Of Chairs and Turkeys

12/07/2007 6:52 AM – 8:54 AM

In banishing Joe for arriving at Calvinistic Determinism, he was banishing conclusions based on independent thought and study. I do not agree with determinism, at least not without extensive modification, but in banishing independent thought and study, he was banishing me. I say this not for malice, the past being irrevocable, but merely for the context of the metaphor.

The metaphor was this: a chair balanced on three, then two, then one leg on the edge of the stage. Balanced being an inaccurate word because it was held to keep from falling. The sitting on the chair was to represent an act of faith. I don’t remember if the metaphor was to run toward the sensible or the irrational, but I suspect, based my knowledge of the speaker, that it was toward the sensible. On this point I diverge, faith being a leap, not of the irrational but the arational, not the stupid but the blind.

The metaphor of the chair surfaces again from time to time, generally in a context quite different from its original presentation. I, writing this, sit in a chair. This chair has held me many times before. I would predict that it will hold me many times again. If I am wrong, I will most probably suffer a few bruises and scrapes, but the metaphor remains intact. I could, if I wished to adhere to a stance of strict skepticism, forego the use of chairs all together. We find in these mundane trivialities the refutation of strict skepticism. But I have before seated myself in chairs that broke beneath me. And this has to do not strictly with the fatness of my ass (though that, no doubt, played a large part). We are left with these fragments which we attempt (without due rigor) to assemble into a whole: 1) chairs break, 2) chairs 99.99% of the time do not break. Here we introduce a second metaphor, provided not by Joe but by Nassim, the metaphor of the Thanksgiving turkey.

Since the turkey has been alive, it has been tended to and coddled by a farmer. Its dwelling, food, warmth and socialization have all been provided to it by the farmer. Perhaps there is within the turkey some instinctual distrust of man, but this grows less and less with each passing day as all of his needs are met by the farmer. As the turkey approaches his second Thanksgiving, he grows more confident and secure in his position of love and trust in the farmer. Seeing a wild turkey skulking furtively by the farm, cold and hungry one rainy November night, perhaps our turkey feels sorry for him and wishes that he might welcome his brother into the fold, but the gates are barred and he has no opposable thumbs with which to lift the latch, and so he returns to his contented scratching and pecking. When the farmer arrives to carry the turkey away, he may at first be discomforted by the upset to his routine but he has no reason to suspect any ill from the hands of the farmer and, with his head on the tree stump and the axe in the farmer’s hand, he still trusts that the outcome will fall to his favor. All things considered, it was a good life for a turkey. He lived contentedly, died at peace and tasted very good, stuffed with spiced bread-crumbs and served with mashed potatoes and gravy.

Both the turkey and the sitter-upon-chairs share what Kierkegaard would loath to hear called the irrational. And so I do not. I call it the arational, which spellcheck informs me, is not a word. But while the turkey may be forgiven his foolishness, seeing as we do his very small brain and limited experience, the sitter-upon-chairs does not escape our withering glare unscathed. He has knowledge of the fallibility of chairs, and yet for reasons of comfort and convenience, he continues to sit upon them unthinkingly, save for a few scarce moments when he notes that his ass is particularly fat and the chair particularly frail. But in both cases, there is an arational will to believe. There is simply not enough information to arrive at a conclusion about the nature of the farmer or the chair. The necessary subtext of all conclusions is a leap of blind faith. So. Jesus loves me, this I know, for my Mommy tells me so. Little ones like me belong, I am weak and he is strong. “Every day, I wake up and step on a land-mine,” says Ray Bradbury. As do I. And isn’t it a lovely day for a frightful boom?