Heavy Hearted

This one's for Jack.

Jack was a good friend of mine, and, at times in his life, has been my baby brother, my conjoined twin, my wise old uncle and my shuffling but adorable grandfather.

They story of his coming to my house were not especially exciting really. I was about 5 and I asked my dad if I could have a penguin to be told "sorry son, you can't have a penguin" to which I replied "... well, can I have a dog then?"

"I'm sure we can sort something out."

Jack was the runt of the litter and would have been put up for adoption or anaesthatised into oblivion had it not been for my asking for a dog. We were given him for nothing, receiving him as something barely bigger than a potato and loving him from the word go.

Over the past few years I haven't given him as much attention as I suppose I should have and it seems a bit late to say sorry, but I can't say that I'm not. I guess I just got into the habbit of thinking he'd be around forever. I was, very sadly, mistaken.

For a few months he's not really been himself, a little more slothenly I guess, but hey, he was a pretty old dog and it was something I was coming to accept. As of a few days ago he wasn't eating so well, he didn't want to go for walks and he had exceptional difficulty in getting up the stairs.

This morning I woke up to be told that he was really bad, so bad that my parents were calling the vet to schedule an appointment for having him put down.

I came downstairs to find him in his basket in a state of living rigor-mortis, his head back at an unnatural angle, his breathing shallow and tight and, if left alone for more than a few moments he would resort to quietly yelping until someone would come to him. I thought he might be doing it out of fear to start with, he's never liked being alone, but I realised after a while that there was something terminally wrong.

I was asked to stay with him while my dad ferried my sister to school. I sat on the floor, quietly weeping, stroking him for more my comfort than his, unsure of if he even realised I was there. He started yelping despite the fact I was trying to make myself as known as possible, my already free flowing tears increasing in the scope of their flow.

I started talking to him, knowing he probably wouldn't last until the vet's surgery opened, asking him to please just wait for my dad to come back, knowing my dad would probably appreciate being there when it happened. I realised that I shouldn't be so selfish, I told him that if he really had to go then he shouldn't let me or anyone else stop him.

And then he stopped breathing.

I kept stroking him for a while, thinking I was making it up, hoping he might start again soon. I know it was naive, but I refused to believe it. I broke down in earnest as I saw his head begin to loll and his tongue start to protude, and trecked to the bathroom for some toilet paper to cdry my eyes and blow my nose.

Coming back I realised I ought to do something a little more meaningful and grabbed a glass of apple juice, stood beside the bed where he lay and said simply, "Jack, you were a good dog and I'd be lying if I said I'm not going to miss you. I'm sorry that you had to go, but goodbye." And i stood there and drank to his poor, ancient little canine body and to anything left of him that might have a semblance of ears to hear.

Then he started to twitch.

His head pulled up and his jaws tighten as he opened, a faint gurgling coming from his throat as what was left of his breath was forced from his lungs. I then decided that there is no God, slammed my empty glass into the sink and, hands placed on the work top, wailed without remorse. I begged him to stop but he just wouldn't listen.

I watched for a while, waiting for it to stop. During this unholy ordeal his head had slipped from its pillow to rest hanging over the edge of his basket, and, thinking that I could not let him lie there so undignified, I raised his head back to the pillow only to watch it slip slowly down again. Again I tried and again he fell. Being unable to take it anymore; the death of my dog, my inability to do anything right, I just sat there on the floor and cried what there was left to cry out of me.

I waited with dread for my dad to come home. I didn't want to have to tell him the news, but I guess it was something I had to do. He came in and I apologised that he was a little late. His tears awakened mine anew and I realise now that I am not as emo as I thought I was. I get my ability to cry from my dad. There is something so passionate, so forceful about it and, despite the redened eyes and sniffly nose, something beautiful about it. I found myself hoping that there would be someone out there who would cry like that for me when I go.

I got myself cleaned up and headed off for school as my dad closed Jack's eyes and swaddled him in blankets and spare tea-towels. Yea, I went to school, in the state that I was on, only a pair of black sunglasses to seperate me from the rest of the world.

If anyone at school asked me why I was wearing them I told them. I didn't feel ashamed in telling them I'd being crying because my dog died, and no one else should ever feel any embaressment over it either.

And so, that's it I guess. School ended, I came here and started writing this.

So, in closing:

Rest in peace, friend; you may not have been the greatest penguin their ever was, but you were one hell of a good dog.

Karas

I saw this and was completely blown away. I know no one reads this blog, but I thought I'd publish this anyway, just incase someone stumbles across this here repository of crap and wants something fun to watch for a few minutes.

I present to you:

Karas.

