’am, but that was Michael on the phone.

You won.”

---

[1] David Escobar Galindo, “A Short Story,” Trans. Jorge D. Piche, This Same Sky: A Collection of Poems from around the World, Selected by Naomi Shihab Nye (New York: Four-Winds-Macmillan, 1992) 20-21.

Bake an Ape

Circa 2000. I was doing research on language and consciousness for an independent study in my MA program and was asked to write a piece that could be recorded for radio broadcast. The research is outdated now, but I did have a lot of fun creating this.

Title: Differences in Human and Animal Language Use: A Meta-Thought Experiment

Authors: Janice McKay, graduate student at the State University College at Brockport, NY, and Her Imagination

Problem: How can the differences between the way humans and animals use language be demonstrated in an informative and entertaining manner to an audience with little no previous background in linguistic theory?

Hypothesis: The main difference between the way humans and animals use language is that animals use signs and humans use both signs and symbols. To greatly simplify, this means that animals communicate, even when using human language, by thinking of and pointing at things that have a referent in reality, usually things of evolutionary significance to them such as food and sexual partners. Humans, however, can communicate this way, but can also communicate by using symbols, which allows them to think about and manipulate things that may not exist in reality, may not be present, or which we want to deny, like unicorns or talking apes. In other words, unlike other animals, humans use language to imagine and create things. Therefore, it should be possible to demonstrate the differences in how humans and animals use language by using our imaginations to do a thought experiment.[1]

Definitions: What I mean by a thought experiment here is simply the creation, manipulation, and discussion of something that does not exist outside of imagination.

Materials: An audience and Imagination

Procedure: Administer “Bake and Ape: A Thought Experiment” to an audience (See Appendix B)

Results/Data/Summary: Pending further study. This experiment has not been tested on the imaginations of an actual audience.

Conclusion: If, at the end of the experiment, audience members have used their imaginations, and have been able to understand through the examples how animals and humans use language differently, especially that imagination is one important way humans and animals use language differently, then the experiment can be considered successful.

 Appendix B: A Transcript of  “Bake an Ape: A Thought Experiment,” by Janice McKay

 I suppose it’s best to begin with a definition. What I mean by “thought experiment” here is simply that we are going to use our imaginations to create something. Something that does not exist in the world outside of our imaginations. And yes, I did say, “we.” You’re going to be my lab partner.

 Why are we going to do this, you ask? Well, mostly because we can, and animals can not. And also because what I’m interested in exploring in this experiment is how humans and animals use language differently. My hypothesis, then, is that by using language to imagine, to create and manipulate reality, we will at the same time be demonstrating how humans and animals use language differently.

            But let’s forget about hypotheses for now and just get to the fun part. Let’s get out our imaginations, get into the laboratory, and get started. First, since I sound and think more like Betty Crocker than Dr. Jeckyl, let’s imagine that we’re in a test kitchen. That’s the kind of laboratory I can relate to. Now, before we can actually create anything, we have to know what it is that we want to create. When Betty Crocker decides it’s time to invent a new cake mix, she has to picture the finished product first. She has to imagine, say, Banana-Asparagus Bundt Cake before she can develop the recipe for it and actually make it. And she also has to test market it before we’ll be able to find it in our local supermarket.

             So, what do we want? Well, it’s definitely not Banana-Asparagus Bundt Cake. You might have already guessed from the title that we want to bake an ape. Not just any ordinary ape - we want a talking ape. No, not like a Planet of the Apes talking ape; those apes were just actors in hairy costumes. And not like real apes who use sign language; those apes don’t use language the same way humans do, if at all. What we want is an ape who can talk, write, and imagine.

            So what do we need to do that, you ask? Well, now that we know what we want, we can create a recipe. First we’ll start with a base of syntax and grammar, then we’ll add a symbol system . . . But wait! You’re not very familiar with these ingredients, you say? This sounds like one of those exotic recipes that calls for cardamom or coriander?

Don’t sweat it. Remember, this is a quick mix; all of the ingredients are already in the box, which is your brain. You don’t have to know what they look like or how they work to use them. After all, how many of us can identify the maltodextrin or guar gum in our favorite cake mix? Who needs to? The cake still tastes the same when we’re done. So, forget the ingredients list, all we need to do now is add one large ape, stir, and bake for two seconds: one Mississippi, two Mississippi. Ding! He’s done! Quicker than a Jiffy Bake Oven.

