“You’re eating that again?”
I was sitting in my school's dining facility with my roommate Tam. Normally she's the sweetest person I know, but at that moment she was uncharacteristically annoyed. Her boyfriend had just returned to the table with a bowl of cereal. For reasons unbeknownst to us this was highly offensive.
“You have that at every meal,” she grumbled. I’m the sort of person who makes jokes to relieve tension, (which usually doesn’t work, but that’s another story,) so I said:
“Well Tam, cereal is like the American version of rice.”
For once my poor sense of humor was effective. I explained Ty’s addiction for cereal in a way that made sense to my roommate. Tam’s Vietnamese, so she knows how important rice is. The average Asian consumes 200 to 400 pounds of this starch annually, while Americans consume about 25 pounds per year. People in Thailand have been eating rice for over 6,000 years. Their word for poor translates into English as ‘to be without rice’. Chinese have been growing rice for at least the last 4,000 years. Their word for agriculture is synonymous with rice cultivation. Today half of the world's population subsists mainly on rice. More than half a billion metric tons are produced every year.
Why do so many people eat rice? For starters, it’s cheap. Rice has been modified to the point that it’s a superplant. Rice also provides quick energy. It’s a good source of thiamine, riboflavin, and niacin. There are other uses for rice besides food, too. The hulls are used to stuff mattresses, the straw is turned into hats and shoes, the polishings provide furfural, and where would the world be without sake?
Of course rice isn’t all wonderful. Relying on one crop for so much of the human population has had drastic consequences on our health and the environment. Before the Civil War, slaves were used on American plantations. Since rice is grown in water, the threat of alligators, snakes, and disease carrying mosquitoes made the grueling work doubly dangerous. The open water also creates the perfect habitat for Clonorchis sinensis, a liver fluke that’s infected around 30,000,000 people in Japan, China, Taiwan, and Southeast Asia.
Rice also has a lot of (surprise, surprise) political connotations. After WWII, America was determined to prevent a terror like that from happening again. A good way to avoid World War III was to analyze why the previous global atrocity occurred. What they came up with the theory of population and national security. It states that overpopulation leads to exhausted resources, which leads to hunger, which leads to political instability, which leads to war. The depression of the 1930’s brought the destruction of the 1940’s. Germany’s population kept rising, but they didn’t have enough land to feed themselves. So some turned to fascism.
Harry Truman stated in his inaugural address:
"More than half the people of the world are living in conditions approaching misery. Their food is inadequate… Their poverty is a handicap and a threat both to them and to more prosperous areas… Greater production is the key to prosperity and peace. And the key to greater production is a wider and more vigorous application of modern scientific and technical knowledge."
Along came the Green Revolution. America’s method of preventing war was to promote agriculture. The Rockefeller and Ford Foundations founded the International Rice Research Institute, or IRRI, in 1959. The organization’s goal is to “find sustainable ways to improve the well being of present and future generations of poor rice farmers and consumers while at the same time protecting the natural environment.” They developed a dwarf plant of rice that’s hardier and more productive for farmers. It sounds lovely, but I read very few positive reports on the Institute. Unlike traditional rice, “miracle rice” requires pesticides. The chemicals runoff into the ocean and contaminate coral reefs. According to the World Wildlife Fund, less than 5 percent of Bali’s reefs are healthy because of the introduction of miracle rice. At the IRRI’s 40th anniversary celebration, hundreds of Filipino rice farmers protested for causing massive loss of biological diversity in rice paddies throughout Asia.
Miracle rice is supposed to bring in more revenue for poor farmers, but research shows that this is not the case. Although they produce about 40 percent more grain, they need three times as much water. Countries like India and the Philippines have relied more and more on irrigation since the Green Revolution started in the 1960’s, but there isn’t enough groundwater for that amount of strain. The Punjab Aquifer in Pakistan, for example, is dropping 10 to 30 feet per year.
Yet another conspiratorial issue is what the IRRI has dubbed “golden rice.” Traditional and miracle rice deplete the consumers’ level of vitamin A in the body. It is estimated that 26 countries suffer from severe vitamin A deficiency, which causes night blindness, increased chance of illness, and death. To eradicate this problem, General Motors has helped pay to buff up rice with carotenoids from daffodil genes. This causes the rice to appear yellow, hence the name “golden rice.”
Not everyone thinks this is a good idea, though. Vitamin A pills, which have worked quite successfully in the past, cost about two cents each. Golden rice, on the other hand, has already cost 100 million dollars. An even simpler option would be to turn some of the rice paddies into a garden for leafy greens. Then there would be less vitamin A deficiency, a healthier diet, and more biodiversity. People could even eat rice unhusked, which does have vitamin A.
Humans are constantly reminded that going from hunters and gatherers to an agricultural society may not have been a smart move. Rice is one of the many negative results of that shift, but it’s also one of the positives. Rice is an invaluable part to dozens of human cultures. It beats cereal hands down.
