A start

  Peering up through a break in the forest canopy, Bob takes a moment to enjoy a shaft of sunlight that slices into the gloom like a giant spear. He breathes a long sigh as the sun warms his face, the bright light turning his closed eyelids red. Humming quietly, Bob steps out of the warm rays and back into the surrounding shadows, blinking as his eyes readjust to the semi-darkness.

  “Why,” he asks himself, “am I wandering through this darkness when the sky above is so inviting?”

  Giving a chuckle, he answers his own question. “Money, of course, money and power and knowledge, the only true lights in this world.”

  Bob slips through a particularly dense patch off undergrowth and continues his trek. The forest itself is silent, the only sounds are the whiskwhisk of leaves sliding against his leather vest, or the soft crunch of wet leaves beneath his boots.

  Just as Bob is getting back into a rhythm, a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye sends him diving instinctively to the ground. The thwap of two bows released almost simultaneously is followed by two much louder thunks as the thick shafts sink deeply into a tree next to where Bob was walking only moments before.

  “Shit,” comes from the left, carrying clearly through the quiet of the forest.

  “Quiet, fool!” hisses another, near the first.

  That was all Bob needed to pinpoint the location of his would-be assassins. Smirking, he leaps to his feet as a few arcane words roll off his tongue. The runes tatooed along his arms, over his shoulders, and down his chest and back flare slightly as his life-force feeds power into the spell. A quick glance allows Bob to spot both men, the whites of their wideneed eyes enhanced tenfold from the magic now coursing through his body.

  Touching his index finger to his thumb, Bob releases the focused magic towards the two men, a single point of energy flying faster than an arrow at each of them. There is no sound when they hit, only a final gasp as the men crumple to the ground, dropping their bows.

  Straightening, Bob brushes off the leaves stuck to his vest and trousers, and scans the brush for additional threats. Finding none, he quietly wades through the intervening undergrowth and arrives beside the body of the first assassin.

  “A little more discipline, and it would be you standing over me,” says Bob, quietly rubbing his left arm with his right hand. His skin tingles after using the runes, and though rubbing them does no good, it has become a habit to run his fingers along the raised lines. The burning stopped long ago, when the runes first started showing up, and now he was just getting used to the tingling. A leaf slides off his arm as Bob rubs his skin, and floats down to briefly rest on the mans right leg, before sliding off and disappearing into the pile of leaves already surrounding the body.

  Bob drops to a knee beside the man and briskly pats him down, withdrawing a small coin purse and a smudged gold ring, but finding nothing indicating who he was or what he was doing here. Not that he needed any indication, the Affiliates were the only ones who sent assassins after the rune-touched. 

  The only ones with the balls.

  The second man was equally uninformative, but younger than the first, and smelled faintly of oil.     

  Opening the purse, Bob retrieves a few odds and ends along with a single silver coin with a large star stamped in the center. Not a waste of time after all.

  He dumps the junk, snaps the bows, and pockets the ring and coin. Silver is silver, after all, even if it's stamped with the Affiliates mark.

  “Hopefully,” thinks Bob, “there's more out here than arrows and ugly silver.”

  Pulling two fresh arows from the quiver of the first body, Bob shoves one into each corpse, filling the holes made by magic, with wood. He then kicks up some leaves around where he walked, and retraces his steps to check for anything he may have dropped. Finding nothing, Bob glances around one last time.

  Perfect. An encounter with a rune-touched now looks like a routine encounter between bandits.

  With a wry smile, Bob begins humming, picking up where he left off before the ambush. Lady on the knoll begins once again waftingg through the quiet of the forest, punctuated by the crunch of leaves beneath his feet, and the whiskwhisk of leaves brushing against his clothes.

-----------------------

  Outside the forest, the sun slowly dips towards the horizon, painting the sky with a wash of reds and yellows and purples. Beneath the canopy, the shadows gain shadows, dark corners vanish into dark glades, and only faint shafts of red and yellow are visible between the leaves.

  A small group of cloaked figures move laboriously along a deeply rutted track. Though clearly attempting to be quiet, each carries a visibly heavy load, causing them to stumble, grunt, and curse. A lone figure remains unburdened, and leads the group through the trees with an arrow nocked, eyes scanning.

  Another lone figure, lurking in the fading light, watches the group move with obscene glee. Bob leans against a tree with his arms crossed, patiently waiting. As the leader reaches a light spot under a break in the canopy, Bob takes a deep breath and slips behind the tree he was leaning against.

  “Those look heavy, friends,” bellows Bob from behind the tree, “why not lay them down--”

  An arrow thunks into the tree behind which Bob hides, cutting him off mid-sentence.

  “More where that came from, stranger,” calls the leader, punctuating the last word with a second arrow into the tree next to the first. “We've neither charity nor trust for voices in the dark. Show yourself!”

  “None of you need die, I've killed enough for one day, so lets talk options.” Bringing his arms up to cross over his chest, Bob mutters a quick phrase and the lines on his skin flare brightly blue-green.

  A collective gasp goes up from the group as Bob steps out from behind the tree, the runes glowing through his clothes and temporarily blinding them in the sudden illumination. All but the leader, who recognizes immediately the image, and the danger, represented in the man now glowing before them.

  “Get down!” yells Puc, as he looses his third arrow. Not waiting for the effect of his shot, Puc dives into the brush and begins rummaging through his pouch. He figures there are only moments left for him to apply the tincture on his arrows. An ancient magic, arrows supposedly dipped in it would, or so the old crone said, pierce the protection afforded rune-touched and allow archers to kill them.

  So the old crone said.

  Bob sniffs disdainfully as Puc's third arrow glances off his arm without leaving so much as a scratch.

  

  “I'm afraid that's simply not how you negotiate, at least not where I come from, archer.” growls Bob as he brings his right hand up and hisses a phrase. Light flashes out of his hand and flies over to suspend above the group, turning the dusky gloom into midday. He beings mumbling again as he eyes the few who are too stunned to heed Puc's command.

  Puc, meanwhile, locates the small dusty bottle and rips the tiny cork out of the top, releasing a foul odor like a rotting corpse. Gagging, but urged on by the sound of Bob's mumbling incantations, he quickly taps a few drops onto the head of his lucky arrow. The slimy solution oozes ever so slowly onto the pocked arrowhead, hissing and smoking as it sinks in, turning the splotchy steel a deep black.

  As Bob's incantation rises in volume and tempo, Puc realizes that his time is up. In one smooth motion, he fits arrow to string, lifts to a knee, then aims and fires at Bob. As the arrow leaves the bow, Puc experiences a tugging sensation, then a brief sense of loss and weakness, as something of his own energy accompanies the arrow towards Bob.

  With crystal clarity, Puc watches the arrow streak towards Bob. When it encounters his crossed arms, a sensation of pressure fills the area, as though everyone is underwater, then with a light pop the arrow blasts through Bob's arms and into his chest, pinning his crossed arms as he topples onto his back. The glowing lines flare and blink out as he falls, and the last word of Bob's unfinished spell hangs in the air.

  The pressure evaporates, silence and darkness once more descend on the forest. Everyone is temporarily blind by the sudden gloom, and only the sounds of the men's panicked breathing break the quiet.

  Drawing a shaky breath, Puc climbs painfully to his feet, surreptitiously slipping the dusty bottle back into his pouch.

  “UP! We move! Now!” barks Puc. “Lets put some miles between us and this foul place.” No one complains as they shoulder their packs and continue on their way. A few mutter the words 'rune-touched', but aside from a few wary glances, none dare question Puc.

-----------------------

  “All right, maggots! Stand up straight, shoulders back, chin up, arms extended and thumbs aligned with the seams on your pants!”

  Surveying the pitiful ranks of raw recruits in loose formation on the Green, the Sergeant gives a single, barking laugh.

  “Not even close!” His raspy baritone carries in the cool, crisp morning air. “I've seen milk-maids with better posture, children with more discipline, and cows with more sense.”

