Sheep

One of the most recurring themes in modern philosophy is existentialism. Philosophers talk about whether life has a meaning or not, or if it’s even supposed to have a meaning or not. Albert Camus, says all such questions are meaningless and the only real argument that exists is; Is it worth committing suicide? 

Morbid.

However, what Camus was referring to as suicide wasn’t the one that probably got conjured up in your mind. Camus talks about philosophical suicide. He says, that even trying to find the meaning in life is absurd. We are Sisyphus, rolling a heavy boulder against the slope. Any attempt to want to establish a purpose to your life despite overwhelming evidence against the presence of one is tantamount to suicide; philosophically.

I am not qualified to talk about any of these things, even if I were, I regret to inform you I value my neck more than I value my principles. 

The term, philosophical suicide, that’s what piques my interest. I feel like there’s a phenomenon where this term would be more apt. 

People are sheep. I am not being contemptuous, but they really are. There are no shepherds. There are only german shepherds, and oh boy, are they loud. They’ll woof here and woof there and make sure all the sheep form a orderly queue, and go exactly where it wants them to go. The sheep don’t make a sound. Occasionally they bleat in protest but the reciprocating bark is always louder, more shunning. And so it goes, the german shepherds segregate the sheep and march them into their respective pens across the pastures. Nothing is expected of the sheep by the dogs. They eat, live and all they have to do is stay in the pen where the german shepherds have escorted them. What’s the incentive for the sheep? Why follow the dogs? It’s simple. To them, the wolves that patrol the borders of the pasture, the wolves of uncertainty and doubt, are scary. The sheep find the numbing blankness that the german shepherds and the pens bring preferable to the liberty and skepticism that the region beyond the pasture and the wolves offer. But, why do the dogs do their duty? Oh it’s so simple. It’s in their nature to bark. If they get to bark (which they have to do anyway) and their voices somehow make the sheep follow them, well that’s just handy dandy then. Who doesn’t like to be the centre of attention or be the cause for rallying. 

Sometimes, the german shepherd of one pen, decides to have a fight with that of another. They’ll go on at each other from a distance. Yapping away into the night. Despite not really caring, the sheep find themselves in the thicket of the skirmish. Accidentally or deliberately, the louder barking of one of the dogs sways them from one pen to another, and certain sheep find themselves in the wrong area. Does it matter to them? Not really.  The barks weren’t of very varying frequencies anyway. They are in the new pen now. The dog must have been better at guiding them or how else would they have ever come here. They couldn’t possibly make this decision themselves. After all, they’re just sheep. They have no will to power or decision capability. They go where the herd is lead by the bark. Let’s not forget though, the sheep knows it’s worth too, and secretly, it relishes that the german shepherds would go nuts were it not for the sheep following them. And so like the most intelligent being, the sheep takes strength from the knowledge that it is content with being a sheep. Thus unbeknownst to it, the sheep commits philosophical suicide. 

Don’t be a sheep.

Think for yourself.

Happy International Women’s Day. 

My haphazard notes on biological anthropology and Darwinism’s relation with Nazis

Aristotles teleological assumption

Racial classification

Craniometry and 5 types: Caucasian, Mongolian, Aethiopian, Malayan, American

Slavery and abolitionists; monogenists and polygenists 

Franz Boas and his distinction but continuation of racial (European) superiority

https://web.archive.org/web/20130106212400/http://anthro.palomar.edu/vary/vary_2.htm

Typological model= skin colour, hair colour, body build, stature etc based on Linnaeus’ classification

False assumptions and wrong criterias; Recent research comparing human DNA sequences from around the world has shown that 90% of human genetic variation exists within what we have previously assumed to be more or less separate "races" and only 10% between them.  In other words, "racial" groups are far from being homogenous.

Populational Model= based off of anatomical and physiological differences after considering the population ie groups of people who’ve mated internally and exclusively but distance has never hindered reproduction 

Clinal Model=This model is based on the fact that genetically inherited traits most often change gradually in frequency from one geographic area to another. Allele B frequency across Europe:

Gradual change because the close living people mate with each other and there’s more chance that they’ll mate with closer people (>100 miles) than more. Still as transportation becomes easier these results may be slightly tainted but still very reliable. 

But this doesn’t work well wide properly together. This might be due to historical migration, large world wide events or pockets of isolated communities.