            Now, let’s take a look. Well, he looks like an ape. And yes, it is a he. I flipped a coin while counting the Mississippis and it came up tails, so it’s a he. And we should probably give him a name, don’t you think? Names are important. They’re symbols. They don’t just refer to an object, like a real ape or the ape in our imagination, they also refer to all of the things we associate with that object, like bananas or Betty Crocker.

            So what should it be? How about Jake? Jake the baked talking ape. Kinda catchy, don’t you think? Jake it is then. Let’s make sure Jake’s baked. Hmmm, he appears to be a little undercooked, but looks can be deceiving. Let’s taste. No, I don’t mean we’re going to eat his flesh. That would offend a lot of animal rights people and besides, it wouldn’t tell us anything about how Jake uses language. I know I said forget the hypothesis, but this experiment is about language. So what I mean by “let’s taste,” is “let’s sample and digest Jake’s words. Let’s see if his language has changed, see if we can detect the ingredients we added that will make his language human.”

            Well, it appears that Jake has wasted no time. He acquired human language less than a minute ago and already he has an ad out in the personals section of the Banana Republic Weekly. Let’s read it:

                        strong hairy male wants

                        pretty young female

                        give bananas

Yep, Jake is definitely undercooked. In this ad, he’s still using language like a regular ape. He uses mostly lexical words, words like bananas, play, and female, which point to real objects, and very few grammatical words, like give and to, which show relationships between objects. The syntax, or word order, is undercooked also. While it appears we have a male looking for a female to give bananas to, we can’t rule out the possibility that what Jake means is that he wants the female to give the bananas to him. Or that he’s simply requesting a female and some bananas, without intending to connect the two. We can’t be sure Jake understands how word order can change the meaning of a sentence.

         
 From this ad, we also see that Jake is still using only imperative and declarative phrases: phrases that express commands or desires, to think of and ask for things that have to do with food, predators, and/or sexual partners. While regular apes will use language to make requests 96% of the time, humans use language to make statements most of the time.

            So, I think we’d better put Jake back in the oven for a little longer . . .OK, that’s enough. What do you think? A little darker, but still a little squishy in the middle? Let’s taste again and see how he’s evolving. Mmmm, this second sample is a letter Jake wrote to his mom. Too bad she can’t read it or even understand it. But we can. Let’s dig in:

                        Dear Mom,

            You’re never going to guess what’s happened to me! I can talk! And I can write! Do you know what that means? Well, of course you don’t, but what that means is I can learn! I can do math! I know you can count to nine, Mom, but I can do algebra and calculus. I can do scientific experiments. No, Mom, not experiments like this hokey thought experiment, I mean real experiments, like working with chemicals and Bunsen burners. I can use fire! You remember The Jungle Book movie, don’t you, Mom?

Did I tell you that I’m in college now, Mom, studying theology, criminology, sociology, banana-ology? I’m also studying things like history and literature, and my favorite subject is anatomy.

Don’t worry, Mom. I’m still into primate anatomy. I tried going out  with a couple of human females, but all they think about is free dinner and monkeying around. How primitive. I wish there were talking female apes so I could get a mate now and then. Don’t get me wrong. I am excited about my new language, but I’m also a little lonely sometimes.

                                    Hope to talk to you sometime, anytime.

                                    Your son, Jake

Well, Jake certainly is cooked more, but I’m not sure he’s quite done. Let’s talk about what we’ve just sampled. We could certainly taste more grammar and syntax: Jake’s using connecting words, like about, and, to, and but, which show relationships between other words. For example, “I am excited about my new language, but I’m also a little lonely sometimes.” It is clear from that sentence that Jake understands word order, that that sentence would be different if the words were rearranged to say, “My new language is excited about me.”

            And let’s see, Jake is still talking a lot about food and sexual partners, but he’s making statements about them, not just asking for them. Also, it’s interesting that Jake mentions that he’s studying things like theology and anatomy and banana-ology. He’s not just studying concrete things, like bones or bananas, he’s studying the study of bones and bananas; he’s studying abstract things like ideas that he can’t touch, see, or smell.

            While Jake is definitely closer to done, I’m concerned that the letter is addressed only to his mother. I would like to see him cooked enough to be able to attend to more than one person at a time, and I would also like to see his creativity brown a little more. I think we should put him in for just a little bit longer.