  A compact, powerfully built man, he stands with feet planted firmly a shoulders-width apart, hands clasped at the small of his back. His perfectly ironed uniform is spotless, boots winking even in the dim light of the pre-dawn hour. His chest is pushed out and his head back, so that his rows of medals hang out over a cliff in his uniform shirt, and despite his short stature, he appears to be looking down on us recruits.

  

  “My name is Sergeant Harlon, but for the present, you will refer to me as Sergeant. Do you understand?”

  A few feeble exclamations of “yes” and “yessir” come dribbling out of our ranks.

  “When I ask you a question, you will respond loudly, you will respond together, and you will say 'Yes Sergeant' or 'No Sergeant'. Do you understand?”

  Unable to get in sync, we shouted out, “Yes Sergeant!”, sounding like a handful of pebbles dribbled into a barrel.

  “I said,” he pauses briefly, then, even louder, “Do you understand?”

  Suddenly, as though finding our collective rhythm, and our volume, we belt out all three syllables in unison. “Yes Ser-geant!” The force and beauty of it washes over us, and a few grins break out.

  “Lock it up, stand at attention and wipe those smirks off your faces.” Despite the harsh words, we received a curt nod. “My job, and the whole of your existence for the next six months, is to turn you lot into something useful to the King. I will run you until you puke up every meal your mother spoonfed you. I will train you, and break you down until the pain drives the weakness from your bodies.”

  Across the camp, as the sky slowly opens itself to the first rays of the still slumbering sun, some of the more senior recruits were moving quickly to places and on tasks still mysterious to us. Fires rekindled; a door slaps open, then shut; a dog stars barking in the distance, and Sergeant Harlon continues.

  “Then I will deliver you into the hands of our Master Armsman, who will teach you the sword, the spear, the shield, and the horse. These are the tools of war, but you are far from warriors. Some of you will never be warriors, some of you will be broken and stay broken. Some of you will recognize the coward in your heart and walk out those gates directly behind you.” He pauses, pointing at the heavy wooden gate that represents the only entrance to the training facility. We glance back, but only briefly, and when he resumes our eyes snap forward again. “Just as my training will purge your bodies of weakness, so too will it purge the body of this army of it's weakness. To each I will say, good riddance!”

  Not daring to turn my head, I surreptitiously eye the recruit directly in front of me. His mud-stained overalls and sweat-stained white undershirt mark him as a laborer, or rather a farmer if that manure smell is coming from him. The man to his right is much skinnier, and doesn't have the sun darkened complexion or stocky frame of the men on either side. His ink-stained index fingers tell of a clerk of some sort, and the sloping shoulders indicate a distinct lack of previous physical exertion.

  “Today will be primarily consumed by administrative necessities; issuing uniforms and equipment. You are responsible for cleaning, pressing, and if the need arises, repairing said uniforms. This will be done on your time, not mine, and will be inspected every morning. You will all meet my satisfaction before any of you eats a bite, and if the breakfast hour passes before I am satisfied, we will try again at lunch.”

  An itch begins to develop on the left side of my face, to the point where it begins twitching. Even three rows back, I don't dare move to relieve it for fear of being spotted and called out. As it steadily becomes more and more insistent, my willpower and caution begin to crumble.

  “In addition, you will be issued some basic supplies.” As Sergeant Harlon goes on about our gear, most of which I don't recognize, the itch on the side of my face starts moving towards my nose. This is shaping up to be a long day.

  “Puc!”

  A loud, harsh voice breaks my reverie, drawing my attention to the building behind me. I quickly finish tethering my horse and move onto the porch, then push through the screen and into the smoky interior. I pause briefly on entering to let my eyes grow accustomed to the gloom.

  “Puc! Stop standing there blinking like an owl and come look at this map with me. Our caravan leaves shortly and I want your opinion on a few particulars.”

  The speaker is a squat, powerful man, not unlike my Sergeant in the army, in both appearance and manner. A good boss, and a great friend, is Bellum. I quickly move to the table opposite him and bend over to survey our route.

  “See there?” Bellum indicates a stretch of land squeezed between an almost solid block of elevation lines. “Once inside that pass, we will be at our most vulnerable from elevated archers. Hell, a gaggle of children throwing rocks could cause serious damage, and ten men with shields and stout hearts could keep us penned indefinitely.”

  “Indeed,” I reply. I frown thoughtfully, “Any chance of a few extra scouts to check that out and shadow us through? How about--”

  “--the Brothers William?” interrupted Bellum with a smile, “I've sent for them. However, we won't necessarily be able to have them shadow the whole way, nor would they be much good alone, and it would cost too many men to blanket the hills how I'd like.”

  “How about a bluff?” I look up and meet his eyes, finding confusion writ large there. “Put every swinging dick in a helmet with a bow and quiver, teach them how to hold it, then just move through as fast as possible. Hopefully, by the time they've done thinking twice, we'll be out and through.”

  “Even so,” replied Bellum, “expecting an armed resistance and holding good ground, anything less than arrow speed will be stopped cold by a decently organized force.”

  I lean back on my heels, and a thought occurs, “Then two convoys. One, a feint, disguised as tinkers, or better yet farmers, a day a head to--”

  “Ohh, yes!” Bellum looks up thoughtfully as I finish.

  “--swing around and fall on any blocking force. Yes, I see you understand, and the Brothers would--” I stop abruptly as the door slams open.

  “Would what?” cries a cheerful voice from the doorway. A bright, unruly mop of red hair caps a boyish face set in shades of glee, replaced briefly by surprise as a second fiery head and equally, nay identically, boyish countenance pushes past the first and into the room.

  “Special duty means special pay, eh Belly?” crows the second.

  The Brothers William, so named for both being named William and none save their mother able to tell them apart. Even seen together, and they're never apart, I can't tell one William from the other, a fact they seem delighted to instigate at every opportunity. Dressed identically in leather cuirass' and kilt, white linen backing and tunic, with a sheathed gladius on the right hip and bolt box on the left, fastened around the middle by a wide black belt and identical, and identically gleaming, wolfs-head buckles, they cut the perfect image of a pair of regular infantry. Indeed, one could easily mistake them for that were it not for the cross-strapped back harness each proudly wears, on which hangs by clever contraption their own custom made, dual bolt drop-trigger hemlock crossbows. Beautiful and terrible, their stocks and gears shine with regular oiling. The deep black twin crossbars rest within brass lockings. Of course, all that can be seen from the front is the shoulder stock jutting above each brother's head, but once seen, one does not forget such weapons.

  Bellum guffaws. “You'll take regular pay or we'll cut you out of the fun!”

  Both Brothers laugh, the first replying, “Wait, we didn't mean it, we're in, we're in!” Throwing an arm over each other's shoulders, they completely fill the doorway and block most of the light. “Can't believe we missed out on that last jaunt of yours, Puc!”

  “Yeah,” chimes in the first, “Is it true you faced a Runie?” Identical faces lean forward, peering impishly at me through the smoke.

  My chest begins to itch, which gives me pause, but I ignore it and meet their expectant gazes for a moment before replying, “Yes, now lets get back to the--,” and begin to turn back towards the map.

  “Oh, come on!” cries the second

  “We've only heard it second hand!” complains the first.

  “We want to hear it from the hand that did the deed!”

  “The hand that led the steed!”

  “The hand that--”

  Bellum slams his hand down on the map table, bringing the Brothers up short. “Plenty of time on the road for tall tales of valor and adventure.” The Brother's grin wide. “Now, how much did you overhear while eavesdropping outside?”

  One Brother assumes a hurt expression, but the other pipes up too quickly, “All of it, and it's brilliant! Can I dress up as the farmer's daughter?”

  Bellum groans, but can't conceal a small smile at the thought.

  “Looks like a yes to me, eh brother Willy?” One nudges the other, “You can be the donkey” His face brightens immediately, and opens his mouth to reply when Bellum interrupts again.

  “You're both natural asses,” he concedes, “now knock it off or we'll hitch you to the wagon and make you pull it all the way to Tallanvar!”

  After a good laugh at that, we all crowd around the map and settle down to business. Provisions, weapons, men, beasts, spare parts, and, of course, whiskey.