==> The patterns of human variation around the world are not only highly complex but also are constantly shifting through time.  Furthermore, the rate of change in the patterns has been accelerating as our numbers grow and as long distance travel and migration become more routine.  Contributing to the intermixture of peoples in the Western World has been a reduction of inhibitions about marriage across perceived "racial" lines.  When we are compared to many other kinds of animals, it is remarkable how little variation exists within our own species.  There is 2-3 times more genetic variation among chimpanzees, 8-10 times more among orangutans, and thousands of times more in many insect species.  Most biological anthropologists would agree that human variation is not now sufficient to warrant defining separate biological races, varieties, or sub-species.  However, it very likely was in our distant prehistoric past.

—> Race is a social construct. No biological basis.

—————————————————————

https://www.csustan.edu/sites/default/files/History/Faculty/Weikart/Darwinism-in-Nazi-Racial-Thought.pdf

Hitler was a social Darwinist. Believed in survival of fittest but not human evolution: eugenics, kill disabled, more land, racial extermination

Because Nordic and Aryan superiority as they faced colder weather.

Agreed with Weismann and not Lamarck. Right to do so.

According to them Darwinism supports racial inequality: aryans diverged too early, natural selection drives aryans, oppose miscegenatio. n 

Eugene Fischer (big boy) also has hair colour scale, Fritz Lenz, Theodore Fritsch, Gobineaus racism, Hans Weinert, Hans Gunther, 

Present in Mein Kempf 

A new summer is around the corner

The birds were chirping.
The sun cast a bleak ray inside the cold, large mansion.
The lady of the house sat on the rocking chair, cradling a photo album. She wore rounded spectacles on her already ovoid face. Long strands of hair fell on both sides, curling at the very end. She had amicable features; large, circular kind eyes with brown iris, and a nondescript nose. Her lips were thin and even the slightest hint of a smile revealed her glossy white set of teeth. The menacing dimness of her surroundings were a vibrant contrast to her pale skin and white dress. She looked, for want of a better phrase, like a kindly ghost, sitting alone in that chair. She was looking outside the window now, at a tree; thinking about something intently, when the loud footsteps from above brought her shuddering back to reality.
“Aldous” a low pitched voice beckoned.
“Yes, master” an adenoidal voice replied and out of one of the many corridors, a butler appeared; hunch-backed and apologetic.
The owner of the deep voice, who was the master of the house, descended from the stairs to the floor. He was a man of bulky stature, like giants in myths. He looked positively intimidating. The magnificent curls of his moustache and his sculptured facial features made him look cruelly handsome. The stray strand of hair flitting on his forehead was just a touché. He walked up to his wife, kissed her lightly, and then addressed the butler again.
“I won’t be back till late, Aldous. Don’t hold off your Lady’s lunch or dinner because of me.”
He wrapped the regal green overcoat tightly around himself, as a barrier against the cold, and was making his way out when his wife stopped him.
“Benedict.”
He pirouetted gracefully:
“Laura, darling.”
“Where are you going, love?”
Her voice was so soft and peaceful, but the pace at which she delivered her words was fast, too fast. It lent a sharp jab to her sentences. Like a playful mockery.
“I’ve to meet the vicar”
She looked outside the window at the tree, and smiled, which almost turned into a grin.
“So early in the day?”
He shrugged.
“I’ve quite a few issues to discuss with him”
“Pray, lose that coat. Winters gone. You’ll get blisters.”
Benedict cringed at this comment and off-handedly remarked:
“No honey, winter is not gone, rather it’s coming.”
“Oh” her eyes narrowed. Then she sighed, and continued looking at the photographs.
“Well I’ll be going then”
She didn’t respond. She was too busy looking at the beautiful boy in the picture.
Benedict nodded absently and left the mansion, shutting the door with a thud.
Tears welled up in her eyes as she continued looking at the photographs and reading the captions on their backside.
Their wonderful child, dead at the mere age of 10. Today was his first death anniversary: it would be exactly one year since the horrible fire took him away. She’d herself sustained a head injury. But it was inconsequential.
Did Benedict even remember the date of his death? Probably not.
He was too busy shagging that harlot.
Cheater
Going to the vicar
Telling her it wasn’t summer, but winter
Liar.
She gritted her teeth, and her brows furrowed. She hadn’t wanted to think this way. But then she’d smelled the feminine fragrance on his clothes. She found this fact incredulous albeit oddly believable. He was cheating on her.
She started playing with her hair, and wondering what went wrong in their marriage. What did she not have that the other woman had? She was the daughter of a duke, of royal blood, and who was she? Just a simple commoner. What had she not given him? She had abandoned her education and her ambitions. Everything because of him. And this is how he had repaid him. By being disloyal. By not even gracing her with his presence today, out of all days.
The other woman must be real pretty. Or maybe just really good at her “art”.
She looked around, and then made up her mind.
“Aldous”
Like a djinn, the butler blinked back into the large room where Laura sat.
“Yes, my lady”
“Go to your quarters. Send every servant and help away too. Leave me be.”
The butler tilted his head and grimaced.
“As you say”
He started shuffling out of the room, and then while extinguishing the fire out of the fireplace, turned back to say:
“Should I give you, your medicine, right now, Madam?”
She got up from the chair, with the intention of retrieving a knife to kill her husband.
“No, Aldous. Not today.”


