Category Archives: Nature

The Real World

10507119_10152224074252683_6351617770361211778_o-001Although the idea that reality might be little more than a collective hallucination has probably occurred to thoughtful people since the beginning of time, it has achieved widespread acceptance only amongst certain kinds of people. In ancient China, it appealed primarily to government workers, eunuchs, urban-dwellers, and bureaucrats who were, for the most part, divorced from the earthy realities of farming and child-rearing, and the bloody realities of animal husbandry and military life. Theirs was a world, not of blood and soil, but of numbers and words. This allowed them to develop a remarkably theoretical view of the world.

600x-1As I read Scott Adams’s blog-post this morning, it occurred to me that very little has changed. Articulations of this idea have changed—in ancient China it was couched in the language of Buddhism, in the twentieth century is was couched in the language of postmodernism, whilst today it’s often couched in the language of evolutionary biology—but the kinds of people it appeals to hasn’t changed. It still appeals to people who live in a world, not of blood and soil, but of numbers and words. It still appeals primarily to men like Scott Adams who are, for the most part, divorced from the earthy realities of farming and child-rearing, and the bloody realities of animal husbandry and military life.

I take a long walk in the woods whenever I’m tempted by the likes of Scott Adams. Spending time in the woods reminds you that a real world exists out there, outside of the virtual world of fire-light shadows that we create for ourselves (and each other). I say this not, I hasten to add, to denigrate the human-built world (I’m a city boy, after all), but merely to put it in its place. Aristotle was right: a human being divorced from political life isn’t fully human. But a person divorced from nature is something far worse.

—John Faithful Hamer, From Here (2017)

Emotional Intelligence and Hissy Fits: The Cultural Ecology of Antifragility

turkey prozac

We all have experienced this at times: other people can drive us crazy! We love our families and friends, so why this old saying: fish and house-guests stink after three days?   Why can’t we live together peacefully, like elephants? Why aren’t we rational enough to avoid doing things that annoy each other?

Look at the list of things about, um, other people that can grind our gears… and even drive friends and family wild with frustration, or even apart with resentful anger: recklessness, cruelty, meanness, inconsistency, pranking, deceit, maudlin sentimentality, duplicity, illogical beliefs, gullibility, hubris, sanctimoniousness, jealousy, manipulative wheedling, conniving, and sheer over-the-top emotionality (making “a scene”, being a “drama queen”)

What if I suggested that such things about human behavior are not bugs but features? What if they are all part of the overall adaptation of human nature, that somehow helped turn and adjustments to living in social groups into the building blocks of a whole second replicator?

I suggest that “rationality” and analytical intelligence are evolved traits, with a starring role in shifting our species into a new level of networking and communicating, bumping up the flow of information, and personnel, within much larger communities and much wider geographical ranges than are characteristic of an other primate.   Inter-links between people at several or more degrees of separation meant that  individual networking actually disarticulated the individual from restriction to any local group. I suggested that even territoriality, linked to defensive aggression and such a normal feature of the behavior of many primates, fell under negative selection in hominids at some point in our evolutionary history.

I, furthermore, suggest that dominance hierarchies and ranking systems, based on aggression, were actively curtailed. They had to be, to permit the evolution of the degree of infant helplessness, and the longer childhoods that accompanied brain enlargement during human evolution.   Sure, humans are capable of violence, especially in groups.   But I am suggesting that this was because violently aggressive individuals have always had to be contained and countered by coalitions of the brave and compassionate.   Without such opposition from the “good guys” who rally behind heroes there would never have been sufficient blow-back to keep bullies and killers in line.

We individual humans are, for the most part, the products of a long evolutionary history that has favored compassion and cooperation, but that does not mean we are uniformly so kind and rational that we never lose our tempers, never yearn to get our own way, never wish for the personal luxury of solitude, having a beautiful object (a bauble or a blanket…!.

Now we might ask ourselves, what exactly was the evolutionary environment that gave a thumbs up to hyper-sociability, and a thumbs down to inter-group and intra-group competition and aggression? What possible environment generated higher fitness for individuals whose activity tended to flatten gradients of stress and life expectancy?

