NO WAR

What follows isn’t meant to be helpful. No tension will likely be released by my words, nor any unnecessary violence prevented. Writing this is a cathartic act that may be meaningful only to me. With all that out of the way, I’ll proceed.

When the events of September 11th transpired, I was still referring to myself as a Christian and a liberal. In my naivete, I made desperate wishes for war not to happen. So firmly in the front of my mind was the belief that we as a species had learned war was undesirable that I believed up to that point I would not see a new war in my lifetime. Had the United States gone solely after Osama bin Laden, I see no reason I would have objected. Instead, as everyone knows, we chose to invade Afghanistan and then Iraq. The announcement fractured some part of me that has since either further fractured to cope with aggravated assaults on my sensitivities or healed to allow me greater understanding of harsh realities.

If pressed on the matter, I could not tell you the moment I lost my faith in Jesus Christ. Leaving Christianity was a gradual process, a personal one. Having never been a member of any church, no formalities were involved. I suppose I grieved in my own way for the death of God, but it was quiet, contemplative, ruminative mourning, and I remember nothing of it worth mentioning except that I was in my own head most of the time and ready to let Him go. Maybe the idea of God’s nonexistence comforted me in the face of the brutalities in nature I was coming to appreciate, whether because of or despite my sensitivities.

It might be argued that the declarations of war by the junior President Bush that so affected me were the catalyst for me to build bridges in myself—to Satanism, to more conservative thinking (ironically), to more nuanced understandings of power, of violence, of justice; he may have shattered my naivete, but I would not allow him to shatter my psyche. Years passed. I studied Hobbes. I studied Nietzsche. I discovered in myself an appreciation for struggle, for conflict, for growth that I found increasingly in opposition to “peace.” I grappled with the central ideas of the communists and the fascists and tried with some success just to understand the lens through which any of the supposed extremes saw the world.

One point of contradistinction between me and most other conservative Americans is that I have always adored Russia. Despite Stalin’s recklessness and excesses, despite her ludicrous economics, the sheer wealth of her culture and her indomitable spirit is really something worthy of admiration. Rasputin’s magnificent and zany antics could only really have come from Russia. Dostoyevsky, Stravinsky, Prokofiev, Tchaikovsky, Pasternak, all brilliant exemplars of a distinctly Russian spirit. It may be the case that I feel no real animosity because I was not here to witness the Cold War, but I have only ever seen her as a friendly rival rather than a true enemy, propaganda aside.

Ukraine has been holding her own on the cultural front lately. She’s been making metalheads especially happy, giving us both Jinjer, an extreme metal band whom I was privileged to meet at the end of October last year and whose live-session video for “Pisces” has now surpassed 60 million views on YouTube, and Andriy Vasylenko, a YouTuber, podcaster, and all-around Metallica megafan who’s done an incredible job helping other Metallica fans like myself appreciate layers of the band’s music we—certainly I—didn’t know were there. These are wonderful, phenomenal people creating even greater art. If anything is worth fighting for, it’s good art.

When the United States invaded Afghanistan and Iraq, to say I was disappointed would be the understatement of the millennium. I was horrified. I never let go of my national pride, but what disgraceful moves they were to make. Now, with my friendly rival country making such similar, such ghastly moves, especially without apparent provocation, the disappointment, the horror, the nausea and ache, the despondence, it’s all here anew. The tears are fresh. What am I to do?

Make music.

Hope for the best.

Play chess with someone from Russia and win. I did that, at least.

Stay strong, Ukraine.

With care,

~ Grigori

“What do you love most about yourself?”

That I am myself is what I think, above all else, is most worthy of my love.

Intelligence, I say with confidence, I have—less than some, but more than most. It has served me incalculably well. That is a lie, but who wants to pass up the opportunity to say “incalculably?” Not I. The calculations, ruminations, reflections, strategizations—that’s not a word, and you shouldn’t use it—amplifications of thought, of pattern, of motive all boil down to intelligence. It helps me see advantages where others would not. It helps me predict with startling accuracy what my enemies will do. You might reasonably object here, pointing out that what I’m describing isn’t intelligence pure and whole, but cunning! I think you’re right. While I maintain that intelligence and its displays are indeed worthy of praise, that which I find worthy of praise in myself is the application thereof, the monuments built to it.

Musical aptitude has played a part in making sure I’m still here. Indeed, as Nietzsche wrote, without music, life would be a mistake. The time I have spent writing music I knew to be of above-average quality purely for the purpose of personal artistic fulfillment tells me I’m right to suspect I would not be here without it. Sharing the rough and messy ideas for guitar riffs I’ve made with friends, whether out of insecurity or excitement, has confirmed that I know enough theory and have a good enough ear for melody to write good music and that my friends are supportive, or, of course, revealed that my friends are liars who don’t want to hurt my feelings. Fortunately, my intelligence says it’s the former. In any case, I was not a prodigy. Musical aptitude grew in me as I grew.

