~Chapter Four~                                ON OUR OWN--- "I might have a split personality, but I'm always there when I need me. " --- That joke we've all heard       If our lives were all, somehow captured in their entirety on video, I suspect most of us would be tempted to press the fast forward button much of the time. Well, except for me.  I'd be constantly looking for the remote. "Where are we now? 1974??? Oh no, I think the part where I tried using corn silk for pubes is coming up!"       Really, what would be the highlights? When do any of us feel truly satisfied about how our lives are progressing? That is to say, how many times do any of us feel that perfect moment? Whether it was the time when you thought you first fell in love, or when you first got an answer to a really big question, such moments are few and far between.  When was the last time you felt truly safe and warm? Can any of us truly remember? And what happened to that damn remote? We were still in our mother's womb.  We had the hypnotic rhythm of our mother's heart to sooth us.  There wasn't much that could hurt us in such a perfect place.  It was a much more peaceful and tranquil world then, when we slept most of the time.  We had such lovely dreams there in the womb(which makes us wonder where dreams come from in a life before experience), adn we were all bathed in the purity of our innocence.  What a happy time that was.    Why'd we ever want to leave? Why do we start thrashing and fretting, and get in such a terrible hurry to get out of there? What was the rush? So many of us are spending the rest of our lives wishing we could go back in.  Is that what sex really is, us trying to get back in? The womb was a nice place to be, but it started getting pretty cramped in there.  I guess sometimes, you just gotta move on.  Australia would be nice right about now.  Now there's a place where a person could grow. Our growth began from the moment the first cell started to divide. This growth prompts us, but rarely ever prepares us to face the world outside.  Most of us are dragged out, kicking and screaming.  We're asked to come out into a world bathed in light, and even though we don't remember having seen it before, there's always something vaguely familiar about this strange new place. Also strangely familiar, were  the people who welcome us into the world.  Even though their greeting is harsh and cold sometimes, somehow we know that the shadowy figures hovering around our birth, are versions of ourselves, only bigger. Our first form of security in this world comes, as we rest in the protective arms of our mother.  For people like us, it's something we'd spend the rest of our lives trying to get back.  Let's face facts.  Most men are looking to be mothered again.       I remember being there I think, in the womb.  I was fascinated by my fingers.  I'd wiggle them in front of my face.  Looking at my own, newly forming hands is my first memory.  I wonder if that was an actual memory, or only something I THINK I'm remembering? When ever I tell someone about how I actually do remember what living in the womb was like, I get that look. You know, that look of dumbfoundedness, if that's a word.  I get similar looks all the time in fact, and for many more reasons, which is fine. Maybe I just like the attention.  There's something satisfying about getting people to look at me as if their eye lids have been removed.      I was always haunted by the feeling that I saw things markedly different than others.  Thankfully, I was born in a time when science had given a name to the affliction that has up till now, tempered my life like it was being smashed between the hammer and the anvil.  The hammer being manic, and the anvil crushing down on me with depression.      That might be an exaggeration.  It's probably more like cream cheese being spread around on a bagel, now that I'm taking drugs for it.  At any rate, I'd always suspected that I had something wrong with me; or rather, something not quite right.  Another early memory was when Mom took me to see this skating show when I was around 9 or 10.  All my favorite Sesame Street characters were there, except for Bert--- who was suspiciously absent.  When I first walked into the arena, I was awestruck by the thousands of people I saw sitting in the arena seats.  That's when I began realizing how big the world was.  It's also when I first became aware of how different I felt than everyone else.  For instance, why did no one seem to be missing Bert but me? I knew I was a rather odd fellow.     It was a real relief when this suspicion was quantified.  It was nice being able to put a face on my enemy when I was diagnosed with a manic-depressive disorder.      Too much serotonin, not enough tyrosine? I don't know for sure, but it's a hormonal thing. When I was in a manic state (so often confused with "maniac"), the world slowed down.  Nothing moved fast enough for my racing mind.  On the depressive side, the world sped up. I couldn't keep up with it and became overwhelmed at times.  I was awash in confusion, and always felt so tired.  Just stayed in bed most of the time.      I liked it when all I had to do was sleep, womb or otherwise.  Sometimes in this world, it feels like we're being pulled under by the waves that are crashing in.  While in the womb, the nice thing about floating around in pre-natal bliss, is you're already in the water. We only feel like we're drowning once we start breathing air. In the embryonic chamber, you don't feel the undertow, like something's going to pull you under.  