Late in the night, Laura still sat on the rocking chair. The moonlight was lighting her face up; aggrandising her gorgeousness. She still had the album open. She heard the gates open outside. The rattling of the iron bars audible over the quiet of the night. Benedict’s heavy steps were distinct and definite. Laura heard him fumble for the keys. He gasped as he realised the door wasn’t locked. He walked into the room.
He saw Laura. Not exactly surprised. His guilt didn’t need to register, he realised. The drunkenness was plastered all over his face.
“Laura, my darling.”
“Excuse me.” There was finality in her voice. And a strangeness that Benedict immediately understood. He rushed towards her, and grabbed her by the arm.
“Tell me, where are your pills?”
Laura looked at him confused.
“What are you saying? And how did you come in?”
Benedict stepped back and stared in horror. She had forgotten. It might be too late now.
“Why are you staring at me like that? Who are you?”
Benedict broke down.
He embraced his wife tightly, sobbing on her shoulders. His breath smelled reeked of alcohol. He wailed loud into the night, unleashing all his grief and sorrow. He didn’t want to cry in front of her and make her condition worse. He had tried to drown all his misery through alcohol, alone in the pub. But it all amounted to nothing as his hysteric crying worsened.
Laura tried pushing the man away, who had her in his strong grip. Her head ached. Fortunately for her, she saw a knife close by, and without much thought, pushed it into the mans back.
Benedict let loose a muffled cry.
And then landed on the floor with a thud.

She sat beneath the tree, as a new dawn emerged. The sun lit up her blood stained face. She leaned against the shovel, her bare feet on the freshly dug mound of dirt. She tucked her hair behind her ears; trying to piece together the events of last night.
She had killed someone and her head ached.
Something small and hard plopped on her head and dropped on the grass beside her.
A berry.
She looked up.
The branches of the tree looked healthy. The yellow berries dangling off of the boughs looked edible.
They were ripe. The new season was ushering in its own blessings.
As farmers around the country prepared their crops for winter, poor demented Laura whispered to her dead husbands grave and herself:
“A new summer is around the corner.”

Sheikh Zayed Campus Diaries

Campus Diary

Miss Chiffon

The gale of fresh air greeted him zealously as he rushed out of his stuffy room. Everything inside there was miserable and in ruin. His writing paraphernalia was emblematic for despair and his personal belongings all huddled in the corner he liked to call his bedroom were a pathetic sight. This was the third week and he still hadn’t gone beyond the first chapter. If he didn’t want to starve and be homeless, he had to write. That’s all they asked for. And there was nothing wrong in that. Isn’t that what he had always wanted to do? To read and write without interruption. But now that he had this autonomy he found it crippling and sometimes even dreary. Oh god! And what did he have to write. He still had no clue what his novel was going to be about. He just had a vague idea about the plot which was basically a bastard amalgam of everything he’d ever liked in mystery novels.

He took a deep breath, glad that he had come out to rejuvenate himself. He stood on the pathway idly looking at the pedestrians. Now and then a motor would go on the otherwise quiet road. Those infernal mechanical beasts! What a filthy spawn of science; constantly corrupting the nature with their acrid fumes. God help us, he thought. Only God can deliver us safely through our own scheduled destruction. He heard a motor car coming from a distance. Bah! Another one. He narrowed his eyes and saw a red car moving swiftly in his direction. The car, even he had to agree was beautiful. Its metallic red glare shouted against the quiet dullness of the region. But perhaps what fascinated him more than the car was its driver. For it was a woman! Of course such a thing wasn’t unheard of. One learnt of these things in pubs and clubs. They’re always narrated as tales from far-fetched land, too strange to occur in the close vicinity. Yet here she was, driving a red motor car.

