Author: Martha Cummings Date: Tuesday, November 7, 2006 5:31pm

Adam,
 
This is just superb.  It is so good that I had to read it to my husband who howled with 
laughter.  You really know how to turn a phrase and write a powerful dialogue.  With 
some editing, this can be a masterpiece.
 
Thank you for this wonderful piece that receives 96 points.
 
Dr. C
 
In message 490 on Monday, November 6, 2006 11:22pm, Adam Schaeffer writes:
>
>Create a dialogue between Dr. Faustus and two other characters in the play.
>
>Characters:Dr. Faustus
>                 Mephastophilis
>                 Lucifer
>
>Scene:  Dr. Faustus is beseeching Mephastophilis and Lucifer to give him
>more time on Earth.
>
>Faustus:  Great Lucifer, most unclean, I beseech you and in your wisdom
>to grant me four and twenty more years as an addendum to my previous
>contract, as I am not yet ready to be gone from this world.
>
>Mephastophilis:  I'm sorry Faustus, but the time alloted is over and my
>master is here to collect.  Put your affairs in order, it is time to leave.
>
>Faustus:  Mighty Lucifer, the little horn, my affairs need more time to
>come to a satisfactory conclusion.  Think of poor Wagner.
>
>Lucifer:  Shutup.
>
>Mephastophilis:  Dear Dr. Faustus, you are making him angry.
>
>Faustus:  Please forgive me mighty lord, but I have not used the power
>of Mephastophilis to the full potential.  I have so many new ideas.  I
>could do so much for your cause.
>
>Lucifer:  Speak further of this.
>
>Faustus:  A new country has been discovered on the other side of the
>vast ocean.  I could go there, and with the help of Mephastophilis win
>you many more souls.  Imagine a whole continent of worshipers chanting
>your praises during their hethen ceremonies.
>
>Lucifer:  I want something.
>
>Faustus:  My lord?
>
>Mephastophilis:  He wants insurance that you will do as you say. 
>Something dear to you, something that you will want back at all costs. 
>Something that you would be sore put to get back from Jove if you repented.
>
>Faustus:  What does he have in mind?
>
>Lucifer:   Your pants.
>
>Faustus:  My lord!?
>
>Mephastophilis:  He wants something that will remind you that you are to
>have no other pleasure than that of bringing him souls.  Your instrument
>shall be taken from you for the four and twenty years you ask for, and
>returned when the bargain is complete.
>
>Faustus:  My lord, anything but that.  What about my eyes?  I get much
>pleasure observing the world through my eyes.  Or my legs, I enjoy
>walking?  Not having them would be misery.
>
>Lucifer:  Shutup.
>
>Mephastophilis:  You are making him angry again dear Dr. Faustus.
>
>Faustus:  I am sorry my lords, but I cannot part with something so dear
>to me.  Let us forget the supposed arrangement and proceed with the
>extraction of my soul.  
>
>Lucifer:  Say goodbye.
>
>Mephastophilis:  Is there anything you would like to say before he rips
>your soul from your body and jails it in hell for a frozen eternity of
>damnation?
>
>Faustus:  This was a bad idea...
>
>Lucifer:  I agree.
>
>Faustus:  ...AAAAAAHHHHHHHh.....................
>
>Mephastophilis:  I didn't think he would ever shutup.
>
>Lucifer:  Hubris.
>
>THE END.

Chapter 2: (Photosynthesis boy meets Hobbes, werd…)

Many things have been said about the rainforests of South America. “They have hundreds of undiscovered species still living there. The cures for all of the worlds diseases are there just waiting to be cultured from the plants who dwell a quiet life of dignity on the rotting forest floor. Somewhere in it’s dense interior the fountains of youth lay hidden by waterfalls full of gold. Possibly ancient tribes could still be living there, totally and blissfully unaware of the money pressed pace of technological evolution that was destroying their brethren in the outer unforested world.” Regardless if any of these are true or not, one thing is for certain, the rainforests of South America were disappearing at an alarming rate. Societys of the world did little to stop their voracious appetites for wood, even though most of the time they didn’t need it, but just wanted to make sure they had plenty of it handy in case they happened to want to use it. From the time he was a boy until the time of his death facing the firing squads of the Chilean dictator Visenyo de la Piedad, Fernando El Debusto was constantly fighting to save the trees that he thought could save the world.

He had in fact been born in a tree. His mother had been fleeing from a Komodo Dragon that had escaped from the Zoo of Brazil (Komodo Dragons normally would have no business being in Brazil, unless on vacation and then only in the dry parts) and to tired to run any further with her heavily pregnant body she struggled to climb the nearest tree she could find, which happened to be a ten years young Red Oak (which also had no business being in Brazil, but no one knows why it was there). Not knowing of the dragon like patience that this Komodo Dragon possessed, Fernando’s mother ended up cowering in the red oak in fear for her unborn child for two days, drinking rainwater as it slowly dripped off of the leaves around her, saying a prayer of thanks to Mother Mary for every drop she could manage and beseeching her God to give her the strength to birth her son into the world. On the third day of her incarceration she could hold it no longer, and painfully started to birth her child. Her limbs shaking with raking waves of pain she tenderly set her left leg down on a branch above her. The two branches above her supported her legs like a doctors hands normally would have, softly and without saying much. She screamed in anguish for hours as blood from her womb dripped down the tree and pooled around the Dragon like a bright red path leading up to the meal he wanted, enticing him and enflaming his hunger to frenetic heights. The dragon circled the tree faster and faster, clicking his claws against the trunk in hopes of frightening his prey to make a mistake and fall out of her hiding place. With one final push Fernando’s mother brought fourth her son into the world in wet sticky beauty with a scream of pain, relief and surprise. As young Fernando’s sobs rent the damp heavy air for the first time the shiny, sticky placenta and muddied water from his mothers womb fell lightly onto the circling Dragon. The Dragon lept upon these utterances, and ate them accordingly, rolling his tongue over his face and into the crevaces of his skin and eyes and nostrils to absorb as many nutrients as possible. Being full and not wanting anything to do with this frightening new creature who’s screams were drowning out the rest of the forest, the Dragon slowly ambled away, looking over its shoulder once before cresting the last ridge, the sunlight pausing to gather menacingly in his eyes as he contemplated going back. Thus Fernando De Busta was infused with an undying gratitude for and love of trees that would stay with him until his last years in his bedroom hammock, overlooking the remains of his forest. For most of his childhood Fernando would be found lounging around in the arms of trees, making friends with the birds and monkeys who lived there. His human friends were few but loyal, as they normally owed there lives to Fernando when he saved them from falling out of trees. As he grew Fernando took on the qualities of his silent siblings. He was quiet but knew when to speak, peacable but knew when to act and possessed a quiet integrity and dignity that his friends tried often to emulate. One day while in school at the Univeristy of Brazil, where he was studying botany, Fernando got wind of a new condo development project that would need to clear out the section of rainforest that he called his home. He tore the bulletin off of the wall it had been posted on and ran to the Dean’s office. Breathlessly he burst into the door with a loud crash and flurry of papers without knocking, catching the dean taking a small sip of amber colored whiskey. The dean choked softly and set the glass down in his desk drawer, slamming it closed quickly with an annoyed gesture.

