Hello, everyone, just telling you I haven't gotten bored and killed the blog. I just started a new job this weekend, and it got in the way of writing the article I was going to post about time. The idea was given to me by Donovan Wooley. I do want to get around to it. But in the meantime, I'll give all of my readers (which I believe is zero), a fun little link as a preview.
Zeno's Arrow
Enjoy.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
Epistemology
The Epistemology of the Cosmos
During one of my recent debates with a close friend, we returned to a topic that we’ve picked up and dropped off several times throughout the years, a topic in which our opinions differ greatly. I am speaking of epistemology, the philosophical branch associated with the nature of knowledge and understanding. I find it of particularly valid interest, because as a person who wants to be a scientist, I’m very interested in the nature of what it means to know. The validity of scientific theories relies on experimentally-verifiable results. If verification truly means nothing, then the entire scientific methodology fails.
And this was the point that my friend tried to argue. His stance on knowledge is that while we may be able to accumulate information about this world, the truest workings of the cosmos are far removed from humans, so far removed that the distance between us and the fundamental truth is infinite, or nearly so. He says that the study we call science isn’t the art of figuring out the basics of the universe, but is merely a title for human exploration of our environment. He has a very metaphysical view of the world, and I can’t say whether he has this stance toward knowledge because of his metaphysical beliefs, or he holds his metaphysical beliefs due to his stance toward knowledge. To give you some background, my friend is very interested by psychology. He’s studying it now at Stony Brook University. I think his continual experiences with people (whose fundamental truths are never reached, it seems) has poisoned his perceptions of the greater sciences.
I disagree. Entirely. With everything. I’m of the opinion that the secrets of the universe can be unlocked. Even if humans are removed from the fundamental machinery of existence, we can still approach and reach it with abstractions and technology. Let me tell you a little about myself before I go on. I’m a physics student who wants to be a professor of Theoretical Particle Physics, so you can see from the get-go I have a bias of my own. Much as my friend is very accustomed to dealing with people and thinking in terms of them, I’m used to considering mechanical issues. That’s how I approach the understanding of the universe. I have a good reason to think this way, however, and that is the validity of science’s benefits to humanity’s understanding versus the benefits of metaphysical studies.
Now, I’m not saying that philosophy hasn’t contributed to humanity. It has in big, big ways. What I’m trying to get at is that when one is challenged to look at the universe and form one’s perspective, through which one will see the universe, one has to consider both options. There’s a metaphysical view which will explain the workings of the world in its own integrated way, and there’s a scientific view which will explain the workings of the world in a separate but just as integrated way. The only difference between them is how much more science explains.
Let’s look at existence of the soul. That’s a classical argument that runs along the lines of our debate. Now, for the soul, there are two camps. There are dualists, who believe in a body and a soul, and there are physicalists, who believe in only the body. Dualism explains many things about life. It explains that the reason that one is conscious is because one has a soul, a metaphysical element bonded in some way to their physical body. It explains that death is when one’s metaphysical element is separated from the body, and from there are all sorts of theories as to what happens thereafter. Physicalism explains that the body is a machine. It is a very complex, very fancy machine, but ultimately just a machine, and it says that the reason that one is conscious is because of electrochemical reactions in one’s brain. Death is when that activity stops. These two arguments both explain the world in a way. They don’t contradict themselves. The views make sense within themselves.
But the difference is that physicalism explains more. It’s part of a view that elegantly explains things like mental illness (damage or malfunctioning brain matter), comas (points when the brain is electrochemically inactive), and mood (balances of neurotransmitters). In order to explain points like that, Dualists have to resort to very complicated explanations, none of which are verifiable, as they have to do with immeasurable “non-physical” substances. Dualists could be asked, why is the soul connected to the body? How does the soul affect the body and vice-versa? Why is there a reaction between a physical and a non-physical element, and do we see those anywhere else? Where did the soul come from in the first place? The dualist is at a loss for explanation. There are many competing theories within that domain for each of those questions.
Now ask the physicalist; why does the brain work? How does electrical activity translate into consciousness? Where can we physically find awareness? The physicalist will have to come up with complex explanations, and to be honest, he won’t know all the answers, either, but he will know more. His views are clearly easier to integrate with other parts of life. The life of the flower in his windowsill can be explained by thermodynamics and biomechanics, not souls and aether. So, though he doesn’t have all the answers, he has more than the dualists, which points me toward believing his side of the story.