He found himself looking very carefully at the car and the driver. He wanted to make out more details. What sort of a woman was this? Where was she going? What gave her the courage to do this? His inquiries were left unanswered as the woman and the car whizzed past him down the road. All he saw was a green flurry, perhaps her scarf and then nothing. Sullen and dejected, for he had failed in his petty adventure, he made his way back to the room. He still had to write. But before going in, he made a mental note to come outside the next day too at the same time. Maybe she would come back from wherever she was going through the same route.

She wasn’t there the next day. Or the day after that. Or even the day after that. By this point, he had become curious to a greater degree, who was this woman? Where did she disappear to? He thought of asking around, maybe somebody else had seen her. But then he realized how stupid that would sound. And thus like an idiotic druid, he made it his habit to come out daily at the same time to get some fresh air and maybe even incidentally see her. His solemn efforts were rewarded. It was just another day when he saw the red beast in the distance again. He didn’t look at who was in the driver seat. He knew it would be her. Whoever she was. He tried making out the details of her face and to some extent he did.

She wore glasses. And she had a cute angular face. The effect of her sharp nose was dampened by the softness of her eyes. Her dark brown eyes. Such a common color but then why did they look so dreamy on her. Her lips were pursed. But even then one could see her shapely lips. They looked so soft and full. He felt an immediate urge to lift her chin and kiss her passionately on the lips. However, his fantasy was pulverized as she mercilessly went ahead.

Now it became a pilgrimage. Daily, he would go outside his rooms at the same time, in the hopes to see her. He would comb his oily hair and wash his murky face. He tried to compose poetry for her and not to his surprise failed. He found himself imagining dialogues and possible scenarios with her at night. His sleep vanished and the poise of his days was vanquished. He became a restless soul, waiting every day for the moment when he would catch the singular glance of her and which too he sometimes failed to do. For the women didn’t traverse this road daily. The days she skipped were days of gloom and sadness. The days she passed were days of jubilation and joy. He found his time and his activities revolving around those few moments. It didn’t matter that he hadn’t gone beyond the second chapter and the deadline was too close. The shoddy apartment was merely an inconvenience now. The fact that motor cars were destroying the environment also didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was her. And the few sacred moments in which he saw his glamorous angel riding the red demonic device of hell. Oh the contradictions! She excited him. She was his amusement. She was his secret. His little comfort zone in the vast universe that he didn’t want to share with anyone. By now he had noticed a few more details. Such as her car was faster than most other cars. She had a cleft chin like his favorite singer and this particular oddity exponentially increased her prettiness. It gave her face a symmetry. Once he thought he saw her smiling or maybe she was grinning. It was such a complete smile. The whole of her face seemed to be in sync to this jolly exhibition of the curving of the corners of her mouth. The dimples in her soft round cheeks. Exquisite. Also he had noticed that she always wore a scarf, of perhaps the same material, sometimes just around her neck and at other times over her head too. It gave her appearance a finesse that he couldn’t quite describe. It made her look even more charming.

One day while waiting for her on the footpath, he saw a piece of cloth in a fabric shop across the road. He darted towards it and to the vexation of the shopkeeper started caressing it with his grubby hands. The shopkeeper allowed this perversion to go on for a few seconds but then he had enough and asked him politely to get out. And got out he did, only after he had asked him the name of the material.

“Chiffon, my good-man! It’s the fabric of the wealthy! Now get your bloody arse out of here before I call the coppers.”

And since that day she had become Miss Chiffon.