Need I be unnecessarily verbose and list off numerous other virtues I possess? No, that sentence will do.

Intelligence is wonderful to have, and critical thinking is key to sharpening it. Aptitude, be it musical, literary, or in any other way artistic, is unusual and worthy of much praise and love, but is it not conceivable that it could exist in an individual who is not sensitive to art’s many wonders and thus fails to appreciate such creative endeavors on anything other than a theoretical level? No, I much prefer to be who I am, even with my occasional bouts of self-loathing that reveal themselves to be nothing more than a way for me to remind myself of who I want already to have become. I could not have become who I am now without my sensitivities, without my struggles, without having overcome all my former selves, without the instincts in my body informing my decisions.

I, Grigori, Great Ego, Guardian Fallen Angel, Creative Extraordinaire, love most about myself that I am who I am.

With care,

~ Grigori

“What dog breed do you most identify with”

Answering this question properly meant learning more about dog breeds than I’ve ever known, as I would have been at a loss otherwise. The act of thinking about an animal with whom I might share a kindred spirit feels superficial, yet in most apparently-superficial things I often find a depth that betrays my profound ignorance. For example, when inquiring as to a friend’s spirit animal, she might tell me it’s a penguin and I’ll laugh. She’ll then go on to describe traits in penguins I had no idea they possessed, but that I certainly identify with her. In so doing, she’d have been revealing both a level of self-awareness I may or may not already have known she had and probably some trivia about the spirit animal in question I didn’t yet know. Therefore, in the spirit of answering this properly, I present to you as a list the seven major dog groups I found after less than thirty seconds of searching on the internet, accompanied by a three-word description of their traits. We can proceed from there.

  1. Working Group: intelligent; loyal; bodybuilder
  2. Herding Group: efficient; energetic; cunning
  3. Hound Group: hunting; affectionate; indefatigable
  4. Sporting Group: energetic; playful; outdoorsy
  5. Non-Sporting Group: loving; random; unique
  6. Toy Group: tiny; brainy; loving
  7. Terrier Group: friendly; beloved; vermin-killing

Based on the above and a few extra traits I didn’t include in the descriptions, I concluded the breed with whom I would most identify was to be found in the Working Group. At 6’3″, I am a tall man. That did not alone eliminate from consideration the Toy Group, as I could imagine without much effort a man half a foot taller than myself with a personality like a chihuahua, but it will suffice here to say that’s not who I am and so the Toy Group was, in fact, eliminated from consideration. Based on my limited knowledge, my height eliminated the latter four groups! While that would have been expedient, it also seemed cheap. Let me therefore offer a few traits I would consider self-defining: intelligent (as down on myself as I can get, I did graduate from a prestigious university with a degree in philosophy); strong (despite my slim frame, I do have broad shoulders and am known to be much more freakishly strong than I look); creative (though I’ve less to show for it than I’d like, I have at this writing been published a small handful of times and I’m actively working on music). These traits and their implications, plus one or two others that need not be mentioned here, eliminated from consideration all but the Working Group and the Herding Group. I found the latter worthy of consideration because I am an aspiring performer, but corralling people to be an audience has never been my game or intent. My name, Grigori, also means “watchful one,” so I fit in rather well with the large, loyal guard dogs.

Keeping all the above in mind, identifying with a breed was an easy and simple process. I had read Jack London’s The Call of the Wild and loved Buck for his perseverance and absolute will to survive. I had come across Siberian Huskies when the timing was just a little too weird not to notice. Huskies are in the Working Group. It’s a perfect fit.

“Ah, but Huskies are medium-sized dogs!”

Are they? Well, then I turn to the Husky’s larger American twin, the Alaskan Malamute! Affectionate to those whom he respects, playful but dignified, a heavy-duty worker, observant, large, intelligent. I have found myself in a dog.

With care,

~ Grigori

“Why do we as a society accept that giraffes simply exist?”

We—collectively, as a society—can either accept the presence of giraffes and continue to live in relative peace or we can entertain the Question Regarding Giraffes and invoke the terrible and barely-fathomable power of Quetzalcoatl. How a Mesoamerican deity got involved with an African demon, I would need to do more research to say with any amount of confidence. All I know, all I can say about that matter without earning Quetzalcoatl’s fatal attraction, is that giraffes must be here without question and they must be given the reverence Quetzalcoatl deserves. He is a terrible and wrathful god, but he must not be seen as malevolent! He is just uniquely powerful, as are his African cohorts, though they remain magnificent creations and have not yet unleashed on us their white-hot demonic rage.