In much the same way, I will confess that I do not know the underlying truths of reality. I do not know how far we are from the ultimate answers. But from what I’ve gathered, it can be approached. I’ve seen scientists formulate theories about the smallest particles in existence and have witnessed the epic advancement in our perspective that validating a theory like that can bring. I’ve learned about ways of doing math with infinities and realized that maybe in the entire universe, there’s one electron. I’ve used my own imagination to grasp at higher-dimensional brane theory (don’t look that one up. Headache warning), and I’m confident that any perceptions of humanity as being endlessly lost in the universe is like a person who sees a project and says, “This is going to take forever.”
Forever is a long time. Let’s not be dramatic.
During one of my recent debates with a close friend, we returned to a topic that we’ve picked up and dropped off several times throughout the years, a topic in which our opinions differ greatly. I am speaking of epistemology, the philosophical branch associated with the nature of knowledge and understanding. I find it of particularly valid interest, because as a person who wants to be a scientist, I’m very interested in the nature of what it means to know. The validity of scientific theories relies on experimentally-verifiable results. If verification truly means nothing, then the entire scientific methodology fails.
And this was the point that my friend tried to argue. His stance on knowledge is that while we may be able to accumulate information about this world, the truest workings of the cosmos are far removed from humans, so far removed that the distance between us and the fundamental truth is infinite, or nearly so. He says that the study we call science isn’t the art of figuring out the basics of the universe, but is merely a title for human exploration of our environment. He has a very metaphysical view of the world, and I can’t say whether he has this stance toward knowledge because of his metaphysical beliefs, or he holds his metaphysical beliefs due to his stance toward knowledge. To give you some background, my friend is very interested by psychology. He’s studying it now at Stony Brook University. I think his continual experiences with people (whose fundamental truths are never reached, it seems) has poisoned his perceptions of the greater sciences.
I disagree. Entirely. With everything. I’m of the opinion that the secrets of the universe can be unlocked. Even if humans are removed from the fundamental machinery of existence, we can still approach and reach it with abstractions and technology. Let me tell you a little about myself before I go on. I’m a physics student who wants to be a professor of Theoretical Particle Physics, so you can see from the get-go I have a bias of my own. Much as my friend is very accustomed to dealing with people and thinking in terms of them, I’m used to considering mechanical issues. That’s how I approach the understanding of the universe. I have a good reason to think this way, however, and that is the validity of science’s benefits to humanity’s understanding versus the benefits of metaphysical studies.
Now, I’m not saying that philosophy hasn’t contributed to humanity. It has in big, big ways. What I’m trying to get at is that when one is challenged to look at the universe and form one’s perspective, through which one will see the universe, one has to consider both options. There’s a metaphysical view which will explain the workings of the world in its own integrated way, and there’s a scientific view which will explain the workings of the world in a separate but just as integrated way. The only difference between them is how much more science explains.
Let’s look at existence of the soul. That’s a classical argument that runs along the lines of our debate. Now, for the soul, there are two camps. There are dualists, who believe in a body and a soul, and there are physicalists, who believe in only the body. Dualism explains many things about life. It explains that the reason that one is conscious is because one has a soul, a metaphysical element bonded in some way to their physical body. It explains that death is when one’s metaphysical element is separated from the body, and from there are all sorts of theories as to what happens thereafter. Physicalism explains that the body is a machine. It is a very complex, very fancy machine, but ultimately just a machine, and it says that the reason that one is conscious is because of electrochemical reactions in one’s brain. Death is when that activity stops. These two arguments both explain the world in a way. They don’t contradict themselves. The views make sense within themselves.
But the difference is that physicalism explains more. It’s part of a view that elegantly explains things like mental illness (damage or malfunctioning brain matter), comas (points when the brain is electrochemically inactive), and mood (balances of neurotransmitters). In order to explain points like that, Dualists have to resort to very complicated explanations, none of which are verifiable, as they have to do with immeasurable “non-physical” substances. Dualists could be asked, why is the soul connected to the body? How does the soul affect the body and vice-versa? Why is there a reaction between a physical and a non-physical element, and do we see those anywhere else? Where did the soul come from in the first place? The dualist is at a loss for explanation. There are many competing theories within that domain for each of those questions.
Now ask the physicalist; why does the brain work? How does electrical activity translate into consciousness? Where can we physically find awareness? The physicalist will have to come up with complex explanations, and to be honest, he won’t know all the answers, either, but he will know more. His views are clearly easier to integrate with other parts of life. The life of the flower in his windowsill can be explained by thermodynamics and biomechanics, not souls and aether. So, though he doesn’t have all the answers, he has more than the dualists, which points me toward believing his side of the story.