“Fernando, how many times have I told you to knock first before entering?” the Dean asked.

“I am begging your forgivness Dean Petrone, but this bulletin I found on the wall alarms me.” Ferando said. Dean Petrone leaned forward in his brown leather chair slightly and stretched out his gnarled hand. Fernando hesitated a moment, then stepped forward swiftly and handed it to the Dean, not letting go until he was positive the Dean had a firm grasp on it since Fernando knew that the Dean suffered from arthritis. The Deans sleepy half opened eyes flicked over the document for a moment. He let it fall back to his desk with a sigh and said.

“You must realize this development is vital to the economic growth of that region. Surely you would not want to stop us all from prospering.” Turning away slightly, the Dean added.

“Everyone knows of your passion for the forest, but this time it is for the greater good.” Then he muttered under his breath, “When I found who posted this in a public place I will skin them alive.” Fernando’s face was becoming darker and darker. The Dean couldn’t have known of Fernando’s history with trees since Fernando’s mother always told him the story as if it were a fiction, and not the truth that it was. Fernando always listened with half an ear, since his mother was always banging on and on about dragons with flashing eyes.

“Dean Petrone, surely you realize this is the last piece of rainforest left in our province. Cutting it down will surely irradicate the remaining populations of animals living their, not to mention remove forever the trees there that shelter us and protect us from the mudslides that destroyed Costa Messa Village.” Fernando quieted then, he had already started to raise his voice and didn’t want to get visibly angry. He would always be in control of his own actions, just as his trees were. What Fernando had not realized yet due to his youth was that his trees didn’t control anything at all. All of their lives were spent flowing with the wind, water and seasons that the earth kept spinning their way. If they could have reached out and spoken to Fernando, they would have told him that his argument was specious, there was no way that mankind would ever realize the foolishness of their endeavors unless they could be shown what it could be like to truly fit into the world and not rail against it with infertile concrete futility.

“I’ll here no more on this business of yours Fernando. Besides this argument is irrelevant, there is nothing I can do about the condo development. My influence only goes so far, and the construction company is foreign. They are ignorant to the ways of civilized bribery.” Dean Petrone picked up a file on his desk that held newsclippings his collegue Dr. Vargas had been sending him from the U.S. He clumsily tried to change the subject.

“Interesting business going on up in the states. It seems people are flying.”

Fernando lost hold of his last string of patience.

“Good day to you Dean Petrone, I will take my complaints elsewhere.” Fernando bowed stiffly and walked out swiftly, leaving the Dean in his office pretending to be interested in the newspaper articles.

“Fernando, this will not do you any good.” Dean Petrone called after him in a high tremulous voice. “This machine is to large, if you fight it you will just get hurt.”

Fernando added more speed to his retreat as he left the administrations building and started walking down Casa Azule street to the Province Magistrates office. His last chance was to lodge a formal complaint agaist the development with the magistrate and beseech for a petition. If he could get enough prominent citizens with influence to sign the petition he could get the development postponed, maybe even relocated. Surely the wealthy families would see the truth behind his words? Fernando rehearsed his speeches for the separate families as he walked down the street, judging which tactics would be most useful with which families. With the Del Reys he would have to be flattering and gregarious. They always liked nothing more than to hear about how much other people envied their wealth and influence. Their eldest son Don Marco had recently bought every newspaper in the province to make sure his birthday extravagances were mentioned and covered in detail. The Rio Negra family would require a more subtle approach. They only gave out their favors to those that had already done them a service. Luckily for Fernando, he had once saved a distant cousin of the family from being bitten by a serpent when she was practicing walking with her held high so she did not have to look at commoners. The last family would be the hardest. The Buendia’s were an ancient family, dating back to the founding of the province of Manuas. Legend said that Garcia Buendia, the founding patriarch of the family, had led his people to Manuas through the then endless rainforest, braving lizard dragons and blood thirsty tribesman. The Buendia family was proud and lofty about their honor. Owners of much of the land in Manuas, they had no need of bribes like the other influential families. With this family Fernando would have to appear sincere and honest, which was not a problem because he was just that. Fernando quickly created a list of other families in his mind and started reviewing it. Camoes, Lusiads, Latium, Cervantes, all would have to be handled differently. The list went on and on, becoming a monster from another world threatening to devour Fernandos memory with their fangs full of historical poison. So preoccupied was Fernando that he ran into an old man on a donkey who was struggling to cross the street. The donkey looked at him with a sarcastic and intelligent stare, even though the only thought that was forming in it’s head was “I need to shit.” The old man turned around slowly and fixed Fernando with a curious half lidded smile. Fernando stammered an apology as he tried to pull his gaze from the mans deep violet eyes that seemed to have no center. Kicking the donkey softly in the ribs, the old man moved further across the street without saying anything. Fernando kept moving and reached the building on the next block.

