Endless battle of the Monkeys and the Crabs

Or: no blood for persimmon juice!

There is an old story in Japanese folklore which is told to teach the following lesson: “If a man thinks only of his own profit, and tries to benefit himself at the expense of others, he will incur the hatred of Heaven.” The story is called Battle of the Monkey and the Crab and there are many versions, which though different in their particulars, share that same nugget of implied wisdom. Just recently I came upon a version of the story which deviates from the norm enough to be not only a broad lesson in human nature but strangely applicable to modern events as well. Creepily applicable you might say. I’ve transcribed it below…

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The monkeys and the crabs have never liked one another much. They worshipped different Gods and had little patience for what they saw as the other’s shortcomings. Yet each possessed something the other wanted and so uneasy interaction was inevitable. The monkeys were poor and power hungry and so needed money which the crabs had plenty of. The crabs had a mighty thirst which could only be quenched with persimmon juice, and the monkeys owned most of the worlds persimmon trees.

Once upon a time in the “wretched” land of the monkeys the crabs, being rich and powerful and full of that mighty thirst, installed a monkey of their choosing in a big persimmon tree. They figured having a “puppet-monkey” of their very own, ruling over a tree, would yield all kinds of benefits in that unfriendly land, not the least of which would be access to the sweet sweet persimmons they so desperately craved. An ugly little crab shook hands with the ugly power-hungry “puppet-monkey” and all seemed just fine.

Over time the power hungry “puppet-monkey” began overstepping the bounds which his crab overlords had set for him. His land acquired a little wealth from persimmon sales and he became even more power-mad and viscous. He hurled poison persimmons at any monkey who challenged him and began taunting the very crabs who had put him in power. This went on and on and on, the monkey becoming ever more bold, the crabs becoming ever more angry. The crabs soon realized they’d picked a bad monkey to be their puppet and yearned to remove him from the persimmon tree.

Across the ocean in the rich and fertile land of the crabs a catastrophe befell the citizens which left them fearful and angry. Seeing their chance the king crabs blamed the catastrophe on their “puppet-monkey” and confused the none too smart citizens, creating a perfect excuse to shake him violently from his persimmon tree! The council of crabs, being almost wholly without chitin, agreed to the plan of the king-crabs.

Not wanting to seem as viscous as the monkey to the rest of the animal world, and fearful of having their true motivations become obvious to all, the king crabs gathered together a coalition of others with something to gain from the destruction of the “puppet-monkey.” They made promises of favor and showed all of the animal world it was not the crabs alone who wanted to be free of the “evil” monkey.

With their coalition in place the crabs travelled to the land of the monkeys and came down upon the “puppet-monkey” with all the considerable power their wealth could provide. There was shock and awe at the spectacle of flames leaping about the persimmon trees. The “puppet-monkey” proved easily defeated and the crabs exulted in accomplishing their mission.

But rich and powerful though they might have been the crabs and their coalition were not very smart! In their verve to shake the “puppet-monkey” from his tree they’d forgotten just how unfriendly the land of monkeys was, and just how much they’d always been despised. They somehow thought that mere words could erase thousands of years of distrust and animosity between monkeys and crabs. But of course they were wrong. Monkeys from all across the land came to fight the crabs and explosion after explosion would thereafter sound for years on end.

The crabs tried everything they could think of to thwart the monkeys, but as we’ve seen the crabs were not very smart, so for a long while all they could think of were sending in more crabs. Old crabs and young crabs and untrained crabs. Crabs of every kind. But no matter how many crabs they sent the explosions in the land of the persimmon trees just kept on coming. Both crabs and monkeys were blown to bits every single day.

The crabs decided to set up super-secret prisons where they could send the problematic monkeys and torture them at will. They could beat the monkeys and demean them and piss on the books of their Gods without anyone ever knowing of their brutality. But the prisons didn’t help. Not being very smart the secret didn’t stay a secret for long and the persimmon fields exploded with a renewed vigor.

