(Drawing by my sweetheart.)
Dear diary,
If I were a fisherman, I would catch only two types of fish, and I would catch a LOT of them. I would catch what is known as the roosterfish — of these, I would catch at least ten per day; and I would also catch the giant trevally, or, as my Hawaiian friends call it, the ulua. I would catch upwards of 50 ulua per week. That averages to about seven per day; for I would fish daily & never even rest on the weekends. (I’d take my skiff out in any weather, rain or shine; but I’d always return at night, to sleep in my own bed.) So, add that latter amount to my 70 weekly roosterfish, and I’d be banking roughly 520 total fish per month. And I’d never catch-&-release any of my fish; I’d always cook-&-eat them. So if you like roosterfish or giant trevally, come to my place and I’ll prepare some for you: I will gladly share with anyone, as long as you don’t mind me talking to you throughout the meal — that’s my other specialty: providing interesting dinner conversation. And I enjoy when my table-mate participates, so feel free to pipe up if you have something to add — you need not sit there stoically enduring my endless monologue. However, if you can’t think of anything to say, that’s totally fine, too: you can just eat your fish, and I’ll have plenty of gab to make up for your reticence.
But I always let my guest choose the topic of our chat, if she has something in mind, because, instead of forcing an alien sensibility to try to get on board with my own obsessions, I’d rather talk about what already concerns my interlocutor.
The most recent guest I received was just last night: I was alone eating ulua, when a woman appeared at the entryway:
“Is this the abode of Bryan Ray the fisher of men?” the woman said.
“I am Bryan the fisherman, yes; please come in!” I said. “Have a seat. May I offer you some ulua?”
“How is it prepared?” she said.
“Pan fried.”
“OK, I’ll try some.”
“Anything in particular that you’d like to talk about, while we eat?” I asked.
Now her eyes light up: “As a matter of fact, there is.”
“Alrighty! Here’s your plate. And here’s a very sharp knife. Also, to drink, here’s a tall glass of white rum and tonic.”
“Thanks. Does this have quinine?”
“Yes, the tonic contains quinine,” I said. “Now, what would you like to talk about?”
“I’d like to start by discussing,” she said, “the subject of whether it is wise to hold a position of total nonviolence with regard to human conflict.”
“OK,” I said. “First, may I ask what your own opinion is?”
“No,” she said.
“Wait — seriously? Come on!”
“I’ll tell you after you tell me,” she said.
“Ah, alright. Then I’ll say: Yes, it’s wise to be nonviolent. I’d even assert that it’s the only proper way to act, and not just with regard to humans but also toward all creatures. For every thing that lives is holy, as Blake always sez.”
“So you side with total nonviolence?” she said.
“Yeah, total nonviolence,’ I said. “Why, what is your own position?”
“I hold the belief that violence is occasionally permissible,” she said, “or even morally imperative; such as when a small violence might be required to prevent a larger one.”
“Hmm,” I said, while stabbing another fillet for myself. “I don’t like the way that sounds.”
“What’s your problem?” she said.
“I mean, I’m accustomed to thinking about violence as a thoroughly untoward act that should be avoided at all costs,” I explained. “And I always use the analogy of water and waves: Say that you and I go out on a fishing trip in my skiff, tomorrow morning. After catching our requisite bounty, we then put on our sleeveless, buoyant, orange life-jackets and jump out of the boat, into the water, to float & relax. The sun is shining brightly: it feels good to recline upon the surface of the sea. We close our eyes and inhale the ocean air. (It tastes good to our palate.) Now, behold: the calm and flat surface of the water represents peacefulness, the state of nonviolence — that’s what we want. Whereas, say that you decide to start splashing the water with your hands — that’s like the violence of warfare: it causes waves to form, which disrupt my relaxation and threaten to drown me. Now, to fight your act of violence with a smaller act of violence would be like if I were to begin to splash you right back — can’t you imagine how this would miscarry? If your splashing caused violent waves to threaten to drown me, then my additional splashing will only make the surface of the water more disturbed. But what we want is for the surface to be peaceful and still again: the only way that this can happen is for me to wait nonviolently for you to stop splashing; then the waves will eventually ease up on their own. Peace is the natural state, & it requires only that we calm down & be patient.”
After this speech, my dinner companion sat in silence for a lengthy spell, during which she stared at the fish on her plate, apparently in deep concentration. At last, she said:
“But what if I refuse to stop splashing? Is there a point where you’d need to come over and grab my arms, and thus physically stop me from making more waves? Wouldn’t that be using a small violence to stop a larger one? And, perhaps, as you take hold on me, we lock eyes, and then you lean in and kiss me...”