The magistrates office was located in a huge post world war 2 portugese palace, that had been built to house visiting dignitaries in the Manuas region. It was two stories taller than any of the other 19^th century structures in the city and always reminded Fernando of an old woman sitting down eating a banana. Still and unmoving as a virgin on her wedding night, Fernando stood on the side of the street wondering how he would form his request. Should he start with a bribe and a cocky western attitude? Or should he try to appeal to the man’s sense of empathy. Most likely the magistrate would be a bueracrat and need to be shown how he could benefit. Fernando reached down with his left hand and examined the contents of his pocket. Twenty four pesos and a Russian Ruble that he had found in a dirty sock in the park the week before. Not even enough for a meager bribe, especially a province official. What Fernando did not know was that the Magistrate was a woman, and hated corruption. Clenching the money in his fist with a frustrated groan, Fernando started walking towards the Magistrates building, not knowing that the magistrate, Beatrix Del Rio, would turn him out at the site of his bribe. Two steps brought him to a soft squish accompanied by a potent smell and Fernando realized he had stepped in donkey shit. As he looked up to say something to the driver he had seen a moment before a military helicopter that had been out of on maneuvers was falling out of the sky right on top of him. With a unflinching look of forced serenity Fernando said his last rights as he was sure he was going to die and there was no priest handy. Moving as if in a river current the flaming hunk of metal drifted toward Fernando, and he could make out the small details that only the soon to be dead are privileged enough to see. The pilot and co-pilot confessing their love to one another, the rotar blades slicing into the top of the magistrates building, the disinterested looks the birds on the telephone wires gave the burning carnage. All of these things were witnessed in exquisite detail by Fernando as he accepted that death was now inevitable since he was to frightened to move. The last thought that went through his mind as he judged the ten million dollar hand-me-down from the U.S. government was finally about to smash into him was, “I would have done anything to save my trees.” Flashing light engulfed him then, and once he became as accustomed to the pain of this new brightness as was possible he realized it was to constant to be from the fire that had been coming from the helicopter. Fernando writhed in agony as he drifted through limbo, pummeled inside and out by the merciless, unwavering light. Bordering on physical touch, the light illuminated every crevace of his body on every side, seemingly with no central source. It was as if the light were creating itself from each of the trillion million molecules that composed whatever it was Fernando was trying to gasp into his lungs as he experienced unkown heights of pain. For an instant he sensed another presence next to him but then it was gone, and swiftly after the light cut off abrubtly bringing the pain with it like a parent leading a reluctant child. Fernando layed curled up in a ball for several moments, trying to catch his breath as the memory of the pain finally faded also, retreating to the back of Frernando’s mind as one of his worst memories. It would one day be joined by memories of a woman with hair the color of earth and eyes that would strip his soul bear and leave a hole in his heart when she was thought dead, only to resurface a year later. Thus she would be Fernando’s worst and favorite memory at the same time. Finally Fernando regained control of his body and drifting conciousness. Cautiously he sat up and examined his body for injuires. No blood on his long,lean legs. There was nothing missing from his delicate pianists fingers. No blood dripping over his gentle face. With a sigh of relief Fernando stood up and gazed around him with a startled curiousity. He was standing in the exact same place that he had been moments before Uncle Sam’s metal machine had almost rendered him unrecognizable. Only the world seemed to have gone slightly mad, as in the sense that there was not a single person to be seen anywhere, and not a single burning helicopter to be found. The silence was broken every so often by the call of monkeys or birds. That was when Fernando noticed what else it was that had changed. The forest that he loved so much had reclaimed all of it’s lost territory. Trees were growing and well established in the streets, as far upstreet as the Patriots Sqaure and down to De La Cruz street, which was as far as Fernando could see. A water fall was now flowing through the magistrates office where the helicopter blades had slashed through it, and the spray from it wafted refreshingly onto Fernando’s face. The whole scene brought a sense of erie peace to Fernando’s weary soul, and he drank it in eagerly. But where were all the people? At that moment Fernando heard someone jump to the ground behind him, and spun quickly with fists raised and eyes blazing. He dropped them quickly though when he saw that it was the old man with the strange eyes he had seen earlier jumping down from his donkey cart. The donkey was still giving Fernando a sarcastic stare, but other thoughts were on its mind. The old man doffed his straw hat at Fernando and walked over to the De La Cruz Café and sat down at one of the vacant metal tables with two wicker chairs.

“Come, sit, I promise I will explain everything.” The Old Man said in a deep reasurring voice. He gently nudged the other chair with his foot to move it out from under the table for Fernando. Quickly glancing down Fernando noticed the man was wearing strange floral pattern shorts and long black socks pulled up to his knees.

“This conversation is going to be very diffucult if I have to speak to you over there” the Old Man said loudly. “You have my word that no harm will come to you, and that is saying something.” Fernando blinked, then cautiously walked over to wear the old man was sitting. Again he felt a squish under his foot, but this time his left. He looked down to see he had again stepped in donkey shit. With a sharp turn of his head he regarded the donkey menacingly, who in turn snorted and tossed it’s head in challenge. Cautiously Fernando approached the white metal table. It was old but had been repainted recently, so the rust that was slowly eating it alive wasn’t visible yet. He sat down in the chair and pulled it forward slightly so he could rest his shaking arms on the table.

“What has happened here?” he asked quietly in his most respectful tone of voice. There was something about the man’s bearing that radiated power. Fernando looked up at the strangely dressed old man and was startled to see that a tasty looking course of figs, dates, and Coke had been set out on the table. The old man was already stuffing his face. When and how it got there were two questions that Fernando decided would have answers he wouldn’t like. The Old Man swallowed and finally looked up at Fernando.

“Even 1,433 years later I can still taste the shit that your species put in this soil.”

“One thousand thirrr…wait where are we?” Fernando stammered as he anxiously whipped his head back and forth.

“It is not a question of where, but more of when. I just advanced you, Donkey, and myself into an alternate future where humans vanished from the planet 1,433 years previously. I think it is a marked improvement, but who am I to judge?” Fernando stood up abrubtly, knocking his chair onto the ground and startling Donkey, who again shat on the ground for the third time. Near panic, Fernando tried to put as much distance between himself and the lunatic with the defecating donkey. Pumping his arms and legs as fast as he could manage without passing out or tripping he tore down De La Cruz Street and passed the Maidens Fountain, which was overgrown with vines and moss, causing the naked woman that adorned it to look like a very sexy green plant spitting out water. Exhausted he collapsed on the edge of the fountain and tried to catch his breath. The Old Man wasn’t lying, there was not a soul to be seen in the city. The cars were all rusted to nothing and most of the walls and buildings were falling apart as he watched them. In the distance he saw a cell phone tower that had been constructed only a few months ago (1,433 years and a few months ago) fall over into the forest with a resounding crash. A massive dust cloud was preceded by a herd of very pissed of birds and monkeys screaming there anger to the heavens as the massive metal edifice with its dozens of satalite dishes ended its tormented and boring existence.

Fernando pulled his legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, burying his head inbetween his knees. After several deep breaths he was reasonably sure he wasn’t going to cry. The Maiden of the fountain looked down at him through her green clothing with empathy as he rocked slowly back and forth, trying to come to grips with his dead, thriving new world. This was what he wanted wasn’t it? The forest to be put back to it’s natural state, living the free life that it deserved? But he had wanted people to live with the forest as part of it, not leave. He never wanted them to leave. Was this his fault? Was he responsible? Who would he confess to? No one was left to deny his stammered apologies. No one was there to show him with expensive and proffesional looking charts how this was not an economically sound and comfortable state of affairs. No one except the frightening, bizarre, old man back at the café. If any answers were to be gleaned Fernando would have to go back and have tea with his last remaining neighbor. With a sigh of resignation and apprehension Fernando lay down on the marble ledge he was sitting on, hoping to get a better sense of things if he could only see the sky. At least that hadn’t changed. The things flying in it, however, had defiantly changed. The airplanes were gone, but the birds looked different than any he had seen before. A flock of strange fuzzy animals was leaping from treetop to treetop with alarming grace and speed. The seemed to be relatives of the flying squirrel Fernando knew back in his own time, but they were much bigger and all around more fuzzy. The tales were fuzzier, their wings were fuzzier, hell even their feet were fuzzier. And they were not afraid.

