A Possible Future for the Hunt
(a supposition)

Consider this:
Once upon a time,
believe it or not,
beautiful beasts called whales swam the oceans of the world.
They were gentle
and had families
and traveled with their whole tight-knit communities.
Men hunted them down,
stole their knowledge as they pleased
- such fragments as the art of sonar tracking -
and used it against them,
systematically seeking them out and destroying them
as though they were our enemies.

You see,
there was money in it.

We thought their dead bodies tasted good
or simply supplied interesting textures
to our food.
We thought their corpses looked pretty
painted on human faces,
stitched into restrictive underclothing,
burning in our lamps,
or strung with gold and hung as adornments,
all in an effort
to make the nakedness of ourselves
a trifle more palatable.
And so the hunt continued
mercilessly
until most of the poor beasts
were gone.

I will not indulge in cheap sentiment.
I will not tell you that
the sea ran red with blood
or that
the waters rippled with the anguished screams of mighty deaths.
They didn't -
well, maybe in small places -
for the oceans were and are large,
and individual lives and deaths,
even of the huge leviathans,
were and ever are rendered insignificant
by the very vastness of our planet's wet sub-cosmos.

And on the land,
we were and are very busy.
We don't even know each other's names.
We do not notice each other's lives
or deaths
unless directed to do so,
and we have developed such delightfully diverse forms
of display
for especially interesting samples
of violence
and dishonor
as entertainment - afternoon diversions
from our busy-ness.

And thus it took a very long time
for most of us to notice
that this war took an unreasonable toll
or even that it was being waged.

But finally,
some of us noticed and
became incensed.
First, we tried to educate each other
against the de facto war.
We wrote, we talked, we sued,
we protested,
we screamed for the dying in places where their screams
could not otherwise be heard -
in supermarkets, courts, capitols, schools.
It helped; but the war went on.

So then we took boats
and met the hunters on the open sea
and fought,
and sometimes won, and sometimes lost.
This, too, helped; but still the war went on.

And the whales died, and prices for their corpses rose,
until at last
there was an awful lot of money,
but there were no more corpses to be had.

Well -
not whale corpses.

We could not live without them.
In our anger,
in our frustration,
we began a new hunt.
We hunted the men
who had sailed the ships
that had been used
to kill the whales.
We killed them.
We sold their teeth for ear studs, tie tacks, cufflinks.
We sewed their ribs into our undies,
rendered their fat for soap and light,
their marrow for cosmetics,
and fed their organs to our pets.
Oh, they have been so useful -
so beneficial to mankind!

We ran out of sailors years ago, of course -
harpoonists and deckhands,
then shipbuilders and shipping magnates -
and now we hunt their families,
their mates,
their children, parents, siblings, cousins, friends. . .

You smile
cynically,
oh-so-worldly wise.
You don't believe me.
But you know there are no more whales.
So from where
exactly
do you suppose
the colors on your cheeks and lips
derive?

Like it or not,
the world is a violent place
and anything can happen.

Okay.
Consider this, then:
Once upon the same time,
believe if you can
that beautiful beasts named elephants
roamed the golden plains of Africa.
They were gentle
and had families
and traveled with their whole tight-knit communities.
Men hunted them down
and slaughtered them with pride,
taking only their enormous ivory tusks
- and sometimes their strange, immense, cylindrical, flat feet -
leaving their mutilated bodies behind
for their families to discover,
as though the murdered beasts had been traitors
to some cause they never knew,
creatures with base hearts
who must be executed,
and then marked
as an example to others.

But there was only money in it.

We found that their tusks
- and sometimes certain of their odd, sparse, wiry hairs -
made the most elegant jewelry,
buttons,
barrettes,
handles,
you name it,
and could also be crafted
into the most stunning ornaments
and conversation pieces,
curios,
and that their hollowed feet made admirable trash cans.
And so the hunt continued
mercilessly
until most of the poor beasts were gone.

Again, I will not sensationalize.
I will not tell you that
the plains ran red with blood
or that
the earth trembled as each suffering creature fell.
It didn't,
except in small, isolated, specific locations,
and the world was and is large and brutal,
and individual free lives and molested, stolen ones,
even of the majestic pachyderms,
were and ever are rendered insignificant
when the lion kills the hyena for being near
and the condor devours
what the great cat deigns to leave.

And we have always been
so very busy
in other places far away.
We do not recognize each other's children,
unless they're pointed out,
and somehow no one ever sees them
when they disappear
against their
- our -
will.
No one notices whether they grow up.
The imagined fates of imagined children
broadcast to us in two dimensions
at a level
digitally calculated to be one
we can all understand
are so much more engrossing than the details
of each other's busy,
busy lives.
And stories of the "disappeared" ones
far away in other countries,
in other states, other neighborhoods,
in other city blocks,
are just that -
stories.
That's all they've ever been.