Wednesday, December 10, 2008
Rosaceae
St. Augustine once said “Love is the beauty of the soul." That may be, but it’s also enmeshed with rosaceae plants. This large family of around 3,500 species and 150 genera has been the symbol of mankind’s favorite emotion for millennia. It’s the fruit of desire, favorite gift for Valentine’s Day, and my middle name. Clearly, this is one sexy family.
In Ancient Greece, men had a much easier (but slightly less romantic) way of proposing. If he tossed an apple at her and she caught it, they were engaged. Their religion has several examples of the power of rosaceaes. Gaia gave apples to Hera on her wedding to Zeus to signify long love and union. Dionysus tried the same trick to woo Aphrodite. Even Athena, the beautiful but apparently asexual Spartan, fell for a man when he stopped her in her tracks with golden apples.
Apples aren’t just a part of the Greek religion, either. In the Bible, the forbidden fruit that brought upon humanity’s downfall is an apple. This could be because, when they’re sliced in half, apples look remarkably like vulvas. In the Quran, Mohammed tasted apples on his lips the moment before he died.
People did some odd things with apples in the Middle Ages too. Before the age of deodorant, they kept peels in their armpits to give to their lover. German men who desired a wife ate apples doused with virgin sweat of to attract ladies.
Another plant in the rosaceae family is the cherry. The appeal of dating someone who can tie a stem in their mouth (I think) comes from the belief that their skill with the tongue will make them a good kisser. This tasty fruit is also the mascot of the swing band Cherry Poppin’ Daddies. Their cheeky name comes from the common expression for “deflowering” (another ethnobotanical term!) a female virgin. (I never, ever thought I’d write that in a school assignment.)
The rose is such a common metaphor for love it’s become a cliché. I found a terrible poem written by Sam Miller that sums it up in a sickeningly cheesy way:
When looking at a rose, it’s obvious why it’s associated with love. They’re beautiful, red, and resemble humans. It was the emblem of Venus, and often used in spells.
Today, food people eat is valued more for its nutritional value than representative meeting. For those with a healthy conscience, rosaceaes still thrive. Species such as almonds provide essential vitamins, minerals, fat, and protein. Other rosaceaes like apples are low on calories and high on dietary fiber.
Even in a materialistic world, the rosaceae family has a large modern symbolic value. I’m typing this report on a computer that has an emblem of (what else?) an apple. Whether you loathe or love Stephanie Meyer, her adolescent romance novel about a hormone-addled teenage girl and thirsty vampire is the love story of my generation. And what graces its cover? Of course it’s an apple.
What else can I say? The rosaceae is one sexy family. They’re fertile, voluptuous, diverse and widespread. The Brangelina clan doesn’t come close.
Since I assaulted you with a bad poem, I’ll let Robert Frost repair the damage and say adieu:
In Ancient Greece, men had a much easier (but slightly less romantic) way of proposing. If he tossed an apple at her and she caught it, they were engaged. Their religion has several examples of the power of rosaceaes. Gaia gave apples to Hera on her wedding to Zeus to signify long love and union. Dionysus tried the same trick to woo Aphrodite. Even Athena, the beautiful but apparently asexual Spartan, fell for a man when he stopped her in her tracks with golden apples.
Apples aren’t just a part of the Greek religion, either. In the Bible, the forbidden fruit that brought upon humanity’s downfall is an apple. This could be because, when they’re sliced in half, apples look remarkably like vulvas. In the Quran, Mohammed tasted apples on his lips the moment before he died.
People did some odd things with apples in the Middle Ages too. Before the age of deodorant, they kept peels in their armpits to give to their lover. German men who desired a wife ate apples doused with virgin sweat of to attract ladies.
Another plant in the rosaceae family is the cherry. The appeal of dating someone who can tie a stem in their mouth (I think) comes from the belief that their skill with the tongue will make them a good kisser. This tasty fruit is also the mascot of the swing band Cherry Poppin’ Daddies. Their cheeky name comes from the common expression for “deflowering” (another ethnobotanical term!) a female virgin. (I never, ever thought I’d write that in a school assignment.)
The rose is such a common metaphor for love it’s become a cliché. I found a terrible poem written by Sam Miller that sums it up in a sickeningly cheesy way:
“A Red Rose is a symbol of Love.
It’s silky softness resembles my heart
when I think of you.
The petals, multiple layers of beauty
symbolize the many layers
my love for you enfolds.
The leaves caress the rose
allowing it to grow fuller and stronger.
The stem supports the rose,
allowing it to hold fast, grow tall, and sturdy.
The thorns protect the rose,
preventing harm from outside unsafe forces.
If you cherish, nurture, and caress this rose,
it will last a lifetime.
Just as my love for you will last an eternity”
It’s silky softness resembles my heart
when I think of you.
The petals, multiple layers of beauty
symbolize the many layers
my love for you enfolds.
The leaves caress the rose
allowing it to grow fuller and stronger.
The stem supports the rose,
allowing it to hold fast, grow tall, and sturdy.
The thorns protect the rose,
preventing harm from outside unsafe forces.
If you cherish, nurture, and caress this rose,
it will last a lifetime.
