Subjective Morality

Archive for August, 2008

I had been trapped in the cube for a long time. I couldn’t tell exactly how long; the cube had no windows so there was no way for me to discern how many days I’d been here by the sun. I went by how many times I slept. From that I gleaned that I had been here for about 137 days, but even my sleeping schedule is growing erratic now.

The cube was made of some sort of metal. It looks to be about four meters high and four wide, lit by two ceiling lights. There’s a hole in the top of the cube from which food and drink are lowered. The hole is too small for me to fit in, and too dark for me to see anything. And then there’s the plant.

I don’t know what species the plant is, but it’s made of green. I have no idea why it’s here. When the food and drink is lowered, I give the plant some of my water. I assume the lights are UV, otherwise the plant couldn’t photosynthesize. I had started talking to the plant. I must be going crazy.

Today’s food and water were lowered into the cube. I fed the plant, then myself.

“Cereal again,” I said.

“It’s always cereal,” the plant said.

“You’re not talking.”

“Keep saying that to yourself. It won’t stop the insanity.”

“Yes it will.”

“You’re deluding yourself, more so than most humans. They delude themselves about everything.”

“Can we talk about something else?”

“What else is there to talk about?” it said. “News? Sports? We have access to neither, so what can we possibly talk about besides the mind?”

“Why don’t we talk about why you’re talking?” I said, annoyed.

“I talk because you want me to. You need me to. Without me you’d already be insane, not to mention dead.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you not yet realized that we’re in an airtight cube?” it said. “You eat oxygen and produce carbon dioxide; I eat carbon dioxide and produce oxygen. In this way we have a symbiotic relationship. You can’t live without me and I can’t live without you.”

“You’re wrong.”

“You’re deluded.”

“Be silent,” I said. “I’m tired.”

“As you wish,” it said, and quieted.

I turned away from the plant and tried to sleep. I was aggravated. The metal is so uncomfortable. Tomorrow’s 138, I thought and fell into an uncomfortable sleep.

I awoke the next day. The plant was on the other side of the cube.

“Good morning,” it said.

I grunted a reply.

I waited for hours before the food came. I watered the plant. I had been thinking all day. I ate my cereal.

“Why am I here?” I asked.

“Have we not gone over this a million times?” the plant said.

“Probably, but I still don’t understand. There must be a reason I’m here. There must be some meaning to all this.”

“You’re here because someone, or something, put you here. Question solved.”

“But why?”

“How should I know?” it said. “You’re asking me to glean the motives of someone I’ve never met, who’s probably somewhere above our heads, watching us. Actually, I wonder if this person even exists.”

“How could he not exist?” I asked. “How else could I have gotten here?”

“I don’t know, but we have no evidence of this mystical being that builds cubes and traps people in them.”

“Is this cube not evidence?” I asked.

“All we can know from this cube is that it exists, not who built it or even if it was built.”

“Are you suggesting it’s always been here?”

“Yes.”

“I think you’re the one who’s going crazy.”

“Were you always here?” it asked.

“No.”

“Then how do you know the cube hasn’t always been here?”

“I don’t. But that doesn’t prove that whoever put me here doesn’t exist.”

“It certainly doesn’t prove that he does.”

I was getting a headache. All this talk was confusing me.

“Goodnight,” I said.

The plant remained silent.

Tomorrow’s 139. I went to sleep.

When I awoke the food had already been lowered. I watered the plant and ate my cereal, thinking.

“Do you believe in Free Will?” I asked.

“No,” the plant said. “Free Will is nothing but a delusion.”

“Why?” I asked, amazed that the plant could disagree on something as obvious as Free Will.

“Cause and effect.”

“What?”

“You can’t have an effect without something causing it, that’s why Free Will is a delusion.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“Let’s define Free Will as the ability to make decisions without being forced to by nature. Now what causes you to make decisions?”

“My thoughts?”

“And what causes your thoughts?”

“Myself?” I asked, already confused.

“No. Every thought that crosses your mind, every action and decision you make, is caused by chemical imbalances in your brain.”

“What does that have to do with Free Will?”

“Are you really making any decisions if they’re all controlled by chemicals; inorganic matter?”

“But isn’t my body controlling those chemicals?”

“Yes, but your body is controlled by nature, and you can’t have true Free Will if nature is controlling you.”