  Our first day, and for many thereafter, we did little more than sweat, bleed, and ache. Sweat all day, bleed in the evenings, and ache all night and into morning. Sweat swallowed ache, blood swallowed sweat, ache swallowed blood. While the instructors called it conditioning, we all knew it by the name it was given by those who had come before: the culling. It quickly became apparent why this first part of our training had earned that name, as the weak of mind, of will, body, or spirit began quitting in earnest.

  Some calmly reached their limit and left mid-exercise, unmolested as they limped out of the gates under the watchful sneer of Sergeant Harlon. Others tried to avoid that sneer by spiriting off in the night, only to be dragged back and escorted out during morning formation. One, a larger, bullish sort, tried to strong-arm the instructor into stopping. The instructor gave a peculiar, high pitched whistle and like magic, two other trainers came sprinting around a nearby hut and barreled into the recruit. The three of them quickly subdued, thrashed, and then ejected said recruit out those selfsame gates. There were no more attempts like that in our class.

  I gradually developed my rhythm, and while I didn't precisely get accustomed to the regimen, I did grow comfortable in my misery. I also got to know some of my fellow sufferers, despite very little time or energy to do so. The hour or so alotted every night for uniform and gear maintenance, not enough by half, was spent swapping backgrounds, stories, plans for liberty and hopes for the future.

  Benji, the diminutive, ink-stained fellow I saw in our initial line-up turned out to be made of far sterner stuff than most print shop clerks. After two months, his ink-stained hands were no longer ink-stained, but were rough and covered in hard-won callouses. His face was darker, and leaner, and his eyes held an energy that hadn't been there before. His body, like the rest of us, had transformed likewise.

  Growing up in the large city of Tenencue gave him a world of knowledge, augmented by his work in the print shop. Questions, even if asked rhetorically, often found themselves answered by Benji. Orphaned from birth, raised by the church, he'd lucked into his previous occupation. His dreams consisted of his own print shop, maybe a family. Found one day copying runes out of an old, dusty book he'd discovered in the church archives, he was thrown out of the print shop and threatened with the mines or the military.

  “I had ya figured for the gates a'fore the first sundown, Pinkie!” laughs Gordo, “I guess if the choice is here or the mines, your still being here ain't as surprising.”

  Gordo was an affable sort, large of frame and personality. The sort of person cowards instinctively fear and children instinctively trust. He was raised on his family's farm in Glentown, a tiny village no one here had every heard of, let alone visited. His easy manner belied an inner strength which manifested itself most keenly in defense of a friend or pursuit of a foe. His dreams, like Benji's, were modest and provincial, one day hoping to continue his father's farm as his eldest son. So, too, had fate dealt Gordo a blow to those aims, his handsome visage catching the eye of a local townswoman, and the ire of her jealous husband.

  Unfortunately for young Gordo, said husband happened to be the magistrate for Glentown, and in his cups one night accused him of attempting to seduce his wife away. Given this magistrate was the only magistrate for Glentown, a guilty verdict was practically certain. Gordo's father, interceding on his behalf, made a deal with the magistrate: enlistment for not less than four years in exchange for dropping the case. Since rejecting such a deal would make the magistrate appear petty, and furthermore rob the King's army of a strapping young recruit, it was an easy sell, and off he went.

  For a journey expected to last two months, the first week is always a settling in period. A time during which everyone becomes familiar with everyone else, and each member finds their place and falls into their routine.

  Most of this trip was expected to be relatively safe, so aside from scouting and other mundane security concerns, the good weather and steady pace put everyone in good spirits. I was certainly enjoying stretching my legs. One of my duties as one of our better woodsmen was bringing in whatever game I could while scouting ahead and to our flanks. In addition to maintaining the distance between our actual convoy and the decoy the Brother's occupied to our front, I was anxious to keep our flanks clear of any shadows seeking to track our movements.

  We were nearing Boulderville, a town named for it's unique countryside, in which massive rocks reared placidly among a lightly forested, craggy terrain. Due to the rockiness of the soil, there was very little in the way of undergrowth, and the trees were gnarled, hard-bitten things covered in thorns. It was a place very like the occupants of the nearby town; a hard peoples, independent and swarthy, minimalist in both affectation and possessions. Given the town's distance from the protection afforded larger cities like Ciandry and Polentsia, and it's proximity to the bandit-rich country we were heading towards, such attributes are unsurprising.

  I move almost silently, as there are few leaves and sticks to betray my feet, and those easily avoided. Sound, however, is a minor concern. Due to the scarcity of vegetation (there is almost none), visibility is nearly unimpeded save for the boulders. I could easily see far beyond earshot, which made scouting easy, but made approaching to within bowshot of any game very difficult.

  There, just fifty yards away, the hindquarters of a deer peeks out from behind a massive boulder. I hitch my bow ever so gently, nock an arrow, and check my footing. A little closer, perhaps. Come a little wide, get an angle on it's shoulder. The tail swishes, and it takes a step forward. Almost there, I bring up my bow and draw fletching to ear. One last glance at the ground, two more steps, aim a little low, and...

  I feel the feathers brush my cheek, then glide, as if in slow motion, over my thumb. I don't hear the string slap my bracer, but it must have made a sound, because I watch the deer drop into a crouch just before the arrow reaches it. A soft thud as the arrow strikes home, and the buck (I can see the antlers now), only makes the minutest movement upwards before it's legs collapse and it falls, dead on it's feet.

  I exhale, and bring the bow down to my side. A doe, hidden behind the rock, flashes away to the left, already at full speed, bounding along in that weightless way they move.

  In an instant, everything slows down and time seems to freeze, and I see, almost like I'm remembering it, where to put the arrows. I feel detached, and realize distantly that I have plenty of time, nothing to it. Before I know what's happening I raise my bow, aim almost casually an arrow I don't remember nocking, and release with a sigh.

  What's left of my rational mind is immediately disappointed. The shot is high enough an arc to surely catch a branch, and too far left by at least a span. Yet, in a daze, I confidently watch it slowly undulate as it slips past branch after branch, limb after leaf, settling in for what appears to be a spectacular miss. Too high by half, as well, I note.

  Right before the arrow would have slid by the deer like two ships passing in the night, the doe spooks from the right and leaps wildly to the left, directly into it's path. The sound of the impact doesn't reach my ears until the deer has crumpled to the ground, dead like it's mate.

  Time suddenly crashes forward, and pain explodes in my chest. It feels like my skin is on fire! I fall to my knees as my head becomes light and my vision rapidly tunnels. A single leaf fills my vision and I realize I'm going to pass--

“Today, you begin learning the rudest basics of the archer, a title few will every earn. However, the king does not need many archers, for the poorest marksmen can still hit a massed charge in a pinch.” Sergeant Harlon indicates the tall, thin man standing beside him. He is dressed in mottled greens and browns under a light leather jerkin. An unstrung bow and several feathered shafts peek out over his left shoulder. Side-laced buckskin pants cover his long legs, tucked into muddy leather boots with soft soles. “This man is Gruber, our master archer and scout, and under his care you will learn this weapon.” With a last glance at us, Sergeant Harlon stomps off.

  Gruber steps forward at once and beings to address our formation in a low, raspy voice. “This training will take place in three stages. First, you will learn care, maintenance, and storage of the weapon. Second will be aiming and firing, and finally you will learn how to work as a unit, maintaining an acceptable rate of fire that doesn't make a mockery of accuracy.” He pauses, his bird-like eyes scanning our ranks, his sharp nose seeming to pick us out one by one for death.

  The sun beats down out of a clear blue sky. It's about nine am. Our morning inspection went well for a change, well enough for us to breakfast at length, a more common occurrence in this third month of training.

  Gruber steps over to a table near our first rank, on which is arrayed a number of small pouches and piles of bracers. A barrel full of bow staves of various lengths rests alongside the table, while corked jugs and a piles of rags rest below.

  “Each of you will come when called to the table, where I will assign you a stave appropriate to your height, a string to match, and a bracer. You will whet a rag with oil from the jugs below, careful that you only whet it, and not yourselves or the ground. Then you will return to your place and await further instructions.”