Just as my love for you will last an eternity”
When looking at a rose, it’s obvious why it’s associated with love. They’re beautiful, red, and resemble humans. It was the emblem of Venus, and often used in spells.
Today, food people eat is valued more for its nutritional value than representative meeting. For those with a healthy conscience, rosaceaes still thrive. Species such as almonds provide essential vitamins, minerals, fat, and protein. Other rosaceaes like apples are low on calories and high on dietary fiber.
Even in a materialistic world, the rosaceae family has a large modern symbolic value. I’m typing this report on a computer that has an emblem of (what else?) an apple. Whether you loathe or love Stephanie Meyer, her adolescent romance novel about a hormone-addled teenage girl and thirsty vampire is the love story of my generation. And what graces its cover? Of course it’s an apple.
What else can I say? The rosaceae is one sexy family. They’re fertile, voluptuous, diverse and widespread. The Brangelina clan doesn’t come close.
Since I assaulted you with a bad poem, I’ll let Robert Frost repair the damage and say adieu:
“The rose is a rose,
And was always a rose.
But now the theory goes
That the apple's a rose,
And the pear is, and so's
The plum, I suppose.
The dear only knows
What will next prove a rose.
You, of course, are a rose--
But were always a rose.”
And was always a rose.
But now the theory goes
That the apple's a rose,
And the pear is, and so's
The plum, I suppose.
The dear only knows
What will next prove a rose.
You, of course, are a rose--
But were always a rose.”
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Addiction
Strong and powerful women. My mother drilled that saying into me like a sergeant training his soldiers to fight. They made me feel tough. I was a bear that could- if it only chose- rip apart the entire forest. The words were magic, a spell of sorceress control. I could do anything. Why? Because I was a strong and powerful woman.
Believing the words made them true, but saying the words didn’t. On and on my mother repeated the line, like Moses and the Ten Commandments. It was her mantra. Her prayer. Her salvation. Even a five-year-old could see how desperately she needed to think that she was in control. I watched her strength crumble over and over, and felt betrayed. I resented the words, then. They were false. Misleading. A lie.
If only she had believed in her own command. Maybe then she could have beaten it. Maybe then she would still be alive.
My mother didn’t just bestow me with a silly saying. Along with the blue eyes and stubborn temper, I also inherited her disease. I’m not talking about cancer or tuberculosis, either. Sometimes I think those would have been preferable. No, my mother had an addiction. Addiction tainted her body like oil in the sea. Addiction clawed at her mind and organs like a dragon with a never-ending appetite for pain. As a child I couldn’t understand why she was so weak, why she couldn’t just stop. Now, I understand all too well.
It’s so innocent, at first. Tap, tap, tap. The voice knocks gently on my mind. The touch is soft, reassuring. Sometimes I give in right there. Usually though, I try to resist.
Pound, pound, pound. No matter how hard I fight, the call gets louder. It beats on my bones, pushing me into submission. When it’s over I cry and swear never to do it again, but the voice just laughs. ‘You know better than that,’ it jeers. The addiction is a part of me now, like a vital organ. It’d be easier to live without my lungs than my drug of choice. It’s grown to something even larger than myself. The addiction has all control; I am helpless under its sway.
Waste. I’ve thrown away years under the influence. If I spent as much time studying as I did squandering with my addiction, I’d be the smartest person on the planet.
Regret. The things that I’ve done will haunt me forever. I nearly accidentally killed myself like my mom, spent three months in two different hospitals restoring my health, got in trouble with the law, but the worst is what I’ve done to the people closest to me. I’ve ruined relationships with friends, lovers, and even family.
Why did I start? The usual reasons, I suppose. There’s nothing unusual about addictions, after all. Depression and low self-esteem make us do silly things. Escaping the pain of inadequacy was a relief. The sense of control was liberating. But then the control started to control me.
Why don’t I stop? Do you think I haven’t tried? I’ve done counseling, medicine, supplements, hospitalization, treatment centers, other drugs, meditation, reiki, deeksha, Brightbalk, spells, sweats, essential oils, electroshock, (just kidding,) and screaming stupid phrases like ‘I’m a strong and powerful woman’ all for the sake of recovery.
They’ve helped a bit. If you met me last year, you wouldn’t recognize me now. I weighed 80 pounds then, was constantly moving, and desperately wanted to be someone else. I was weak. Tainted. A disease. I hated myself for being so pathetic, but the anger fueled the disease even further. Now that I’m closer to accepting my strengths and weaknesses including my addiction, I’m closer to being in control. After I got out of the hospital, I thought I was 1000% recovered. (Hyperbole) I was wrong. Wrong was I. The voice will always knock on my mind. I will always be an addict. The important thing is for me to control it, and not the other way around. My addiction is one of my defining traits, but doesn’t define me. Kind of like Cindy Crawford’s beauty mark. I am more than an addict, and she is more than a lady with a mole.
I’ve met others all over the world with the same problem, including Stevens Point. They don’t have boils or demon ears. They look like regular human beings. They are regular human beings.