In much the same way, I will confess that I do not know the underlying truths of reality. I do not know how far we are from the ultimate answers. But from what I’ve gathered, it can be approached. I’ve seen scientists formulate theories about the smallest particles in existence and have witnessed the epic advancement in our perspective that validating a theory like that can bring. I’ve learned about ways of doing math with infinities and realized that maybe in the entire universe, there’s one electron. I’ve used my own imagination to grasp at higher-dimensional brane theory (don’t look that one up. Headache warning), and I’m confident that any perceptions of humanity as being endlessly lost in the universe is like a person who sees a project and says, “This is going to take forever.”
Forever is a long time. Let’s not be dramatic.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
The Tomb-Keeper
Vigil of the Tomb-Keeper
By The Weird Leviathan
“Quiet, Mort,” Jameson muttered. He was a rough man, unshaven and harsh-eyed. The rain ran between his brows, but paused, unable to bear the thought of running so close to those eyes. His coat wasn’t thick enough to protect him from the rain, but Jameson didn’t notice; all of his attention was fixed on the mausoleum.
Mort dropped down to the balls of his feet and picked up the shovels and picks and crowbar he’d dropped. No worse for wear, but wet from the rain-soaked ground, they clattered again when he rose to full height, and Jameson shot him a warning glare.
“Maybe it’d be easier to stay quiet if you held some of this stuff,” Mort said quietly as he approached Jameson. The mausoleum waited patiently for the men to continue their conversation. It had waited this long, and it could wait a few minutes more.
Jameson simply reached into his pocket and pulled out a large gun. “I’m already carrying equipment.”
The two men spoke no more until they reached the door to the stone tomb. It was a moderately-sized mausoleum made from grey stone. It had all the usual trappings of a tomb—the columns on the sides, the Greco-roman style roof, the cherubs near the apex of the roof that seemed to stare down at them.
“Hey, Jameson,” Mort spoke, shattering the silence. He felt as if he’d just defiled some sacred space by speaking. When his partner grunted in reply, he continued, “You notice something funny about this place?”
“No.”
“There’s no crosses. Shouldn’t there be a cross above the door or something?” Mort asked.
“Could be Jewish. Stop staring at the place and give me a hand. Remember, it’s not the tomb we’re here to get,” Jameson reminded. The two men had trudged up the hills behind the mausoleum, cutting through the forest and then through the back of the cemetery before finding the tomb they were to enter. It was a contract retrieval. Someone had buried something here and wanted it back, and absolute discretion was necessary. Jameson wasn’t going to question it, and neither was Mort. It was good money. But Mort would be happy when the retrieval was behind them. Trudging up here in the rain, late at night, had been hell, and going back was going to be even worse.
Jameson picked a crowbar from the pile of tools in Mort’s arms and inspected the door. It was wood, with an ancient, heavy padlock installed across it. Jameson kicked the door experimentally, but the wood didn’t give, and the lock kept it closed. So he went for his backup plan. Shoving the crowbar between the bars of the lock, he kicked the other end, and with a crack like a gunshot, the padlock fell into the mud. The door slowly creaked open.
Mort and Jameson rushed in to get out of the rain. Mort’s raincoat had helped, but not much. After placing the shovels and lock clippers on the ground (and he was glad to be free of that burden), he pulled the soaking coat off and looked around for somewhere to place it. The inside of the tomb was too dark to see, so he pulled out his flashlight and swept the circle of light about the inside.
It was a curiously stark tomb. The walls on either side were completely blank, and the wall with the door was marked only by the outline of the doorframe. Only the opposite wall held any decoration. It was a large shape wedged into the triangle of the roof, a man’s face with his eyes closed, with his arms poking through a long, incredibly detailed cloak. His hands were gaunt, even skeletal, and far too long in proportion to his head. Below it was a little inscription, simply marked, Keeper.
“Hey, Jameson, you get a load of this?” Mort asked.
“I can’t get a load of anything with you moving the flashlight around like that,” Jameson’s voice came from the darkness. Mort moved the circle of light toward the source of the sound. Jameson stood over a sarcophagus. Mort forgot all about finding a place for his coat, dropping it simply to the ground, and moved toward Jameson.
It wasn’t the sarcophagus that interested him. It was the bones. Two heaps lay on the other side of the stone. It was a wonder that in the darkness Jameson hadn’t stumbled into one of them. Mort dropped down for a better look, and Jameson, having noticed now as well, joined him.
