Part the Second
Then again, Camus'
Myth of Sisyphus is a multivalent kick in the parts. Originating as an argument against perceived existential hopelessness leading to suicide, Albert Camus appears to have, at the very least, accomplished the feat; it is a powerful, meticulous work. But the slender tome, ironically, is one of the most miserable you might ever encounter, because learning this answer is what it is, but does not seem to do much, at least in the short term, to help one feel better about the horrifying spectacle that is our existence. Effectively, it sets a higher standard for surrender. Michael Jackson can sing of the man in the mirror; Roger Waters can appeal to each small candle. We are for the time being left to bargain with the horrors we perceive; there will, it seems, always be sacrificial lambs. The count and the reasons are the only aspects we really have any say over, and that really does place the burden on each and every one of us as individuals, and all of us together.
None of this means I might propose a solution; we fall back to futility. Somewhere in between, though, change flickers, hope shines. It helps us feel better if we let it. In witchcraft, you approach the tree reverently, tell it you need the bough. And after you cut the bough, you thank the tree. Maybe the tree hears and understands; we cannot confirm this, nor at this point even reasonably assert it. Nonetheless, the ritualized reverence does, in fact, help people feel better.
But how, exactly do we thank the sacrificial lambs? To do so now means we are thanking those we have not yet lain upon the altar. And how, exactly, do we look them in the eye, tell them we need this, and thank them for their sacrifice?
If the purpose of life is the propogation of life generally, and species particularly―the only explanation I've yet found that starts to account for
anything―then yes, there is a greater good unto which we sacrifice these people, and even bits and pieces of ourselves.
A practical example: We will never, as long as our genetic lineage includes sexual organs, get rid of the crime of rape. It will never go away completely. But none of that says anything to justify any proposition that what we see in our society today is necessary. That is, nature will always provide at least someone to undertake these acts we call rape, but that will be an extremely low number if left simply to brain structure and pathology. The human factors, the outcomes of our will, cause incalculably greater damage.
The rapists of this mythical utopia are fashioned
neurologically, and according to the
psychiatric results thereof. What, though, of the
psyhcological? And that's the thing. Whether it's the young rapist on a college campus who apparently doesn't know the act is wrong―or is not socially equipped to comprehend why such actions are wrong―or perhaps the domestically violent who can't control a temper owing to basic neurotic conflicts derived from life expereience, these factors are not so far out of reach for individual and soceital influence. Unlike Nature itself, human nature is not a fundamental component of our futility.
And it's also true that when we try to follow these notions all the way to a mother stabbing the hell out of a baby with a pair of scissors just because the baby behaves like a baby, it's not much for comfort. Working up the ladder from the act itself, though, futility asserts itself in a blunt and practical manner: Can I change the circumstances in China? No. Will I still hear these awful tales from around the world, and even from my own society? Yes. Can I live with that specific fact? Yes, but .... Wait: Can I live with that
specific fact? Yes. Great, I can tell myself that I can live with me. Now, what's the but? But the fact that it's happening?
Right. That's the problem. So what do I do?
It's not quite futility, but it feels like it most days. When it's in front of you in the moment in life, you deal with it. When you see it afar, you say something. Because it's one thing for the individual to reorganize their own priorities, and perhaps that person will gain an assertion of understanding, and a context of comfort along the way. But how to communicate that to others? How to make it important enough? How do we, for lack of any more dignified a term, sell others on an idea?
And it really is a crass notion, but my community―homosexuals, in this case―just experienced one of the craziest social revolutions in recorded history. It is true that certain aspects of other people's lives also became more sympathetically apparent to me during and resulting from this period. Some of that is specifically because of the issues; most of it is because the period runs from the end of my teens on into middle age, when these are things I'm supposed to be learning, anyway.
But I look at my daughter. Or my mother. Or any woman I know. And consider a matter of priorities, whether it's street harassment ("How's a guy supposed to meet girls, then?") or just the everyday slings and arrows of being bitches, cunts, too fat, too skinny, wearing too much makeup, not wearing enough―as John Lennon put it, "Woman is the nigger of the world." And in this society where people are so busy trying to keep a roof over their heads, keep the lights on, keep food on the table, and keep hope alive for tomorrow, it's often too much to ask that they at least read the damn voter's guide before forgetting to go to the polls. When the human rights discourse rises, we experience astonishing resistance even to the idea of making a small but important effort to
not be part of the problem. Listen to people push back against the humanity of women. Or dark skin. Or whatever religion over there.
But a certain range of feminist complaint illustrates nearly perfectly. Because it's true that for many of us it doesn't sink in until it's our daughter, or our mother, or our best friend. And even then, we need some genuinely unsettling kick where it hurts most before we start dealing with it. Because I can't tell you what proportion of the men I know―"not quite all of them" is about as close as I can manage, with no specific scale for what that means―will still find ways to justify what seems small and insignificant to them. It's astounding. I've known men to start forgetting their own lives in order to pretend there is no problem to address.
Nor is it just men; I can't even get my own mother to stop using the word "ladylike".
And it is agonizing some days to hear guys going on as they do, and this isn't even the filthy stuff. I mean, consider the question of female TV presenters, or the reliable bias against female public speakers and authority. We all chuckled some weeks ago when Marco Rubio got a mild dose over wearing boots with a ridiculous drop, something like three and three-quarters inches. Then again, historically speaking, shorter politicians fare worse. Compared to the bit in Australia where the male presenter wore the same suit on the air for over a year and nobody noticed, the whole time the show receiving vociferous criticism of his female co-presenter's fashion sense, yeah, we all chuckled when it was Rubio's turn; he still has no idea what it's like. But, you know, in the end, asking people to make an effort to put aside this simple prejudice expressed in this particular way, and simply regard women as human beings, is asking too damn much.
And compared to that, yes, changing the circumstances that contribute so greatly to what happened in China seems incredibly futile. But that's the thing; either Sisyphus is happy, or else we denounce him because pushing a goddamn rock up a goddamn hill for no reason on through eternity is just plain lazy.
At the same time, though, each one of us is the only person who can do anything about it. That our influence does not equal omnipotence does not, in turn, equal futility. Then again, neither does that mean it doesn't feel like futility. Still, every day each person waits is that much longer before we find a way through, and that many more lambs to the altar. Nor can we expect, barring tremendous and radical technological innovation, that humanity overcome these aspects of its miserable condition during our lifetimes; there is a lot we can accomplish, but I do not expect to live long enough. Give me two hundred years, probably. Another hundred, maybe. And that's part of the feeling of futility, as well; this horror transcends us in every way―we will never, having known it, escape it during our lifetimes.
Do these prospects fail to comfort? Is that question an understatement? I'm not certain, but I think that is how it is supposed to be; if our purpose in living is life and species, yes, it becomes a fundamental component of our raison d'être to check our priorities, and find some way to start dealing with the interconnectedness of all our human misery.
And there are some long, dark hours of the soul in which that is, in truth, enough. Marx once defined his living passion as, "To fight". Depending on how we define that, he might seem to have a point. And this myth is imprinted in our human history. It is part of DNA of civilized human society. Metaphorically, at least. And, you know, depending on how we define that, it can be argued a literal truth as well.
It is not necessarily a comfortable sense of purpose, but it is also one that makes sense, and would seem to be the one we have:
You are supposed to feel that horror; and yes, you are supposed to fight back.
out.