Yes, I did say “African demons” earlier and I meant it! Have you seen giraffes fight? It’s a rough and brutal battle and all we think is involved is their necks. Well, I have it on good authority that Quetzalcoatl was in the middle of creating a giraffe and got distracted and that’s how one George Fisher was born. That man grew up to be known as “Corpsegrinder” and fronts the world’s most famous death metal band, Cannibal Corpse. Here he is trying to distract us all from discovering his true origins. If a man whose original destiny was to become an African demon sounds like that, what in blue Hell can they sound like in their own language?!

Further, I’d like briefly to address a different possible understanding of the question. What if giraffes didn’t exist simply? What if their existence were more complex in ways we didn’t comprehend? Perhaps they’d have a weakness they don’t have now. Were that the case and we discovered the weakness, perhaps they’d be easier to eradicate. Is that the course of action we should take, though? Sure, if the end we’re after is the eradication of our own species. I’m all for being beholden to no one, but Quetzalcoatl certainly doesn’t involve himself in our lives, does he? Were some creature to go out of their way to slaughter your offspring, what would happen to it? The wrath of a human pales in every way next to the wrath of a deity. If giraffes were more complex in ways that made them stronger? Forget about it! We’d never have time enough even to ask the question, we’d be wiped out so fast!

With care,

~ Grigori

P.S. It is commonly understood that A.D. stands for Anno Domini, or “In the Year of our Lord.” That is clever disinformation. A.D. stands for African Demon. Every year, no matter how many giraffes were killed or were born, the number of African demons resets to the original: the amount reflected in the year. Yes! The original amount of African demons changes with each passing year. As I said, Quetzalcoatl is a uniquely powerful deity.

“If you had to eat a Disney character, which one would you eat and why?”

If I’m eating and I need to be sure I’ll enjoy it, Bambi is definitely being eaten. Despite never having had it, I’m confident that there is no more delicious and savory selection than Disney venison.

If I have some room to experiment and I can risk having a meal I don’t fully enjoy, my selection falls between Baloo, Dumbo, and young Simba. I had to include Simba as an option just because the babies are where the tenderest meat is found and lion is just such a tempting exotic meal choice. Baloo was one of my first instincts, as I have sincerely wondered since coming back from being a vegetarian what bear tastes like. However, I have also wondered what elephant tastes like and I can’t for the life of me remember Baloo ever being a baby. The best meal choice has to be Dumbo.

If I have even more room to experiment and all I need to do is taste the character I choose, I cannot pass up Belle’s beau the Beast. What is he? Man? That was certainly his original form, but his enchanted form looks more like a freakish and terrifying fusion between a bison and a tiger, so of course I have to know what that tastes like.

Time must also be made so I can mention snake-Jafar, because sorceled serpent sounds scrumptious.

With care,

~ Grigori

“Where is your brontosaurus?”

I’m afraid I won’t be able to answer this question thoroughly and completely as I have many others, as I’ve lost track of my brontosaurus. It’s a shame, really, as I last saw him many millions of years ago. Time seems to speed up with age and it feels as though I last saw him only yesterday. The unfortunate truth is that I barely remember his face and that sincerely breaks my heart. He’s got no descendants by whom I might fondly be helped in remembering him, so his memory is mine and mine alone to preserve.

His name was Jack. You all would have loved him.

With care,

~ Grigori

“What’s the difference between a duck?”

In a word, the difference between a duck is: substance. That’s the word philosophers used back in the time before the dinosaurs to say that something was there. Elon Musk eventually came along and gifted us humans with jetpacks and flamethrowers and we all joined forces to melt the dinosaurs’ faces off. It was then that the philosophers had a change of heart and decided “matter” was better, cleaner, or at least less pretentious as a way to describe the same stuff referred to by “substance.” The decision was objected to by all the usual suspects, including those two or three philosophers who had intended to count both anti-matter and that chthonic weirdness that was most definitely NOT matter they had discovered just a few days before among That Which Should be Studied, but they decided to keep their mouths shut upon remembering that they’d told no one and now here we are.

Analytic philosophy tends to approach language in a formulaic and mathematical fashion. It’s the kind of thinking one might expect from a man whose intent is to simplify language as much as possible so as to maintain clarity to the utmost degree. If objective reality—that which would be left remaining, were all human experience to be removed—is in some basic sense static and unchanging, many of the problems in philosophy may very well be due to misunderstandings and the lack of clarity in the language being used. I happen to think this approach is fundamentally mistaken in a number of ways, but it is worth engaging in such methodologies to see what these undeniably brilliant philosophers concluded AND for the purpose of answering a question such as this.