Only hesitating for a second four of the fuzzballs in front glided down from the trees to rest a few feet away from Fernando. They stared at Fernando for a moment then slowly crawled forward. Fernando was having a hard time feeling alarmed, as these were without a doubt the cutest things he had ever seen. The fuzzball in front, who also happened to have the most fuzz, advanced a little farther than it’s companions until it was only a foot away from Fernando’s head laying down lazily on the cracked and mossy marble.

“Hello their my fuzzy friend.” Fernando said softly. “Did you come to look at the pretty green lady?” The fuzzball looked at him for a second, as if Fernando had just done something exceedingly strange. Then it spoke.

“Hello yourself my bald friend. I am here to look at the last human on Earth. Did you know you are the only endangered species on the planet right now? I hope the irony doesn’t escape you.” The speaking, intelligent and sarcastic fuzzball turned to his companions for a moment and squeaked something in what Fernando assumed was their native toungue. The other fuzzballs seemed to laugh with their faces behind their tales. Fernando finally recovered from the shock of a Spanish speaking fuzzball over a thousand years in the future.

“What is it? What is so funny?” Fernando looked closely at the fuzzball and noticed that it had dark earthy brown bracelets encircling both of it’s wrists and it’s ankles. The other fuzzball’s also had them, but theirs were green. The fuzzball who had spoken turned its fuzzy head towards Fernando again. It took a moment to scratch it’s face softly with it’s hind leg, a gesture that calmed Fernadno a bit.

The fuzz spoke again. “It’s just that you looked like you were actually scared of a bunch of fuzzy flying squirrels. I have never seen a human before, but our histories make you out to be a little more frightening. Our’s is the dominant species on land now, with the dolphins handling anything in the oceans. They are a sassy bunch with their fast moving transports and water guns, but we all get along reasonably well enough. Haven’t you seen Hobbes yet? I bet he is lookin’ everywhere for you”

“Excuse me, but who are you talking about?” Fernando asked. Just then Fernando heard a chorus of clicking around him in the trees and looked up to see strange white creatures sitting in the branches watching them. They had strange black eyes and mouths that looked like smiley faces and their bodies were shaped like infant children. They all seemed to glow a bit, and they were all smiling.

“Don’t be frightened, those are just the Kodanmas. They came over from China after the human population dipped below five hundred. They actually existed in your time, but were to weak to take physical form because of all the dead trees.” The fuzz patted Fernando’s hand reassuringly, looking up at him with apparent concern.

“Im sorry, but what are they?” Fernando asked. “And who is Hobbes and why is he looking for me?”

The fuzz sat down with its feet dangling in the water of the fountain, staring up at the Green Lady. It’s companions did likewise, chattering back and forth amongst themselves. “A Kodanma is a tree spirit. Every tree has one, but they can only take visual form when they have enough communal strength. As of now trees have a population roughly thirty times what they did than when you considered normal.” The fuzz looked over at Fernando and winked, which seemed a very strange thing for a fuzzy talking flying squirrel to do. “Hobbes is the person sitting next to you.” Fernando looked over and jumped backward with a yell. This sent him splashing into the fountain, coming up with water sloshing from his mouth and nose and a few very put out goldfish in his shirt pocket. Sure enough, the old man was sitting on the marble next to were Fernando had been sitting just a moment ago. Smiling slightly with a look of amusement on his face, the old man helped Fernado back up onto the marble.

“You ran off before I got a chance to introduce myself. My name is Hobbes, and I have a very important task for you, if you’ll take it.”

Adam Schaeffer

Dr. Bailey

Eng. 207

3/5/07

Stairs to Nowhere

They were old stairs. All of them had cracks and most of them were rounded smooth on the edges. Years of rainfall and feet had worn them down, making them look tired and soft. Cautiously, animals would creep around on them fearing collapse while the plants cleverly wormed their way through the dry, gritty concrete. Grooves had been carved into the dirt next to the stairs by water descending from the street above, making me wonder how far the surface underneath the stairs had been cut. These details were just bonuses to what had really caught my attention about the stairs. I was walking to old Callier’s Deli a few miles from my house when they caught the corner of my eye. Most of the time, when stairs are built they connected one area to another area. The first area had a logical reason for being connected to the second area. With the stairs on the side of the road, this concept seemed to have been overlooked. These stairs, while apparently of good, caring, and sturdy construction, didn’t go anywhere.

On the side of Manchester Road in Manchester, Missouri where it intersects at Reis Road with an old apartment complex, a gas station, a family owned furniture store of three generations and the government building for Ballwin, Missouri there lies a quiet and almost totally ignored oak tree in a very small but tidy patch of green Kentucky grass. Leading down to this tree on the other side of the small clearing are the stairs. The stairs lead up to Manchester Road where hundreds of cars and minivans rush children back and forth from baseball practice and bored mothers and fathers from bars and stores where they find creative ways to battle their collective loneliness. What I notice is that these stairs are older than the road. They are older than the tree. They are older than the apartment complex and the furniture store and the government building. They are older than all of the people rushing back and forth in their cars and S.U.V.’s on the road above it. I decided that there was something to learn here. Maybe if I sat down and looked really hard I could learn something from these stairs. How much can one learn from ancient concrete? Certainly there must be a way for it to speak. I pulled out a piece of paper and started drawing them. I drew the cracks and the smooth edges. I drew the funnels of dirt on the sides of the stairs and the plants slyly sticking out from the weak areas of the edges and sides. I drew the missing pieces and the pieces of the stairs lying next to the stairs. After drawing for a few minutes, I got up slowly and walked over to the stairs. Carefully I walked up and down them and around them. Who else had walked on these stairs before me? Where were they going? What used to be here that was so important as to need these stairs? Again I sat down between the stairs and the kindly oak tree. I had learned something. What was it? Words assembled themselves into ideas and presented themselves for approval. Each thought was getting closer. There was a great truth to be gleaned from where I was. Without having to search I was going to learn something important that I could take with me to old Callier’s Deli and mull over while eating a half Carpenter roast beef sandwich with Cheddar cheese. Those steps were there when old Calliers Deli wasn’t and Callier’s Deli was old. There, that was it. My brain assembled a few words quickly into a short thought and rushed it to me.

“The passage of time is subjective to the observer.”