It would be senseless to blame my mom for this addiction. If I don’t accept responsibility for my actions, how can I change them? By following her hard-earned lesson and being a strong and powerful woman, I will recover.
Believing the words made them true, but saying the words didn’t. On and on my mother repeated the line, like Moses and the Ten Commandments. It was her mantra. Her prayer. Her salvation. Even a five-year-old could see how desperately she needed to think that she was in control. I watched her strength crumble over and over, and felt betrayed. I resented the words, then. They were false. Misleading. A lie.
If only she had believed in her own command. Maybe then she could have beaten it. Maybe then she would still be alive.
My mother didn’t just bestow me with a silly saying. Along with the blue eyes and stubborn temper, I also inherited her disease. I’m not talking about cancer or tuberculosis, either. Sometimes I think those would have been preferable. No, my mother had an addiction. Addiction tainted her body like oil in the sea. Addiction clawed at her mind and organs like a dragon with a never-ending appetite for pain. As a child I couldn’t understand why she was so weak, why she couldn’t just stop. Now, I understand all too well.
It’s so innocent, at first. Tap, tap, tap. The voice knocks gently on my mind. The touch is soft, reassuring. Sometimes I give in right there. Usually though, I try to resist.
Pound, pound, pound. No matter how hard I fight, the call gets louder. It beats on my bones, pushing me into submission. When it’s over I cry and swear never to do it again, but the voice just laughs. ‘You know better than that,’ it jeers. The addiction is a part of me now, like a vital organ. It’d be easier to live without my lungs than my drug of choice. It’s grown to something even larger than myself. The addiction has all control; I am helpless under its sway.
Waste. I’ve thrown away years under the influence. If I spent as much time studying as I did squandering with my addiction, I’d be the smartest person on the planet.
Regret. The things that I’ve done will haunt me forever. I nearly accidentally killed myself like my mom, spent three months in two different hospitals restoring my health, got in trouble with the law, but the worst is what I’ve done to the people closest to me. I’ve ruined relationships with friends, lovers, and even family.
Why did I start? The usual reasons, I suppose. There’s nothing unusual about addictions, after all. Depression and low self-esteem make us do silly things. Escaping the pain of inadequacy was a relief. The sense of control was liberating. But then the control started to control me.
Why don’t I stop? Do you think I haven’t tried? I’ve done counseling, medicine, supplements, hospitalization, treatment centers, other drugs, meditation, reiki, deeksha, Brightbalk, spells, sweats, essential oils, electroshock, (just kidding,) and screaming stupid phrases like ‘I’m a strong and powerful woman’ all for the sake of recovery.
They’ve helped a bit. If you met me last year, you wouldn’t recognize me now. I weighed 80 pounds then, was constantly moving, and desperately wanted to be someone else. I was weak. Tainted. A disease. I hated myself for being so pathetic, but the anger fueled the disease even further. Now that I’m closer to accepting my strengths and weaknesses including my addiction, I’m closer to being in control. After I got out of the hospital, I thought I was 1000% recovered. (Hyperbole) I was wrong. Wrong was I. The voice will always knock on my mind. I will always be an addict. The important thing is for me to control it, and not the other way around. My addiction is one of my defining traits, but doesn’t define me. Kind of like Cindy Crawford’s beauty mark. I am more than an addict, and she is more than a lady with a mole.
I’ve met others all over the world with the same problem, including Stevens Point. They don’t have boils or demon ears. They look like regular human beings. They are regular human beings.
It would be senseless to blame my mom for this addiction. If I don’t accept responsibility for my actions, how can I change them? By following her hard-earned lesson and being a strong and powerful woman, I will recover.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Lord of the Rings Fanfiction
Reading fanfiction is worse than porn. (Well, some fanfiction practically is porn, but that's another story.) It's addictive, I tell you! During those dreaded middle/high school years I volunteered for the Middle-earth Fanfiction Awards, spending hours on the computer a day. It wasn't until my dirty habit created a rift between my father and me that I realized I might have a problem, and set it aside. Seven years later, I think I can handle their power. Here are some stories I remember enjoying. I'll add more to the list as I continue exploring:
Original Fanfiction University of Middle-earth
The Very Secret Diaries
The Cursed Queen of Angmar
Friday, November 14, 2008
Briana’s Quest to Read Persephone’s Quest
R. Gordon Wasson, an American who dabbled in banking and research but wasn’t proficient in any particular profession, became interested in ethnomycology on his honeymoon with Valentina Pavlovna, a Russian physician. The two were very affectionate towards each other, but had a fight just days after the wedding. Pavlovna found a ring of mushrooms, and ecstatically started harvesting them. Wasson, on the other hand, thought his wife had turned mad. He refused to eat the mushroom soup she prepared that night, and exchanged some harsh words. A few days later, when Wasson realized that his spouse was still alive, he wondered why his country taught him to fear mushrooms, while hers revered them. It was the beginning of forty years of study. Wasson worked (and smoked, I suspect) with chaps like Hoffman and Schultez, relearning lost secrets of the immense power of mushrooms.