“What are these doing here?”
“No idea,” Jameson replied. The skeletons were in heaps, but they were also fully dressed. They wore suits, but they weren’t modern. They looked like something out of a fifties movie. Jameson grabbed a skull fearlessly and held it up. “But I know what killed ‘em.” He pointed to a hole in the back of the head. “Somebody gunned ‘em down.”
“Aw, shit, think they got the package?” Mort stared at the sarcophagus. The skull tumbled from Jameson’s hands and clattered when it struck the bones.
“One way to find out,” Jameson muttered, placing his hands against the top of the sarcophagus. The sides were covered with flowing calligraphy too small to read in this light. There were endless lines of text wrapping all the way around the base of the coffin and extending onto the sides of the lid. The lid, however, was bare save for a single symbol.
“I think you were right. Hebrew… or something,” Mort said as Jameson struggled relentlessly to move the stone, but it did nothing. He considered helping, but Jameson would ask for his help when he wanted it. So Mort kept the light on Jameson while his eyes wandered everywhere else. For an empty tomb, it held a lot of interest. Why was it so sparse? It looked like they’d simply stopped building after that Keeper was finished.
The Keeper.
Mort looked into the darkness, trying to find its features in the black. He could barely make out the grey slope of its forehead against the abyss. And he could make out the shape of its eyes, staring serenely at the scene before it. Those eyes had watched the skeletons for years, undisturbed. Serene. It held a silent vigil over those entombed along with it, trapped forever in the dark.
“Mort!” Jameson called. That was the signal to help. Jameson had his crowbar wedged in between the sarcophagus and its lid. Mort grabbed onto it, and as Jameson pressed his full weight against the bar, Mort did the same.
And little by little, the lid moved, until it fell aside with a deafening growl of stone on stone.
“There we go,” Jameson said as he looked over the exposed contents of the sarcophagus. There were bones—hundreds of them. Skulls peered up with empty sockets, the remnants of their shredded clothing still clinging here and there. Each had a hole in the back, the same as the bones that had been lying beside the coffin. Resting in the center of the pile was a ball of gold the size of a grapefruit. Jameson snatched it up and held it in front of the flashlight. “I think we found what we’re looking for.”
“I think you’re right,” said Mort. And the crowbar descended on his head. The flashlight went out and rolled away from his limp hand.
He slumped over, twitching as red poured from the hole in the back of his skull. Jameson pulled the crowbar from its place in Mort’s skull and shook off the blood.
“Sorry, bud. Change of plans.” He had thought it was a simple recovery. Maybe some drugs, maybe some documents. Maybe something personal. But he had never expected this, a ball of solid gold. Enough money to set him up for the rest of his life. And he could sell it. He knew people. He had his ways.
He turned, but something in the dark caught his leg. He fell sideways, and pain lanced up his leg as his ankle tore. What was it? Mort? He struck the ground hard. His outstretched arm nudged the door, closing it and shutting the tomb into darkness. Still the hold on his ankle did not weaken. He turned, gun in hand now, and fired. There was no sound of anything being struck.
Just the low sound of stone scraping on stone. Long, sinewy arms moved vaguely in the dimness. There was no breathing, just stone scraping against stone. For the faintest instant, he saw a human face, grey and plain, with eyes fixed upon him… almost serenely.
And at once, it was upon him.
***
The three men looked at the contents of the sarcophagus. It had taken all three of them to move its lid, and now what they saw was not what they had expected. This was supposed to be a simple pickup.
The coffin was full of bones, most with a shred of cloth or two still twined around it, but there was one fully assembled, still wearing a modern coat that was in peak condition. He held the golden orb between skeletal fingers against his chest, jaw stretched wide. They could see through the eye sockets that there was a hole in the back of this one’s skull, too.
One of the men looked away and took his flashlight’s aim with him, using it instead to explore the walls of the tomb. He wanted to see that terrible form again, the sole decoration aside from the sarcophagus itself.
The Keeper stared back serenely. It merely watched over those who were entombed, trapped alongside it for all eternity. And the Keeper held its silent vigil.
By The Weird Leviathan
“Quiet, Mort,” Jameson muttered. He was a rough man, unshaven and harsh-eyed. The rain ran between his brows, but paused, unable to bear the thought of running so close to those eyes. His coat wasn’t thick enough to protect him from the rain, but Jameson didn’t notice; all of his attention was fixed on the mausoleum.