Old and decrepit, the stairs had told me something that took them decades to learn. Time was relative to the observer’s perception of it, but regardless of how it was observed it still continued to pass. The stairs did not know about years or minutes. They were encountering season after season, sun after moon after sun. While both of us were experiencing time, we both experienced it differently. Those stairs were demolished a short time later. They only exist now in a small drawing in my little black book. I like to trace them with long fingers some days when I need to remind myself of what the stairs told me.

Adam Schaeffer

Dr. Bailey

Eng.

4/8/07

The Dark Side of the Force: a Misunderstood Concept

Slowly the young Jedi knight feels outward with his force powers into the night. The city is teeming with exciting activity. Young people like him are out in the nexus enjoying themselves at night clubs, dances, parties, and social events of every kind. With his force enhanced empathy the young Jedi can feel the feelings of lust permeating the air, people everywhere striving to find a partner so they might have some fun for the night. He can smell the booze from a hundred different planets on the breath of the imbibers as they drink themselves into a relaxed state of euphoria. With a heavy sigh he sits back down onto his uncomfortable armchair and resumes his memorization of the one hundred laws of the Jedi Order. He is not allowed to go out and have a drink, a girl, a boy, a dance, or a good time in general. Perusing the activities of self indulgence is, according to his teachers, the path to the Dark Side of the force. His life will be spent in quiet contemplation, alone with his Force and his studies and his philosophy and endless Light Saber training. Not for him is the good time awaiting everyone else in the city. Not for him is the indulgence of almost every basic human emotion other than boredom. He will have a life spent in celibacy, never knowing what it is to be truly alive. This is what it means to follow the Light. To be in harmony with the doctrines and dogmas of the Light side of the Force, you must not do any of the intensely enjoyable things mentioned earlier. That is why it is imperative that Jedi everywhere are told about the myriad of advantageous effects that the Dark Side of the Force can have upon the soul of the weary Jedi Knight. This essay will be considered seditious and evil by the Jedi Masters. But the Dark Side of the force is a seriously misunderstood and often abused subject. Judge not on the example set forward by the extremisms of the Sith Warlords and their plans for empire and conquest, but on the everyday, life encompassing scope that will be addressed now.

A good time. This is something that few Jedi Knights can hope to achieve. They are told by their masters that enjoying oneself is just one of the billion steps down the path of the Dark Side of the force. But what really is going on here? Why are Jedi Masters so afraid of the Dark Side of the Force? Why do they quest to suppress all that makes people alive? The Dark Side of the Force is labeled maliciously as evil. But evil is a subjective concept. Without evil there would be no good, and without good there would be no evil. How can something as neutral as the Force be evil or good? The Dark Side of the Force is not evil. It is made to look evil by those that are evil, as the Light side of the Force is made to look good by those who are good. A good example of this is the gun. Some policy makers will try to convince that guns are evil. But the gun has no knowledge of evil or good. It cannot, in any way, understand these concepts. However, the life form using the gun can. If the being using the gun is evil, the probabilities of that person doing something evil with said gun are very high. The same can be said if that being is good. If an evil Jedi became known for using aspects of the force credited for good things, they would soon become known as evil things. This is the unfortunate and most difficult smear to wipe away from the Dark Side of the Force. The evil people who used aspects of the force that are considered Dark have been impressively twisted, and ruined any chances future generations had for having a good time.

By not engaging in activities such as sex, love, lust, aggression (hopefully healthy), heightened emotional states, and feelings of personal satisfaction the Jedi Order is slowly disconnecting itself from the life forms they have sworn to protect. How can they hope to understand and involve themselves with beings that they cannot live with? In order to survive, the Jedi Order has to separate itself from the rest of the world. The Dark Side of the force does not. The characteristics from this side of the Force are common to all living things, even down to base animals. They allow all to find something common to relate to, and work together to achieve greater harmony and heighten the chances of having a good time. Names are a semantic issue, but in the case of the Dark Side of the Force the name carries incredible connotations. The next time the Young Jedi reaches out with his (or her) force powers hopefully, after reading this, they will not think of the things they sense as dark, but as the burgeoning of something that almost everyone wants, a good time.

Adam Schaeffer

Dr. Bailey

ENG. 207

Basho’s Immortal Contribution

Coming to terms with our humanity is one struggle that ties and binds all of the human species together. Finding what it is that makes humans human, and not evolved primates has been the quest of many different disciplines. Most fields of science have taken several swings at it, hopefully getting satisfying answers with their mountains of empirical data. Religion and it’s subverts have been wresting with the gift of humanity since its inception. Taking the opposite stance of science, they have constructed astounding belief systems involving jealous, omnipotent creators and dead men rising from their graves to quickly be spirited away to a haven where humanity can live in supervised perfection. Philosophy has also intimated a plethora of theories as to what it is that borders our humanity, ranging as far as nihilistic moralism (believing that all morality is meaningless.) Also on the staggering list of human investigation endeavors is art. Art can be split into subjective categories, but the one most relevant for this essay is poetry. To be more precise, the short and often frustrating form of the Haiku. This poem form, since it’s discovery by the western world, has been translated into dozens of languages with mixed results. One thing can be said about it, however. It has an unparalleled ability to capture small moments of the human experience that have mind-boggling amounts of depth behind them. Almost every child has a father, and the Haiku is no exception. If there was one man who brought the Haiku out into it’s most perfect and easy to approach form it would be Matsuo Basho.

Matsuo Basho, mostly known as just “Basho”, was born in 1644 (circa) in Japan. Japan, sometimes described as a dragonfly perched gingerly on China’s back, is the home for several unique poetry and prose forms. The haiku is an original Japanese poetry form consisting of one stanza with three sentences. The first sentence has five syllables, the second has seven, and the third has five again. During its early life, the haiku was known as a hokku and was part of a long intertwining chain of up to one hundred separate hokku’s written by two poets taking turns. This genre of poetry, being an ancient Japanese pastime, was called haikai no renga or just renga for brevity (Harries, 1). Basho was also famous for spearheading unique forms of prose, which blended and blurred the line between poetry and prose writings. His travel journal, “Oku o hosomichi” or, “The Narrow Road to the Deep North” is one of the greatest and most well known examples of Japanese literature. Basho was, in ways that thousands before and after him were not, a true artist. Art was not something that Basho did, but was his way of life. Art became his quest for religious truth, which he hoped to glean from his constant wandering through nature’s comely pathways (Harries, 1). Like most good art, Basho’s writing style evolved and changed as he grew older. Starting with poems sometimes containing artificial wit, he later developed a genuine sense of humor in daily mundane things (Harries, 1). When he went into his hermitage he became a master at writing with sabi or loneliness. Sabi mostly illustrated the processes of the macro system by highlighting seemingly trivial occurrences within the immediate environment (Harries, 2.) At the end of his life, Basho was immersed in a perspective called karumi or lightness. This was a generally less tense set of poems, which had an air of contentment about them (Harries, 2). When Basho died, Japan lost one of the greatest proponents of metaphysical introspection that it had ever had. Thankfully, one of the main differences in Japanese poets when compared to Western poets is that Japanese poets had disciples. These disciples would record as much of Basho as they could, and some would forge ahead in his spirit, furthering his work in the quest for the human element and mastery of the challenging art form that is haiku.