  “First rank, first man, come forward now. Second man follow when he returns, et cetera on down the line.”

  In no time at all, each of us is equipped as described. I assess my stave, check the nockings and grain, and with a practiced eye gained from years under my father's teachings, can't help but admire the craftsmanship. Clearly this army takes archery seriously. Not a prince's weapon, but straight and true, and the flex, divine. Unstrung it stands chest high, the slight curvature of the yew gleams dully in the bright sun.

  “Once a day, or as often as possible barring that, and especially following exposure to rain or snow, you'll apply a thin, even coat of linseed oil and rub it in until there is no residue. This maintains the integrity of the wood, prevents dryness, cracking, and warping. Stow the strings and bracers and begin with the rag in your hand. When you think it's done, raise it high. Be seated, and begin.”

  We sit, and begin. As bows are raised, Gruber rasps that they're unevenly done, not absorbed fully, or acceptable. I learned this process from my father, a great archer in his day, as I hope to be in mine. Taking my time, I slowly massage the oil evenly into the stave until it once again shows that dull gleam uniformly, nock to nock. I raise my bow and receive a cursory glance followed by a quick nod. 

  “Help your neighbor, Puc, he's got more oil on himself than his bow.”

  True enough, Gordo must have slopped the jug over his hand instead of whetting the rag, and was now attempting to wipe the excess off his hand and bow onto his person. I hand him my rag, and pinch a corner of his and set it aside. “Dry your hand on your tunic, hand me your bow.” I reach over and pluck it from his hands, gripping it between thumb and forefinger near the grip.

  Once dry, Gordo reaches over with an open hand. Passing him the bow, I say, “It only requires a little oil to do the whole thing, too much and you'll soften the wood, killing it's natural spring.”

  “That's exactly right.” rasps Gruber from directly behind us, startling us both and almost causing Gordo to drop his bow. Neither of us had seen him move, nor heard him approach. If he moves like a snake in plain sight, he must be a ghost in the woods.

  Speaking louder, he addresses the group again, “Too much will soften the wood and ruin the bow, oil not absorbed or removed will cause the grip to be slick in battle, while uneven or mottled application will cause soft spots in the wood and spoil the whole bow. This is the most important thing for an archer to do right, everything else depends upon it.”

  Consciousness returns, and I feel a great weight against my side. My face feels wet. I lift my head and a sharp pain explodes in the front of my skull. I groan, squeeze my eyes shut and, gathering myself, push off the ground to hands and knees. I reach up to touch my head and bits of leaf and sharp gravel fall away, clumped where they hit the ground. Looking at my hand I see red smears amidst the debris.

  I glance up. The sun hasn't moved, so I can't have been out long. I gather my bow, then rinse off my face with a little water from my waterskin, finding in the process a small cut on my left eyebrow. Must have hit a rock when I fell. I daub a little salve on it to slow the bleeding.

  What the hell just happened?

Response from FIRE: a clarification

My previous post on FIRE's video about freedom of association at Vanderbuilt could have been more clear, though that's not to say an increase in clarity would have yielded a correct position.  What I should have made plain was that FIRE's argument against the CLS v. Martinez case obtains for public universities, but that since Vanderbuilt is a private university, it's not so clear that the case is wrong.

I emailed FIRE my post for comment, specifically how their argument (couched in a defense of freedom of association) would apply to a private, rather than public, university.  In response, I was given a group of links to a different argument.  Roughly, the pledge of any university, private or public, to it's students in the mission statements or student information packets, contains an affirmation of the freedoms associated with academia.  The freedom to associate, express views, hold and espouse opinions, in keeping with the principles of free expression generally, are implicitly/explicitly afforded to prospective students in a form that several recent Supreme Court cases regard as contractual.  In this way, even a private university is bound to protect said freedoms on pain of breaking a legal contract with the students.

Now, I'm obviously no attorney, so any examination of the legalese on this is above my pay grade.  However, as a blog author, nothing is beyond the scope of my pen.  So rather than delve into FIRE's contract argument, I'd like to provide a modest reason why all universities should decline the privilege afforded them via the CLS v. Martinez ruling I discussed in my last post.

To my mind, it's not altogether clear that anyone is "harmed" by failing to be invited into one or another student associations.  The fact that a Christian organization refuses admittance to students who do not meet non-academic criteria, eg sexual orientation or gender, doesn't ipso facto rob them of any rights protected under the constitution.  There is no principle of free association that makes sense of giving any individual the freedom to associate with any group that does not wish to associate with that individual.  Indeed, forcing an association to accept a member against it's wishes seems perilously close to failing to protect that association's existing members right to their freedoms.

This failure to protect can manifest in myriad, destructive ways.  It is not unheard of for a larger group to inject itself into a smaller organization in order to distort or dilute a message it does not agree with, essentially "shouting down" an unpopular message by simply overwhelming it from within.  This has been discussed by the Supreme Court previously, as I quoted in the last post on this topic.

There is a lot more bubbling beneath the surface on this issue, as it pertains to the university culture and free expression.  I'll have some more content up soon aimed at some thoughts I've had recently, but until then, feel free(see what I did there?) to visit thefire.org and browse through their articles and videos.

CLS V. Martinez

  Recently, I've been following and reading a fair number of posts and videos from theFire.org, the website of The Foundation for Individual Rights in Education. In perusing their video library on Youtube, I found the following video outlining their opposition to the (somewhat) recent Supreme Court case that graces the title of this post (CLS V. Martinez):

  I've also read the Wikipedia entry on the case, and I encourage you to both watch the video (if you haven't already) and read the wiki.

  When I first encountered this decision, my gut reaction was positive.  While the video is well-made, and the SCOTUS decision a close one (5-4), I'm still inclined to stick with my initial impression.  There were a few things I think the video got wrong. What Vanderbuilt is doing is withdrawing access to campus resources for groups that do not conform to the "all comers" policy.  It is not dissolving those groups, "kicking them off campus", or taking any administrative action against the members of those groups.  In this, I think the video overstates the case against the policy, as it's not clear to me that any university is required by law to provide resources to groups whose restrictive policies do not conform to a set of standards the university feels is acceptable.

  The case, to my mind, is a conflict between two fundamental "rights" and the degree to which each should be protected in the context of the other.  The first question is whether an individual has the "right" to join any group, whether or not they agree with the groups aims or meet the group's standards of "belief or conduct".  The second is to what extent student organizations have a "right" to the resources of the university.

  For the first, I think this right is necessarily protected by the university that hosts, e.g. provides aid and comfort to, organizations that would, ostensibly or otherwise, represent the university (even by proxy).  So organizations that utilize the campus facilities, print and publish beneath the university's letterhead, or otherwise conduct business under the university's umbrella of pseudo-sponsorship, fall under the university's responsibility.  In that sense, any individual attending that university as a paying student has, or in my opinion should have, the "right" to join any group they so choose, regardless of whether they agree with the group's overall aims, or meet the group's non-academic standards of entry.  Any organization that discriminates, not just based on status (race or gender), but on "belief or conduct" (religion, sexual preference, ideological or political affiliation), is doing so with the implicit endorsement of the institution that houses it and allows it to represent that institution.

  For the second question, to what extent do student organizations have a "right" to the resources of the university, I think this right is predicated on what sorts of messages the university wants to endorse.  The freedom of assembly guaranteed by the Bill of Rights extends only insofar as the legal contract between citizens and their government.  It does not require that private institutions hold host to, or financially or implicitly support, that assembly.  Universities could in principle cease funding or supporting all student organizations, because while they cannot stop the people from assembly, the do not have to host or support them either.

  So in reality, the second question, to what extent do student organizations have a "right" to the resources of the university, is predicated on the answer to the first question, the right of an individual to associate with any university endorsed student organization.  The university, rather than the student organization, is the entity faced with the choice, and the responsibility, for the practices of the organizations it hosts.