But Mom, would it have killed you to wear a parka? Homeostasis or not, it got chilly in there sometimes.  I've been out of the womb for some time now.  Winter's approaching.  The days are growing shorter.  I'm starting to feel the undertow again. Luckily, I have a refuge from the storm in sculpting my animals.  When everything else is shutting down for the long winter, I'm driven by the need to create.  It's my way of fighting the undertow that's welling up inside me. Many creative souls have felt this undertow within them. More than a few ultimately succumbed to its power, and they simply gave up the fight.  Some perished at their own hands, unable to bear it any longer.  Some people said they were weak, which is a cruel thing to say without having been in their shoes.  And what shoes they sometimes were, along with the souls which filled them.  To name but a few of them implies a noticeable theme. Many of them were artists, poets, and writers.  Many others were possessed of a passionate spirit, and were blessed (some would say cursed) with a creative zest and lust.  They sometimes did monumental things, but did them not out of luxury, but rather, out of necessity.  They were sometimes ridiculed, or even martyred by their contemporaries.  They were often labeled the weird ones, or the crazy ones.  As it turns out, they were merely misunderstood, especially when viewed with the advantage offered too often--- only in hindsight.  With such hind sight, few would argue that they were clearly far ahead of their respective times. Although it's difficult to mention just one such soul, there was this writer.  He was considered by many to be the best contemporary American writer of his time--- Ernest Hemingway.     The best way for me to honor him, since I've only read a few of his books (too depressing), is through a set of lyrics.  They were written by Neal Peart, the drummer of the exceptional Canadian rock trio, Rush (apologies to those who've long grown sick of hearing about my love for this band): "The writer stares with glassy eyes, defies the empty page, his beard is white, his face is lined, and streaked with tears of rage.  Thirty years ago, how the words would flow, with passion and precision, but now his mind is dark and dulled with sickness and indecision.  And he stares out the kitchen door, where the sun will rise no more." Hemingway eventually took out that shotgun he kept in his stairwell closet, and then used it on himself. His life long battle with depression was lost.  There were other greats who met with similar fates. Michelangelo didn't kill himself, but he might as well have worked himself to death.  He lived to be an elderly man, even by today's standards. But the manic energy levels drove him on to the very end.  Even his full life failed to satisfy the thirst that urged him on, and even with all that he'd managed to achieve, it still wasn't enough.    It's with great reticence that I toss myself into the midst of such giants.  But there's little doubt that I have that same, insane drive.  While seized in the throes of mania,  it's exhausting.  All through high school and college, kids would ask me if I could help them score some coke.  They'd seen how I'd been bouncing off the walls for a week straight, and had come to the natural conclusion that I was high as a kite.    I wasn't.  Not because of cocaine anyway.  I was what some would call "naturally wired." Thankfully, I could always count on the depression to finally kick in so that I'd sleep for a few days.  What a ride.  I guess this is one of those times when I get to bitch a little.  There are times when I wish I could just be like everyone else.  Just plod through life, content with what I was given, and not really care about whatever people thought of me.  Just do enough in life to get by.      How I envy people like that.  I wish that I had that ability to get up and face the day to day grind that is their life.  It permits them the cars they drive, that mortgage on the house, the satellite dish, and all those other niceties that people take for granted.      Don't get me wrong.  They've a perfect right to get all those things, because it generally means that they've put whatever hopes and dreams they might have had on hold. They've worked hard for their stuff, and there's not a thing wrong with that, if that's who you are.  But that's not me.  I can't stand the banality of it all.  What always gets me though, is the relative ease with which they've accepted their roles in life.    The majority of them are no happier than me, except they've mastered an ability that I never could. They found a way to belong, to fit in.  They've learned to tolerate the mind-numbing tedium of repetitive acts.  They can put their opinions on hold, and pretend to respect those of an irksome boss, or a delusional ideal.      I did my time as a hard laborer, and flew through 20 or 30 jobs since the age of consent.  I dismissed most of them as a flagrant waste of time.  That attitude held distinctly true for me when compared to the visions, hopes, and dreams  that were continuously burning through my hungering brain.  My soul cried out for something more, and it still does.  I guess Mr. Peart can tell you what I'm talking about better than me.  It addresses the creative drive... "It's a cold comfort, for the ones without it.  