The haiku does one thing better than any other poem form. In a way that almost no other form can, the haiku uses the most mundane, trivial occurrences as a vector to deep considerations of the “bigger life”. “Here, and here only, is the little life set inside the circle of the greater, the ordinary in the extraordinary, the commonplace in the miraculous, the material in the spiritual, the human in the divine” (Hokuseido, 329). In a quest for the human element, the haiku offers a unique tool. Whether the writer be of a more religious inclination (like Basho) or a more humanistic and subjective position like one of his future contemporaries (Issa) the haiku still functions as a magnifying glass into the greater construction that is the mortal human experience.

Startling to some, and feared by others, is the facet of the human element that is true mortality. But this is what gives humanity some of its most intense significance, flavor and color. Each moment could be the last, and each moment is built off of the moment before it. The haiku freezes these moments for the mind of the artists to glean meaning from at their own pace. The haiku is a recording of human mortality, but it is itself immortal, staying for the ages so that those questing for insights into their own humanity might have something better to build upon.

Reference:

Blyth, R. H., “Basho” in Haiku, Hokuseido, 1951.

Reference Guide to World Literature, 3d ed., edited by Sara Pendergast and Tom Pendergast, Vol. 1, St. James Press, 2003, p. 96. Reprinted in Poetry for students, Vol. 18.

Adam Schaeffer

Meidlinger

ENGL 493

4/25/08

A Truth in Progress

“Truth”. This is a word that can be looked at from any distance with useful results. From afar, watching it pass walking briskly with hunched shoulders down the busy street next to the other parts of speech, it appears as just another noun flitting in and out of a myriad of simple and complex sentences. Cross that street and follow the word “truth” a little closer as it conducts the errands of the day, and it appears as a more curious device, frequenting sentences of many different types. “This is the Truth. Please, tell me the truth! Which of these, do you think, is more true?” If one were of the most tenacious temperament, and actually managed to tack down the nimble word long enough for a thoughtful conversation (perhaps over a much needed cup of hot tea, after all of the previous running amok) then the word truth would turn out to be a divisive enigma, who’s own notion of what it actually represents is just as hazy and diaphanous as anyone else’s. “Truth” might tell you, rather sheepishly, that it is really just a representation of a set of ideas that are, in themselves, a bit nebulous, and all of that dodgy scaffolding has created a symbol that is aware of its grammatical function, but has a rather vague concept of what it is really about. It might go on a little further before breaking down in frustrated tears, lamenting it’s inability to stop those of a mind to control others from using it’s abilities to impress ideas upon people that didn’t want, need, or ask for them (missionaries, liberating armies, telemarketers, etc.). That would be the point in the conversation where you would kindly hand over your copy of William James’s “Pragmatism” with a hopeful smile, and impress upon the word that the humans might, someday, understand a little better. Hopefully, you would reach out with your own hands and comfort the shaking shoulders of the overwhelmed and overworked noun, and let it know that it does indeed have a basic meaning, one that is accessible and understandable to all rational humans. Truth would then probably get up, slowly, after affably stammering out an attempt to the pay the bill, which you would refuse, and leave to finish it’s work for the day. Hopefully, that night, it would leaf sleepily through James’s “Pragmatism”, and maybe reach a sentence that would cause it to bolt upright in it’s bed, jostling the dozen or so alarm clocks on the night stand that wake it up so impossibly early.

There could be many places in James’s “Pragmatism” that could cause this reaction. But, I like to think it would be this one, “All realities influence our practice…and that influence is their meaning for us… In what respects would the world be different if this alternative or that were true? If I can find nothing that would become different, then the alternative has no sense.”(p. 27) This quote best highlights my general understanding of William James’s notion of truth, as this is an example of the way that his truth works best for me. However, I feel the need to look at this idea further, and see what would change (personally) if it works, or if it does not work when personally instrumented.

Others, through the courses and veins of related philosophies, have come to James and his pragmatism (James would credit it mostly to C.S. Pierce and John Stuart Mill) with questions about its applications, relevance and practical functionality. Some of these questions are answered by James himself in his own words in his definitions and interpretations of pragmatism. James anticipated the uproar and difficulty amateur philosophers would have with his new method, even though he claimed it had been in existence and practice for years, “You doubtless wish examples of this process of truth’s growth, and the only trouble is the superabundance.” (p. 32).

While James did indeed set down some illuminating and practical examples of how the varying pundits of his method operate, the method itself raised new questions after James was relieved from their piercing glare by his unfortunate death. The strength of pragmatism, however, is such that it did not fall out of favor after the loss of its progenitor, and several dynamic philosophers have taken up the challenge that James left. Particularly successful among this ambitious group was Richard Rorty, who’s deep and heavy worded probe into the causal relations of true characteristics does much to clear up and modernize the workings of pragmatism in relation to a society closer to our time. In the introduction to his book, “Truth and Progress”, Rorty explains how pragmatism is being used as one of many tools by philosophers in recent times to answer the question, “are we, as a species, getting closer to the Truth?” Rorty uses pragmatism to attempt to answer questions on human rights, societal progress, and the evolution of philosophy. Human Rights, being recently a hotly and loudly discussed issue, are causing some wealthy and comfortable nations like our own to tout our human rights records (even though our fat, safe, and comfortable government won’t officially join the international human rights movement or make an official ban on the torture of prisoners of war) and to watch as other countries are embarrassed and harassed because of their less reputable human rights records by fashionable celebrities (China and it’s Olympic troubles come to mind). Rorty postulates that questions about the existence of human rights are as pointless as questions about the existence of quarks in atoms (p.7), as knowledge of quarks is indispensable in discussions of atoms as knowledge of human rights is in questions of humans. Here, Rorty starts making specific and usefully noticeable distinctions in his discussion of pragmatism that James did not. Rorty also points out that James, along with other early pragmatists, failed to offer a substitute to what truth really is, as he so vehemently and adroitly claimed, “truth is not correspondence to reality.” If truth is an absolute idea, and in its absoluteness it is related to other things, then there must be an absolute and vivid version of what truth really is (p. 3). I think that this is what has led to the development of so many of our religions today, that yearning, that insufferable longing for a view of reality that is exactly true. Rorty does something that James did not, and he does it with the help of another philosopher. Channeling Donald Davidson, Rorty explains that, “the very absoluteness of truth is a good reason for thinking “true” indefinable and for thinking that no theory of the nature of truth is possible. It is only the relative about which there is anything to say.” (p.3) With this statement I think that Rorty makes a shining example of what happens when pragmatism is applied to a huge and abstract postulation, such as what truth is and what it does.