  Much of the criticism of this decision, as you can see from the video (that you all watched, I'm sure), stems from the idea that these organizations have a right(not necessarily a legal right) to retain their ideological "integrity".  One example is a Christian organization's "right" to exclude non-Christians, or a gay-rights group's "right" to exclude those who do not feel gay's should be allowed the right to, say, get married. Other examples would be the Democratic group, or any political group, that risks having it's message tainted by mixed messages from it's members.  These are, of course, valid concerns for any organization, and are why the freedom of assembly is included in the Bill of Rights.

In Roberts v. United States Jaycees, the Supreme Court held that associations may not exclude people for reasons unrelated to the group's expression.  However, in the subsequent decisions of Hurley v. Irish-American Gay, Lesbian, and Bisexual Group of Boston, the Court ruled that a group may exclude people from membership if their presence would affect the group's ability to advocate a particular point of view. The government cannot, through the use of anti-discrimination laws, force groups to include a message that they do not wish to convey. (Wikipedia)

  Still, it's not clear that these groups have both a right to assemble in that manner, and the right to the resources of the university, concurrently.  If the Christian organization wishes to exclude based on creed, and the university they attend is uninterested in hosting such behavior, that organization is still free to exercise it's right to assembly even if the university is unwilling to support it.  The same applies to any other type of organization, e.g. a "Male Supremacy" group that is unwilling to allow women to attend.  The group has not lost it's rights guaranteed by the Constitution simply because the university is unwilling to support that group, and thus, in my humble opinion, has no meaningful redress under the Constitution.

  Why is this not just like the freedom to express thoughts and ideas like those other videos you agree with?

I'm glad you asked!  I view the difference in a student's right to express himself or herself on or off campus as protected by the 1st amendment irrespective of his or her status as a student.  The university is not required to support said speech, so Vanderbuilt probably shouldn't be required to provide a platform for speech it doesn't agree with.  Just as they cannot and should not take administrative action against individuals who join or maintain groups whose exlusionary policies do not reflect the institution's position (and thus are not entitled to the institution's support), individuals who express unpopular views should likewise be free from administrative action.  If someone wishes to preach their opinion about the inferiority of black people, or white people, or gays, etc., they are certainly free to do so, but the university is not required to pay for the microphone and lectern from which such a view may emerge.

What will the will will, and will it will it again.

 The above statement sounds edgy and intuitively true, in addition to the apparent virtue that is seen in "taking responsibility for your choices". However, in a world that is, quite plausibly, causally complete, does it make any sense? To put it another way, in a world without the traditionally conceived human free will, are we any more to "blame" than the weather?

 An incompatabilist who accepts that determinism is true, and in so doing disagrees with the picture at the top, is often given this sort of rebuke: "You're just unhappy with your life-choices and would prefer to believe that the weather in Alaska caused you to do something morally blameworthy." This is a misunderstanding of the position of such a person, but the most obvious response is that the weather in Alaska is no more "responsible" for it's actions, even if it caused yours somehow, than you are for the weather in Alaska, even if you somehow affected it.

 To understand why I think this is so, you have to understand why I don't think we have free will or moral responsibility.

 One of the biggest obstacles to consensus in philosophy is defining what you are talking about in a way that other's can agree with. Free will has had a long, troubled history, and the various definitions debated today testify to the difficulty in really nailing down just what it means. Indeed, a number of you reading this will probably not be satisfied with any definition I might present; yet, tho I despair, I persist.

 My pet definition is one of an incompatibalist bent. I define the term as it appears, as a conjunction of two previously defined words, with their own previously accepted connotations, viz:

Free - Not under the control or in the power of another; able to act or be done as one wishes.[google]also; - not determined by anything beyond its own nature or being : choosing or capable of choosing for itself [M&W]

Will - The faculty by which a person decides on and initiates action [google]

 At first blush, these definitions appear to justify compatibilism, in that it seems you could retain such freedom even if our minds' operations are explained completely by deterministic physical laws. Many compatibilists view the question along these lines, as decisions which are free from outside coercion. I think they are mistaken, and I think the reason lies in considering the limits of this supposed freedom.

 Let me begin with a story. Sam is minding his own business at home when he finds he wants a snickers bar. Sam, however, is on a diet, and a snickers bar is out of the question if he wants to remain true to his diet. So, despite Sam wanting a snickers bar, he chooses to ignore the urge and stick to the diet. Now, a few questions. Why did Sam want a snickers bar in the first place? Did Sam choose to want a snickers bar? When he declined to get a snickers bar, was he exercising free will by adhering to his dietary regimen? Why did Sam want to go on a diet in the first place?

 Each of these questions has an answer. One can always rationalize post hoc about their reasons for doing or wanting something, but notice that this is precisely like evaluating the reasons for someone else's behavior, or indeed, even an animal's behavior. Why did the dog lie down in that spot, at that moment, rather than another at another moment? Some number of reasons have already occurred to you, but remember, reader, before you jump to respond, that we are talking about a dog. Why would you feel the urge to defend a dog's freedom of will?

 The truth is, our conscious minds are governed by desires we neither author nor control, desires which are indulged only insofar as they do not conflict with other desires, which we likewise neither author nor control. Sam's desire for a snickers bar conflicted with his desire to diet properly, and neither desire was a choice he made consciously. The dog's desire to lie down in the shade conflicted with his desire to remain standing, and neither desire was a choice the dog made consciously. So this freedom, which has such intuitive allure, is only a surface truth; the compatibilists define free will in the context of a surface phenomenon, ignoring the true origin of the will being discussed. I've found several good arguments that run contrary to the definition compatibilists would use. Ask yourself: are you free to do what you do not want to do? and if you do, was it not because you wanted to?

 I define free will as the freedom to will what one wills, rather than the freedom to do as one wills. I am not defining free will out of existence, as might be claimed; I am defining something that doesn't exist. Most compatibilists concur with the traditional notion of free will being an illusion.

 The question of moral responsibility weighs heavily on this topic. If we lack this freedom, how can moral responsibility gain traction? If we are not to blame for our choices, and the weather is equally not to blame, who is to blame for the wrong, and who is to be lauded for the right? Short answer-no one. Moral responsibility, traditionally understood, is an illusion, resting as it is on the illusion of free will. More on this in a future post (otherwise these things would go on forever).

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 For more information about how I formed this opinion, see this video, and read this book. Obviously my influences extend beyond one source, but though my endeavors to disagree with this individual have taken me far afield, I have thus far failed to find a compelling argument against his position, or a stronger argument for another. So, inextricably, I hold this view.

The Pious Have Bills To Pay, Too

Colorado shooting: tragic. I don't know why it occurred, where "blame" should properly lie outside of the lone gunman, or how any of the victims might feel. I tend not to spend much time reveling in the gory details, but Facebook has once again delivered a religious proclamation that makes me despise the religious mindset all over again.

The article that cropped up in my timeline is here, where a local pastor relates the story of a woman whose brain had a "defect" which allowed a piece of a shotgun blast pass through her grey matter, seemingly without any permanent cognitive damage. Said pastor calls this "miraculous" when they hear the tale from the operating doctor. He claims it was an instance of "God working ahead of time for a particular event in the future."

He has received some mild pushback from the skeptical, to which he has constructed a forked approach, first saying, "If we are honest, we must admit we cannot explain everything." Later, he justifies God's non-intervention in the case of the shooter, saying, "We are free to act for good or evil." Why? Because "Choice and freedom are removed if I[God] jury-rig the consequences." He goes on to completely contradict himself when he says, "God interacts in the normal course of events in such a way that outcomes are changed from the normal workings of the universe." This, in and of itself, represents a stark example of self-refutation that (nearly) renders any effort of mine superfluous. However, it's actually even worse.

I will presently argue three basic points:

A) There is no more reason to suppose that God created the miraculous channel in Petra's brain than that he failed to create those same channels in the bodies and heads of the other victims.

B) The very idea of contravening the natural course of events violates the Christian claim that God cannot prevent any of the evil presently in the world.

C) Even if this special case was the work of God, the adulation of God is utterly misplaced in the aftermath of this event.