To know how they struggled, how they suffered about it.  If their lives were exotic and strange, they'd have likely gladly exchanged them , for something a little more plain, maybe something a little more sane.  We each pay a fabulous price, for our visions of paradise.  But a spirit with a vision, is a dream with a mission."    So these days, in order to survive, I've tapped into that energy.  I've put everything I've got into my wild-life sculpting, and equally wild and frenetic ink drawings, or any other creative act into which I can escape.  It's a wonderful release, but as the above lyrics suggest, there's always a price.  It gets so that's all you can think about, and your passion is the only thing that matters.  I sometimes yearn for some sense of normalcy, but without passion, what's the point?       Unless you're lucky enough to find a buyer for the products of your passion, the money's pretty thin.  When well-intentioned friends come up and expresses to me how much they wish they had my ability as an artist, I'm dubious.  As much as I try to appreciate the sentiment, all I can say is "Oh no you don't." What I mean by that is, how can they possibly understand what it takes to be so obsessed? Sometimes, creativity is a violent act.  It's a way to strike out at the world for daring to make you feel so insignificant.  If my friends could feel that creative surge of furious vindictiveness for but the scantiest of seconds, they'd likely jump out of their skins to seek refuge in a darkened corner somewhere. I'm in need of a fix, like some kind of junkie who's gotten hooked on making sculptures.  Nothing gets me so high. Your brain is provided with its own opiates, an organic answer to a 24-hour drugstore.  What's wrong with that? You're given unmitigated reserves of energy.   Your every nerve burns pure and clean.  You couldn't feel more alive, and no artificially derived highs are needed. You feel as though you can do no wrong (though occasionally this results in delusions of grandeur). You wanted no part of the drug called Depakote (a Lithium substitute), which held the promise of helping you to feel more like a "normal" person.  You were disquieted by the notion that you could be made to feel more normal. "Where's the fun in that?," you said. You've decided to keep rolling on, and have come to accept your manic highs intact (with the help of sedatives so that you can still sleep, and anti-depressants so that you won't risk a relapse).  In fact, you say that the former curse has passed away, and have come to actually embrace your illness as a blessing.  It's what gives you your strength.       Now that my dirty little secrets have been set out to dry in the winds of possible judgment, maybe I'll be permitted to offer myself as a barometer.  I'm no better, or no worse than anyone else.  Distilled down from all this white noise around us, here's this single voice--- my own.  Despite some peripheral differences, we all share afflictions of one type or another.  We're all, despite our inconsistencies, more or less the same.  At least it makes us feel better to think so.    What stream of events led people like me, along with all the rest, to this moment in our lives? Not only as individuals, but as a species as a whole.  Even as we ask, we're vaguely aware that such a riddle as our origins will ultimately go unbidden.  But we ask anyway, even as the heedless universe bears down on our feeble shoulders.    To look existence squarely in the eye, and to wonder about it.  How can we hope to shed a light on something so vexing? Countless others  more qualified than me have already tried.  What new insights can possibly arise as we haphazardly trudge into an area that we're barely qualified to enter? I suppose though, that given our present, sorry state of affairs in the world, there can be found one consolation.  In a deeply vital sense, we're all, true equals in our ignorance.  Only on such an unfathomable scale, can this be said.                                     The crux of these writings is dedicated to how we might rid ourselves of at least some of the misery on this planet.  Before taking on this challenge though, I think it's important that we be sufficiently prepared before going on this journey.  In these few tentative steps, it's already clear that we're going to step in some pretty foul business.  Like when going on a camping trip, you wonder if you've brought along enough toilet paper, you know? I've never been any good at preparing myself for a long trip, and can only hope that like any good boyscout, I've brought along everything that might be needed. Damn mosquitos! Truthfully, you were born with everything you need.  With this quest of the soul, it's not the destination that matters at all, but only that you take the trip.  Sorry, but sometimes it's the cliche' that sums it up best.  And since you're here, you might also try to pick up whatever you can along the way.  It's absolutely normal to feel alittle jittery about all this.  What you're experiencing here so far, is how exactly to approach any creative endeavor you choose, whether it be writing, sculpting, or painting.  You've got all this space that needs to be filled up.  It's the fear of the empty canvas, or in this case, the empty page.  It's like that itch you can't quite reach.  As the anxiety builds, you're becoming overwhelmed by the need to scratch.  It's the "manic panic"as you like to call it.  