After their slightly troubled honeymoon, Wasson and Pavlovna went to Mexico. There, they studied how indigenous people used the phyla mycota. They filmed Maria Sabina perform a velama, the first shamanic ritual ever known to be recorded. They also spoke with Aurelio Carreras, another shaman from Oaxaca. He received a vision of Wasson’s son in New York under great turmoil. Carreras could see the future, and warned that one of his family members would die within a year.
Wasson and his colleagues’ attitude was “kindly condescension.” They were professional, high-class men, and didn’t think much of fortune telling. Soon, however, they noticed how often the villagers came to the shaman for guidance. People came when a child was missing, or when someone stole their money. Somehow Carreras could see who was where and what they had done. As guessed, Wasson’s son was under stress in New York even though he was supposed to be in Boston. His second cousin passed away a few months later. There were more predictions, and even intellectual snobs like Wasson had to admit that the accuracy was uncanny.
Surprisingly, Wasson’s work in Mexico didn’t turn many heads. He and his collaborators did their best to minimize their repot on the prophetic angle of mushrooms, so people didn’t pay much attention. His next study, however, upset many religious followers.
Soma, like the “bread” in the Bible, is a metaphor for food in the Rig Veda. Wasson thought it was more than that, though. He thought soma was literally, not just symbolically, actual food. More specifically, he though it was (what else?) a mushroom. Amanita muscaria is a plant that grows all over the world. Not only did it influence the Hindu religion, it also shaped the Nahua, Algonkians, Paleosiberian, Ob Ugrian, Finnic, Lapps, Nivkhi, Samoyed, and perhaps more cultures we haven’t studied yet. He even claims that it was the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil!
Proving this would be rather difficult. In fact, I didn’t read any evidence in Persephone’s Quest that soma is the same thing as Amanita muscaria, not to mention the cause of humanity’s fall from Eden. Still, Wasson provides an interesting theory for why cows are considered sacred. Stropharia cubensis is a less powerful but still hypnotic mushroom that grows directly in cow manure. He reasons that the Santal and Ho might have thought that the animals gave birth to the mushroom, and thus praised them for it.
Wasson irritated even more people by declaring that Ancient Greeks religiously ingested ergot, the natural form of LSD. Before cultivated wine took over with its representative Dionysus, philosophers like Socrates were more than likely Eluesians. This religion, (or cult, depending on your definition,) had two rites of passage: the Lesser Mystery and the Greater Mystery. Wasson contacted my favorite chemist Mr. Albert Hoffman, and asked if Ancient Greeks had the ability to cultivate ergot. A few years later, Hoffman replied ‘yes.’ Wasson thinks that the Lesser Mystery was a pretty potent fungus, and the Greater Mystery was really potent ergot. Did Plato imagine the realm of ideas while under the influence of ‘shrooms? Quite possibly.
Wasson wouldn’t appreciate my lack of respect. He got upset when “the Timothy Learys and their ilk” classified mushrooms with words like ‘hallucinogen’ and ‘psychedelic.’ These terms, he felt, didn’t convey their sacredness. He’d rather call them ‘Mystery,’ but that phrase is so commonly used now, (“misused,” according to Wasson,) that it would be impractical. Entheogen, which loosely means ‘god generated within’, comes pretty close to describing their influence, so he tolerated it.
Wasson contributed a lot to ethnobotany, but that doesn’t stop me from not liking him. His book describes cultures from around the world, and yet every paragraph manages to be about himself. He blabs on and on about famous people he knows, respectfully referring to them as ‘doctor’ or ‘professor’, but barely mentions the shamans and indigenous tribes he’s studied. You’d think that it’d be hard to make drugs and orgies boring, but he succeeds admirably.
Another issue is the lack of proof. It’s all very speculative, with no hard evidence.
Despite this, Wasson has some intriguing theories on how plants have shaped human beliefs. Does that make religion less valid? I don’t think so. We’re so accustomed to imagining ourselves as the only creatures made in God’s image; the concept of plants having divine wisdom is intimidating. Personally, I think there are different stages of consciousness, and ingesting certain mushrooms might open our minds to them. However, I also believe that there are higher levels than the brain, and no amount of alkaloids or amines will ever take us there.
After their slightly troubled honeymoon, Wasson and Pavlovna went to Mexico. There, they studied how indigenous people used the phyla mycota. They filmed Maria Sabina perform a velama, the first shamanic ritual ever known to be recorded. They also spoke with Aurelio Carreras, another shaman from Oaxaca. He received a vision of Wasson’s son in New York under great turmoil. Carreras could see the future, and warned that one of his family members would die within a year.
Wasson and his colleagues’ attitude was “kindly condescension.” They were professional, high-class men, and didn’t think much of fortune telling. Soon, however, they noticed how often the villagers came to the shaman for guidance. People came when a child was missing, or when someone stole their money. Somehow Carreras could see who was where and what they had done. As guessed, Wasson’s son was under stress in New York even though he was supposed to be in Boston. His second cousin passed away a few months later. There were more predictions, and even intellectual snobs like Wasson had to admit that the accuracy was uncanny.