In defense of A, I would simply point out that to claim we have discerned the "beneficence" of God through sparing one woman's life while dozens fell around her, is to say that good fortune suddenly grants us some special insight that misery denies us. If God's ways truly are mysterious, we are in no position to attribute the outcomes we prefer to God's actions and the outcomes we do not prefer to some void of confusion. If we can, for a moment, admit that we do not know the mind of God, we immediately see that the 6-year-old whose body did not have special bullet channels, for example, is the failure of God's non-intervention. Where was he when this child was formed, and his internal organs were placed directly into the future path of destruction. Busy carving the virgin mary into a tree in New Jersey, apparently.

In defense of B, I will point out an example used by Christian apologist William Lane Craig in support of the consistency between God's existence and the existence of evil. It has been suggested, by his opponents, that God could turn some bullets to rubber, or butterflies, before they hit their target. In this way, choices might retain their moral content, while no innocent has to suffer for this moral freedom. Dr. Craig responds that this would turn the world into a playground, where no bad choices have bad consequences, and thus bad choices would not retain their moral content. If you fire at someone in this playground world, no one would be hurt, so why would firing in such a way, in that world, be a "bad" thing? This pastor's miracle is but one example, but the principle is the same. If he can create one mind with special bullet-channels without stripping us of our freedom or moral responsibility, why can he not create all minds, and bodies, similarly? By Craig's argument, he cannot even do this once without violating creaturely freedom, and so if God modified Petra's brain in such a way, then the concept of creaturely freedom in the Christian context is rendered false. Since said freedom is a necessary component in the Christian religion (i.e. it cannot be false while Christianity is true), this event is either not miraculous, or the Christian God is a fiction.

In defense of C, let's consider what it means for an action to be morally praiseworthy. If a man's actions provide some benefit to someone else, at no cost to himself, we intuitively view this as mildly praiseworthy. Yes, he did something good, but it isn't as though he went out of his way to do anything. The recipient may be thankful, but should anyone else view this as all that morally praiseworthy? I don't think so. Now consider another man whose actions provide some benefit to someone else, and significant cost to himself. We immediately recognize the difference in how much praise each man deserves. The first may give $100 to a charity, yet possesses millions that he does not donate. The second may give the same $100 to a charity, and have to walk to work for a week because that was his gas money. Obviously the cost of an action to the actor is directly proportional to the level of praise we might visit on the actor.

In the wake of this tragedy, we have received (at least)two claims of praiseworthy behavior. In the first, a "good" God who fiddled with some woman's biology in order that she might be spared death at the hands of a gunman. God has sacrificed nothing to do this, his powers, such as they are, remain unaffected, and his person unmolested. In the second, we have a man who shielded his friends from gunfire so that they might be spared death at the hands of a gunman. The second man sacrificed everything that he has and could possibly give in order to save his friends. Now I submit, on C, that while we may, perhaps, lend light praise to God, we might also wonder why he did not do more. In contrast, on C, the men and women who gave their very lives have so far outstripped the pathetic effort of an all-powerful deity in moral terms that to spare even that light praise on God is a complete waste of time.

Of course, if you read the article, you'll notice that the lion's share of the pastor's time is spent extolling the virtues of God, likewise his supportive commenters. True courage, true sacrifice, truly morally praiseworthy action is readily available, and what does this pastor focus on? God. It's almost as if he has a stake in keeping God in the picture; as if, perhaps, he might benefit from highlighting a supposed "miracle" from God rather than the actions of some brave men and women.

This sort of blatant opportunism makes me sick. A church is a business, and this is an instance of capitalizing on tragedy. It is the (socially acceptable) equivalent of slapping a gun advert over a still shot of the carnage.

The sound that is not made by any two things striking together

 The title of this blog post is the English translation of the word Anahata, known as the Heart Chakra, in Kundalini Yoga, and represented in the picture below. I make only a passing reference to the practice here, but will use the concept of this "sound" as an illustration in the subsequent post.

 We have all felt the urge to defend our views against criticism, or to champion our views to those who do not share them. For any disagreement of consequence, the experience is generally one of confusion and angst, in which what seems so clear to you is utterly unconvincing to your partner(I will explain why I use the term 'partner' later). It feels to you like you are making a cogent case, and therefore it must feel the same way to them. You respond to their case, and their responses, and this appears to be a genuine crossing of swords. Swing, parry, riposte, reset.

 The truth of the matter is that in most disagreements, each party has their back to the other, boldly thrashing against nothing, while only thinking that they are meeting their partner swing for stroke. Assuming you are not dueling a madman (as you should always, out of humility, assume), the first thing that should occur to your mind, is that the sounds you are making at one another are the sounds that are not made by any two ideas striking together. Perhaps a more salient analogy would be that of two individuals attempting to cross swords from atop the peaks of neighboring mountaintops, when a true meeting of swords can only occur within the adjoining valley.

 The mountains of the above analogy refer to all the underlying assumptions that we, as beings who form belief systems about the world, carry into every discussion. This belief formation is completely out of our control, even if we do have free will, because it is based on the information we have available and the level of understanding we possess of the connection between this information and the actual state of the world. These beliefs can only change in response to new information, or a new understanding of how existing information can be understood, not by a simple clash of the ideological overlay on top of these beliefs.

 Now, why do I call two individuals in disagreement 'partners'? The fact is we are all in the business of divining the true nature of our experience as it relates to the true nature of nature. True beliefs, insofar as they have any relationship with the world, enable us to predict future events; the closer our view is to reality, the more accurate those predictions. This is clearly demonstrated in the scientific method, and in the success of the scientific project, and it is uncontroversial. Whenever you engage in disagreement with another person, on any topic, you are both striving towards a better understanding of the true nature of nature, and thus, whether you recognize it or not, you are partners in this pursuit. Try to view disagreements in this light, and you might find your natural predilection to an emotional reaction towards the proponents of a competing view largely attenuated.

 The most transparent manifestation of this concept takes the form of a "loaded question". "Does your mother know you are gay" is the schoolyard version, but it is by no means limited to children. In philosophical terms, it is known as "begging the question". What is operable, under the surface of most disagreements, is the true engine of conflict: presuppositions. When certain facts are assumed, certain other positions are entailed. Yet if two people bring competing assumptions into a discussion, they are inevitably drawn into irreconcilable differences of opinion by virtue of the incompatibility of certain beliefs not even under discussion.

"What we've got here is failure to communicate."

 That's right, boss. This failure is doing immense damage to political discourse in this country, pitting family and friends against one another across an ideological divide that so-called "polite" conversation renders insurmountable. So how do we, as partners, live and breath and communicate in compliment to one another? You descend your mountain and invite them to do the same, that's how. The moment you find yourself in an Anahata discussion, e.g. The God Test: Why Really Everyone Believes, immediately begin considering what your partner is assuming, but which he or she is not openly discussing. Then do the same with your position. Have some humility. What you don't do is attribute to your partner all manner of character or cognitive flaws, or secret malicious motivations, on the basis of their disagreement, because this violates the fundamental trust that lies at the core of social behavior and underpins the basis of civil society.

 This process takes time, hard work, and persistence, and is often mistaken for a desire to simply "argue for argument's sake". There's no guarantee that you will win out, or even find common ground at all, but if you care whether your beliefs are true (and you should), you have a rational duty to engage with your partners.

Greener Grass (requires better soil)

So I've been working my ponderous way through William James lecture series Pragmatism and found an interesting perspective on the Free Will Problem.  Under the Pragmatism James espouses, questions of a philosophical nature "turn" on their usefulness, either in the asking or in the value of a particular answer to the questioner. On the topic of Free Will, he urges (or appears to be urging from my reading of it) we look upon the question as a function of the possibility of a better future.  I quote him at length to both capture his thoughts as accurately as I can, and because his entertaining prose is worth the extra space.

Free-will pragmatically means NOVELTIES IN THE WORLD, the right to expect that in it's deepest elements as well as in its surface phenomena, the future may not identically repeat and imitate the past. That imitation en masse is there, who can deny? The general 'uniformity of nature' is presupposed by every lesser law. But nature may be only approximately uniform; and persons in whom knowledge of the world's past has bred pessimism(...) may naturally welcome free-will as a MELIORISTIC doctrine. It holds up improvement as at least possible; whereas determinism assures us that our whole notion of possibility is born of human ignorance, and that necessity and impossibility between them rule the destinies of the world.