Mort dropped down to the balls of his feet and picked up the shovels and picks and crowbar he’d dropped. No worse for wear, but wet from the rain-soaked ground, they clattered again when he rose to full height, and Jameson shot him a warning glare.
“Maybe it’d be easier to stay quiet if you held some of this stuff,” Mort said quietly as he approached Jameson. The mausoleum waited patiently for the men to continue their conversation. It had waited this long, and it could wait a few minutes more.
Jameson simply reached into his pocket and pulled out a large gun. “I’m already carrying equipment.”
The two men spoke no more until they reached the door to the stone tomb. It was a moderately-sized mausoleum made from grey stone. It had all the usual trappings of a tomb—the columns on the sides, the Greco-roman style roof, the cherubs near the apex of the roof that seemed to stare down at them.
“Hey, Jameson,” Mort spoke, shattering the silence. He felt as if he’d just defiled some sacred space by speaking. When his partner grunted in reply, he continued, “You notice something funny about this place?”
“No.”
“There’s no crosses. Shouldn’t there be a cross above the door or something?” Mort asked.
“Could be Jewish. Stop staring at the place and give me a hand. Remember, it’s not the tomb we’re here to get,” Jameson reminded. The two men had trudged up the hills behind the mausoleum, cutting through the forest and then through the back of the cemetery before finding the tomb they were to enter. It was a contract retrieval. Someone had buried something here and wanted it back, and absolute discretion was necessary. Jameson wasn’t going to question it, and neither was Mort. It was good money. But Mort would be happy when the retrieval was behind them. Trudging up here in the rain, late at night, had been hell, and going back was going to be even worse.
Jameson picked a crowbar from the pile of tools in Mort’s arms and inspected the door. It was wood, with an ancient, heavy padlock installed across it. Jameson kicked the door experimentally, but the wood didn’t give, and the lock kept it closed. So he went for his backup plan. Shoving the crowbar between the bars of the lock, he kicked the other end, and with a crack like a gunshot, the padlock fell into the mud. The door slowly creaked open.
Mort and Jameson rushed in to get out of the rain. Mort’s raincoat had helped, but not much. After placing the shovels and lock clippers on the ground (and he was glad to be free of that burden), he pulled the soaking coat off and looked around for somewhere to place it. The inside of the tomb was too dark to see, so he pulled out his flashlight and swept the circle of light about the inside.
It was a curiously stark tomb. The walls on either side were completely blank, and the wall with the door was marked only by the outline of the doorframe. Only the opposite wall held any decoration. It was a large shape wedged into the triangle of the roof, a man’s face with his eyes closed, with his arms poking through a long, incredibly detailed cloak. His hands were gaunt, even skeletal, and far too long in proportion to his head. Below it was a little inscription, simply marked, Keeper.
“Hey, Jameson, you get a load of this?” Mort asked.
“I can’t get a load of anything with you moving the flashlight around like that,” Jameson’s voice came from the darkness. Mort moved the circle of light toward the source of the sound. Jameson stood over a sarcophagus. Mort forgot all about finding a place for his coat, dropping it simply to the ground, and moved toward Jameson.
It wasn’t the sarcophagus that interested him. It was the bones. Two heaps lay on the other side of the stone. It was a wonder that in the darkness Jameson hadn’t stumbled into one of them. Mort dropped down for a better look, and Jameson, having noticed now as well, joined him.
“What are these doing here?”
“No idea,” Jameson replied. The skeletons were in heaps, but they were also fully dressed. They wore suits, but they weren’t modern. They looked like something out of a fifties movie. Jameson grabbed a skull fearlessly and held it up. “But I know what killed ‘em.” He pointed to a hole in the back of the head. “Somebody gunned ‘em down.”
“Aw, shit, think they got the package?” Mort stared at the sarcophagus. The skull tumbled from Jameson’s hands and clattered when it struck the bones.
“One way to find out,” Jameson muttered, placing his hands against the top of the sarcophagus. The sides were covered with flowing calligraphy too small to read in this light. There were endless lines of text wrapping all the way around the base of the coffin and extending onto the sides of the lid. The lid, however, was bare save for a single symbol.
“I think you were right. Hebrew… or something,” Mort said as Jameson struggled relentlessly to move the stone, but it did nothing. He considered helping, but Jameson would ask for his help when he wanted it. So Mort kept the light on Jameson while his eyes wandered everywhere else. For an empty tomb, it held a lot of interest. Why was it so sparse? It looked like they’d simply stopped building after that Keeper was finished.
The Keeper.