Surprisingly, Wasson’s work in Mexico didn’t turn many heads. He and his collaborators did their best to minimize their repot on the prophetic angle of mushrooms, so people didn’t pay much attention. His next study, however, upset many religious followers.
Soma, like the “bread” in the Bible, is a metaphor for food in the Rig Veda. Wasson thought it was more than that, though. He thought soma was literally, not just symbolically, actual food. More specifically, he though it was (what else?) a mushroom. Amanita muscaria is a plant that grows all over the world. Not only did it influence the Hindu religion, it also shaped the Nahua, Algonkians, Paleosiberian, Ob Ugrian, Finnic, Lapps, Nivkhi, Samoyed, and perhaps more cultures we haven’t studied yet. He even claims that it was the fruit from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil!
Proving this would be rather difficult. In fact, I didn’t read any evidence in Persephone’s Quest that soma is the same thing as Amanita muscaria, not to mention the cause of humanity’s fall from Eden. Still, Wasson provides an interesting theory for why cows are considered sacred. Stropharia cubensis is a less powerful but still hypnotic mushroom that grows directly in cow manure. He reasons that the Santal and Ho might have thought that the animals gave birth to the mushroom, and thus praised them for it.
Wasson irritated even more people by declaring that Ancient Greeks religiously ingested ergot, the natural form of LSD. Before cultivated wine took over with its representative Dionysus, philosophers like Socrates were more than likely Eluesians. This religion, (or cult, depending on your definition,) had two rites of passage: the Lesser Mystery and the Greater Mystery. Wasson contacted my favorite chemist Mr. Albert Hoffman, and asked if Ancient Greeks had the ability to cultivate ergot. A few years later, Hoffman replied ‘yes.’ Wasson thinks that the Lesser Mystery was a pretty potent fungus, and the Greater Mystery was really potent ergot. Did Plato imagine the realm of ideas while under the influence of ‘shrooms? Quite possibly.
Wasson wouldn’t appreciate my lack of respect. He got upset when “the Timothy Learys and their ilk” classified mushrooms with words like ‘hallucinogen’ and ‘psychedelic.’ These terms, he felt, didn’t convey their sacredness. He’d rather call them ‘Mystery,’ but that phrase is so commonly used now, (“misused,” according to Wasson,) that it would be impractical. Entheogen, which loosely means ‘god generated within’, comes pretty close to describing their influence, so he tolerated it.
Wasson contributed a lot to ethnobotany, but that doesn’t stop me from not liking him. His book describes cultures from around the world, and yet every paragraph manages to be about himself. He blabs on and on about famous people he knows, respectfully referring to them as ‘doctor’ or ‘professor’, but barely mentions the shamans and indigenous tribes he’s studied. You’d think that it’d be hard to make drugs and orgies boring, but he succeeds admirably.
Another issue is the lack of proof. It’s all very speculative, with no hard evidence.
Despite this, Wasson has some intriguing theories on how plants have shaped human beliefs. Does that make religion less valid? I don’t think so. We’re so accustomed to imagining ourselves as the only creatures made in God’s image; the concept of plants having divine wisdom is intimidating. Personally, I think there are different stages of consciousness, and ingesting certain mushrooms might open our minds to them. However, I also believe that there are higher levels than the brain, and no amount of alkaloids or amines will ever take us there.
Saturday, November 1, 2008
10 Reasons Why Gay Marriage is [Not] Wrong
I found this on Myspace, and it was too hysterical (and true) to not share. Not that anyone reads my blog, but still.
1) Being gay is not natural. Real Americans always reject unnatural things like eyeglasses, polyester, and air conditioning.
2) Gay marriage will encourage people to be gay, in the same way that hanging around tall people will make you tall.
3) Legalizing gay marriage will open the door to all kinds of crazy behavior. People may even wish to marry their pets because a dog has legal standing and can sign a marriage contract.
4) Straight marriage has been around a long time and hasn't changed at all; women are still property, blacks still can't marry whites, and divorce is still illegal.
5) Straight marriage will be less meaningful if gay marriage were allowed;the sanctity of Britany Spears' 55-hour just-for-fun marriage would be destroyed.
6) Straight marriages are valid because they produce children. Gay couples, infertile couples, and old people shouldn't be allowed to marry because our orphanages aren't full yet, and the world needs more children.
7) Obviously gay parents will raise gay children, since straight parents only raise straight children.
8) Gay marriage is not supported by religion. In a theocracy like ours, the values of one religion are imposed on the entire country. That's why we have only one religion in America.
9) Children can never succeed without a male and a female role model at home. That's why we as a society expressly forbid single parents to raise children.
10) Gay marriage will change the foundation of society; we could never adapt to new social norms. Just like we haven't adapted to cars, the service-sector economy, or longer life spans.
1) Being gay is not natural. Real Americans always reject unnatural things like eyeglasses, polyester, and air conditioning.
2) Gay marriage will encourage people to be gay, in the same way that hanging around tall people will make you tall.
3) Legalizing gay marriage will open the door to all kinds of crazy behavior. People may even wish to marry their pets because a dog has legal standing and can sign a marriage contract.
4) Straight marriage has been around a long time and hasn't changed at all; women are still property, blacks still can't marry whites, and divorce is still illegal.
5) Straight marriage will be less meaningful if gay marriage were allowed;the sanctity of Britany Spears' 55-hour just-for-fun marriage would be destroyed.
6) Straight marriages are valid because they produce children. Gay couples, infertile couples, and old people shouldn't be allowed to marry because our orphanages aren't full yet, and the world needs more children.
7) Obviously gay parents will raise gay children, since straight parents only raise straight children.
8) Gay marriage is not supported by religion. In a theocracy like ours, the values of one religion are imposed on the entire country. That's why we have only one religion in America.
9) Children can never succeed without a male and a female role model at home. That's why we as a society expressly forbid single parents to raise children.
10) Gay marriage will change the foundation of society; we could never adapt to new social norms. Just like we haven't adapted to cars, the service-sector economy, or longer life spans.
Saturday, October 25, 2008
There She Goes Again
[NOTE: This is the essay I wrote for my application to GEM. Wish me luck!]
It’s been a year since I first applied to GEM. In that time, I’ve waxed and waned more often than the moon. I’ve visited three countries, (Thailand, Laos, and accidently Myanmar,) tore off and re-shingled five roofs, (waking up at 4:30 in the morning every morning,) and gained a little bit of wisdom.
I’ll be honest. The thought of spending an unproductive summer stuck in Wisconsin was horrifying. I mentioned in my previous essay how much I enjoy helping others. What I didn’t mention was how I felt obligated to help them.
Like most people, I have a slight case of low self-esteem. Helping others relieves the burn of inadequacy. In my eyes, I’ve never been smart enough, funny enough, or pretty enough. Altruistic acts of kindness may be selfless in vervet monkeys and spiders, but not me. My desperate attempt to be a better person was just one of the many ways I combated depression.
I say “was” as if it’s all in the past. ‘Does that mean you aren’t interested in joining GEM anymore?’ you might ask. ‘Then why did you fill out an application?’ To relieve your doubtless confusion, I will point out again three of the most important things I achieved this past year: seeing new places, working my skeletal muscles, and developing gray matter.
Joining the Thailand Project was undoubtedly one of the most eye-opening journeys I’ve ever experienced. There was a lot of ugliness- abandoned children, starving immigrants, corrupt government- but even more beauty. The joy that Thai men, women, and children exude is astounding. They’re the poorest people I’ve met, but also the happiest. And their generosity! It’s the culture, not some stupid lack of self-worth, that makes them so giving. The people I met didn’t have an insane ‘To Do’ list like I have. They didn’t feel the need to have a 3.9 GPA or join the Peace Corps. They were happy simply to be alive.
This inspired me. It suddenly occurred to me how absurd my desire to help everyone was. Yes, there’s pain and suffering in the world, but it’ll always be there. I let my own petty wishes add to the pit of darkness. For the first time I was content with what I was doing. There was nowhere else I wanted to be, nothing else I needed to do. I was me, and that was okay.
My newfound contentment followed me back to the States. Learning about xylem and Rigoberta Menchu in Stevens Point was exactly where I was meant to be. It dawned on me how many friends I have. They don’t care if I give a million dollars to charity. In fact, they’d probably be disappointed that I didn’t give it to them. They like me, Eru knows why, for who I am. I am smart enough. I am funny enough. Who on earth cares what I look like? My body is a smooth-running machine, and I should be grateful just for that.
This sounds silly, but I was worried that satisfaction would turn me into a slacker. My friend Alex is a bright, wonderful human being who doesn’t feel the need to accomplish, well… anything. He’s a manager at Burger King in Ashland. I both hate and admire his carelessness.
“You’re capable of so much more!” I screech at him.
“So?”
My grandmother hisses the word ‘content’ like it’s a swearword.
“Eugene is content being a bum!” she spits at her cat Charnu and me. “He doesn’t have a real job!”
A lifetime’s worth of “DON’T end up like your father!” is bound to rub off somehow. I do my best to avoid his mistakes, but catch myself behaving in a disturbingly similar fashion. My ‘To Do’ list has diminished to ‘It Would Be Really Nice If…’ I still want to do what I can to protect the environment, which is why I’m majoring in resource management. Traveling continues to be fun, so I reapplied to GEM.
Of course, being an ambassador is much more than ‘fun.’ It’s a chance to make a difference, to solve a global crisis. It’s a chance to learn, to experience new ways of life. Immersing yourself in a culture unlike your own is the fastest path I know to growth. Absorbing the customs and traditions of another country is enough personal and professional incentive for me to want to go.
The exchange goes both ways. I don’t want to take a country’s knowledge and entertainment without giving something in return. I am blessed (and cursed) with a lot of energy. The Foundation for Ecological Security and Nyumbani village would be great places for me to pool my stamina.
It'd be delusional to think that I know much. I am, after all, a sophomore- “wise fool.” College and practical experience have provided me with a sturdy template for ambassadorship. Working on roofs, organic farms, and eco-villages in this country and Canada has made me familiar with rough living. Being the outreach coordinator for the Women’s Resource Center taught me about effective communication. Combine that with ample energy and sincere wish to help others, and you have me.
Satisfaction didn't turn me into a slacker. Ironically, not having to achieve my goals makes me more likely to succeed. Happiness pushes me much further than pressure. I am confident that I will excel in whatever I do, but if I don’t, I’ll forgive myself, and try again. I humbly wish, but do no not need, you to consider me as a GEM ambassador. Thank you, and namaste.
It’s been a year since I first applied to GEM. In that time, I’ve waxed and waned more often than the moon. I’ve visited three countries, (Thailand, Laos, and accidently Myanmar,) tore off and re-shingled five roofs, (waking up at 4:30 in the morning every morning,) and gained a little bit of wisdom.
I’ll be honest. The thought of spending an unproductive summer stuck in Wisconsin was horrifying. I mentioned in my previous essay how much I enjoy helping others. What I didn’t mention was how I felt obligated to help them.
Like most people, I have a slight case of low self-esteem. Helping others relieves the burn of inadequacy. In my eyes, I’ve never been smart enough, funny enough, or pretty enough. Altruistic acts of kindness may be selfless in vervet monkeys and spiders, but not me. My desperate attempt to be a better person was just one of the many ways I combated depression.
I say “was” as if it’s all in the past. ‘Does that mean you aren’t interested in joining GEM anymore?’ you might ask. ‘Then why did you fill out an application?’ To relieve your doubtless confusion, I will point out again three of the most important things I achieved this past year: seeing new places, working my skeletal muscles, and developing gray matter.
Joining the Thailand Project was undoubtedly one of the most eye-opening journeys I’ve ever experienced. There was a lot of ugliness- abandoned children, starving immigrants, corrupt government- but even more beauty. The joy that Thai men, women, and children exude is astounding. They’re the poorest people I’ve met, but also the happiest. And their generosity! It’s the culture, not some stupid lack of self-worth, that makes them so giving. The people I met didn’t have an insane ‘To Do’ list like I have. They didn’t feel the need to have a 3.9 GPA or join the Peace Corps. They were happy simply to be alive.
This inspired me. It suddenly occurred to me how absurd my desire to help everyone was. Yes, there’s pain and suffering in the world, but it’ll always be there. I let my own petty wishes add to the pit of darkness. For the first time I was content with what I was doing. There was nowhere else I wanted to be, nothing else I needed to do. I was me, and that was okay.
My newfound contentment followed me back to the States. Learning about xylem and Rigoberta Menchu in Stevens Point was exactly where I was meant to be. It dawned on me how many friends I have. They don’t care if I give a million dollars to charity. In fact, they’d probably be disappointed that I didn’t give it to them. They like me, Eru knows why, for who I am. I am smart enough. I am funny enough. Who on earth cares what I look like? My body is a smooth-running machine, and I should be grateful just for that.
This sounds silly, but I was worried that satisfaction would turn me into a slacker. My friend Alex is a bright, wonderful human being who doesn’t feel the need to accomplish, well… anything. He’s a manager at Burger King in Ashland. I both hate and admire his carelessness.
“You’re capable of so much more!” I screech at him.
“So?”
My grandmother hisses the word ‘content’ like it’s a swearword.
“Eugene is content being a bum!” she spits at her cat Charnu and me. “He doesn’t have a real job!”
A lifetime’s worth of “DON’T end up like your father!” is bound to rub off somehow. I do my best to avoid his mistakes, but catch myself behaving in a disturbingly similar fashion. My ‘To Do’ list has diminished to ‘It Would Be Really Nice If…’ I still want to do what I can to protect the environment, which is why I’m majoring in resource management. Traveling continues to be fun, so I reapplied to GEM.
Of course, being an ambassador is much more than ‘fun.’ It’s a chance to make a difference, to solve a global crisis. It’s a chance to learn, to experience new ways of life. Immersing yourself in a culture unlike your own is the fastest path I know to growth. Absorbing the customs and traditions of another country is enough personal and professional incentive for me to want to go.
The exchange goes both ways. I don’t want to take a country’s knowledge and entertainment without giving something in return. I am blessed (and cursed) with a lot of energy. The Foundation for Ecological Security and Nyumbani village would be great places for me to pool my stamina.
It'd be delusional to think that I know much. I am, after all, a sophomore- “wise fool.” College and practical experience have provided me with a sturdy template for ambassadorship. Working on roofs, organic farms, and eco-villages in this country and Canada has made me familiar with rough living. Being the outreach coordinator for the Women’s Resource Center taught me about effective communication. Combine that with ample energy and sincere wish to help others, and you have me.
Satisfaction didn't turn me into a slacker. Ironically, not having to achieve my goals makes me more likely to succeed. Happiness pushes me much further than pressure. I am confident that I will excel in whatever I do, but if I don’t, I’ll forgive myself, and try again. I humbly wish, but do no not need, you to consider me as a GEM ambassador. Thank you, and namaste.
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