“Well, yes, in real life that would happen, for sure,” I say; “but you’re sorta breaking the fourth wall of my argument, by allowing all this tender lovemaking to usurp the focus from the elemental forces of the water and the waves. It was probably a mistake for me to allow us ourselves, you and I, as characters, to enter the analogy: I shoulda kept the terms abstract & instead said something like: ‘Imagine clear water: that’s peace. Now imagine a disruption of the surface which causes waves: that’s violence.’ Then I coulda driven home my point by concluding: ‘No amount of excess disruption can diminish the waves; additional splashing — that is: violence, small or large — will just add waves to waves; the only solution is to wait for the existing turmoil to subside.’ — What say you to that?”
“While you’re in the act of spinning your yarn,” she said, “I grow persuaded by your words; but that’s because the sound of your voice is hypnotic. Yet then, as soon as you stop talking, I snap back to thinking my own way. So I remain suspicious of your analogy — it sounds correct, if you take it on its own terms, but that’s because it shares something with poetry, and all poems are convincing to someone like me, as I’m a sucker for art. The real question is: How much does your tall tale match up with reality? Cuz didn’t even our Christ once prevent a great disturbance in the ocean, causing a tsunami to silencio itself, by using a smaller violence against a greater one, when he threatened his boss, the frightful Storm God Jehovah, who was trying to slay him before the appointed hour? Lo, the story is told in Mark’s gospel — do you have a Bible handy? I could read it to you…”
“You’re barking up the wrong tree with this; but here—” and I passed her a Bible with my right hand, while my left was knifing into another fillet.
She flipped the pages to Mark 4:36 and began to read...
“Some churchgoers coaxed their savior onto a ship; & they rowed to the warmer waters and dropt anchor at a place about halfway between Baja California and Peru, for this is where they were accustomed to catching roosterfish. But, all of a sudden, there arose a great storm, whose wind caused waves to beat against the ship. Now the ship was filled with water. So the disciples, assuming that they were goners, began to panic. They ran up and down the ship, seeking for Jesus; for they hoped that he might give them some wise advice. Yet he was in the stern, asleep on his divan! (Can you believe the nerve of this guy!?) So they awake him, and say unto him: ‘Master, carest thou not that we perish?’ And Jesus rose up on his feet, and he rebuked the wind, and yelled at the sea: ‘Be still!!!’ And the wind ceased, and there was a great calm. Then Jesus said to them: ‘Why are ye so fearful? How is it that ye have no faith? Know ye not that peace is attained when a minor violence threatens a major one?’ But these churchgoers feared exceedingly & said one to another: ‘What manner of man is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?’
“The end!” said my guest, and she smartly slammed the book shut.
“Yeah, see,” I said, “this Jesus story is doing the same thing to my analogy as you did earlier — it’s just confusing the issue by adding fairy elements into the mix. I mean, its author, Mark the Saint (by the way, who is this Mark? why should we trust him? what do we really know about him?) could have said anything that he wanted, as an outcome, and it would have happened, in his adventure tale, because we’re not dealing with the physics of the real world, or the tendencies of human personalities, but rather with the pipe dreams of an evangelist. Never forget that those gospels are advertisements for ancient churches, and their sole purpose is to lure you to buy the merchandise: in this case, to join the congregation. They’re like our modern infomercials.”
“So,” she said, “you’re telling me that you don’t believe in Jesus?”
“No!” I swore, “of course I believe in Jesus. But we’re talking about violence and how to stop it. And I can believe in Jesus without subscribing to his idea of using a lesser violence to stop a greater one. If that was really his teaching, then I say he was wrong. Just like he was wrong to kick the Roman centurion in the face, when that man tried to nail him to the cross. And he was wrong to snatch the sword from the sheath of the other soldier who was trying to hold him down. Also he was wrong to kill the team of guards who were instructed to slay him. I’ll even go so far as to say that Jesus was most wrong when, after escaping from the scene and fleeing to the nearby village, he broke into the house of Saint Paul, hogtied the Apostle & then dragged him, kicking & screaming, back to Calvary. Furthermore, Jesus was wrong to lug poor Paul, rope-bound, before the feet of the officers who were standing there, at Golgotha, and command them at swordpoint to ‘Crucify this rascal upside-down’. He was additionally wrong to lose his temper and decapitate Paul once they got his cross in the ground. I think Jesus was wrong to do all those things; if only for the reason that they contributed in untold ways to tarnishing his brand. But I forgive Christ, for I know that even perfect deities can make mistakes. Nobody’s sinless.”
“But that’s the whole point,” said my dinner companion, in exasperation; “Christ our Lord WAS sinless! How can you say that you believe in him, if you deny this crucial trait!?”
“Oh, no: you’re right,” I hastened to add. “I didn’t mean that Christ committed any sin — I only meant to say that he was wrong to act violently (“out of his mouth went a sharp twoedged sword” — Revelation 1:16); then I got carried away & tried to conclude my little speech with a popular catchphrase: I wanted to say ‘Nobody’s perfect,’ but I realized that I’d already used that word in the preceding sentence, when I called him a ‘perfect deity’; so I substituted sinless. Let’s just say that I misspoke. Or take that expression loosely, as an idiom: I was speaking figuratively.”