I finally understand why you listened to your music so loud.

It was so that you could drown out the self condemnations.

Yea, I do it too.

--

I seems as though our "re-marked" RS essays came back to college today and, to my genuine shock and surprised, despite the nonplussed demeanour, my grades had not been changed in the least. I still need over 110% on my last two exams to get the A that I need, or I can "retake" the exam I would have otherwise had to sit for this module and then I'd need roughly 70% atleast. Atleast the later is not against the laws of geometry and statistics.

I was telling my dad what had happened on the way home, and, as we were drawing to the close of our journey, he, in all his ineffable and downright outrageously stupid wisdom said, with relaxed confidence, "Well, you obviously didn't give them what they wanted."

I exploded.

I do not think I have been so passionate in all of my life as I was at that point; not entwined with a lover, fighting with my sister, plowing through exam papers, hearing about injustice on the news, experiencing injustice within myself. On the inside I was almost, literally, aflame with rage; my eyes blinded by flickering crimson and sour, piquiant tears; the noise of the radio drowned out by the roaring of blood in my ears and my throat made hoarse, not due to volume, but out of shock and disbelief. I raged for the sake of my whole scholastic career, every waking hour of the past 5 years of my life that culminate in the ink on pieces of lightweight cartridge paper tumbled out of me: I screamed for the fact that I had never deviated from what a school wanted from me all of my life, that I had always performed. I'm not used to failure, and now, at the peak of everything, is not the best time to have to get used to it.

I was out of the car before it had stopped moving, grabbed my bag and walked with determination to stare at the frosted glass of my front door, waiting for my dad to let me in. Entering, he proceeded to make out as though he were the one who came away injured and wished me venomous, sarcasm drenched luck.

"You can stop talking now, if you really want to," I said as I dived for the pantry to console myself with something... something... something that was more refined fat than real food.

"Alright, fine-"

"Good."

"-but I hope you're happy with all of this."

"Yea, exstatic," I replied, stocato, commanding, and went upstairs to drown myself in the melancholic 80s savvy of The Cure.

And here I am.

Proud to be British

Being British is about driving in a German car to an Irish pub for a Belgian beer, then travelling home, grabbing an Indian curry or a Turkish kebab on the way, to sit on Swedish furniture and watch American shows on a Japanese TV. And the most British thing of all? Suspicion of anything foreign.

Oh, and only in Britain can a pizza get to your house faster than an ambulance;
only in Britain do supermarkets make sick people walk all the way to the back of the shop to get their prescriptions while healthy people can buy cigarettes at the front;
only in Britain do people order double cheeseburgers, large fries and a diet coke;
only in Britain do banks leave both doors open and chain the pens to the counters;
only in Britain do we leave cars worth thousands of pounds on the drive and lock our junk and cheap lawn mower in the garage;
only in Britain do we use answering machines to screen calls and then have call waiting so we won't miss a call from someone we didn't want to talk to in the first place and
only in Britain are there disabled parking places in front of a skating rink.

Not to mention:

3 Brits die each year testing if a 9v battery works on their tongue, 142 Brits were injured in 1999 by not removing all pins from new shirts, 58 Brits are injured each year by using sharp knives instead of screwdrivers, 31 Brits have died since 1996 by watering their Christmas tree while the fairy lights were plugged in, 19 Brits have died in the last 3 years believing that Christmas decorations were chocolate, British Hospitals reported 4 broken arms last year after cracker pulling accidents, 101 people since 1999 have had broken parts of plastic toys pulled out of the soles of their feet, 18 Brits had serious burns in 2000 trying on a new jumper with a lit cigarette in their mouth, a massive 543 Brits were admitted to A&E in the last two years after opening bottles of beer with their teeth, 5 Brits were injured last year in accidents involving out of control Scalextric cars, and finally, in 2000 eight Brits cracked their skull whilst throwing up into the toilet.

I am proud to be British.

--

In other news:

my life is ending, slowly, one moment at a time, and there is nothing i can do to stop it. But you all knew that already.

Nothing ever happens here. I have nothing to write about! Well, atleast nothing that i feel capable of comitting to the internet. I mean, you guys out there, you crave something interesting, entertaining or atleast mildly confusing to idle your time with.

If you ended up here by accident, I'd leave right now and never look back. Tell your friends to stay away; tell them, "Oh crikey! Don't ever head over to that Joe Beaver fellows blog! It's dire!"

But i really do need to put something more interesting up here. I promise I will as soon as it happens.

Peace out.

