On Hunting

I am trying to understand an ethical/psychological perspective. The perspective is hunting for sport, and I am finding it troubling and challenging to comprehend.

Hunting for practical reasons, such as food acquisition, profit, or population control is not what I’m interested in discussing here, as this is not my argument, and these are fairly solid stances.  What I find troubling, and what I want to discuss, is hunting for enjoyment.

I did not grow up in the atmosphere of hunting, either. My family doesn’t hunt, and I have somehow managed to eschew a good portion of the culture I’ve been around. However, in the area where I come from, hunting is a very acceptable pastime. Many families own guns, and kids learn to use them relatively early in life. Many people go on hunting trips, or even shoot around in their back yard. Having pictures of oneself posing with dead deer is pretty standard, as is coming to school wearing camouflage. There is nearly no stigma involved. There is some slight disdain for such actions from the slightly less backwoods residents of the town, but no real dialogue about it. When I was younger (in my extreme animal-loving phase around fifth grade that every little girl seems to go through), I was very strongly against it, but since then my opinion had waned to uneasy disregard.

However, I have been aware of its presence, especially since I’ve been considering the ethics of killing animals (another subject I’m pondering, but this is not the topic of discussion currently at table). I do eat meat, which I had grudgingly accepted as a moral equivalent, but for some reason my gut feeling on hunting was different. Surely it was hypocritical of me to eat animals, but condemn killing them?

However, as I’ve said, the topic is not the actual act of killing them. What I’ve come to elucidate is that it is not so much the actual killing of animals that so perturbs me. It’s the enjoyment of it.

I asked a friend if she could try to explain it to me. Her father hunts for sport, and though she herself does not, she is far less instinctively critical of it than I am. I asked her, what is so enjoyable about hunting? Her response was, paraphrased of course, that it has a lot to do with the thrill of the chase and the hunt, and using your cunning to outwit the animal and triumph.

Part of me wants to reply, “Oh, yes, so much fun. What a real challenge that is, you with your superior intellect, technology, and deer stand. Yeah, it was a struggle to outsmart that deer, because everyone knows how intelligent deer are. What cunning you have.” Which, though sarcastic, is a valid point. Of course you’ll get the freaking deer. Yes, I know, there is a degree of challenge to it, but at the end of the day, you’re still the one with the range weapon and the prefrontal cortex.

On the other hand, though, I do see how that could be enjoyable. It’s a little survival fantasy. You get a shot of adrenaline and a sense of power and wit, and you’re catching something that has evolved a multitude of defenses to prevent you from doing exactly what you’re doing – killing it. I can see how that might be enjoyable. In some ways, it reminds me of laser tag. There’s an air of danger, of hunting, of outsmarting your opponent through tactics and vantage, combining with an elevated heart rate and darkness.

I also don’t like laser tag.

I think the part that I really find perturbing is that both of these activities require a certain distancing from empathy. Laser tag requires you, for a few minutes, to not to see your friends as friends, but as opponents, as the enemy in a war. Hunting requires you, for a few hours, to see the deer not as a deer, not as an animal that is not so different from the dog at your side, but as game, as a target on legs. It is precisely this desensitization that disturbs me so, because to enjoy it, you have to push your empathy aside.

I obviously have no moral issue with laser tag, because it is a game that is mutually agreed upon by the participants and no one is getting hurt, though I may choose not to partake in playing. The morals of hunting are less evident, because entities are being hurt and killed – and stuffed and hung on the wall. The other day I remarked on Facebook that it was funny how it was okay to hang a deer skull on the wall, but very weird and morbid to mount a human skull. It was mostly a joke, but I was turning over this issue then, too, and I think it is actually a distinction worth examining. Why is hanging a deer on the wall so much less of a problem? You’re still crowing over dead things, showing off your manliness as a function of things you’ve killed.

A frequently cited story (of uncertain historical origin) is that of how some Native Americans used to say a prayer or apology or thanks over every animal they killed, thanking it for its gift of life that would help them survive. I like this idea. Not because the deer can hear the thanks, or because it cares. It’s dead, and doesn’t speak English. However, I think this is a wise tradition for the sake of the hunter. So they do not forget that what they are getting a thrill from has a cost, and so they do not take the desensitization of hunting into other areas of their lives.


