This Thick Human Comforting Mess

Great title, right? I know! It comes from Tamler Sommers' A Very Bad Wizard: Morality Behind the Curtain, in an interview with Galen Strawson that blows the lid off the illusion of free will without really changing anything. (Hey, didja notice I can hyper-link now? You can check out my references without going to any more trouble than clicking some highlighted text. Cool, huh? Thanks, Sabio Lanz!) So in spite of my personal, thick, human, somewhat comforting mess of a week I managed to read the first two chapters of this engrossing book and spin my mental wheels on whether or not we choose. Seems the consensus among those in the know is no.  Nevertheless most of us ignore the obvious and act as if we have ultimate moral responsibility for our actions. The quote refers to the idea that perhaps after some hard work and some very good luck a person could "accept the conclusion of the basic argument that Deep Moral Responsibility is impossible" and then complete the death-defying act of actually trying to live according to that belief. The question is, even if it's possible, should it be done? Strawson emphasizes the difficulty of the endeavor, then outlines that while this may be a blissful state it would take one "out of the range of normal human relations," not that you'd mind, mind you. But how many of us really want to leave behind this thick human comforting mess?


This takes me back to Dzogchen Ponlop's question of how seriously do we, and by 'we' I mean I, take this. Again, "this" in Rebel Buddha means a practice designed to wake you up, fully. No pussy-footin' around. I had what felt at first to be a horrifying thought when I read Sommers' interview with Strawson that I had my argument in my last post all backwards. Suppose the reward for an honest meditation practice was waking up to this very realization that we are not free, at least not ultimately? Strawson argues that this is not such a terrible thing, and if you were there you'd be rubbing shoulders with the likes of Jiddu Krishnamurti. Though you'd not relate to other human beings as you did before, you would have compassion, albeit as an aesthetic experience (merely aesthetic?). It's not so horrifying after giving it some thought and breathing a few thousand breaths while not giving it a thought. This may be the truth about human beings, but it doesn't change anything. It's like death. We want to know for certain that we live after we die, but no one knows. No one. No, not even you! You will die, though, as will I. We'll just have to live with the uncertainty of what that means for now. Which is what I'll have to do about free will.


I cannot disagree with Strawson's logic:

1. You do what you do, in any given situation, because of the way you are.
2. So in order to be ultimately responsible for what you do, you have to be ultimately responsible for the way you are — at least in certain crucial mental respects.
3. But you cannot be ultimately responsible for the way you are in any respect at all.
4. So you cannot be ultimately responsible for what you do.

And yet in a small sense it seems that I make choices that determine (or at the very least influence) the outcome of my simple days. Could be this is illusion, but it's a pretty good one. Maybe a useful one, too. Would  meditation disillusion me of this? If it did, would I care? There is a lot I love about this thick human comforting mess. My husband, daughter and I attended an open mic poetry night at a local coffee shop this week. I didn't know what to expect. Turns out it was a college scene, and it seems I'm getting older. The place was crowded with younger faces and small tattered composition books full of passionate scrawls. There were no uncomfortable gaps between poets stepping up to the mic to spew out a few words, though I did detect the sidelong looks and shaking hands of many an introvert. A few verses caught my full attention. One line I can remember but not properly give credit to its creator is "Nothing never happens." Oh well. There it was, though, all that poetic passion--young angst, love unrequited, the usual rhymes. Every once in awhile someone stepped up with something sparkling to say that made me audibly let out breath, or smile out loud, or long for that one thing so intensely. Words flew around the room, a thick mess of them, lies mostly, but beautiful ones, and I was willing to listen to the dull ones just for the privilege of hearing a unique turn of phrase that could alter my perspective on everything forever. That's how it is with poetry, and that's how it is with being human. So I don't know, now, if I want to leave all that. Perhaps I am like the American Buddhists Ponlop writes about who would like to wake up only 50%--just enough to get past the crazies. I still lack the faith that there's more than that to wake up to. 


On the other hand, what can it hurt to be open to the possibility? I continue to read Sommers' book. The next interview on situational ethics interests me more than the question of ultimate free will. You'll be hearing from me on that one.