My initial insights arose from a field study among a patient and kindly bunch of hunter-gatherers. The Kua were my teachers for three years, and yet, as I left the Kalahari, my dominant sensation was not that I was leaving a group of peaceful and “noble savages”, but rather that this foraging economy produced individuals as ordinary, as flawed, as insightful, wistful, funny, and sometimes as intensely annoying, as any other humans I have ever known. It was merely a different economy, not another way of being human.

I have thought about this over the intervening years. What if our obvious capacity, for small deceptions, fractiousness,  and occasional surliness,  actually balances our kindness and sociability not by accident but, rather, as it were, by design? We can hardly ignore these aspects of human interpersonal antics today… well, what if it was precisely some kind of continuing see-saw between naughty and nice, convivial and argumentative, politeness interspersed with occasional huffy misunderstandings and temperamental behavior that was precisely the behavioral mechanism kept these bipedal apes ecologically solvent?

2cab2e339136fb565536e7576f611f5cWhat if, in the long game of playing off individual genetic destinies against benefits to the collective cognitive niche, the occasionally explosive mix of emotional and irrational behavior was the key to generating “antifragile” cultural ecologies that were less likely to over-exploit any given local resource?

Thus, as humans evolved, reflection literally was an after-thought. As irritations and small conflicts increased, even as individuals found themselves holding back from escalating an argument, even as everyone’s impulse control was tested, there was always “the last straw”: an emotional scene that might set everyone packing to leave.   And, just as we still often find ourselves doing today, reflection after the event will then supply “good reasons” to justify it.

The fact that this pattern is at least partly learned, and not just an innate drive, made it more flexible still. It permitted more condensed and sedentary organization in richer ecosystems, more dispersed and mobile organization in poorer ones. Further, as learned system, it could incorporate the tighter social control during the more condensed phases within a cultural repertoire, without sacrificing the overall scope of individual networking.

People, today, when living in more crowded and sedentary communities, still tend to establish networks, through marriage and friendship, and those of each individual are still variable and rarely identical even among siblings. Furthermore, these tend not to be limited to a single community or neighborhood.

Despite the idea of “tribal” tendencies that cause links between people in groups to converge, individual life histories among human beings still tend to create ties (even “weak” ties) to more physically distant relatives, acquaintances, “pen pals”, and “old childhood friends”. Such links tend to be kept up more actively by some individuals. Sociological research into networks has suggested that such people are hubs in terms of information flows between communities. The idea that people across continents are hardly ever more than six links away from everyone else – the “six degrees of separation” model, has been experimentally confirmed many times. It began with the appearance, n 1961, of a seminal piece of work, in the form of a doctoral thesis by Michael Gurevitch, entitled “The social structure of acquaintanceship networks”.  This was presented and accepted by the  Department of Economics and Social Science at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology.

This research, and the many studies that followed, suggest that extensive networking is a human adaptation to culture, an aspect of the “social brain”: so perhaps it is not a contingency of any one kind of economic system. It is species specific, not culture specific. And we come by it through our evolutionary history as social mammals, and particularly, as social apes.

People appear to activate networks to achieve some consensus about who should undertake leadership roles.   Such leadership roles in rituals, in setting up task forces, in dispute resolution, and in disciplinary courts, and in safeguarding community assets, often went to quiet and modest people that could be trusted not to abuse their positions. Often such responsibilities fell upon older people, especially those who were already hubs within local networks.

A reputation-based system of rank, thus, imposes a burden of responsibility on the most trusted elders, so they have authority over communal working groups, as well as for the convening of assemblies to undertake dispute resolution.

Given that such ephemeral institutions for conflict resolution can emerge at times of greater aggregation, it seems that even mobile hunter-gatherers can stick it out despite arguments with neighbors and even intimate betrayal. Thus impulse control and reflective philosophizing over human foibles comes into its own in keeping the volatile human primate tractable at trying times. And this is incorporated into even the most mobile forager culture. Networks of family and friends, therefore, can effectively restrain people: no one wants to lose a hard-won reputation for strength of character.

The historical and ethnographic record from hunter-gatherer societies suggests that such roles can disappear and reappear with the seasonal cycles of aggregation and dispersal. The fact that almost all the ethnographic data indicate patterns of aggregation and dispersal of people over the course of an annual pattern of resource use is critical. Mobile hunter-gatherers are not nomadic in the sense of wandering ceaselessly in search of food: on the contrary, they circulate through a variety of locations with known resources.