The Moral Argument

The Moral Argument

This is a theory which relies greatly on the fact that just about everyone has a sense of moral awareness, involving feelings of right and wrong, and is almost undeniably linked with the conscience.
For a lot of people, the moral argument can be summarised in this quote from Aquinas’ Summa Theologica, and the forth of his Five Ways:
“We experience things that are noble, true and good. These things must take their reality from things that are more noble, true and good. To avoid an infinite regression, we must conclude that there is something that is the most noble, true and good. This is what we call "God".”

Kant

His proof is not so much a proof at all, as he believes it is impossible to prove with any theoretical knowledge that God exists. However, using “practical reason”, that is to say, reasoning involving an a posteriori reflection of the world around us, we can become almost undeniably certain that he is really real.
In brief, it goes:
People are compelled to be as moral as they possibly can, situations permitting.
To attain the “summum bonum” (the highest form of “good”, moral and generally) we must be wholly morally good, and it is necessary we attain this state.
However, we are only obliged to do something if it is entirely possible we can.
We cannot do this by ourselves though, we need some assistance!
Assistance from who?
Assistance from God!
Seeing as we feel obliged to attain this, there must be a God to ensure that we can!

This shiz, you see, is where Kant’s Categorical Imperative comes from. The necessities of duty for duties sake imply a summum bonum as a sense of overwhelming sense of moral obligation. This is neither to give us happiness nor to get closer to God, but “just because”.
He also says that obedience to this ought to relinquish unto us the highest good. Being this, it also happens to contain perfect moral virtue!
He notes that stringent morality is not always rewarded with a happy outcome or reward to the person involved. The highest good, therefore, rewards perfect virtue with perfect happiness.
Hinging on “ought implies can”, the fact that we feel morally obliged to attain the summum bonum means that it must be entirely possible for us to do so.
We cannot do this alone though. In being unable to bring about the highest good in this life, and in order to attain and bring about the “necessary connection” of perfect happiness with perfect moral act and intent we need the help of something which is capable of doing so.
GOD.
But, we cannot do this at all on earth. S’impossible! So, there must be some way we attain it in a future life. As God is the “highest original good”, as dictated by Aquinas, he feels He can give us this! So, God can be assumed to exist.

Freud

Kant’s argument only works if we accept that there is a natural law that guides us morally. Take this away and the idea collapses quite thoroughly.
For Freud, our sense of moral obligation and conscience are both a product of the super ego, a creation of our own to set up restrictions between the ego and ID. The ID is the part of us that wants to rape and murder everyone. The ego represses this. The super ego acts to mediate this and the super ego internalises our violence and etc., and this is the voice of conscience.

More objections

Kant’s view implies moral law is completely apparent and objective, making ethical decisions which may lead to someone’s death are perpetuated by it. That ain’t right, surely?
As well as this, cultural relativism acts to illustrate it’s wrong.
There are other people who believe morals come from man, like Erikson and Fromm, who thinks we act morally as we recognise a sense of value in things we want to protect.
People aim for things which are out of their reach a lot of the time, says Brian Davies.
Just because it necessitates something that can bring about the summum bonum, it doesn’t mean it is our classical God.

H.P. Owen

It is daft to think of a command without a commander to give it! So as is moral law! Either this or they are just fact and require no explanation. As morals are not fact, there must be a law giver!

Newman

Morals = conscience given. Conscience = voice of the divine in everyday life. God = divine. Conscience = God. Morals = God.

Dom Trethowan

Morality is a religious experience. Moral judgements are based around the value of things to us. So people have intrinsic value? God gives it us.
Moral experience is thus an indirect experience of God.

Joseph Butler

He felt the judgements made by our conscience are completely different to any other decision we make, as they are not motivated in the least by the wish for good consequences.
He felt this was irrefutable proof of God, as it means morals are not things that come from us.

More dislikes

Evolutionarily, the idea of “reciprocal altruism” states that we do nice things to other people and act morally in the hope the same is applied to us and people are nice to us in return.
Psychology asks “if morality is the message of God, why is it so inconsistent?” The differentiations from person to person means the conscience cannot be the voice of God, and the belief that is it can be very dangerous! (see: the Yorkshire ripper).
Theories such as situation ethics state that objective moral law is callous, uncaring and lacks compassion for the individual. Surely we must consider the consequences of something to determine its morality?
If the law is truly objective than there is no room for considering consequence, regardless of how dire they may be. Doing so would undermine the system, meaning the law is not our soul duty and it means there is no need for a God in the system at all.
These arguments do not point us to the benevolent, all powerful God of classical theology, but more a law giving God, as described in Exodus.
This existence of a moral God may point to moral law, but moral law does not necessarily point back to a moral God.