One of my favorite excerpts from Pragmatism is when James establishes that ultimate Truth, with a resounding capital letter “T”, is unknowable and ineffable to humans. Thus, spending exhaustive amounts of energy on it is, in essence, a dramatic and colossal waste of time. Rorty makes the same claim, but improves the statement by saying plainly that questing for truth that relates to humans and their experiences is indeed necessary. After reading these passages, and lifting them out, painstakingly and piece by piece, from the fluff that surrounds most of the more equivocal passages (I am guilty of this practice as well. We mustn’t be picky with chastisement!) a great sense of freedom lifted my chest and arms, and I was buoyed through the rest of the day by the liberty of embracing a limit, something I had only sparingly done in the past (reminisces of algebra class come to mind). The days that followed seemed brightened and sharpened by the removal of a murky sheet of glass, as knowledge that that most elusive facet of Truth would almost never again rear its great and wobbly head in my direction, because I was no longer looking at it. I am sure that there will be indirect and obtuse glances in the future, as conjecture about the great Truth can be a cause for even greater literary stimulus, and help inspire a person to turn that conjecture into beautiful stories. At the end of that shifty and sandy Absolute path is something that will always be subject to nearly infinite amounts of interpretation. In this vein, James meets a question that he raises himself in the voice of the “layman” reading his philosophy. The problem raised here is that pragmatism asserts that any belief being beneficial to the lives of people is true (p. 36) James explains briefly that this is the way it should be, “ If there be any life that it is really better we should lead, and if there be any idea which, if believed in, would help us to lead that life, then it would be really better for us to believe in that idea, unless, indeed, belief in it incidentally clashed with other greater vital benefits.” (p. 37). When James speaks of “vital benefits” I wonder if he was vaguely speaking of a human’s basic rights, and that a persons belief in the truth should be honored and respected until it starts to violate those “vital benefits” or human rights.

Speculations on the concept of Truth have caused the genesis of literature with lasting impact, such as Wordsworth’s, Lines Written Over Tintern Abbey, a poem that suggests maybe the ultimate Truth is our Mother Nature dominant over all, and reconnecting with it should be a persons priority. Or, to look at a more contemporary example (and my favorite); “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy”, by Douglas Adams, a story that wholly embraces the notion that Truth is ineffable and uses that idea to make wildly imaginative and hilarious (if sometimes confusing, 42 as the ultimate answer?) suggestions as to it’s true nature. Both of these are examples of how speculation about Truth can bring forth art that enriches our lives, without hurting anyone. By embracing that limit of human understanding, freedom that is entirely more useful to humanity can be obtained, and the collective minds of the intellectual community would be able to concentrate on pursuits that would have a genuine benefit or “cash value” to their respective societies. In lecture six of William James’ Pragmatism, he speaks at length about the cash value of truth as a verifiability (different than verification) system, saying that truths resemble a credit system; they are true only so long as they keep working, and by verifying themselves during and after usage they earn their cash value. Further on, he continues his analogy with an imagination about the financial system of truths collapsing when one truth stops working, causing that truth to lose its value. Here truths are assigned the function of verification systems, eventually leading to the correct idea. This verifiability works fine when applied to common sense matters, but James advises caution when it is applied to principles or “true ideas”, but praises them as catalysts to, “…useful verbal and conceptual quarters as well as directly up to useful sensible termini. They lead to consistency, stability, and flowing human intercourse.” (p.97) When applied to science, these theories that work are hemmed in tightly, as they need to meet very strict parameters. Rorty continues closely to this vein, perhaps not picking up where James left off, but going in a slightly diagonal direction from the part of lecture six that I left with earlier. Again criticizing Charles Taylor (it isn’t a personal grudge, the chapter is simply about Charles Taylor’s notions of truth) Rorty attempts to debunk Taylor’s claim that a truth is something that is immovable through the processes of observation, by claiming that, “ …there is no occupant of space-time that is not linked in a single web of causal relationships to all other occupants” (p. 94) (thinking of the game eight degrees of separation with Kevin Bacon might be helpful in creating an example of what Rorty is positing here).

So, “Which of these, do you think, is true?” This is a question that I have heard my entire life, popping up in discussions as frequently as prairie dogs in mating season. For many of those questions there was a specific and (apparently) bare faced fact; two plus two is four, Sacagewea aided Lewis and Clark, Einstein was a poor student, etc. Regardless of how vigorously and enthusiastically Pragmatism is applied to some answers; there will still be one correct option, which, if we listen to James, is only correct as long as it continues to work. However, there are answers that beg the question, “which of these, do you think, is true?” or, “is this true because it is related to that, which has been shown as true?” This is another aspect of William James’s Pragmatism that I found implicitly helpful, but more illuminating and concrete examples (for me) were found in Richard Rorty’s, “Truth and Progress”. In the question of the causal relations between true things, Rorty cites an example from another philosopher, “If the name Kilimanjaro refers to Kilimanjaro, then no doubt there is some relation between English (or Swahili) speakers, the word, and the mountain. But it is inconceivable that one should be able to explain the relation without first explaining the role of the word in sentences’ and if this is so, there is no chance of explaining reference directly in non-linguistic terms” (Inquiries into Truth and Interpretation, p. 220). Rorty goes on to explain the differences he sees between causal relationships of things that are observed by people and truth. His peer and literary opponent (even though they seem to be suspiciously similar on a few perceptible issues) Charles Taylor said of truth that it, “[stays] put through all changes in description.” Rorty, however, claims that “there is no description-independent way the world is, no way it is under no description.” This posit has gotten Rorty and his colleagues into corners before, as it leads to questions such as, “did not moon the exist before it was first described by people with language?” The answer to this question is clearly “no” (I hope) and Rorty follows the advice of his colleague Donald Davidson by just ignoring the question altogether.

I have been trying for years to impress upon my friends that more than one option can be true. After reading James’s eloquent suggestions for handling truth with multiplicity I felt armed to the proverbial teeth and ready to belabor it into the heads of my peers until they pleaded for mercy (it is true that that was indeed a joke). As far as “cash value” goes, I think this facet of Pragmatism is the most productive. Pragmatism’s wanton need to smash dichotomies into steaming bits ushered in waves of fresh energy into my beleaguered debating skills. Now, I have a method to adroitly describe a way of selecting stances on political issues not based on liberalism or conservatism, democratic or republican filters, but on the individual merits of each situation. My stance on issues can bridge positions, instead of standing stoically in one spot. I can use James’s Pragmatism and its notion of truth’s multiplicity to help relieve the pressure between conflicting ideologies inside of myself and hopefully, when more comfortable with its offices, I will be able to give some modest aid to others.