Arrangements between families to meet at particular localities to camp together are often made during seasonal aggregations, and are always negotiated via networks among friends and relatives. So the times of aggregation could be characterized as a kind of network convergence, pulled toward those particular gregarious and trusted persons who serve a hubs linking many individual networks together. And this temporary integration of networks in a larger gathering, under leadership of the most trusted and respected persons, affords people the necessary time to negotiate camping parties and permissions with those who hold primary rights to each small local part of the overall territory within the aggregate.

It is conceivable that this flexibility – what Julian Steward called various “levels of integration” above simple “bands” – represents a capacity for organizational complexity not often attributed to foragers. And yes, it does indicate that even mobile foragers have the capacity for political and social organizational arrangements well beyond the scale and scope of the simple camping party.

Recently, David Graeber and David Wengrow suggested that the emergence of such leadership and more complex organization, during hunter-gatherer aggregations, indicates that humans have an innate tendency to develop political hierarchy. Is the term hierarchy the correct one in this case?   The term is synonymous with “pecking order” and has often been used to describe the way dominance of one animal over another in a ranked system is related to access to food and solace.   It conjures up a flow of authority and even coercion from the individual at the “top” which controls the movement and opportunities of individuals further down.

Brian Hayden has even suggested that “aggrandizer” personalities make use of these emerging hierarchies during periods of aggregation to seize power over others, partly by persuasion and partly by Machiavellian manipulation of others.

Hayden suggests that these self-promoting persons may have some overlap with the sociopathic traits seen on Hare’s checklist. In other words, when people live in more settled aggregations, they become vulnerable to the self-serving aspirations of a narcissistic and psychopathic minority, who make themselves “big Men” and assume power over others. In other words, the emergence of the bully gang explains the way hierarchical political power evolved in humans. (1)

One of the difficulties with this interpretation is that it does not always correspond with observed behaviour in people who are diagnosed as psychopaths today (2).  Another is that it does not situate the cultural behavior (or the ruthless individual) in terms of the consequences within that particular environment (3).  The most striking aspect is, of course, the way both the New Guinea and the NW coastal systems of leadership tend to exhort their communities to produce surpluses.   There is an obligation to contribute to a communal store of fish or other food and even material goods, a store managed by a trusted – or haranguing – senior leader. This results in higher overall productivity than is called for by the simple calculus of dependency ratios.

This communal store is risk insurance. Food and other assistance can be secured for families who meet with illness or injury. I would suggest that is why leadership in a band or tribal system is a function of trust and respect; if leaders merely hoarded or extorted tribute for personal gain, they would not last long.

Such surpluses also fuel a certain level of recurrent ceremonial socializing. Feasts can be planned for, which assemble people from many more surrounding communities. Thus, while a display of generosity towards those in hardship within a community can demonstrate the character of the leader, any display of generosity where a village hosts many of its neighbors during a festival goes well beyond this. It demonstrates the quality of the people of the hosting community. The net effect is that the people in each community are given additional motivation to work harder.

Why is this important? I suggest that such regional festivals also redistribute food across regions where not all harvests of are likely to be equal. Each local community is thus less exposed to risks of famine. The community, who had the most surplus food in any given year, trades this food for higher prestige and simultaneously reduces the chances that hungry neighbors will come to raid.

What happens if the concentrated settlement becomes more permanent: a village? Organizational improvisations can become entrenched institutions, with people developing hereditary rights to leadership roles – especially in adjudicating disputes.   Vested interests that resist change can entail internal conflict, which can be resolved by proof of generosity and earned reputation for diligence. In this case, the famous “potlatch” can also offset conflicts between neighboring communities over access to fixed resources.   Political and judicial roles maintain cooperation, restore peace, and to offset risks in a sedentary community.

Lineages and “big man” systems, therefore, appear to be risk aversion strategies – aspects of cultural adaptation, not evidence of selection pressures on human genomes causing novel shifts in innate behaviours during the Holocene.  Hierarchies of coercion and the self-affirming narcissists are not, as Hayden suggests, products of evolutionary genetic change, but rather, I think,  illustrations of the behavioral plasticity of human beings, and the way people have learned to collectively cope with higher environmental risk.

Meanwhile, we see further cultural reification of emotional sensitivities to behavior causing physical or reputational damage to other persons: this takes the form of legal codes, codes of ethics and human rights, and codes of polite behavior. This always involves symbolic evaluation; labeling behaviors as negative, positive and even sacred and profane.

