I don’t believe the question of wether or not I ought to be killing chickens was sufficiently illuminated in yesterdays post. Really I ought to be begging Jack for a response post, but he’s a bit busy.
More often than not with questions of this magnitude: should I kill chickens? Should I defraud this person? Should I steal this thing? Should I work hard all night to complete this task? Should I cut this corner? Should I lift this stone? The answer is often quite obvious to our hearts, it’s our jealous or lazy minds that needlessly complicate things.
I had a friend from France once who told me a clever trick:
If you’re ever having a hard time making up your mind, flip a coin. When you reveal the outcome, you’ll experience a razor-thin moment of elation or regret, depending on your most secret desire. Listen to that desire.
When I think of becoming the sort of person that’s comfortable killing chickens, and when I think of becoming the sort of person that’s taken a hard stance against the same, I can oscillate rather quickly in comfort and disgust. Both seem good in their ways, both seem bad, too.
How do I justify not doing it myself while I expect Abby to? The same way a monk might justify their asceticism while still loving secular people, I suppose. Something like that.
How do I justify killing innocent creatures? The same way I did tonight at dinner when I ate bolognese sauce.
I think a universe where I never again kill a chicken is a good one, and a universe where I do, that’s good too. All in all the out come of this moral quandary will be decided by a force I imagine most are guided by: politeness.
I can’t quite stomach the idea of Abby doing all that hard work on her own, it’s just not right. It’s impolite. It’s not as though she’s jolly about the abatoir, it’s not fun for her, but she does it. I think that’s the right attitude. Chickens do their best, and part of that is being in our freezer after a summer in the sun.
More often than not with questions of this magnitude: should I kill chickens? Should I defraud this person? Should I steal this thing? Should I work hard all night to complete this task? Should I cut this corner? Should I lift this stone? The answer is often quite obvious to our hearts, it’s our jealous or lazy minds that needlessly complicate things.
I had a friend from France once who told me a clever trick:
If you’re ever having a hard time making up your mind, flip a coin. When you reveal the outcome, you’ll experience a razor-thin moment of elation or regret, depending on your most secret desire. Listen to that desire.
When I think of becoming the sort of person that’s comfortable killing chickens, and when I think of becoming the sort of person that’s taken a hard stance against the same, I can oscillate rather quickly in comfort and disgust. Both seem good in their ways, both seem bad, too.
How do I justify not doing it myself while I expect Abby to? The same way a monk might justify their asceticism while still loving secular people, I suppose. Something like that.
How do I justify killing innocent creatures? The same way I did tonight at dinner when I ate bolognese sauce.
I think a universe where I never again kill a chicken is a good one, and a universe where I do, that’s good too. All in all the out come of this moral quandary will be decided by a force I imagine most are guided by: politeness.
I can’t quite stomach the idea of Abby doing all that hard work on her own, it’s just not right. It’s impolite. It’s not as though she’s jolly about the abatoir, it’s not fun for her, but she does it. I think that’s the right attitude. Chickens do their best, and part of that is being in our freezer after a summer in the sun.