“Please, tell me the truth!” My mother used to see this to me often when my teachers would call home with some clearly fantasized story about my misbehavior at school. The model of social conduct that I was, a contradictory version of events was normally ready for recitation when these events presented themselves. If I had known then about Pragmatism, perhaps I would have delivered my version of the truth with a little more confidence. Alas, those days are in the past and their punishments have been served. As innocent as I was, today I feel slightly wary when I think of the ways in which Pragmatism’s notion of truth could be twisted slightly by those with avarice in their hearts. When this feelings occurs, it is normally helpful for me to glance over at James’s thin book sitting on the shelf, and remember that Pragmatism’s nerves and brain and bounding heart are safely inscribed for future generations to read and, hopefully, analyze in a way that will benefit their own notions of truth. But after everything I have read on this bridging, tractor beam philosophy that quests to pull all other philosophies together, one piece of small wisdom echoes quietly in the warm corridors of my universe. “Do not follow in the footsteps of the ancients; seek what they sought.” said the philosopher poet Matsuo Basho. And that is what I will do. Discovering the truths that work on my own, instead of holding faith in the truths that others have passed on, will hopefully create truths that are more meaningful for me, as their entire experience will be mine, from creation to actualization. One day, this course may lead me to complete solidarity, but hopefully never to intellectual complacency.

Reference:

James, William. Pragmatism. Indianapolis:

Hackett Publishing, 1981

Rorty, Richard. Truth and Progress, Philosophical Papers, Vol 3. Cambridge:

University Press, 1998.

Adam Schaeffer

ENG. 353

Prof. Willis

12/14/08

Le Fin

If you were a business owner attempting to hire a new employee and an applicant came in to interview who could adapt to any environment, learn and change for every new piece of technology, magically absorb pieces of other people to further enhance itself and then draw on those pieces to gain greater power and was already employed by billions of people around the planet would you hire this person immediately or wait and see if anyone better walked in? Personally I would hire that person immediately and then have them go around and absorb the skills of all of my other employees. After that I would fire all of my employees except for my new super mutated, mega enhanced magical employee and let him, her or it do all of the work while I tried to stick pencils in the ceiling and light candles constructed out of money. I see this to be a very improbable but interesting analogy to what I think is going to happen to the English language in the next fifty years. Given the unsurpassed adaptability of the English language, it’s already vast (one million) repertoire of words and the mind boggling number of current and prospective English learners H.L Mencken’s selected quote from Jakob Grimm rings resoundingly true, “’In wealth, wisdom and strict economy,’ he said, ‘none of the other living languages can vie with it.’” (Mencken, p.1) Let us look at some numbers. Mencken figures that in 1868 there were 60,000,000 speakers of English. By the year 1911 that number had ballooned to 160,000,000. Finally in 1921, the year that Mencken’s excellent text was published, his estimation of the number of English speaking people was 150 million (Mencken, p. 1-5). Not to be overlooked, however, are the other members of the top five. French, Russian, German and Spanish now have hundreds of millions of native and foreign speakers. Also on Mencken’s radar was Japanese. He estimated that in 1921 there were 60,000,000 Japanese speakers in the world (Mencken, p. 4). Charging furiously into consideration as well is Chinese, which today has a speaking population bubbling over 1,500,000,000. Deserving honorable mention are Khurdistani and Arabic; who have hundreds of millions of native speakers to make their case. While Mencken and other philologists of his day brushed off the thought of any of these languages becoming global due to their dialectical differences; the influence of numbers that huge cannot be ignored. Likewise with the other top five languages. While they may not be the most widely spoken languages in the world, they are still used by huge, myriad, mind blitheringly large amounts of people. Now, given the English language’s propensity to absorb useful parts of the languages around it, estimating that the number of words in the English language absorbed from other languages will eventually outnumber the amount of original English words does not seem like the irrational ravings of an enthusiastic undergraduate student. I think that my first trip in my soon to be perfected time machine to the near future will find me in a world where people claim to speak English yet are completely unintelligible to savvy, time traveling tourists from the past. I think that I will need a translator to filter the English of the future into the English of my past, one that had influence from dozens of other languages but had yet to completely consume the planet and absorb all of its juicy goodness.

Some examples might help with understanding my hypothetical situation. If we look at English today there are thousands of words inherited from other languages. English can claim ancestry to Latin, Chinese, French, Japanese, Arabic (Al-gebra anyone?) Spanish (burrito means “little donkey”!) Russian, Gaelic, Norse and Afrikaans (I know I left some out, but brevity is calling). As of today, right now, English is a glorious mutinous slap in the face to organized language rules. Mencken said it best, “the object of language is not to bemuse grammarians, but to convey ideas, and the more simply it accomplishes that object the more effectively it meets the needs of an energetic and practical people and the larger its inherent vitality. The history of every language of Europe, since the earliest days of which we have record, is a history of simplifications. Even such languages as German, which still cling to a great many exasperating inflections, including the absurd inflection of the article for gender, are less highly inflected than they used to be, and are proceeding slowly but surely toward analysis. The fact that English has gone further along that road than any other civilized tongue is not a proof of its decrepitude, but a proof of its continued strength. Brought into free competition with another language, say German or French or Spanish, it is almost certain to prevail, if only because it is vastly easier—that is, as a spoken language—to learn. The foreigner essaying it, indeed, finds his chief difficulty, not in mastering its forms, but in grasping its lack of forms. He doesn’t have to learn a new and complex grammar; what he has to do is to forget grammar.” (Mencken, p. 9). I think this is the key to the eventual global assimilation of the English language.

McCrum and friends already tell of how English is becoming endemic to several countries. English on the streets of India is apparently very hard to understand when compared to Standard English due to the accents and borrowed Hindi and Khurdistani words. English in Singapore has become the equivalent to an ambitious English person taking on several different Eastern lovers at the same time. Examples of the potential encompassing end sums that the English language could come to in the near future are abounding in our world today. English is even being taught to non-humans, as several innocently bemused gorillas and chimpanzees might explain. Cruising in my time machine to the far future, assuming that humanity hasn’t imploded on itself, English could be classified as a new language all together with the advent of extraterrestrial friendships (or enemies). I imagine that the first space faring race we meet will not speak English, giving our language a new and steep test to flex its prodigious muscles against.

Works Cited:

Mencken, H.L. The American language: An inquiry into the development of English in the United States, 2nd ed. New York: A.A. Knopf, 1921; Bartleby.com, 2000. www.bartleby.com/185/. [Date of Printout].