However there is a danger under such circumstances.  I doubt that it comes from people who are born psychopaths.  What the foragers seem to all have understood only too well was that the human “behavioural plasticity” can take a wicked turn: people have a great emotional weakness- the “sin” of pride, more specifically the kind of hubris that comes of being placed somehow above one’s fellows (4). That was the point that Richard Lee was trying to drive home when he wrote “Eating Christmas in the Kalahari”. One  old guy’s comment was: “If a man is praised for sharing the meat of his kill, he may come to think he is better (more important) than other people. Someday he might kill someone.” 

It has taken years of research to uncover this aspect of our human nature. To uncover the fact that the assumption of authority or wealth, even the the conformity that prompts a person to suspend their own judgement to a higher authority, can give rise to evil actions that hurt other people.  Even in an experimental setting putting people into roles that permit harm to others somehow turns off empathy and compassion. It seems that even just being richer than others, or higher up in the chain of a corporate or civil service ladder, can set in motion the “banality of evil.”.  This is a human characteristic that is far beyond normal fractiousness  and occasional hissy fits, and it gives rise to far more serious trauma and human tragedy than mere incidents of rage and tears.

The only good thing in this research is that it does not happen to everyone – there are people who see what is happening and fight it. People who say “this is wrong”. Often they are the folks who either stop the experiment, or in real life will resist tyranny and injustice.  They risk their lives – or die on the barricades. Human beings do have the capacity to act with heroism. The fact that we have a word for this in every known culture should tell us something.

By the way, the word for “hero” among foragers is often translated incorrectly as “warrior” since it means one who fights on behalf of others. I have a feeling that the first battles among human beings were fought, in fact, by heroes of this kind.  In his book, Hierarchy in the Forest, Christopher Boehm suggested that one of the very early developments on the path that led to the evolution of our species, was an overthrow of aggression-based dominance hierarchy.  This led to an egalitarian revolution led by coalitions of people who resisted bullies and protected the vulnerable.  If so, this converted the desirable ideal of adulthood from a self-serving “alpha” into a heroic “first among equals”.. the epitome of the trusted leader.

A human being who lives as a hunter-gatherer could thus refuse injustice; could fight for equal treatment – or walk away. Personal faults and foibles, jealousies and temper tantrums were possibly part of  human nature evolved to create a relatively antifragile economy where high mobility makes it possible to vote with one’s feet. A hunter-gatherer inhabits an economic system that preserved and even enhanced the stability and diversity of the ecosystem that supported that way of life.   A hunter-gatherer cannot be thrown out of their job or lodgings.

But most humans on this planet can, and frequently are. Entire peoples have had their whole landscape taken taken out from under them. Look at the Scottish highland clearances. And that was done by their own clan leaders. And the pain of people under such circumstances, and the guts it takes for them to try to remake their lives elsewhere, is heart-breaking. Makes me weep. And we wonder why the world is full of people in a rage, crying out for justice and radicalized; while those who are relatively well-off tend to develop elaborate explanations that affirm their own superiority. 


1) Brian Hayden Big Man, Big Heart? The Political Role of Aggrandizers in Egalitarian and Transegalitarian Societies


Anthropological theories of elites (leaders) in traditional societies tend to focus on how elites can be viewed as helping the community at large. The origin of elites is cast in functionalist or communitarian terms (viewing societies as adaptive systems). A minority opinion argues that elites were not established by communities for the community benefit, but emerged as a result of manipulative strategies used by ambitious, exploitative individuals (aggrandizers). While the communitarian perspective may be appropriate for understanding simple hunter/gatherer communities, I argue that elites in complex hunter/gatherer communities and horticultural communities operate much more in accordance with aggrandizer principles, and that it is their pursuit of aggrandizer self-interests that really explains the initial emergence of elites. This occurs preferentially under conditions of resource abundance and involves a variety of strategies used to manipulate community opinions, values, surplus production, and surplus use.

2) Although Hare does suggest that psychopaths might be more successful within aggressively competitive systems, their comparative rarity even after some five thousand years of hierarchical civilization tends to weaken arguments that such systems are functionally dependent upon the success of a type of personality. It seems more likely to me that the development of stratified societies may have occasionally increased the chances of highborn psychopaths not being spotted and eliminated.

