The Cube of Truth
"One meal, soon forgotten . . . in exchange for a whole life." -Annonymous
If my morality is defined by my choices, what does it mean when I eat a creature? Am I an accessory to murder? I can say, "they're just animals", but would I eat my cat, my dog? After viewing disturbing content about meat production, I find myself questioning my dietary choices. How can I not? The exploration is gruesome.
Save for a scant few, roosters are useless to the egg industry, so, fluff-ball, cheeping male chicks are routinely ground to pulp. Compared to fish, pigs and cows, their deaths are mercifully swift. Yet standing in the meat aisle, staring at the tasteful array of pink, red, and white flesh, isolated from the jerking limbs, terrified shrieks and splattering blood, it's easy to disconnect. I soothe myself with "animal fats are needed for brain health", "animal protein helps retain skin elasticity", and "animal protein helps me avoid simple carbs". My desire to healthily thrive clashes with my desire to respect and care for all living beings. How many creatures have died for my convenience and appetite? Not only that, how does my convenience hurt the environment I strive to protect? Where is the balance between survival and murder?
Go Vegan! is a standard cry, but a piece of me rebels. That is the other extreme, but simple to achieve. Cut it all out, no longer consume, make a statement. I want there to be a middle ground. Am I just lying to myself?
If you're asking similar questions, watch this video on slaughterhouse practice. Look up resources, think, observe. We're in this together.
Artists have X Files?
Indeed we do. Artists, especially the good ones, have a secret heap of pathetic, deformed failures. We hide them in dark corners, old sketchbooks or send them to die in landfills. Part of being a good artist is editing the work, carefully sorting the apples - rotten, green, crisp, mushy, sour, or sweet and rarely perfect. When we get a perfect one . . . wait, those exist?!
Just for kicks, here are some of my bad apples.