Mort looked into the darkness, trying to find its features in the black. He could barely make out the grey slope of its forehead against the abyss. And he could make out the shape of its eyes, staring serenely at the scene before it. Those eyes had watched the skeletons for years, undisturbed. Serene. It held a silent vigil over those entombed along with it, trapped forever in the dark.
“Mort!” Jameson called. That was the signal to help. Jameson had his crowbar wedged in between the sarcophagus and its lid. Mort grabbed onto it, and as Jameson pressed his full weight against the bar, Mort did the same.
And little by little, the lid moved, until it fell aside with a deafening growl of stone on stone.
“There we go,” Jameson said as he looked over the exposed contents of the sarcophagus. There were bones—hundreds of them. Skulls peered up with empty sockets, the remnants of their shredded clothing still clinging here and there. Each had a hole in the back, the same as the bones that had been lying beside the coffin. Resting in the center of the pile was a ball of gold the size of a grapefruit. Jameson snatched it up and held it in front of the flashlight. “I think we found what we’re looking for.”
“I think you’re right,” said Mort. And the crowbar descended on his head. The flashlight went out and rolled away from his limp hand.
He slumped over, twitching as red poured from the hole in the back of his skull. Jameson pulled the crowbar from its place in Mort’s skull and shook off the blood.
“Sorry, bud. Change of plans.” He had thought it was a simple recovery. Maybe some drugs, maybe some documents. Maybe something personal. But he had never expected this, a ball of solid gold. Enough money to set him up for the rest of his life. And he could sell it. He knew people. He had his ways.
He turned, but something in the dark caught his leg. He fell sideways, and pain lanced up his leg as his ankle tore. What was it? Mort? He struck the ground hard. His outstretched arm nudged the door, closing it and shutting the tomb into darkness. Still the hold on his ankle did not weaken. He turned, gun in hand now, and fired. There was no sound of anything being struck.
Just the low sound of stone scraping on stone. Long, sinewy arms moved vaguely in the dimness. There was no breathing, just stone scraping against stone. For the faintest instant, he saw a human face, grey and plain, with eyes fixed upon him… almost serenely.
And at once, it was upon him.
***
The three men looked at the contents of the sarcophagus. It had taken all three of them to move its lid, and now what they saw was not what they had expected. This was supposed to be a simple pickup.
The coffin was full of bones, most with a shred of cloth or two still twined around it, but there was one fully assembled, still wearing a modern coat that was in peak condition. He held the golden orb between skeletal fingers against his chest, jaw stretched wide. They could see through the eye sockets that there was a hole in the back of this one’s skull, too.
One of the men looked away and took his flashlight’s aim with him, using it instead to explore the walls of the tomb. He wanted to see that terrible form again, the sole decoration aside from the sarcophagus itself.
The Keeper stared back serenely. It merely watched over those who were entombed, trapped alongside it for all eternity. And the Keeper held its silent vigil.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Alejandro
Alejandro
An Analysis by The Weird Leviathan
I won’t lie; I love Lady Gaga. It’s a guilty pleasure. Whenever her songs come on, I want to sing along. Then I stop. I think, and my English major instincts take over. There is a meaning behind her songs that we haven’t been paying attention to—a meaning other than the fashion interpretation of her latest hat made from endangered animals. I listened to Alejandro twelve times and still couldn’t find it. Then I got completely hammered. The thirteenth time, everything made sense.
The entire song is about Lady Gaga getting cat calls from Hispanic construction workers. It’s all there, right in front of us, and it took this long to finally figure it out. I think the biggest obstacle to understanding the true nature of her song was the distracting nature of her music video. That was some weird shit, and I don’t think it had anything to do with the actual song, but I guess that’s how the work of a genius is. Let’s not question it. Also, I refuse to review that video, because it was by far the most terrifying thing I have ever seen. Do not watch it alone, do not watch it in the dark, and do not say “Lady Gaga” three times into the mirror in your bathroom with the lights off after watching it. So without further ado, let’s begin our Journey to the Center of Gaga.
I know that we are young
And I know that you may love me
But I just can't be with you like this anymore
Alejandro
This is just setup. She’s letting us know that she’s young, she’s sought after, and she wants no part of it. Personally I don’t understand why she doesn’t take it as a compliment, but when you go through the trouble of making an entire dress out of meat, I guess you want to be appreciated for something other than your looks.
She's got both hands
In her pocket
And she won't look at you (won't look at you)
So she’s giving them the cold shoulder, but it’s not working. