Sunday, 30 December 2007
In the first pages of the Bible - the Genesis - the creation of everything is being explained as if it all happened in six days.
Each day ends with the words "God saw that it was good". And at the end of the sixth day - marking the end of the creation - He he even said: "God saw all that he had made and behold, it was very good".
Well, I do not agree with that and try to explain why.
Looking around and looking up at the sky, night or day, one must admit: everything works smoothly. But it is far from being optimized. I mean we all live in a kind of crocodile creation. Mister Big feeds on Mister Small. That goes for ants and for cats and especially for us, you and me.
If you can, you devour those who cannot help it without having much qualms about it. Eaten or being eaten: that is the motor of all that is living, crawling and growing on Mother Earth.
And if you look up at the sky, at those stars sparkling so peacefully above, the same script prevails. There are those black holes gobbling up everything in the vicinity. And even our sun will not warm us dutifully for ever. In some billion years she will explode and roast the whole system. No mercy here either.
That's what I call the crocodile creation. It works, true, but only at the price of immense suffering at absolutely all levels.
Saturday, 22 December 2007
Monday, 17 December 2007
Sunday afternoon, blazing sunshine, we are walking through the forest on one of those GR hiking food paths, crisscrossing France from east to west and from north to south. We are not alone in this oak forest. A guy all clad in dark green but with a shining red cap stops us: "be careful", he tells us, "pay attention! This is hunting period and they are shooting with real bullets".
I loath hunters, I dislike them, I hate them. But hypocritically I keep those sentiments to myself.
I only say, politely as hell: "well, as far as I know, it's up to the hunters to be careful. We are just walking on this hiking path". Let's not forget my golden sens of humour and I add to make him smile: "I hope all your shortsighted colleagues are wearing specs and have a look before shooting".
He does not smile, he just stares at me as we walk on.
Being a hunter these days means, you are killing for pleasure and in total safety for yourself. Hunting is a kind of sport, it seems.
Hunting season. You get up in the morning, too early for telly. So what to do? Let's do some killing, great fun, no danger involved. The boars, the rabbits, the stags, the pigeons are not armed.
Imagine all those little and big animals outfitted with rifles, even little submachine guns. I bet all those hardy sportsmen would prefer to stay at home or gather around the billiard table, boozing in safety.
Or what about sending all those game killers to places where shooting is important if our hunter wants to stay alive? I imagine a hunter asking for a hunting permit "You want to hunt?"
"No problem", he is being told, "in order to get this permit you must engage for one year in active warfare. For the moment, this means you would be on service in Iraq or Afghanistan".
I imagine our happy weekend killers would think twice before going for places were hunting means always being hunted, too.
That's my dream.
Wednesday, 5 December 2007
We have two cats living with us in the house. There is Mitsi the female stalker hunter and big heavyweight Katzi. Is he hunting, too? I am not sure about that. During daytime, when he is not sleeping, he follows my wife and gives her those tragic looks of total love.
Mice are aplenty here. Must be. They are basic fare for barn-owls, called white lady in French, for the buzzards, other owls of all kind and naturally for the dozens of village cats that are generally kept but not fed by the local farmers.
If God has created mice he must have done so just to supply food to scores of other more fortunate animals. Thanks therefore for not having been created on that precise part of the food chain. Thank you.
Well, that's not the subject but it might be useful to give it some thought.
So, with our two predators over here, mice don't have a chance. Nearly every morning I find some dead and/or mutilated corpses on the premises.
Unfortunately, the situation changes when it rains at night. Cats don't like water . Without being sure, I think rain does not keep them from hunting but they prefer to have dinner in dry places, meaning here in this house. And as everybody knows, cats like to play, fooling around with the dinner prior to eating it.
Next morning of a rainy day, I find Katzi and Mitsi sitting in front of a bookshelf or another piece of furniture. Miaw, miaow miaow or mie, mie, mie, meaning mousy has escaped from the playground and is now in hiding.
At this precise moment, my wife swings into action. She is a great hunter, too. Mousy has no chance. As a indoor hunter, she does not carry a gun but but a dish towel plus sometimes a coat hanger or a broom stick. Boum, the towel zeros in on the little beast and some seconds later it is wrapped in and carried out of the house. Second chance for the mouse to go on living a mousy life. Or get caught again by our two home predators.
Katzi and Mitsi are mere onlookers at that stage. For them, towel hunting is far too fast. The mouse is already back to nature for a considerable time and our cats are still prowling in front of the book shelf looking for the vanished mouse.
As to me, I am just onlooker. Like any male lion (I am born in August) I don't hunt but get a share of the food.