Thus it took a very long time
for most of us to notice
that the punishments were unmerited
or even that they were being levied.

But finally,
some of us noticed and
grew outraged.
First we tried to educate each other.
We wrote and talked and sued and protested.
We grieved for the murdered
and their families and communities
in places where their grieving
would not otherwise have been known -
in jewelry marts, courts, capitols, and schools -
and it helped, but the punishments continued.

So then we built fences
woven of laws
and sent men with guns and badges to catch
the men with guns and knives,
to punish them
with money;
and sometimes,
it was too much for the hunters and they were forced to stop;
and sometimes,
the hunters made so much money when they weren't caught
that getting caught
didn't matter.
So the punishment of the elephants continued, though it also continued
to be unearned.

And the elephants died, and the prices for their tusks and feet rose,
until at last
- again -
there was an enormous amount of money,
but there were no more of these desirable curios
to be had.

We could not live without them.
With more anger,
with more frustration that could never be assuaged,
we began a new hunt.
We instituted new punishments.
We hunted the men
who wielded the guns
that had been used
to kill the elephants.
We killed them,
pulled their teeth,
and left their bodies to rot where we found them,
in the plains,
in the stores, in the streets,
in their very houses and in earshot and full view
of their families
and communities
who wailed and grieved and bellowed
like wounded elephants.
We sold their teeth to artisans
who have carved them into all kinds
of fascinating
and very popular
things.
How endless, the variety of lovely shapes
plucked from these men's mouths!
Unfortunately, though,
we have had to find other sources for our wastebaskets.

We ran out of hunters ages ago -
and porters, and merchants,
jewel sellers,
importers and exporters -
and now we have begun to hunt their families.
As with the elephants and other game,
we will save the females for last;
it is considered unethical to hunt females.
Besides, they might be pregnant and still breeding
more stock.

Ah,
you're smiling that smile again.
You are uncomfortable.
You don't quite know what to make of this, do you?
Yet, you know there are no more elephants in Africa.
Still, you dare not believe.

Ah, well -
like it or not,
the world is a violent place
and anything can happen.

For consider this:
Now, in this very time,
you must dare to acknowledge
the number of individuals of your personal knowledge
- members of your family and community -
each of whose very living depends
on the possibilities presented
by the hundred thousand grand and tiny ways
by which
you will fail yourself
in your lifetime,
from your first marriage
to your hundredth bounced check
to the thousandth bill you won't be able to pay on time
to your final
probably altogether preventable
illness
to the funeral you probably won't remember to arrange in advance
and that your heirs
will go into debt
to provide for you
so that the cycle of dependence
on the difficulty of life for our families and communities
will be passed on
ever on
to our families and communities.

Or, you unbeliever,
consider this:
Now, in this very time,
someone wishes you dead,
exterminated
like a pest
for some purported reason over which you have no control
and of which you may not even be aware -
for the possible color of some antecedent's skin,
or the hopes and dreams,
or simply the form of aspiration
to righteousness and immortality,
or possibly
enlightenment,
imagined to have been held
by at least one of your great-grandparents,
or something. . .

Or, finally,
consider this:
Now, in this very time,
beautiful beasts,
some more gentle than others
and some more familial
or community-oriented
than others
are routinely imprisoned by men,
tortured and mechanically destroyed
in assembly lines and little rooms
saturated
with each other's blood
and the scents of each other's terror and deaths
as though they
(or we?)
have no souls.
In fact,
we are admonished regularly,
those of us who would prefer to err
on the side of lavish anthropomorphism.
How silly
and dangerous
are such notions
when everyone knows
that we have the divinely granted right of dominion
over these creatures,
that instead of our existing to care for them
and tend the whole planet garden,
they are here to minister to our convenience.

Gleefully,
sensually,
we bathe for hours in their perfumed rancid fat.
Their corpses light our rooms,
nourish our babies,
clothe our bodies,
carry our belongings,
protect our hands and feet;
we feast upon their bleeding flesh with relish,
and feed the parts we deign to leave to other animals
fortunate enough
to be considered our more suitable companions.

Mostly, though,
these creatures are stretched to mask our naked ugliness
and keep us warm instead of each other.
We have the science to replace their corpses
with other, bloodless materials -

But, you see,
there's money in preserving
the status quo.

And we are so, so busy.
We are busy toiling our lives away
for just enough money to survive -
to put meat on the table,
to own
just enough things,
and if we're really lucky,
to plan for failure so it won't hurt so much.

A few of us profit wildly
and own many, many things,
including unbreachable cushions
against failure;
a few of us own nothing
and have failed in every way
and thus have nothing to lose;
but still we have no time,
especially no time to change.

And a few of us are very, very angry,
and suffer frustration
now irreversible.

A new hunt will begin soon.
What will you be -
hunter, prey, consumer?

Like it or not,
the world is a violent place
and anything can happen.

by Sara, copyright 1999, all rights reserved