3) See: “Pathways to power: Principles for creating socioeconomic inequalities” in Foundation of Social Inequality edited by T. D. Price and G. Feinman. 1995.“Pathways+to+power:+Principles+for+creating+socioeconomic+inequalities”+in+Foundation+of+Social+Inequality+edited+by+T.+D.+Price+and+G.+Feinman.&source=gbs_navlinks_s

(4) see  Monbiot on “the Self-affirmation Fallacy” where he summarizes recent research showing that socio-economic inequality generates precisely the kinds of narcissism that Hayden wishes us to believe is psychopathology  expressed in hierarchical leaders. “The findings of the psychologist Daniel  Kahneman, winner of a Nobel economics prize, are devastating to the beliefs that financial high-fliers entertain about themselves . He discovered that their apparent success is a cognitive illusion. For example, he studied the results achieved by 25 wealth advisers, across eight years. He found that the consistency of their performance was zero. “The results resembled what you would expect from a dice-rolling contest, not a game of skill.” Those who received the biggest bonuses had simply got lucky.

Such results have been widely replicated. They show that traders and fund managers across Wall Street receive their massive remuneration for doing no better than would a chimpanzee flipping a coin. When Kahneman tried to point this out they blanked him. “The illusion of skill … is deeply ingrained in their culture.”

So much for the financial sector and its super-educated analysts. As for other kinds of business, you tell me. Is your boss possessed of judgment, vision and management skills superior to those of anyone else in the firm, or did he or she get there through bluff, bullshit and bullying?”

In contrast, of course, the operation of networks – which can be sensitive communicators of reputations based on observed ethical and kind behavior, continue to do, in these other forms of economic system, exactly what they do in hunting and gathering economies:

Morgan Arboretum

I was attacked on a warm summer day,
whilst walking around a frog pond,
in the Morgan Arboretum. I was attacked
by a cloud, a vicious, voracious cloud:
of bloodthirsty mosquitoes and homicidal deer flies.
But I’m happy to report that I was rescued,
just a moment later, by a bunch of benevolent bad-asses,
full-patch members of that notorious Latin gang,
Sympetrum costiferum.

Although the police and the press persist
in referring to them as The Flying Dragons,
this is, I’m told, based upon a ridiculously bad translation
of the gang’s Latin name. They prefer to be known,
in English, as The Saffron-Winged Meadowhawks.
But I knew them that day, that lazy summer day,
as my security detail. They allowed me to hunt
for frogs, for hours, in peace.

—John Faithful Hamer, The Myth of the Fuckbuddy (2017)

Summer Rain in Winter

Rain enchants me. Always has. Our firstborn son’s middle name attests to this: Rain. He isn’t named after just any rain, I hasten to add. He’s named after a particular kind of rain, the kind of rain that arrives for the first time in the merry month of May, the kind of rain that power-washes the filthy streets of Montreal in late spring: namely, summer rain.

We pay attention to the things we love. Careful attention. And I love rain. So when it rained today in Montreal, I couldn’t help but notice that something wasn’t right. This wasn’t the winter rain made famous by Guns N’ Roses; it was a summer rain.

I’ve never seen anything like it: a summer rain in February. It was extremely weird. But I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t beautiful. Because it was beautiful: the sound of it sublime, the smell of it intoxicating. And yet I’m left with a deep sense of foreboding.

—John Faithful Hamer, Blue Notes (2017)

The Great Wall of India

10626817_10152382893102683_6818992889370798341_nIn my dream, the pretty South Asian reporter with a British accent was talking about something called the The Great Wall of India. They had built it, she said, along the north end of the Bay of Bengal, on the southern limit of the continental shelf, about 200km from the vulnerable shoreline shared by India, Bangladesh, and Burma. Composed entirely of materials manufactured out of captured carbon, the seawall continues along the edge of the continental shelf for a staggering 500km.

Part of the Global Marshall Plan Initiative, the original purpose of The Great Wall of India was to protect the most densely populated place on Earth from the worst ravages of climate change; however, quite unexpectedly, it has become an excellent source of habitat for marine life (especially baby fish). As a direct result of The Great Wall of India, fish stocks in the Bay of Bengal (as well as the Indian Ocean) have been bouncing back at an astounding rate. Local fishermen are reporting catches the likes of which have not been seen since the early twentieth century.