Now all of this emptiness seems to mock you.  It's the perfect time to seize up the gauntlet that it represents. You've just been challenged.  You can't ignore for long, the desire to meet it head on.  Once having accepted this dare, you're then faced with the unsettling realization that perhaps you've bitten off more than you can chew. If your weapon of choice to combat this feeling is through writing, just start hammering things out to see what happens.  As you do, you can always hope that at least some of the words finding themselves onto the page will feel right somehow.  You might be reminded that even a roomful of typing chimps will eventually write something that makes sense.  We can hope this is a little more conducive to growth.  You've already gotten a huge problem out of the way.  You've found your inner voice. It's talking to you right now. If you listen well, the words will eventually begin to fall into place. When this happens, it's almost mystical. The exhilaration that follows is intoxicating. In fact, everyone should try it.    Ever since I was a little kid, there were always so many questions.  When you're this young, you come to trust adults, because as far as you're able to tell, they have everything that you could ever want.  The grown-ups seem to be capable of pulling all these goodies out of thin air.  You're still too young to have a concept of working for a living.  As children, we're all just as oblivious to where our food comes from, as is a goldfish getting excited by the flakes that you make rain down into their bowl.  To the fish, there's magic in your fingertips. Parents (if you're lucky enough to still have them, or even one of them) are magicians.  They're there to wake you up each morning, and to see you into your day.  They pick you up from school, and when you get home, there's all this food and candy already in place.  Everything that you'd been thinking about all day in school, is always there waiting for you when you get home.  You knew it was going to be a particulary good night, if brussel sprouts hadn't yet made an appearance.        Everything you'll ever need is all just laying there, waiting for you.  Childhood is a beautiful time, but it doesn't give you a clue as to how it really is in life.  So you come to trust and confide in the adults.  Anyone who has so much to offer you, must surely have all the answers.  To you, your parents are a little like god.  Like with god, you could completely trust them.  That's what I did, trust them--- with all due respect to that god fellow. Like so many others in this country, I was brought up a Christian. Whatever that is these days. In my case, a Mormon. Like with so many other kids of the christian kind, you were asked to rely upon faith alone as your guide.  But this would only do up to the time when you began noticing the many contradictions and incongruities that were presented in the diluted form of truth called religion.  In short order, you began to get the feeling that you were being protected from something.  You were only being told what they felt you needed to hear.  That's because this was an altogether human approach to try and understand the unknowable. The problem was, it brought along with it the same conflict, confusion, and convoluted logic that had dominated all of human history.  Despite the claims to do good in the world, religion generally stung with what mattered most--- the precepts and the principals of the society that had invented it.    To me, there had to be more to god than the fairy tales and shaky history lessons of the good book.  This god was too small for someone with such a soaring imagination.  Church always left me with far more questions than answers.  How many times had I been shut up or thrown out of Sunday school, just for daring to ask a few harmless questions? My "teachers" thought I was being disrespectful, or confrontational.  They should've been flattered that I was taking their faith so seriously. These days, I consider most religion just another form of self deluding waste.       But in those early days, before I let cynicism guide me, I wanted desperately to believe in what I was being told.  The problem was, I was having difficulty accepting so many lies and half  truths.  Any thinking person, even amongst five year olds, would consider asking questions harmless, even silly.  But my questions were usually scorned. As the years passed, there were so many questions piling up, that I didn't know where to begin.     Here's one that got me into a lot of trouble...   "If god is so perfect, then how come he created this Luci-fur guy? " When no response came, then I threw this one out: "If we're all given a choice between good or evil, and we can't decide (because the issues between good vs. evil are so distorted in the bible), why are we gonna be punished for not choosing one or the other?"     Well, this line of questioning was getting me  nowhere fast.  "Alright then, how can god love us, and be so mean to us at the same time?" This one actually got a response.     "The lord moves in mysterious ways." This wasn't what I was looking for at all.  I became increasingly disenchanted with the church.  My impatience was growing as fast as I was growing out of my clothes.  You've really got to learn how to be more patient.     I'll just defer my impatience to my built-in excuse of being manic.  I always feel this rush of urgency.  