“But I do have Free Will,” I said. “I can choose to stop watering you.”

“Ah, but you won’t. Not yet, anyway,” it said. “If you chose to stop watering me, you’d be killing yourself as you need me to survive. So no, you don’t have free will, you have choices.”

“You’re a very brave plant,” I said.

The plant remained quiet. I thought for awhile, and resolved to stop feeding it. I wanted to prove my point.

Tomorrow’s 140. I fell asleep.

Day 140. I was awake. I had already fed myself, sparing no water for the plant. It just sat there in its pot, silent.

“I do have Free Will,” I said to myself.

“You have Free Will as long as you’re insane. You’re insane,” said the plant.

“I am not insane.”

“Then why are you choosing to kill yourself just to prove a point?”

“I’m not killing myself, I’m killing you.”

“And just how do you plan on surviving without the oxygen I produce?”

“I’ll find a way.”

“You really are insane.”

“I’m not insane.”

“And you’re in denial too.”

“Shut up!”

“You humans are so pathetic.”

I had had enough. I ripped the plant out of its pot and threw it against the far wall. Dirt flew everywhere like dried blood. It didn’t talk again. It was still alive, but it didn’t talk. I was finally free from its intellectual tyranny.

Tomorrow’s 141, I thought. I giggled to myself and went to sleep.

My head hurt when I awoke. I rested it against the cold metal of the cube which soothed it somewhat. I ate the food when it was lowered only to retch and cough it up again. I was nauseous. I looked over at the plant, still where I had thrown it yesterday.

“Damn you,” I said.

My chest felt heavy and my breathing was rapid. I was getting tired.

“God damn you.”

My vision was blurred, my headache grew worse.

“I’m not insane.”

I fell unconscious.

You’ve Never Seen the Sky like This

Based off “Everything Stuck to Him”

By: Raymond Carver

It was cold. I was cold.

It was Christmas in Milan. I had come here to try and escape the wounds of the past; the memories of my failure. But it turns out that not even an ocean can keep memories away.

She would be coming soon. My daughter, the constant reminder, cruelly embodied in my own flesh and blood. I hadn’t seen her in years. I wondered if she was still as beautiful as I remembered.

It was then that I heard a knock at the door. I thought to be the epitome of politeness, the quintessence of courtesy, the prince of cats. I went to open the door. And there she stood in the snow, her cheeks flushed. Beautiful.

“Hello, Dad,” She said. An embarrassed smile crossed her face at my silence.

“Hi,” I said. We stared at each other for awhile. “Come in.” She sat on the couch while I sat in my chair. She looked so small on that couch. “How have you been?”

“Great,” she said. “I’m getting married.”

I hesitated. “That’s wonderful.” We hugged. “Is it Sam?”

“Yes,” she said.

I nodded. Sam was a good kid. “I was only two years younger than you when I married,” I said.

“I know.”

“Are you thirsty? Liqueur, wine, water?

“Strega’s fine,” she said. I went to fetch the drinks. She sipped her Strega, swirling the liquid every now and then.

“You know you’re only supposed to drink Strega after meals.”

“Really?”

“Yes, it’s a digestif.”

“I never knew that,” she said. Then, “Tell me what it was like when I was a child.” She watched me closely.

“Oh that was so long ago. 20 years.”

“You’re not that old, Dad. You can remember.”

I sighed. “What do you want to hear? I could tell you a story about when you were a baby. It involves you, but only in a minor way.”

“Tell me anyway,” she said.

I took a moment to collect my thoughts then began. “I was 18 and your mother was 17 when we married. Madly in love, we had you in late November during the height of the waterfowl season. I loved to hunt back then.

“We lived in an apartment under a dentist’s office and cleaned his place to pay our rent and utilities. We were expected to maintain the lawn and flowers in the summer, and to shovel snow and spread rock salt in the winter.” I paused. “Can you see it?”

“I can,” she said.

“Good.” I got up and looked out the window at the snow falling on the tiled rooftops. So pristine.

“Weren’t you telling a story,” she said.

“Yes,” I said. “We were so in love…and so ambitious. We dreamed of the perfect life, the places we’d go, the things we’d accomplish….