These are my thoughts on the topic. If anyone has an explanation, a defense, a justification, or even just a comment or reaction, I am very interested in hearing more on the subject. I do not think I have researched and examined the topic quite thoroughly enough to have too solid of a stance (and I avoid being uncompromising in the face of valid evidence). And at any rate, I am interested in hearing what people think.

[Note: I am also trying very hard not to make moral judgments based upon whether or not one enjoys hunting. I am merely trying to explain my feelings on the subject, and that maybe people have not thoroughly examined their own mind and actions enough. I am certainly not calling hunters bad people. ]


On Songs, Stories, Psychology

An interesting thought just occurred to me: songs are short stories. Very short stories, occasionally incoherent stories, and often stories that are not narrative or chronological, but stories. They describe scenes, events, and emotions in ways that rely on empathy for the listener to derive the tale. The listener gets impressions of feeling from the music (which is a setting, of sorts), and bits and snippets of the story that is unfolding from the verse. The story may be out of order and metaphorical, but it’s there in an inchoate form. 

I say this because I was thinking about one of my songs, the one uncreatively titled “Maybe”. It’s an angry break-up song, one with a scene, a narrative, and quite a lot of emotion in it – and it is totally fictional. None of the events in the song are from my life. Some general feelings, yes, but not derived from an event of the same category or caliber. It is made up. It is a story.

Therefore, I was hesitating to post it, because for some reason I (we?) have this notion that songs must be, in some form, autobiographical. Some ballads obviously aren’t, but those with vague lyrics or those not explicitly stated to be otherwise are assumed to be taken from the artist’s life, or influenced heavily by it, and therefore the artist’s mind can be extrapolated from the work.  

And this is not completely true. Many things can be inspired by empathy and poetic liberty, and it is uncomfortable when someone picks a strange or dark line from one of my works and attempts to tie it to some portion of my psyche. It is not that none of my writing comes from my own experiences and feelings (that would be impossible), but that not all of it does, and which is mine and which is not is purely for me to know. 

What I mean is, my work should be a body of its own. It is its own thing once I release it, its own entity to be analyzed. Of course it can be viewed through the context of the time and my stated philosophy, but I also say things I don’t mean and write things that aren’t real for the sake of pure storytelling effect. Feel free to analyze things, but I do not think it should be a study in my psychology, nor assumed to be autobiography.

At any rate, I should have a new song up soon. Everyone say “hooray!”

Ficlets: Not children anymore but we still wonder at snow

I was lamenting not writing more, so Dave encouraged me to write. This is always a good piece of advice, and one I really need to follow more. One I would follow, if I wasn’t so distracted with the other many facets of life, which are all very important, of course, but frequently beg me to examine my priorities. Which is more important to me, straight As or the crafting of tales? Which is more important, keeping up perfect attendance for frisbee, or spinning stories from the ether of dreams? Which is more important, knowledge and glory and science, or performing and completing the work I love and always return to?

None of these are easy questions with obvious answers, but yet I return to them day after day. I lament not writing, so I say, “so write”! And then when I write, I think, oh, I should really be studying for that preliminary exam on Thursday…

As I said, no easy answers.

Recently (in the past 1.5 years), I have come to pride myself as a dilettante, one with many interests and skill sets. I’ll think, oh, yes, I can be a scholar and a scientist and a pianist and a consumer of media and still be a writer, of course I can. Yet, the caveat of being a jack of all trades is that second line of the saying, “master of none.” It brings to mind a statement made by Malcolm Gladwell in Outliers, that true mastery of a skill comes only after the magic ten thousand hours of practice. It’s ultimately a matter of time, the accursed thing. You can only master so many things.

Here is the writing I dashed off in twenty minutes when Dave advised me to write. It has only been marginally revised. It’s nothing I consider particularly amazing, but it has its good bits. Tell me what you think. I figure that if I’m ever going to be an author*, I had better start letting people read my creative pieces occasionally.


Not children any more but we still wonder at the snow


“So. Important questions. Have you ever been ice skating?”

The tree leaned above us, spreading its branches like lace over the sky. Milky moonlight dripped through onto our thick gloves and warm jackets. When we breathed, the mist of our air hung in the beams of light.

“No,” I said.

“What?” he said. He gripped a branch and placed a brown boot on the bark of the tree. “You haven’t? How is that even possible?”

I shrugged, clasping my woolen hands together in front of my mouth. “Never got around to it, I guess. My family doesn’t really do outdoorsy things.”