Though they had originally hoped to be done by 2032, unforeseen engineering problems delayed completion of The Great Wall of India by a little over seven years. As such, though it was supposed to take 15 years to build it, it ended up taking closer to 22 years. Even so, when construction came to a close six months ago, in the fall of 2039, the citizens of the world beheld it with a kind of divine awe. Paid for completely with worldwide carbon taxes, The Great Wall of India is now (in 2040) the largest human-made structure on Planet Earth. It can be seen clearly from space.

—John Faithful Hamer, The Goldfish (2017)

p.s. It occurs to me now, and only in retrospect, that the reporter in my dream looked a whole lot like my friend Sara Nuzhat Amin (minus the British accent, of course).

Place Matters

15843925_10154320505237683_8770527364191556256_oWhile hiking up Mount Royal last summer with my wife’s parents, a curious young boy of about eight or nine came up to me and asked me what I had in my hand. I told him it was a blue-spotted salamander. Much to my surprise, however, the kid really wasn’t that interested in seeing or touching or talking about the living, breathing salamander in front of him. Instead, he wanted to tell me about another salamander and give me a little pop quiz consisting of one question: “Do you know why the fire salamander is called the fire salamander?” I was puzzled by the question. After all, the fire salamander (Salamandra salamandra) is native to Europe. And we’re not in Europe. I turned to the boy’s parents and asked them if they were from Europe. They said they were not. Any family in Europe? Nope. Had he seen a fire salamander on a European vacation? Nope. The kid had never been to Europe. Not even once. This, my friends, is what’s wrong with nature shows! This, my friends, is what’s wrong with nature books for kids!

It’s sad that most of the kids I meet in Montreal can tell me the names of ten dinosaurs or ten animals from the African Savannah or ten marine mammals, but they can’t name ten Montreal animals. This tells me that their boilerplate globalized knowledge of Nature comes from nature shows and mass-market children’s books produced by multinational corporations based in New York and London. Their knowledge of Nature ought to come from an intimate connection with the world immediately around them, with the plants and animals who share this island with them. Instead, it’s derived primarily from what I call “nature porn” (e.g., British-accented nature shows with their zoom lenses, impossible camera angles, and all-seeing eyes). The difference between real Nature and the Nature depicted in a David Attenborough documentary is roughly equivalent to the difference between real sex and the sex depicted in Debbie does Dallas (1978). Just as a kid who learns about sex from porn is going to have some seriously messed up ideas about sex, a kid who learns about nature from nature shows is going to have some seriously messed up ideas about nature. Nature porn reinforces the Romantic conception of Nature as a pristine place you visit: in the summer (e.g., at camp, at the cottage), or on vacation (e.g., on a Costa Rican eco-tour).

We live in an increasingly globalized world where every thing and every one and every place is supposedly expendable, unimportant, and interchangeable. The company your dad works for moves the factory to China to save a few bucks and kills a small town in Idaho. The New York movie you’re seeing tonight was shot in Toronto, and the dystopian DC show you watched last night on Netflix was shot in Montreal. The malls in Missouri look just like the malls in Ontario, and, though you’ll never admit it, you went to McDonald’s when you were in Italy because—goddammit!—you know what you’re gonna get! So much of our global culture—the very same way of life that’s systematically destroying the living systems upon which we depend—is based upon a radical denial of place. As such, one small way to struggle against this global culture is to stubbornly insist upon the placeness of place. It may seem odd at first, but it’s really no different than saying: “I don’t love humanity in general, I love you. And I don’t love cities in general or rivers in general or mountains in general. I love this city, this river, and this mountain.” Never before has the real been so radical. Place matters. Reality matters. Now more than ever.

—John Faithful Hamer, From Here (2017)