Anyway, I decided that if anyone had some answers, then they would have to come from the man himself. For a short time, I couldn't wait to get to church on Sundays.  And I came prepared too, bringing along with me a big bags of jumbo rubber bands.  If god was going to take time out from his busy schedule, I figured my chances would increase if I could get his his attention somehow.  When everyone left the chapel after yet another mind numbing  sermon, that's when I'd make my move.  Was god ever going to like my rubber bands.  How could he NOT? To my way of thinking, rubber bands were some of the best things on Earth. It's funny how a kid's mind works sometimes.     I looked up at the ceiling, figuring since this was god's own house, and what with his living up in the sky someplace--- well, that would be a most likely target. There were a lot of crisscrossing rafters and beams up there, and if I aimed just so...     I must have fired off a dozen or so volleys before a few rubber bands started landing just right, and on top of some of the cross beams up there.    By the time I felt like enough of these little attention getters hit their mark, I was satisfied.  God would have to be pretty impressed, because I'd managed to give him around 20 rubber bands in the end.  After that, each time I arrived at church over the next few weeks, I was sure that they'd be gone when I looked to the ceiling.  But each week, there they'd stay.  Ultimately, I couldn't stand the suspense anymore, so I asked the preacher if he could put in a good word for me.  That's right around when I discovered a new fear, a fear of heights.  It was a long way up the ladder, as I was asked to remove the rubber bands myself (with supervision of course). God moves in mysterious ways alright.  He taught you a valuable lesson that day.  If you make a mess, then it's your responsibility to clean it up.  But the questions only magnified after that .  This god that everyone else seemed to worship (and fear) was a coward, you thought.  He'd sent his only begotten son down here amongst us rats, and let him do all the dirty work.  After having done so, he was rewarded by having what was left of his festering carcass hung out to dry on a crudely fashioned cross.  Even as a kid, you knew your own dad could never do something so horrible to you.  Your dad loved you.  Even back then, there was more glaring inaccuracies and injustices that your inexperienced mind was somehow able to grasp, where others had apparently failed.        I think I'm starting to like this whole "inner voice" thing. It allows me to get away with more. If I offend someone, I can just say, "don't talk to ME. Tell it to my inner voice." You know, kind of like "talk to the hand," only more spiritual.     Anyway, when the manner in which Christ died was told to us in all its glory, it was supposed to make an impression on innocent, young minds.  They wished us to know how much this poor man had been made to suffer.  That way we could understand how much was sacrificed by him for our sinful ways.      Apparently, Christ died for all of our past sins, as well as for all  future indiscretions.  Yet we go right on sinning anyway.  One of my first thoughts was "if god could allow such a terrible thing to happen to his own son, then what chance did us mortals have?" It hadn't yet occurred to me at such a young age that this crucifixion implied that we were already absolved of our sins before we'd even committed them.  No wonder people are so screwed up in their belief systems.  Talk about your loopholes.     As for Christ's experience on that cross, I also questioned its authenticity based on the glaring inaccuracy with respect to how this brutal act was carried out. I had no trouble believing that people could do such unspeakable things to each other (at that time, the war was heating up in Vietnam).      When they described to me how the spikes had been driven through the messiah's hands and feet, I knew this technique would not be an effective means to hang somebody from a cross.  The full weight of an adult male (even an emaciated one) was far too much to support, especially if the nails that fixed him in place had been driven into the positions illustrated in all those paintings I saw.  The spikes would have torn right through, and Christ would have fallen to the ground.       Most religion is shaky history at best.  As sad as I felt for this man, the skeptic in me knew that the nails would have to have been forced into the wrists (between the radius and ulna bones of the lower arm), and not through the palms of his hands.  I've always been a glutton for details, regardless of how disturbing the topic was.        Ok, for the sake of being totally honest, I wasn't yet sophisticated enough (or morbidly curious enough) in my early childhood to have made the previously stated observations.  Still, I was old enough to know  that something was wrong with the crucifixion story based on physical evidence alone.  How could such a glaring error be overlooked for 2000 years? I wondered how many other such misconceptions had been perpetuated for so long.  My insistence on believability only added to my building sense of shame.  After all, I was supposed to be moved by this testimonial.  I was, but... But not enough apparently.  And it wasn't just this that continued to plague your curiosity driven mind.  