“Well. Looks like I’m going to have to remedy that,” he said with a grunt as he hoisted himself into the tree. “You have missed out on so much, Alison. Seriously.”

I took off my mittens, despite the bitter chill. The night was clear, and the meager heat of the day had long since dissipated into the stars and velvet black. I grasped at the branches. The bark of the old apple was biting.

“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “I know. Rub it in, Mr. I-climbed-Kilimanjaro-at-age-eight. And-have-a-black-belt-in-four-disciplines.”

“Five,” he said, sheepish.

“Precisely,” I said. I wedged my foot into the place where the branches met, and swung myself into the lower branches. As I steadied myself, I noted that he didn’t offer me a hand. Good. He was learning.

“Do you still want to learn how to throw people?” he asked.

“Hell yes. Teach me about pressure points, too.”

A car drove by slowly on the road beyond. We watched as it grew brighter and farther, taillights fading east.

“Do you ever think,” he said slowly, chewing on his thoughts. “Do you ever think about how everyone else is the center of their own existence, and they have this internal narrative running constantly and they’re the hero of it, for good or bad. And you’re nothing but a minor character. Maybe one of the people at the coffee shop, or the innocent bystander that’s killed by the villain or whatever.”


“My point is, that everyone has this massively complex and colorful world that we never even get a glimpse of. Maybe that’s what it’s like to be a god. You get to see all of the colors of everyone’s lives.”

“In all their average glory.”


My hands felt like ice to the bone, and I tried to put my mittens back on. The moon made his hair the color of quarters as he watched the stars in their slow revolutions.

“Don’t you wish,” he said, and I wondered how his bare hands didn’t feel the cold. “Don’t you wish that you could see those people’s lives?”

I paused before responding. “Yes. Then you would know precisely what to say when you ran into them on the street, or you could drop by with flowers when they were having a bad day.”

He was quiet for a minute. “Oh.”


“I don’t wish.”


He looked at me, and bit his lip. “There would be a lot of pain.”

I considered this. “You could make it better.”

He twisted his lips, and dropped into the snow beneath us, sinking into the layers of it. “I could,” he said. “But I don’t want that much responsibility.”

I swung down from my branch, and dropped gracelessly. He caught me as I stumbled.

“Aren’t your hands cold?” I asked.

He grinned. “It’s so cold, my teeth hurt when I smile. But that’s not stopping me. C’mon, let’s run.”

I groaned. “I’m terrible at running.”

“Slow poke!” he said, taking off through the field. I followed more slowly, but relished the thick snow and hunger moon and the starkness of the cold that reminded me that I was real.


*I was originally going to say “be a writer” here, but then I realized that it’s stupid to aspire to be a writer. Being a writer is defined by what you do, not what you accomplish.

Addendum: The word “ficlets” in the title comes from a writing site of the same name of which I was a part a few years back. A ficlet was a piece of very short fiction, 1,024 characters, and was meant to be whatever you could write in those constraints, prose or poetry or running mini-stories and the like. It was a great little site with a lovely commenting community, and I was very disappointed when it shut down. It was a lot of fun.  At any rate, this is basically what I’m doing here: writing ficlets.

So Blogger is disappointing, to say the least

I would be less hesitant to switch blogs if I had some way to transfer my archives. I had some good pieces over there, and I hate to have them lost in the abysmal plain of the internet. Maybe I’ll do some periodic blast from the past posts or something, because I am getting increasingly fed up with blogger. Not only is is aesthetically unpleasing, but recently I’ve acquired a spambot that spews interesting combinations of words that could be mistaken for surrealist prose if it were located anywhere other than the comments section of a backwater blog.

Admittedly I am tempted to lift some of it and turn it into dadaist art, but I think that may be considered plagiarism of some kind. Really, whoever runs that nifty bit of random-phrase-combining software should give up spamming and turn to art. This could be the rise of the next Salvador Dali. Truly.

So, at any rate, here’s the new blog. I rather like it. It’s much classier and less cluttered than Blogger, and has a better community, too. I think I’ll like it here.

If you need help finding your way around, here’s some helpful hints:

The About section tells you all about me and my exciting Irxchwekian life.

The Home section will bring you back to the latest posts. So will clicking on the title, I think.

There should be (or will shortly be) a tab on the top that will provide links to some of my blogger posts, for reference.

Thanks for bearing with me as I attempt to escape the existential horror of unintentional dadaism.