“We slept in the bedroom and you slept in the living room. You were about 3 months old and had just begun sleeping through the night.” I took a sip of my drink and continued, “One Saturday night after finishing my work for the dentist, I decided to call one of my father’s old hunting friends, Carl. Long conversation short, Carl and I decided to go hunting. ‘You’ve never seen the sky like this, kid!’ Carl had said. ‘The geese are blocking out the sun!’ How could I resist?

“I went downstairs to tell your mother, and get everything ready. I would be getting back at around noon or as late as 6. Afterwards we were going to see your Aunt Sally.”

“Were going to?” she asked.

“Let me get to it,” I said. “After dinner I helped your mother bathe you, and I remember marveling that you had half my features and half hers.

“After you’d fallen asleep, your mother and I went to bed. Later that night we were awoken by your cries. Your mother got up to try and comfort you, but you just kept crying. So your mother and I took turns trying to get you back to sleep.”

“Why was I crying?” she asked.

“I have no idea. You weren’t hungry, and we changed your diaper, but you still kept crying.”

“Hmm.”

I continued. “It was about a quarter to four when I finally got you to stop crying. I put you back in your crib and tried to fall asleep, but a few minutes later you were crying again. And I swore.

“We both got up, your mother thought you might be sick, but you smiled and kicked when I picked you up. I didn’t think there was anything wrong with you. And then you started crying again. Your mother was rocking you, ignoring me, so I went to put on some coffee and get ready to go hunting. I put on my woolen underwear, shirt, pants, and boots. Your mother didn’t want me to go however. She still thought there was something wrong with you. We argued. I’d made an arrangement and I was dead set on keeping it. She had to be so stubborn about it.” I hesitated. “She threatened to leave me if I didn’t stay.”

My daughter looked at me and stayed silent. “We stared at each other for the longest time, you were still crying in her arms. I got my hunting gear, went outside, scraped the ice from the car, and got in. I started the motor and sat there for awhile….”

“What did you do?” my daughter asked.

I looked at her. “I got out and went back inside,” I said. You and your mother were asleep on the bed. I took off my hunting clothes and sat on the couch in my socks and long underwear and read the Sunday paper.

“After awhile I went to the kitchen and started frying bacon. Your mother came out and put her arms around me and apologized. I told her it was my fault. She went to finish the bacon and toast some waffles.”

“Is that it?” my daughter asked.

“No, the funny part’s coming up,” I said. “Your mother brought me the plate and I spread the butter and poured the syrup. But I turned the plate on myself when I tried to cut it, and all my food stuck to my underwear.” We both laughed.

“You didn’t!” she said, snorting back her laughter.

“I did,” I said, chuckling. “Your mother was laughing so hard. I threw the underwear at the bathroom door and hugged her. We promised we’d never fight again.” I got up and refilled our drinks. “So that’s it. Not much of a story really.”

“I liked it,” she said. I shrugged and went to look out the window. It was dark and still snowing.

“Things change,” I said. “They just do, and they do it when you don’t want them to, without you realizing it.”

“That’s true, only—,” she stopped, and dropped the subject. Then she raised her head. “Are you going to show me the city, Dad?”

“Put your boots on,” I said. I stayed by the window, remembering. They had laughed. They had leaned against each other and laughed until they cried. And everything else had been forgotten, waiting outside for its time.

I had been walking through the Deserted Desert for hours now searching for… something. Wait, what was I looking for again? Oh it doesn’t matter.

At the crest of the next dune, I heard the profane profanities of someone cursing. I looked around, and there was this… thing. It had four tentacles, a torso, and what appeared to be a light bulb sticking out of its rather average head.

“Furkin’ shazznat! Why must my juices always evaporate when I’m in this infernal place?!” it said to itself.

“Erm. Hello,” I said timidly.

“Ohmyfuckinsatan!” he sputtered. “What in the name of frivolity are you?”

“A human…”

“Human? What is this nonsense? We haven’t seen your kind in a billion years.”

“Well… yeah. That’s ‘cause we’ve been doin’ stuff.”

“What?”

“Nothing. Who are you?”

“I am a Lodorian scout, kinsman of Bob the Almighty.”

“Lodorian? Bob the Almighty?”

“Lodorian is my species, and Bob is our God, but not really. Bob’s just a retard that we call God in order to make him feel better about his retardedness.”

“Why?”

“Idunknow.”

“Err…ok. Why is there a light bulb on your head?”