            Time’s up. Get your glass of milk ready, or whatever it is you drink with baked apes, and let’s dig in! Ooh look, this time Jake’s given us a story to sample. He’s even named it.

 Nate the Great: A Hairy Tail

Once upon a time there was an ape named Nate. Nate was no ordinary ape; he was a great ape with a unique gift. He had a magical tool that he used to create things. The tool was invisible, yet it was so powerful it could be used to create things right inside an ape’s head, even things that had never been seen before.

Apes traveled from distant tree houses to see Nate the Great work his magic. They came to him with special requests. “Nate the Great,” one ape asked,  “could you make me a gadget that would help my poor arthritic mother peel her bananas?” To which Nate the Great replied: “Close your eyes, my child. Imagine stainless steel and razor blades.” Nate continued with his magic until the ape had an     image of this gadget in his mind, a blueprint he could carry with him wherever he went.  

                      

“Thank you, Nate the Great,” the ape said when they were finished, to which Nate replied, “All you have to do is Imagine.”

Sometimes the apes would use their hands to build replicas of the images Nate had created in their minds. It went on this way until other apes acquired the magic tool that Nate had. Eventually all of the apes acquired this tool and could create their own images. They even joined together in using their tools to create other things. They created stories, laws, and religions; art, science, and technology; songs, superstitions, and even dirty banana jokes. And eventually they pretty much forgot about Nate the Great, the ape who gave them this powerful tool in the first place, the ape who gave them language: the power tool of imagination.             

The End.

 Well, pat yourselves on the back. Jake’s fully cooked and his language tastes pretty darn good. A little plain, perhaps, but definitely human. Jake’s all set with the grammar and syntax now. And he uses words as symbols, as names: concepts of things, not the actual things themselves. Jake cannot be pointing at a gadget that peels bananas or to a talking ape that exists in the real world because those things don’t exist outside of his imagination. And even if the words had a referent in the physical world, what Jake is manipulating is the concept of the thing; he’s manipulating the meaning of the thing, not the actual thing itself. 

            And Jake is doing this by using both statements and requests in this sample. One of his statements, “Once upon a time,” is very interesting. It may seem a little cliché, but it shows that Jake understands that this phrase is an accepted social practice for beginning a story, a fairy tale, or “hairy tail” as Jake calls it. Also, Jake attends to more than one person in the story, and he seems to realize that his story will have an audience.

            We should also note that while bananas appear again, the story is not predominantly about food or sexual partners. Jake is not just conveying practical information that would aid in survival; he is expressing his ideas. He is able to use his magic tool, which is language. The kind of language we humans use, that we are using right now. We are able to imagine Jake and talk about him and change him because we have human language.

            Well, I guess this means that we’ve finished our experiment. Jake’s been baked and digested. I hope he wasn’t too hard to swallow. Do you think now that we’ve test marketed him a little he’s ready for the supermarket shelves? Is he safe to put in other people’s imaginations? Or would you prefer a different recipe? There’s a great idea! Think of something you want to create. Use your imagination to invent a gadget, a creature, a song, a riddle, a picture, a trip to Mars, a banana peeler, a girlfriend for Jake, an article of clothing, a story. Anything. Everything.

Why?

Well, just because you can.

Bibliography

Berkoff, Mark and Dale Jamieson, eds. Readings in Animal Cognition. Cambridge: Bradford-MIT, 1996.

Britton, James, et al. “An Approach to the Function Categories.” The Development of Writing Abilities (11-18). School’s[?] Council Research Studies, 1975.

Cummins, Denise Dellarosa, and Colin Allen, eds. The Evolution of Mind. New York: Oxford UP, 1998.

Fromkin, Victoria, and Robert Rodman. An Introduction to Language. 6th ed. Fort Worth: Harcourt Brace, 1998.

Griffin, Donald R. Animal Minds. Chicago: U of Chicago P, 1992.

Langer, Susanne K. “Signs and Symbols.” The Essay Connection. 3rd ed. Ed. Lynne Z. Bloom.  Lexington: Heath, 1991.

Macphail, Euan M. The Evolution of Consciousness. Oxford: Oxford UP, 1998.

Noske, Barbara. Humans and Other Animals: Beyond the Boundaries of Anthropology. London: Pluto, 1989.

Vauclair, Jacques. Animal Cognition: An Introduction to Modern Comparative Psychology. Cambridge:  Harvard UP, 1996.

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[1] For a more comprehensive discussion, see Langer’s essay, “Signs and Symbols”