He goes on to call Free-will a "theory of PROMISE" without "any inner content" or any "pragmatic value in a world whose character was obviously perfect from the start."

Elation at mere existence, pure cosmic emotion and delight, would, it seems to me, quench all interest in those speculations, if the world were nothing but a lubberland of happiness already. Our interest in religious metaphysics arises in the fact that our empirical future feels to us unsafe, and needs some higher guarantee. If the past and present were purely good, who could wish that the future might possibly not resemble them? Who could desire free-will? Who would not say, with Huxley, "let me be wound up every day like a watch, to go right fatally, and I ask no better freedom." 'Freedom' in a world already perfect could only mean freedom to BE WORSE, and who could be so insane as to wish that.

He finishes with the summation:

Surely the only POSSIBILITY that one can rationally claim is the possibility that things may be BETTER.

Being vaguely religious himself, William James equates this underlying promise at the heart of the issue of free will with other religious terms, like God, as empty manifestations of an urge to safeguard(emotionally) a better future for ourselves.

However, it seems to me that this follows a general religious trend to codification of our desires as realities, wholly bereft of any real foundation in reality.  This trend finds ample company in New Age mysticism of all stripes, stemming from the original use of the term 'mind over matter'.  So while I can empathize with this project of, for lack of a better term, hope for the future, I am constrained by temperament to echo Cuba Gooding Jr.'s proclamation to a desperate Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire, saying, "Show me the money!"

Free-will, for all it's promise, wants for justification in reality; ignorance, however blissful, is unsustainable*.

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* Ironically enough, I draw this intuition from Matthew 7:26, proving, yet again, that any view can be justified with reference to a biblical passage of your choice (even atheism).  I had to chuckle when I read it, though, because one wonders what a desert tribe would have done with that phrase.  Where are they to build in the desert, if not upon the sand?  Indeed, having visited the middle east on a few occasions, I can testify that not only do they build upon sand, they actually build with sand.

A Match Made in Heaven?

So I read this blog post, about a gay fella that married a straight woman and is joyously, blissfully, ecstatically enjoying his marriage, and my first thought is: no one enjoys their marriage that much.  Even straight couples will universally testify that marriage is, like any partnership, about compromise.  I've found that the harder one tries to convince you of how great their circumstances are, the less likely it is that they are representing the true state of affairs.

But be that as it may, let's suppose for charity's sake that he really is that happy.

Now we are met with an altogether different question.  If he is gay(and claims to not be bi-sexual), how could he form and enjoy a sexual connection with someone of the opposite gender?  This would be like me marrying another man, despite my lifelong, undeniable physical attraction to women and lifelong, undeniable physical non-attraction to men.**  This consideration actually unpacks into two separate topics.

The first is the religious dynamic of the situation.  The abrahamic faiths, so named for their reliance on the sacred scriptures known as the old testament, are and have been clear about the "ideal type" of marriage and of the limited scope of sin-free sexual relations.  If the book is to be believed, God dictated that men should marry women, should lie with women, under this or that circumstance and (according to some) only in certain positions and for certain reasons.  This individual, Josh Weed, is adhering to these commands as he understands them in a Mormon context.

Right.  A few quibbles...

Suppose, for a moment, that *gasp* the bible is as unreliable on God's intentions as any work of man is unreliable as a function of fallibility.  If we accept a creator of the universe, and consider the possibility that the bible is just an ordinary book (as it most assuredly must be), we can actually discern some potential attitudes of this creator.  God creates most men and women with an inherent physical attraction to the opposite gender, and some men and women with an inherent physical attraction to the same gender.  Can we not safely infer from this fact that he intended for the latter to live by their nature?  Even if we make the narcissistic assumption that the being who fashioned a billion billion billion galaxies, space and time itself, is earnestly concerned with our sex lives, is it that unreasonable to suppose that he, perhaps, made some men and women different for a reason?

What if, in God's eyes, homosexuals engaging in heterosexual "acts" is the sin equivalent to heterosexuals engaging in homosexual "acts"?

The second topic is another thought experiment.  Suppose the Abrahamic faith tradition stipulated an altogether different sin-free union; suppose homosexual unions were the ideal type that God apparently demands.  From that, a culture arises in which heterosexual unions are derided and vilified, heterosexual marriages are outlawed.  Imagine being born into this culture as a heterosexual male.  Would you be willing to marry another man in accordance with your religion, or would you be inexorably drawn to women?

This is a salient question, because as I suspected, the blog post under consideration is not without it's own judge monster.  When I read through it initially, I had a gut feeling that somewhere I would find this monster lurking.  He is religious, he can't help it, and lo and behold, I was right:

"Being gay does not mean you are a sinner or that you are evil. Sin is in action, not in temptation or attraction. I feel this is a very important distinction. This is true for every single person. You don’t get to choose your circumstances, but you do get to choose what you do with them.

I want you to know that God loves you, and that even though you are attracted to people of the same gender, you are a completely legitimate individual, worthy of God’s love, your family’s love, and the love of your friends."(emphasis mine)

Did you catch it?  The urge to engage in homosexual unions is on par with the urge to murder innocent people, steal, purjer, lie, etc..  It's temptation, people, resist the urge to sin!  Drawing on our thought experiment from above, this is the equivalent of God demanding same sex unions.  Let's edit the above quote as follows:

"Being straight does not mean you are a sinner or that you are evil. Sin is in action, not in temptation or attraction. I feel this is a very important distinction. This is true for every single person. You don’t get to choose your circumstances, but you do get to choose what you do with them.

I want you to know that God loves you, and that even though you are attracted to people of the opposite gender, you are a completely legitimate individual, worthy of God’s love, your family’s love, and the love of your friends."(emphasis mine)

Now I submit to you, dear reader, that this edited version of Weed's words is as ludicrous as the original manifestation.  God does not exist, but even if he did, it's beyond the capacity of a rational mind to believe he cares one whit about the circumstances in which you share your body with another person.  Further, it is none of our business what Josh Weed, or any other adult, does with another consenting adult.

That brings me to my final point.  The whole idea that this is some new take on "the issue" of homosexuality is itself fraudulent.  Homosexuality is a sin, according to Weed.  Homosexual unions should be avoided like any other sin, according to Weed.  What, precisely, is new about this position?

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** - There is, I think in all animals, a biological imperative to reproduction.  This imperative may go some distance in explaining Josh's choices, but I think most people would find that their sexual proclivities outweigh any consideration along those lines.  I don't know about you, but if I had to have sex with another man in order to reproduce, I would probably just go childless.

My Inactivity Explored, Part 2

Go here for part 1.

It was the waiting, I think, that finally sapped my fear of death.  I can't recall much of the crossing or of the days that followed, only glimpses of the dusty, smokey interior of our vehicle and the shouts and gunfire coming from outside the little metal box I shared with twelve or so others.  I couldn't hear the radio chatter over my helmet, only the intercom between the driver and crewchief, and so I simply waited.

At first, I waited fearfully; my emotions in lockstep with the other passengers as we stared at each other, straining to hear the whistle of the tank round that had our name on it.  Our 'chariot' roared and quieted, stopped and started, throwing us off our seats or into the walls.  Gunfire erupted and subdued, the intercom squeaked and hissed and shouted, and quieted.  The ping and snap of small rounds rang against the vehicle like tiny hammers against a muffled bell.

Intense emotion tends to wear one down over time, and this is what I suspect happened to me.  I don't know precisely when, but at some point during that day I let something go.  Some feeling I had held back, some truth or hunch that was hanging over my intellect.  In part, I let it go because I didn't want to be surprised; I've never been a fan of surprises.  The larger part, however, was that within the confines of that mobile metal box, I came to realize that even if I survived the day I would have to face tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, with the same harrowing trepidation that ate at me.  I finally just let go, accepting that, if not today, tomorrow would be my last; the properly aimed rocket, the perfectly timed explosive, or the expertly aimed rifle round would find it's target.  No matter what, or when, or where, I would not live with this gnawing fear overshadowing my every moment.