In the land of the crabs persimmons became even more expensive than they were to begin with and the citizens, after years of explosions, became tired of all the death. In truth they didn’t want to even hear anymore about the monkeys and their unfriendly land. The violence, though it occurred far away in the land of monkeys, had just as surely come to rule their lives at home as well. They couldn’t remember anymore why they’d allowed the king crabs to shake the “puppet-monkey” from his tree in the first place. Was he really worth it they wondered? Most of the crabs just wanted it all to be over.

But it was too late. The battle of the monkeys and the crabs had become an endless battle and no one could even imagine a way to stop it. It seemed no longer to be about persimmons and “puppet-monkeys.” The monkeys would fight forever to dispel the crabs they hated, and bewildered crabs would continue to die forever as well, because the king crabs, worried of being shaken from their own tree, would keep sending them. It was a sad time in the animal world, and still is, because the endless battle continues to this day.

The illustrations above were adapted from this version of the story.

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06.15. filed under: art. !. books. death. fiction. lies. politics. 6

I was recently made a gift of a valise which belonged to a great-great-uncle whom I’d never known nor indeed ever heard of. Inside his valise, which must have been close to a century old, were some personal effects, nothing of great interest, but among them I found a small bundle of printed matter, folded into a yellowing envelope and tied with a bit of unravelling string. Upon opening the envelope I was surprised to find that they were keepsakes from a circus of some kind called “Dr. Peppy’s Superb Symmetrical Circus.” There was an advertisement (pictured above) as well as some promotional cards, highlighting what I have to assume were star attractions of the circus. Each had handwritten notes on the back. I’ve scanned the cards and transcribed the notes below for your wonder and amusement.

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From the back of the Advertisement originally written in a fine hand:

“What’s most intriguing about “The Doctor’s” Circus is the compounding of the unlikely. Not only does he bring to us the oddities of form and function, which though unusual, we’ve come none the less to expect from our visiting circuses, but he combines these with an even more spectacularly unlikely sight - Each of his performers is very nearly perfectly symmetrical in the physical aspect! As though the likelihood of finding sorcerers and giants and bearded women were not miniscule enough Peppy has managed to gather a group of misfits displaying the least common human trait of all, perfect symmetry. Everywhere you look within the tents you feel a though you were seeing performers split by a looking glass. Truly it is a wonder.”

“We were welcomed at the edge of the fair-grounds by a peculiar little man who called himself “Fu Qiang.” He bid us to step lightly and follow him. With two canes and three legs he galloped as though he were a tiny bulbous equine. Albeit a five legged one of course.”

“The Oracular Man was a shock to behold. Many of the faint at heart and slow of mind, could not at first bare the sight of him. Some swooned, others whimpered, but he quickly won them over with flattering prophesies and comforting tales of a future paradise. While the educated and rational moved on after a short viewing to see more of what the circus had to offer, The Oracular Man none the less had a huge crowd hanging on his every pronouncement for the remainder.”

“This man did not seem to have a name, at least not that I can remember. He was large as a bear and ate raw fish whole. grabbing them with one massive hand from a tin bucket. I assume he was the “Strong Man” of the show but we never saw him do anything but eat and defecate explosively against the side of the tent. perhaps it was his day off?”

“It seemed to me that the contortionist did no much contort himself into impossible shapes using muscle and concentration and practiced skill but was rather an impossible shape to begin with. He seemed to me to simply stand there, occasionally bending over to flick a bit of hey from his shoe, or lifting his seemingly backward arm to doff his hat to a lady.”

“Animus was a strange sort of animal handler. He mostly barked commands at small rodents and once convinced an old mangy dog to jump into a barrel. He was billed as “Lord of the Cockatiels” and in as much every trick was performed with a small flock of the birds perched on his arms and shoulders. I couldn’t help but feel that his greatest trick was not being covered in bird droppings. I didn’t witness even a single bird relieve him or herself for the entire show.”