Why Lions and Tigers Die Young

18629460_303Lions don’t live long (10-14 years). Same is true of tigers (8-10 years). And wolves (6-8 years). As a general rule, terrestrial apex predators tend to have short life spans. This is especially true of those with fast metabolisms. A full-grown reticulated python can go without food for over a year if need be, whilst a tiger can go without food for no more than two or three weeks. Has it always been like this? I doubt it. There have probably been long-lived apex predators who were exceptionally effective and efficient hunters. Such is the nature of evolution by natural selection: given enough time, sooner or later, almost everything happens. If we knew all there was to know about the history of life, I suspect that we’d discover that super predators of this stamp have indeed roamed the Earth from time to time; and, whenever they have, my guess is that they’ve been responsible for mass extinctions and the collapse of entire ecosystems. There simply isn’t a terrestrial ecosystem in the world that can support an apex predator that has lots of babies, a high metabolism, and a long life. Like a gas fire that extinguishes itself by sucking all of the air out of the room, a tiger with an average life span of 80 would wreak havoc on its environment. But what if a long-lived animal from the middle of the food chain bootstrapped its way to the top via tools and technology? Would its success lead to mass extinctions and the collapse of entire ecosystems? Go back to the beginning. Think about it. Take, if you like, all day, tiger.

—John Faithful Hamer, From Here (2017)

Salamander Named Jesus

IMG_7083-005In the summer of ’85, when I was ten, I found a blue-spotted salamander (Ambystoma laterale) under a log on Nun’s Island. I’d never seen one before. Not even in a book. He was, at that point, the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen (I’d yet to discover girls). I named him Jesus and took him home. This was, I soon discovered, a really bad idea. Poor little guy was miserable. Wouldn’t eat. Just dug himself deep into the dirt and stayed put. I found him there, dead, three months later. I’m sure I was sad, but mostly I remember how embarrassed I was. Because my mom had warned me, in no uncertain terms. She’d said it was a bad idea. So I kept the little dude’s death to myself.

I wanted to bury him down by the river with the rest of my deceased pets. But it was December and the ground was already frozen solid. So I put him in a little soil-filled box, hid the box under some old crap at the bottom of our freezer, and waited for the spring thaw. I’d love to tell you that I followed through on my noble intentions, but that’d be a lie. Truth is, I’d long forgotten about the salamander by the time spring rolled around. Little dude stayed in there for four years. Probably would’ve been there longer, way longer, if the fridge hadn’t died in the middle of that unseasonably hot June.

I recognized the little box right away, and felt a wave of shame wash over me (which I kept to myself). I slid that box into my pants pocket with the stealth of a practiced pickpocket. Said in my head: I’ll bury him with the others after school. And I remembered this time. Dug a nice hole too. Was just about to bury him in that soggy box when something really weird happened: he crawled out of it! He is risen, I thought; He is risen indeed! Of course Jesus didn’t really rise from the dead. He was always alive. I’d mistaken a hibernating salamander for a dead salamander. Didn’t take me but a moment or two to put that together. But it has taken me close to three decades to grasp this event’s deeper significance.

There’s a reason why certain forms of life, like salamanders, stand the test of time, whilst others go extinct. The salamander is one of evolution’s masterpieces. It’s not just ready for winter; it’s ready for catastrophic black swan events: like the little ice ages caused, from time to time, by massive volcanic eruptions, giant meteors, and the forgetfulness of flaky children. Are we ready for black swan events of this magnitude? God told dreamy Joseph to prepare Egypt for seven years of famine. Could we survive that long? I doubt it.

—John Faithful Hamer, The Myth of the Fuckbuddy (2016)

What’s Natural?


Rousseau could be so nasty! “Everything,” he famously maintained, “degenerates in the hands of man. He forces one soil to nourish the products of another, one tree to bear the fruits of another. He mixes and confuses the climates, the elements, the seasons. He mutilates his dog, his horse, his slave. He turns everything upside down, he disfigures everything, he loves deformities, monsters. He wants nothing as nature made it.”

He was right about us. More or less.

And yet it’s still so odd to hear someone who lives in the 21st-century West talking about what’s natural. Sorta like hearing Rick James tell someone to ease off on the coke at Studio 54.

It’s not that lovers of all things natural are wrong; it’s just that we’ve been on this road for awhile now, and, if memory serves, we left the Great State of Natural a long time ago. I vaguely remember, at some point, crossing the border into whatever-the-fuck-this-is, but I couldn’t, for the life of me, retrace my steps. “We have,” as Nietzsche put it, “left the land and have gone aboard ship! We have broken down the bridge behind us, nay, more, the land behind us!”

This freak show you see around you: it’s home, friend, it’s home.