She was his Miss Chiffon. He would dream about her. As the date of the deadline approached his fervor also exacerbated. He mused over his curse. For that was how he saw it now. She was his lovely curse. The entity he couldn’t behold because he wasn’t worthy of it. What made it more bitter was the fact that he could never be worthy of her. She was from a higher plane. And how could he even claim that he was mad about her? Wasn’t she just a concept of his mind? An anchor that his mind had established before it could’ve flung itself apart? She existed, that was a fact. He couldn’t ignore that, and he couldn’t have imagined something so marvelous. But did she really look like that? Were her eyes really so enveloping and all seeing? Was her skin really so pale and soft? Or was this all his imagination? It really was hard to see details of someone going so fast no matter how hard one tried. So did he love (for want of a better word) her? Or did he love the concept of her that he had built and which was corroborated by some involuntary gestures from her? Maybe she was better than most people. Maybe she didn’t believe in love, like most sensible people don’t. It is after all just a perturbation of soul. It has no meaning and its true value is so confused that it’s hopeless to find it anymore. Maybe that’s what she thought. Maybe she was a better human and didn’t dabble in the sensual arts. His thoughts took on a deeper meaning as he continued down this train of thoughts. Before he knew she was much more than just a human to him. She was his temple. An ethereal being who had shunned the pettiest of vice and ignored the most poking sound. Love. She didn’t believe in love and he loved her just for that. He adored her.

He remembered that people would say how time was going fast than it actually was or how it was passing slowly. It didn’t make sense back then. It did now. Complete days seemed to be agonizingly slow, like they were stretched into years. And the moments when he could espy her on the horizon always seemed too short. Perhaps even shorter than the blink of an eye. Nevertheless, time passed as it should, and unknown to him, the day of deadline came upon him. His frenzy had rendered him useless for anything by this point. He only ate and underwent the requiem of survival so he could live and perhaps catch a glimpse of her. There was no point in being ambitious, she was a queen and he was no one. He couldn’t catch up to her. Some minuscule corner of his chaotic mind had albeit a fancy of its own. It harbored like a malignant tumor, the urge to touch her. To meet her. He didn’t care now that there was a big chance his expectations would be shattered by reality. It would be worthwhile regardless of the long-term consequence. This carnal desire coupled with his savage impulse to lay claim on what he liked, took a deep hold in him that day. The day of the deadline. The day he was supposed to submit the first draft of his novel. Of which he had written only three chapters. The third one being absolute gibberish; the ravings of a mad man.

But he was blissfully ignorant of the impending doom. He casually stood waiting for her. He expected to see her today. It was high time. He heard the familiar sound of the motor engine. Presently he saw the glistening red car emerge on the other side of the road. She wore an indigo colored scarf today. It accentuated the paleness of her skin. The car zoomed towards its normal direction expecting no obstruction as usual. But it did face an obstruction today. The woman in the car, had her chiffon scarf tightly wrapped around her head for it was ignominiously cold. This was a normal drive. She was used to of driving down this road to go see her beautician now. So it wasn’t going to harm anyone if she let her attention falter for a moment. But that’s all it took. A moment. A moment to think, override his instincts and jump in front of the roaring car. She only saw a blur approaching the car and then a loud thud. Immediately she stopped the car, breathing deeply. She had hit something or worse someone. Slowly and mechanically she came out of the car. People had started to gather around now. The undulating sway of her gait gave her movements and motions the grace of a ballet dancer. She paused, shocked by horror. In front of her, bleeding to his death was a homeless bum, for that’s what he looked like. Of course such sort of people died everyday but one read this in the newspapers or heard it as anecdotes in ball rooms. It was impossible to think it could happen to one’s own self. But here she was. She had killed him. She wasn’t bothered by the guilt of killing him, everybody must have seen how he jumped in front of the car, and then she saw through him. He wasn’t homeless. He was a lunatic. He was passionate about something. Even while dying, his face seemed to be lit up by desire. As the pool of blood around him spread, people started calling for medicine men. Then something strange happened. The dying man smiled and raised his arm.

His first thought was that he was wrong. She was even more beautiful than he had thought she was. The slight arch on her bosom and the curves of her hips. He smiled. Then the second thought calmly made its way through his mind. He was dying. And dying fast. There was only one thing left to do anyway, then he could give up trying to live. He raised his arm and did what he thought was meant to beckon her.

There was a silence for a while.

“Miss, I think he’s trying to reach for you.” A woman in the crowd said uncertainly.

Too flummoxed to deal with the sudden change in events, the woman from the car hastily reached for his hand. She felt his grip tightening. Like people do when they are trying to support someone and to show affection. She felt awed that a dying man could have strength left for such meaningless endeavors. She put her other hand on his hand too and slowly caressed it.

A look of content appeared on his despicable face, as the dying man breathed his last.