“The bearded lady was somewhat dull. ‘When you’ve seen one…’ as they say. It seemed Dr. Peppy must have been aware of this because the ringmaster barely mentioned her facial hair at all, focussing instead on a constant stream of barely concealed innuendoes surrounding her “Twin Husbands,” octogenarians who stood by her side the whole time, inexplicably wearing nothing but their underclothes, and making lewd faces.”

“Zin, the so-called Morticant, was a sorcerer of some sort. Mostly he stood upon a small box or tub draped in black cloth, growling out incantations in what seemed a mixture of Pig-Latin and Yiddish. At one point he produced a string of words which to the children looking on sounded remarkably like “fresh doo-doo loaf!” They snickered and howled and fell over clutching their sides as children will do. Needless to say The Morticant was not amused. Shortly there after he disappeared in puff of noxious smoke.”

“The boxing match featuring Jabbin’ Joe Vs. Jabbin’ Jim was one of the strangest sights I may ever see. The bout went six rounds, filled with, as their nicknames foretold, an endless string of jabs, before Jim, evidently forgetting he shared his lower half with Joe, hauled off with a vicious shot below the belt. Both were helped from the ring and the match was called a draw. Evidently the 36th consecutive draw in a row I might add.”

“Evidently the Baron was a distinguished German soldier who laid claim in his youth to the title of Europe’s Greatest Marksman. During some battle or another he lost both hands with the exception of one finger on each. Wanting to maintain his Title he had a rifle surgically attached to each wrist, his two remaining fingers sewn to their triggers. Though he continues to be an amazing marksman it was whispered at the back of the tent that the very day of his amazing surgery he went to the water closet to relieve himself and became a eunuch as well.”

Strangely all my searching for further information on “Dr. Peppy’s Symmetrical Circus” have come up empty. None of the old timers on my uncles side of the family remembers anything about the circus and none of his children’s children remember ever hearing it spoken of. It’s almost as though the Circus never existed! lucky we have this record otherwise it might have been forgotten forever ay?

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06.04. filed under: !. lies. play. 8

“Excuse me Sir. Do you support the Arts?”

An innocent enough question I suppose, but coming as it did from one of a pair of squeaky-clean teenagers wearing bright pastel-orange polo shirts (complete with matching, embroidered, institutional logos) and holding tell-tale clipboards, well it rubbed me the wrong way. Maybe it’d just been the long week I’d only moments before began trying to put behind me.

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“Do I support the Arts” you gleaming-toothed little twit of a solicitor? What exactly is it you want? To pry some of my hard-earned lucre from my wallet? What are you trying to get at with your seemingly guileless but culturally loaded opening salvo? It’s money right? Why not just get yourself a tin-can and a cardboard sign like any respectable beggar? Do a little dance at least. Sing for your non-profit’s supper.

Course, I didn’t say any of that. I like to at least pretend at civility when it comes to my fellow humans. Don’t want to rend the social fabric after all and send us tumbling backward into public defecation and cannibalism. What I said was simply:

“Yes.”

And it was true. I do.

“Wow, that’s great. May I ask how?” the twit responded in his carefully rehearsed solicitor’s version of familiar speech, betrayed, as it often is, by the inclusion of the the overly polite, or overly formal. These guys just can’t seem to nail realistic dialogue.

“Well, actually, it’s funny that you ask…” I began.

I often like to stop cold after a statement like “it’s funny that you ask.” The person your speaking with knows full well that something is to follow, that’s the whole point of an old chestnut like “it’s funny that you ask,” and they’ll generally wait patiently for the punch-line, allowing an unnaturally long pause in conversation. Seeing how long is the fun part. With solicitors an awkward pause in conversation is like a glimpse into the slavering maw of Death. In this case I managed a full 6 seconds before sensing an interjection, and continued.