—John Faithful Hamer, The Myth of the Fuckbuddy (2016)



My friend Meredith and I watched some Mexican tourists feeding the raccoons on the mountain last summer. It’s illegal to do so. And there are DON’T FEED THE RACCOONS signs all over the place. But most people ignore the law. Including the police. So far as I can tell, they rarely (if ever) enforce it. A police cruiser passed right by the lookout point while we were there. Slowly. The cops saw the tourists feeding the raccoons and they did absolutely nothing. Nobody got a ticket. Not even a finger-wag or a frown. The officer in the passenger seat stared right at them. And smiled. Which is as it should be: because it was beautiful and awesome. Of course I’ve heard all of the arguments about why we shouldn’t feed the raccoons. And yet I find myself strangely unconvinced. Will feeding them lead to potentially unsustainable population growth? Perhaps. After all, that’s clearly what it’s done to our population. Still, my guess is that it won’t happen to the raccoon population. Not for long. Because there’s a new apex predator in town. And he loves to eat raccoons.

As you may or may not already know, a brand new species was recently identified: the coywolf. It’s a truly amazing product of evolution: part dog, part wolf, part coyote. They’re bigger than coyotes, faster than wolves, and perfectly adapted to urban and suburban life. They eat squirrels, groundhogs, skunks, raccoons, rats, and much else; and they’re going to change everything! The coywolf is going to bring some much needed balance to the urban and suburban ecosystems of Eastern North America. Because, you see, Mexican tourists aren’t the problem. The real reason we have all these raccoons running around ought to be obvious to anyone with a basic knowledge of North American ecology: we’ve killed off almost all of the apex predators (that is, the animals that eat raccoons). The Eastern Mountain Lion (Puma concolor couguar) is gone for good. Same is true of many other apex predators. Those that remain in Eastern North America are, as a general rule, insufficient in number and ill-suited to life in urban and suburban areas. That’s precisely why the coywolf is such a godsend.

But regardless of the coywolf, there’s something deeply hypocritical about this whole DON’T FEED THE RACCOONS thing. How can you take away 99% of a creature’s habitat and then piously declare that they shouldn’t eat human food? We’re a part of nature; we’re not outside of it. That’s clear to these raccoons. And it’s clear to the ecstatic children who feed them. But it doesn’t seem to be clear to many of those who fancy themselves nature-loving Friends of the Mountain. There’s no way to put this genie back in that bottle: raccoons are in a symbiotic relationship with us. Have been for years. To pretend they’re not, and try to erect these imaginary walls between their world and ours, is about as silly and impractical as Trump’s proposed Mexican wall.

People who say the raccoons on the mountain are nothing but a nuisance remind me of those who used to say that buskers and street artists were nothing but a nuisance. Look on YouTube! Look on Facebook! Tourists love our raccoons. Big time! If Mount Royal is a restaurant that specializes in trilliums, tank-tops, and Tam-Tams, our friendly raccoons are the dapper hosts and gregarious hostesses who greet our guests with smiling eyes and outstretched hands, as if to say: “Bonjour Monsieur, Bonjour Madame. Follow me, if you please. We have a lovely view waiting for you right over here.”

We’re brought up to view the living things around us the way the slaveholders of old viewed the living things on their plantations. We’re taught that the value of the plants and animals in our midst is dependent—indeed, solely dependent—upon whether or not they’re useful to us. This instrumental perspective has been key to our success as a species, but it’s come at a cost: the environmental costs are obvious, the existential ones less so. Our children and grandchildren aren’t just inheriting a shitload of environmental problems from us; they’re inheriting a way of seeing. A way of seeing that’s a recipe for alienation from Nature, from Place, and, ultimately, from themselves. Perhaps that’s why I can’t help but be charmed by times like this. When the veil is momentarily lifted and the scales fall from the eyes. When a little girl stops seeing a raccoon as an It. And starts seeing it as a You. Look at that smile on her face. Look at that sense of wonder. Is this not precisely the kind of Communion with Nature the Romantics longed for?

—John Faithful Hamer, The Myth of the Fuckbuddy (2017)

p.s. I’ve been attacked by a raccoon twice. Not on the mountain though. Once in a house, and once in the woods. I won. Both times. With a baseball bat the first time, and a big rock to the head the second time. My love for these creatures hasn’t led me to forget what they are, what I am, and how we might come into conflict at times. You’ll find no Timothy Treadwell here. I’ve been attacked a few times over the years by another opportunistic omnivore, Homo sapiens sapiens, but it never occurred to me to demonize them all as a consequence.