As bad as the crucifixion was, there were things in the bible that bothered you even more. This was the earliest time you can remember, when you began to feel so isolated from your peers. If it's any consolation, not everybody started out fishing from the same stream of consciousness.  You were just this funny little kid who was only looking for a place to fit in.  You still are actually, but it wasn't working out too well for you.  You had your friends, but you never took them too seriously unless they happened to be of the four-legged, furry, or scaly variety.  So you tended to withdraw from the lives of humans, and spent much of your time learning and wondering about the natural world.  This explains your love of science as well.     Animals, like all other non-white, human male or female creatures, were misrepresented and mistreated too.  They were either portrayed as evil or innocent. You had your serpent in the garden, or your flocks of sheep.  I usually found myself better able to relate to the "innocents" of the bible than I did to the supposed good guys.      The so-called sinners in the bible were those who seemed to be more like me.  They were usually the victims of god's bad temper, just as I was often the prey of many a school ground bully.  I respected someone who had more power than me, but was always fearful of it.  I learned at a young age that whenever someone had power over you, they could easily keep you under their control.  I didn't want to believe in a god that was no better than some school yard bully.    That's how I eventually came to perceive him. I had a deep need to be loved and nurtured, just like anyone else. More than that though, I needed to give these things too. Who better to both give love, and receive love, than from the beasts of the field? And no, I haven't violated any farm animals, thank you very much. There was this snake you had named Gertie.  You named her after the animated dinosaur.  A careless neighbor  had barely missed running over her with a mower, and you snatched her up by the tail.  With the image of the Satanic snake of Eden still in your head, you kept her anyway.  She didn't appear devilish in any way, shape, or form.  She bore no resemblance to evil incarnate.  Well, there was that time when you used her to get the girls in class to scream during "show and tell."  But you were more to blame for this than Gertie the garter snake, who you found to be shy and retiring by nature.  She bore no resemblance whatsoever to any of the other animals depicted in the bible either. So many of them were sacrificed for our gods.  It wasn't only the mistreatment of animals either.  Consider how savagely the lions acted toward the Christians.  In fairness though, you'd be fierce too.  The Romans hadn't fed them for weeks, and had beaten the lions  into a frenzy before the big show.  In biblical text, it's the humans who act like animals, and the animals aren't responsible for their seemingly cruel behavior.  Like everything else subject to human perception, animals are victims also.    I actually had the pleasure of hanging out with a couple of lions as a kid.  They were barely out of their cub stage when I first met them, and they still had their spots.  They were a lot of fun to play with, and I delighted in watching them roll around on their backs like a pair of kittens.  They grinned and squinted, and always had their chins stuck out wanting to be tickled there.  Lions weren't monsters at all.  In fact, they reminded me more of the kitties I had at home.       In the old testament, there was also the story of Jonah.  He was swallowed whole by that great fish.  Another fallacy, because in all the pictures I found, it looked more like a whale, not a fish.  This was a mammal, like us.  Plus, whales are usually friendly and peace loving.  Not the kind of animal that would go around looking for people to swallow.  Even the Orca, the alleged "killer whale," is pretty inoffensive (unless you happen to be its dinner as a seal).         Even if this Jonah clown was swallowed by a whale, chances are it was a baleen species, a  filter-feeder.  A toothless whale could arguably take you into its mouth by accident, but  would probably spit you back out again as it learned that you were blocking its feeding mechanism, its baleen.  In addition, a person is much less tasty than the microscopic krill and plankton that it's accustomed to swallowing.    Whales are an example of yet another animal in the good book (it's what the word "bible" actually means I'm told) which was given a bad name.  I recall reading of how dolphins and porpoises (also cetaceans like the whale) were far from  malign.      Sailors of lore recounted stories of how some species of dolphin had actually rescued them from drowning.  Men who had been lost at sea, and were on the verge of going under the waves, were amazed and relieved by what had happened.  As their strength began to abandon them, they were then saved by an impressive display of dolphin intervention.  Sensing the men in such distress as they flailed helplessly, the graceful and perpetually smiling creatures would swim up under them, and guide them to the relative safety of a near-by beach head.      But why would a dolphin bother? It's believed that the sea men had been mistaken for dolphin young who were still learning how to swim.  The dolphins were only doing what they did naturally, as a good and protective mother.  I'd like to add here however, that dolphins aren't stupid enough to confuse a human being with one of their own young.  