“So do you believe that Christ died for your sins, and that his blood washes you clean?”
“Sure,” I shrugged. (I was growing concerned, for my companion was now standing bolt upright; and, ever since this topic of Jesus arose, she had barely even touched the fish on her plate.)
“So,” she said, “you believe that Christ is the only God who can get you into heaven?”
“Absolutely,” I said with wide eyes, nodding vigorously.
“Then you believe,” she now took a step toward me and held up her knife, “that if I were to let this SHARP KNIFE accidentally slit your throat, just like Christ did to Paul, that you would wake up in paradise with Abraham and all the Hebrew Prophets?”
“Oh, I have no doubt about that,” I said sincerely.
“Hmm… OK,” she said. Then she returned to her chair and sat down. “I believe that you believe. I can tell by the look on your face. Plus it’s good that you were able to maintain eye contact while answering my inquisition; for I can always tell when someone is lying.”
“I can’t thank you enough for giving me a chance to prove my faith,” I said.
Here she narrowed her eyes and stared at me hard for a number of moments.
“You’re a jokester,” she said. “I see it clearly. Are you a Pisces? When were you born?”
“I was born in the bad year of our Lord 1977; and yes I’m a Pisces,” I said. “Would you like another fillet?” (Here I gestured toward the adjacent room, which is where the rest of my catch-of-the-day was stored.) “I can fry up more, if what you’ve got there is cold...”
“No, thank you kindly,” she said, “this is just the right amount of cuisine for me; I have a mid-sized stomach. The fish tastes exquisite, by the way. You’re a really fine cook.” And she returned to her meal and began eating with apparent relish.
“Ah, thanks for saying so,” I said; “it means a lot. And, you know what? Now that I think of it, there is one circumstance where I would accept your idea of ‘using a decorous violence to outclass an ugly one’—”
“Indeed?” she almost choked; she seemed genuinely surprised. “I’m all ears: Do tell!”
“Well, if you’re acting suavely & dressed in fashionable attire,” I said, “I can see where a certain amount of violence would be justified. But only because you’re in-the-moment & feeling the rush of adrenaline from the dangerous circumstances. So I say: as long as you’re acting on impulse, then I like the idea of committing a crime of passion…”
“Wait,” she said. “But if you call it a ‘crime of passion’, that takes away the legitimacy: cuz you’re admitting, by employing that term crime, that it’s still breaking some sort of rule. What I myself, all along, have been trying to say, is that cool violence, when enacted to counter hot violence (or is it the other way around: hot violence to counter cool? darn, now I can’t remember) — in other words, so long as the philosophical reasoning behind your deed is passably chic, even the most brutal crime is no crime at all but a necessity. Didn’t I call it a ‘moral imperative’ before? I could swear I did. I even wrote down those exact two words on my note-card here, to remind myself to make that important point.” Here she held up a card that had minuscule writing covering both of its sides; and, for emphasis, she flicked the card with her finger.
“You brought note-cards to our dinner convo?” I said, perplexed.
“Well you’re Bryan Ray, aren’t you? The famous ‘Groom of the White Election’ or whatever—”
“Hey, I’m just a fisherman.”
“Well then someone’s caused a juicier reputation to precede you,” she said. And she winked: “Rumors, you know.”
“Look,” I said, “I simply like to troll about in my skiff; my expertise is catching roosterfish and giant trevally; then I either bake them or pan-fry them. And I welcome any visitor who wants to join me. Is there any sin in that? I believe in Jesus, and I’m landing in heaven after I die — there’s no way they’re going to dupe me by putting me on a ship-to-nowhere again. But let’s return to our subject: Big harm versus small. Let me tell you where we agree…”
“Yes,” she said, “pray tell.”
“Alright, like I said: Remain in harmony with the mise-en-scène. Imagine we get the feeling that, this instant, there is a counter-revolutionary force outside, hellbent on our demise. I propose that we would be justified in using only as much violence as is needed to repel the ambush. Say that, after our embrace in the analogy above (the one about the water and the waves — not Jesus’s story but mine, which concluded with you & me floating together & kissing), ended up producing a litter of offspring, and these children now live with us in our modest home here on the cliffside, and we all eat fish together daily, as a happy family; and we welcome all visitors. But then, once upon a time, we look out our window, which resembles a porthole (even our house is shipshape) and see, slouching toward us, a gang of businessmen, consisting almost exclusively of executives from upper management: and they’re all wielding guns & chains. In this case, you and I rise up from our table and toss our dinner-knives deftly out the window: say that my own blade ends up striking the foeman whose mobile-desk’s name-plate reads ‘Rosencrantz’, while yours hits ‘Guildenstern’ — for those two CEOs are in the frontline. And our aim is so precise that our knives decapitate these corporate thugs in an instant; & their bodies end up instantly crucified face-down in their swivel-chairs. Upon witnessing this, the rest of the herd of cronies flee to the ocean: they dash violently down the hill and drown themselves.”
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