“It’s funny that you ask because I only just left a doctor’s office who gave me some test results. Coincidentally they answer your question better than I ever could. I’ve got some pictures here taken with an electron microscope. Would you like to see them?”

Before letting him answer I produced the images and brandished them right up in front his oxy-cleaned pores.

They looked like this:

I saw a mixture of confusion and revulsion in his eyes. He looked instinctually to his identically dressed cohort who was, unfortunately for him, busy accosting someone else, and unable to offer cover fire.

“I’m not sure I understand. What are they?” he bleated.

“They are Art of course! Art seen at 1,000,000 times magnification. You asked whether I supported the Arts and as you can see clearly from these I do. Art is a parasite and we are embraced in a mutualist waltz of sorts.

Art has lodged itself in places throughout my body. Since childhood, when I was initially infected, it has spread everywhere. It’s in my bowels, my heart, and my brain. It nourishes itself on my insides and It floods me with chemicals. Had it not been for this infestation I might have gone into the sciences! But Art wouldn’t allow it. It influences my decisions. It’s disgusting little flagellum run over every inch of my guts. It’s eggs are buried in me. It takes everything it needs to survive from me.

In return it offers me occasional delusions of grandeur. It tricks my mind into perceiving some kind of purpose. It keeps me from putting a rifle in my mouth or in yours. It keeps me from building bombs in my basement. It keeps me from disemboweling people on the street. It offers me some kind of hope. You see? Art and I are engaged in a symbiotic relationship. I keep it alive, it keeps me relatively sane. Get it?”

“...”

“So yes, I support the Arts, bodily, as a host.”

“Well that’s not really what I was asking Sir.”

“I know. You want money. ‘Can ya’ spare a dime for a cultural institution that’s down on it’s luck?’ I understand. Well how about this, I’ll just keep the money and cut out the middle man. How’s that? Easier, don’t you think?”

I walked away from the shiny-toothed little shit-head then, happy to have given him a small taste straight from the teat which he harassed people on behalf of, and I could swear, as I eased on down the road, I heard him say to his coconspirator:

“God! I hate Artists.”

Note: The original microscopy images used to make up the “Art parasites” above were taken from here and here. Both very nice resources.

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05.27. filed under: art. !. lies. observations. ∅

The ever ingenious inventor and old master Leonardo Da Vinci has yet again proven himself wise beyond all measure. This newly unearthed mechanical sketch, completed it is thought only hours before his death, is a truly prescient wonder. The text which accompanied it, “coded” in Leonardo’s own backward written script, described the invention as follows:

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05.20. filed under: !. criticism. lies. 4

The Bitter Pill

Or: how to tell if you are a cynic.

Each day, faced with a cascade of decisions, every one in itself a tiny course correction on our philosophical path, we choose between A or B, and in so doing re-affirm our view of the universe. Some of these choices seem weighty and are, in as much, weighed carefully. Others are so miniscule as to be invisible, the mechanics of their resolutions seeming involuntary. It’s the totality which frame you as a pessimist, an absurdist, an elitist, an idealist, a romatic, or what have you. I’d like to focus on one of these seemingly miniscule choices today…

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First some back story:

A think-tank in my employ came to a problematic conclusion recently, that though I call this site The Nonist, I, its author, am not in fact truly free of “isms.” It was an unpleasant finding to be sure. It struck me immediately that if word got out it could be quite embarrassing. My P.R. firm agreed whole heartedly and recommended swift action be taken.

In an effort to strip me of as many “isms” as realistically possible my stable of mystics, eugenicists, astronomers, and rogue-scientists have since been busy with a harrowing undertaking: to break apart the jumbled mass of choices that make up my Being in hopes of reverse engineering them and tracing particular flaws to their root causes. It’s been hard going and the results are by no means finalized. However, as is the case with many scientific undertakings, there have been discoveries made only tangentially related to the goal.

Which brings me to the “miniscule choice” I referred to earlier.