From then on, though I took every precaution required to stay out of trouble, I didn't find the inevitable end to my existence a compelling motivation to further caution.  When ambushed, I leaped out of the vehicle as requested and made room for the infantry to follow after.  While the chatter of machine gun fire surrounded us, while rounds kicked up the dust at my feet and slapped the metal hatch at my side, I peered curiously back into the dark interior of my vehicle and into the frozen faces of the young men I had just called to follow me.  Following their gaze, I glanced over my shoulder at the field across the road just as a humvee roared past.  Blinking the sand out of my eyes, I watched mortar rounds making ten foot high teardrops of sand as they slowly walked them towards our position.  The second impact was near enough, and the sudden burst of 50cal fire loud enough, that I lost all sense of hearing but for a loud ring.  Turning back to the infantry, I punched their squad leader on the knee and held up four fingers.  He immediately snapped out of his reverie and into his training, tapping three others and jumping out past me.  I turned again to watch the teardrops as they filed out and ran behind me.

Later on, after a sandstorm that had claimed a tank and it's crew which fell off a bridge and into a river, we found ourselves on an extremely muddy stretch of road in the dead of night.  Through the top hatch, which had been folded back to allow three of the riflemen in back with me to stand and aim out over the side, I saw tracers streak past and heard the chatter of us returning fire.  The details elude me, but we spent some significant portion of that night trading rounds at shadows of one another.  So far as I could tell, no one was even wounded.

The next morning I stepped lightly out the back of the vehicle and set up to shave and brush my teeth, wearing my jumpsuit and boots but no protective gear.  The infantry on either side of the road, still in full combat gear, urged me to don my flak jacket for fear of another surge from the sand.  I ignored them, and went about my hygiene nonplussed.  They must have assumed that I knew something they didn't, and, though still keyed up from the previous night, they slowly relaxed.  I later discovered that the enemy snipers were poorly trained, and weren't likely to even hit the vehicle from a decent distance, much less a man shaving in it's shadow.  Besides, I thought, if they do get lucky, I won't have to shave in cold water any longer, or wear those bloody rubber boots that make your feet sweat so badly.  These were the terms of my existence at the time, and they constituted a burden I would have found easy to cast aside.

When, through all sorts of misadventures and dusty, endless days, we finally arrived in Baghdad, I finally had the opportunity to meet Iraqis without guns.  They didn't emerge until several hours after we arrived, most likely to confirm that we were not actively engaged in digesting small children (the interpretors, almost en masse, confirmed that this was how many people thought Marines earned the title).  Once again surrounded by people, I watched and listened.  You know, the strangest realization found it's way into my consciousness: they're just people.  The children do childish things, the adults do things adults do.  They care for one another, work for their livelihoods, laugh, fear, love, and cry.

I thought back to the episodes on the road in, the molten anger that sought fleshy purchase in our ranks, and contrasted it with this city and it's inhabitants.  What, I thought, would I have done in their place?  If someone invaded their home, intent upon killing them (as Saddam announced over the state television and radio).  Well, I would have...

Oh, that's why I'm here.  Huh.

My inactivity explored, part one

It is absolutely incredible what you can learn when you just...listen.  Music, literature, cinema, politics, philosophy, all can be absorbed only with your mouth closed.  Learning is a receiving of knowledge, an activity that presupposes a void to be filled.  I was mostly a quiet child, or so I am told, and I spent the lion's share of my time with my mouth closed and my ears open.  It was with great trepidation, indeed only after urging, that I created a blog, this blog.

However, after only a few posts, I realized that a lifetime of listening does not prepare one for speaking up.  I viewed the written expression of my opinion in much the same way many people view public speaking.  It wasn't so much a fear of the audience that has kept me mostly silent.  It was the realization of just how little I know in comparison to the perceived "knowledge" of other writers and opinion-holders with a voice.  A perception I have come to acknowledge as misguided; not entirely false, of course, but an underestimation of my own truth-testing and an overestimation of the authority of any single individual.  What follows is the first part of an explanation(not excuse) for this silence and, hopefully, a reason to speak up.  Whether to help myself or someone else, I don't really know yet.  Without further adieu...

I don't make plans, I don't have dreams for the future, I don't have personal goals.  This behavior is completely alien to me.  It isn't as though I just don't want to fulfill my purposes; I don't have any.  As callous as this may sound, the events of September 11th, 2001, were a boon.  I had applied to no colleges, attended no job fairs, had no marketable skills.  I had no drive to "succeed"; nothing animated me to action.  That shocking footage gave me a path to walk, one that resonated with...something indescribable, powerful, right.  The feeling came out of nowhere and overwhelmed me.  So when I joined the Marines in 2002, it wasn't to pay for college or to see the world or to shoot a gun.  I joined to kill the people who had killed my fellow Americans.  Tribalism, Nationalism, these urges are what animated my choice when I woke up from dozing in Sociology class during my senior year of High School.  I watched the news feed as the second plane hit the two towers, and my blood boiled.  Prehistoric man roared from the African plains of my biological past, and with determination, I affirmed the desire for bloody reprisal in the only civil way possible: join the military.

The next day I received a call from the Marine Corp recruiter, as do all young men and women who take the ASVAB to get out of class.  I can't say whether I would have still joined the Marines if another branch had called first.  When I think back to why I wanted to be a Marine, such as when someone asks that very question, I generally reply that I had skated through life up to that point and wanted to do something hard.  Do something hard and do it right.  I think now, however, that it was rather more primal than that.  I didn't want to fly over my country's enemies, or sail past them, or arrive as part of a mob.  I intended to see the whites of their eyes when the light went out.  I had this idea that I wasn't going to be part of a machine, however well-oiled and effective, I was going to make "them" see me as the angel of justice.

Well, the Marines was the right choice, but OIF was the wrong war.  I had no previous experience, but it didn't feel like a 'war' in any sense of the word.  Perhaps it felt this way for the men and women who came before me, as well.  Oh, the fear was there, but the anger faded very quickly and only reared it's ugly head in the quiet and dark hours after the fear had worn off.

It was the spring of 2003 when we sat more or less perched on the Kuwait/Iraq border.  It didn't look or feel like spring.  I don't think the desert has the capacity to express the season.  During the day it looked and felt like a summer that never starts or ends, and at night a winter without comfort.  The evening before we crossed the border, a sandstorm had kicked up as though the angry spirit of Iraq was protesting our imminent intrusion.  American and British vehicles formed lines that stretched towards and away from the border, disappearing into the swirling sand after only a dozen or so tan and green hulks in either direction.  The whole world had turned brown, as it often does in the desert at dusk when the sand flies.

We sat atop our iron chariots and squinted against the sand and wind, watching the 155s soar over our heads through the pale green world revealed by our night vision goggles.  Each thundering impact felt like the beat of a drum; the little drummer boy of previous human conflicts had evolved into a mighty hammer shaking the earth with mighty swings.  Some of us cheered and were rewarded with a mouthful of sand, but most just sat listening and replaying the briefing of the previous evening.  We were to face Russian tanks, buried in the sand and ready to bite through the soft aluminum of our amphibious assault vehicles.  Well, we would be shielded by humvees with rockets, but I'm sure I don't have to elaborate on why that was less than reassuring.  I wasn't the only one to consider a bevy of hummers, skilled though they may be, as little more than an appetizer to a battalion of bunkered tanks.

Thud. Boom. Thudthud.  Booboobooommmm.  Thudthudthuthtuthtuthtutddddddddd.

I still remember that night vividly; the taste of sand, the green-tinged streaks of each hammer as it whistled overhead, and the thrumpthrumpthrump of the drums of war as those hammers pounded the earth.  As the ground shook, no one slept.  Some laughed nervously, some wrote home, others ate.  I listened.  Surely, I thought, the rest of the world can hear this.

It was the last time during my tour in the Marines that I actually thought I was part of a war.  It was also the last time I can remember being afraid to die.