Within mathematics, the directive to simplify equations often results in numbers being added together, subtracted from each other, or otherwise consolidated. For example, before simplification, an equation might read:

10+4x+7y+0=43

For the purpose of illustrating the way I see and interpret the original question, I will translate the alphanumeric equation using words used in common language as opposed to those usually confined to mathematics, such as “plus” and “are”:

“Ten and four X and seven Y and nothing are forty-three.”

The simplified alphanumeric equation would be:

4x+7y=33

Translated:

“Four X and seven Y are thirty-three.”

I bolded “and nothing” in the translated equation before simplification and removed it in the simplified translation to illustrate the superfluous nature of such phrases in mathematics. Using analytic philosophy’s mathematical approach to language, the question I see is: “What’s the difference between a duck and nothing?” It is merely simplified. The only other possible answer as I see it is to get the nothing that comes from subtracting a duck from itself or comparing/contrasting the duck to that which is not there in between it, and “nothing” isn’t at all an interesting point to make, is it?

With care,

~ Grigori

“If you could be any plant which one would it be?”

My plant of choice—to admire, to emulate, to be—is the Venus fly trap, always and forever

With care,

~ Grigori

“Would you rather be covered in fur or scales?”

Gills are noticeably absent from the “scales” option in this question and so I will assume I am meant to choose between a mammalian appearance and a reptilian appearance rather than between the mammalian and the fishlike. I will further assume that I am meant to assume some change in my genetic code has taken place such that I developed scales or (a great deal) more fur organically as opposed to having had this new outer layer affixed to me somehow.

Having scales is an attractive option for me. I have always had an affinity for reptiles and have felt arguably more admiration for my “lizard brain” than those complex cognitive functions which serve to “humanize” me. So that I am not mistaken, let me say that I have always had a near-reverent admiration for the abilities of my human brain and do what I can not to take them for granted. At the same time, I have had what I might call a tumultuous relationship with my natural instincts and learned to treat them with the respect they deserve only in the latter half of my life; I had therefore to admire more aggressively the animal inside me so that I might counter the self-imposed anti-bestial conditioning I called my “spirituality” that had me spellbound by mysticism until I lost my faith as an adult. The serpent in the Garden of Eden, shapeshifting reptilian aliens, venom, cold blood, base appetites, it all sounded—sounds—so appealing!

While it’s not impossible to imagine counterpoints to all the points I list in favor of becoming more reptilian in appearance, it’s difficult indeed to list them while believing at the same time I’ve successfully made the case for or against them. Even as deep in fantasy as I can allow myself to go, I recognize that none of it is practical consideration. I have no idea what life would be like with my body covered in scales. After getting used to it and figuring out how properly to use this new body, I would have to wonder if my next step would be to join some circus sideshow or dive headfirst into the sciences to see what about the human condition anyone could discover or infer by studying me. When imagining what I would enjoy most about a reptilian appearance, what comes to mind most easily is not what it would really be like but what reptiles represent to me.

The thought of being covered in (more) fur is not immediately appealing; I like for the most part where the hair on my body is and I think I would prefer overall to have none rather than more. That would, however, mean losing the lovely metalhead mane I have kept now for well over a decade and the exact right amount of hair I have serving as my natural “happy trail.” Being covered in fur and thus transforming into the ape-man would be inconvenient to be sure, but I do after all live as a mammal already and as such would need a much shorter transition period between lifestyles. Just to make it harder on myself, I’ll assume “fur” stipulates that I cannot simply shave most of my body once a week or however more or less frequently I’d prefer. Even still, I love stroking fur. I love the feel of skin beneath fur. I have spent my whole life in a body equipped with fur. If more fur I must have, more fur I will have.

With care,

~ Grigori

“How many toes do you have and why?”

When asked about toes—this occurs much more often than you might think—I am reminded again of the way Martin Heidegger discussed the human perception of the hammer. He says more or less that we focus our thoughts on what it is the hammer is fixing rather than focusing on the hammer itself until or unless the hammer is broken and only then do we really see the hammer for the thatthere (I’m careful here not to say Dasein or use the word “object” simply because it wouldn’t be proper) it is. This comes to mind because I so often neglect my poor toes in my own thoughts unless something has gone wrong. It I stub one of them, if my boxers flip inside-out as I’m shaking it off my foot because it hooked my big toe, if I’m popping the joints, if any one of them snags some corner of the sock I’m putting on, I think of them and then they are nothing but a collection of tiny nuisances.

I am a human male. I suffered no birth defects that would affect my toes and I suffered no accident that would delete any of my digits from my body. I therefore have ten toes that help me balance and walk and dance, that let me wiggle them with joy even while giving it no thought at all, that help me do yoga and pushups, that remind me of my apely ancestors. I am grateful for them.

With care,

~ Grigori