Also, if I'm not too much mistaken, baby dolphins are ready to go, fresh out of the birthing vent.      Why's it so hard for people to believe that an animal might be willing to help any other species, just out of the goodness of its heart? How is it that people are still so blind to the other animals that share this planet with us (we're certainly not sharing it with them)? We can blame the bible, among other things.  It's the mothers of the world who deserve praise, not a bunch of malign gods written about in religion. Such books even expect you to on some level hate your own mother. Most of the world's religions teach that all women, not only mothers, are the scourge of all humanity.  We'll get more into this later, but for now, take Eve of Eden.  Look how this woman screwed it up for the rest of us, just because she was a vegetarian.  Therefore, even your own mother, the person who loves you more than anyone else possibly can (if you lucky enough to have a wise one), is just another lowly female.  Women have been asked through all of human history, to put aside their own rights as individuals, and become incubators for the rest of us.  Religions speak of sacrifice for some greater glory, but who has given more than women? Wouldn't a God offer mercy and tenderness to anyone who was so capable of unconditional love and sacrifice? Instead, we're asked to believe that his sacrifices for us are better than those given to us by our mothers.  Women offer their lives selflessly, while this God offers us charity only if we give up our lives to him. The only true charity is given unconditionally and anonymously.  God will strike his children down if they refuse (even in ignorance) to recognize his infinite mercy.  This is anything but unconditional.  No wonder people are so resentful of a god that would make them feel such guilt and shame for loving those things that are supposed to be evil or deceptive.     The older (and the little wiser) I got, the more I began to notice how the gods depicted in religion seemed more like men, and less like gods.  What was beginning to really worry me though, was how willing most people were to overlook this overall pattern of righteous indignation always being displayed by this god fellow.     They wanted a god that created fear in them, while I wished desperately for one that cared not only for me, but for all of creation.  Man and woman, fish and fowl, lion and lamb.  And once again, I felt alone in this wish.  There was a time when no matter what I did, it felt as if I was experiencing it alone.      I usually preferred to sit by myself in the school cafeteria. If I did find myself at the table with someone else, I had this problem of knowing where to look while drinking my milk.  My face felt a LOT like it did when someone wanted to take a picture of me.  I became too aware of what my face must look like about 30 seconds after the person said, "SMILE!" That's right around the time I started feeling like Quasimodo must have, when first meeting Ezmerelda, the love of his life.  On the one day he'd left his pocket comb up in the bell tower, along comes THIS chick!     So here I am, wondering where to focus my eyes as I drank my milk.  I'd rather get hit in the face by a basketball than to go through this every day.  Oh well, Physical ed class was coming up after lunch.  I'd have my chance, I'm sure.  I often wondered what I had in common with the other students.  This was right around the time when I began to withdraw inside myself.     I didn't feel at all like I could belong to a group of my fellow humans, here while eating, or later in my life making office small talk.  What's the big deal?  I'm just eating my  lunch here.  The cafeteria was brimming with people because of over crowding. So what if a few of them noticed how my face was looking like Mr. Ed's? Just don't talk, for god's sake.  I always talked when I got nervous.  No matter what came out of my mouth, besides the food that is, I was always feeling awkward.  Was my nose too far down in the milk carton? Look up you idiot...UP! I felt like I was choking half the time.  Even the most dense of kids could tell I was a mess. All I wanted to do was to get back to my comic books.  Where's a radioactive spider when you need one?  I wanted to climb the walls, but I was certainly no Spiderman. Have you ever wondered while you ate, if what you were tasting was the same for everyone else? You relish a hot fudge Sundae, or an ear of fresh roasted corn, dripping with butter.  Are the pleasurable sensations you feel and taste the same as those experienced by the person sitting across the table from you? There's no way to be sure, is there? Without being able to jump into another's mind for a truly shared experience, you're left to wonder.  A person can describe to you what they feel, but we remain clueless.  We can all agree whether something is sweet or bitter, pleasant or foul.  Superficially, we know shit from Shinola.  We all share the same basal needs, and we yearn for a sense of connection. All living beings on this planet have inside of them, beyond the requirement of food and water, a longing to be with others of their kind.  This quality has been instilled in us by nature, and is frequently confused with the need to procreate.  While this need can't be refuted on a biological level, we will see that it goes much deeper than that.  