We have discovered a conclusive and reliable method to test for cynicism in humans. And believe me there is none of that poetic, wishy-washy, stuff about half-full / half-empty glasses involved. The test is simple and repeatable. All that’s required is access to The Food Network on your cable television.

To administer the test on your self simply do the following:

1. Turn on your television.
2. Enter the digits on your remote control which correspond to The Food Network or some similar program in which a “chef” prepares a meal in the course of an episode.
3. Watch the program until the climactic moment.
4. Take note of your own reaction to said climactic moment.

You’re finished, test complete. You now know for certain whether you are a cynic.

Let me explain:

During most television programs in which a “chef” prepares a meal the episode unfolds in a similar way. Ingredients are chosen. Anecdotes are told. Ingredients are manipulated. More anecdotes are told. Ingredients are cooked. Further anecdotes are told until finally the ingredients are gathered together and plated. These steps all lead directly to the climactic moment: the “chef” tasting the meal he or she has just prepared.

It is the choice of reaction to this crux which reveals cynicism in humans.

If you, as a viewer, watch the “chef” put a spoonful of food in their mouth, watch as they chew for a moment impartially blank-faced, then watch as the facial expression of the “chef” changes to one of eye-popping, head-lolling delight; if you hear the exclamatory sounds of pleasure and (after the careful, orgasmic, chewing is finished) the breathy statement of “Now that… is incredible” and you choose to believe, thinking to yourself, “That must have been… incredible.” Then you my friend are not a cynic. Congratulations.

If, however, you watch the “chef” put a spoonful of food ⊕ in their mouth, watch as they chew the food ⊕ impartially blank-faced, then watch as the facial expression of the “chef” changes ⊕ to one of ⊕ eye-popping, ⊕ head-lolling delight; if you hear the exclamatory sounds of pleasure ⊕ and (after the careful, orgasmic, chewing is finished) the breathy ⊕ statement of “Now that… is incredible” and you choose to reject them utterly, thinking to yourself, “Bullshit. Tastes like poached couch-cushion for all I know!” Then you my friend are without doubt a cynic. Congratulations.

You see, as my staff of ambivalent mercenaries and avant-garde pediatrists have explained to me, the entire production is artifice. The kitchen is a set, the time is shifted, the chef is cooking for no-one, the senses involved in the production and its consumption do not include taste, and you can never, ever, ever ⊕ take a bite of that food yourself. You can never know the truth of its flavor. You know this. You tacitly agree to the illusion when you tune in.

Only a true cynic could sit through the entire preparation of a meal, fully aware of the artifice, and upon seeing the “tasting face” of the “chef” feel compelled to reject their sincerity.

So essentially, our calculations reveal, that if you see that “tasting face” and choose, knowing full well it’s all artifice, to scorn or mock the “chef” in your mind anyway, then you are indeed an unabashed, scientifically cerified cynic. Wonder no longer.

If you also happen to notice that the chef does not actually offer an itemized recipe for their dish on screen (the way cooking shows of old always did) presumably because it would undermine sales of their cookbook which is the true cash cow, well then you are a cynic extraordinaire! We doff our hats to your permanently furrowed brow.

In any case if you are addled by cynicism and want to cast it off or trade it for that prettier and shinier model- optimism, remember that each and every choice you make compounds like the bone-dust that comprise a giant’s bread. You must be aware of your decisions, even the smallest, if you are ever to change. A perfect place to start is with the “tasting face.” Teach yourself to believe that and you can believe almost anything. Here is your mantra: “Yum, it’s delicious!”

Say it with me: “Yum, it’s delicious!”

“Yum, it’s delicious!”

See you are well on your way. Now if you’ll excuse me my staff of discredited phrenologists and atonal flautists are eager to continue the “ism-stripping” by driving a 16 inch needle into my brain. Wish me luck. Ta-ta.

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05.12. filed under: !. ideas. lies. observations. 3

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