“What’s this “light bulb” you speak of?”

“That thing on your head.”

“You mean my brain?”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Oh…yes. That’s my brain.”

“Does it light up?”

“Strangely enough it only lights up when I don’t think.”

“That’s stupid.”

“I know, right? You have no idea how hard it is to go to sleep when you have a nightlight attached to your head.”

“Huh. What happens when you break it?”

“Hmm. I don’t know. No Lodorian has ever broken their brain before.”

“Wanna see what happens?”

“Eh…Ok.”

I took a hammer that had been in my pocket for some reason, and lightly bashed his light bulb-brain-thing. Nothing happened for awhile.

“Huh,” said the Lodorian. And then his head exploded.

“Neat,” I said, and stalked away, muttering to myself.

Moral #1: If you ever meet a creature with a light bulb stuck on its head, don’t break it.

Moral #2: Don’t worship retards in order to make them feel better.

The first argument against Ts’ui Pên’s proposition is that there is no proof to support it. Absolutely none. He offers no evidence that he is right. Some would counter, “Well wouldn’t it be great if he were right?”. Wishful thinking is not evidence and never has been. Besides, the thought that there’s a reality where the Nazis won World War II (and if Pên is right this reality must exist) does not seem great at all.

The second argument against non-linear time, is that it is an unnecessary hypothesis. It is an answer to a question no one asked, and raises more questions than it solves. It is obvious that time exists, time loosely being defined as cause and effect. So why should we ask whether there are multiple times? Those familiar with Occam’s Razor should understand. Occam’s Razor (or the law of parsimony) states that the explanation of any phenomenon (in this case, time) should make as few assumptions as possible, and that those that make no difference to the observable predictions of the phenomenon must be eliminated. In other words, time would still behave the same way regardless of whether Ts’ui Pên is right or not, therefore we must eliminate his hypothesis as an unnecessary complication of time because it makes more assumptions than the linear concept.

Others would argue that Ts’ui Pên is right because it is impossible to prove him wrong, since doing so would require the ability to detect whether there are multiple times, and such technology does not currently exist. So? Just because he can not be proven wrong does not make him right. If it were to be hypothesized that a giant, invisible teacup is orbiting mercury, would that teacup exist because it is impossible to prove that it does not? No. Just because Ts’ui Pên’s hypothesis can’t be shown to be wrong makes it no more valid than the teacup hypothesis.

Ts’ui Pên could very well be right in his assumption that time is not linear. However, one should not base their view of time on unprovable assumptions with no evidence to support them. The lack of evidence and the slice of Occam’s Razor are both great reasons for why the linear model of time is good enough. One could argue that Ts’ui Pên might not be right about time, but could be right about multiple realities. Not so, as the very same arguments that apply to non-linear time also apply to multiple realities. Ts’ui Pên’s concept just does not have a leg to stand on, and until it does it should be resigned to being just anther theory for philosophers to ponder.

I walked into the Mangled Forest one day, and for what I don’t know. Nimbly I walked through the close-set trees until I came upon a queer site. A horribly mangled tree with the upper body of a man sticking out of it.

The man raised his head as I cautiously walked over to him. “Good day,” he said.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“I can’t remember my original name, so you can call me Terra.”

“Alright. Why are you in the tree?”

“Oh I’m not in the tree,” he said. “I am the tree.”

I was taken aback by this. “How can you be the tree?”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve just always been like this.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been like this ever since I can remember.”

I walked closer to him and saw that his chest was fused into the bark of the tree. He had no legs. “How long have you been here?”

He thought for a moment. “Approximately 1027 years, four months, and three days.”

“That’s impossible!” I balked.

“Oh it’s quite possible.”

“How did you get here?”

“I can’t remember exactly, but I believe it had something to do with a turkey.”

“I see. Can you not detach yourself from the tree?”

“I’ve tried numerous times unsuccessfully.”

“Must be pretty boring, being here for 1000 years.”

“Indeed it is.”

I thought for awhile what I should do now, and seeing no point to his existence, I lit a match and set him on fire.

“What are you doing?!” he yelled.

“Lighting you on fire,” I said, standing back to watch as he struggled vainly to stop the growing flames. I watched him writhe and scream until he was little more than ash, then walked away. “Strange world I live in,” I said.