We are social creatures, regardless of any preference to be left alone.  When alone however, you deprive yourself of the ability to grow.  This is true as individuals, true of the world, and true of the whole of creation.  So despite a shared experience through our ability to communicate through language, chemistry, or even through telepathy (this too will be touched on later), we remain separated from one another by this parcel of flesh.  At some point, we've all felt alone in the world, even lonely.  We can be standing in a city street teeming with hustle and bustle, and yet can still feel that terrible sense of isolation.  We can symbolically link up with others by activities such as line-dancing.  We can initiate the wave at the ball park, and feel proud about your role in starting it.  We clap in unison at a concert hall, and can undulate as one to a pulsing rhythm.  Some of us may be lucky enough to find someone, and make love.  To many, sex is the most sacred act of a symbolic connection.  If you're really fortunate, you can experience a shared orgasm (provided one of you isn't faking it), which serves to fortify this sharing of experience.     Even then, you're still forced to ask yourself "was it as good for you as it was for me?" This question sometimes stems from egotism (especially in men, who always need to feel like they measure up).  Also, for some at least, we feel guilty that we've used another out of nothing more than the need for sexual gratification.  Such uncertainty always reminds us that no matter how close or intimate we can become with others, the "mutual" moment you just shared is still felt only from your own, separate perception of it.  We are still alone in the physical sense.       I should add here that it's not easy talking about physical closeness, without becoming at once aware of the sexual tension I always have fuzzing up my brain.  Here I thought drinking out of a milk carton was tough.  Thankfully, it's dimming somewhat as I get older.  A mind no longer so preoccupied with sex, is free to wonder about other things.       Sexual arousal is a prime indicator of how much further we've got to go yet, before ditching our animal side.  The animal in me isn't that hard a thing with which to keep in touch.  That wouldn't be too bad a thing, especially if there was an outlet for it.  It's fruitless to deny our natures, so why try? Mating is a characteristically dangerous proposition.  If it weren't for the rewards our brains gave us for succumbing to our biological predisposition to carry on the genetic line, there'd be little other incentive to make it worth such enormous effort.  And when a person (not naming specifics) goes a while without, it becomes difficult to concentrate on little else.  Such a person is being asked rudely by natural law, to give it what it wants. Only then will you get the chemical fix that tells you what a good boy you've been. Biologists have given a name to one of the hormones responsible for the warm and fuzzy response to sex.  Although women seem to get more of this opiate after copulation than men, males too often respond to its presence in their bloodstreams by nodding off to sleep.  There's an excuse for all you men who wish to avoid basking in the afterglow.  One of the hormones in question has been named "oxytocin (not to be confused with the designer drug, oxycontin)." Actually it's more of a precursory chemical, as it puts you in the mood.  Not only for intercourse (males need little help in that area), but to generate maternal or paternal states of mind too.  They're the "warm fuzzies" as it were.  We also feel it when stroking a favorite pet, or when watching puppies at play.  Whenever you get the overwhelming urge to pinch a cute cheek (of your own choice), that's your  hormones at work.  This is the reward system which was set up by nature to guarantee survival of a species. It's even been detected in mother crocodiles as she carries her newborn chicks carefully about in her surprisingly gentle jaws. It's a natural cycle of being selfless once in a while, and getting rewarded for it. It's a form of slavery, if you want to look at it that way, but those so branded are scarcely aware of it in such harsh terms. Unlike human forms of slavery, the sting of the whip is replaced with a curling of the toes, a flush of warmth in the face, or a tingling in the spine.    I don't know if I'm aroused, or if I'm coming down with something.  It sounds so clinical, like we're describing being infected by a virus. I find it oddly unsettling that something so unassuming as a hug can be identified empirically.  It's like we're trivializing something as wonderful as love.  To distill it down like this is to render it meaningless.  At the very least, it takes away some of the magic.  I find it's kind of intimidating that for every little feeling I might have, there's some chemical precedent for it. I guess even my love for science has its limits. For the time being, we're just getting ready to make the causal link between biological function,and its relation to how the soul has become "wet-wired" into physicality. If a soul wishes to reclaim, or in many cases, experience for the first time, what it's like to be a biological entity--- certain allocations must first be met.  As pure energy, that which we're calling the soul must have a vehicle through which to experience this plane of existence.    But we'll be getting into this at length as we get going along...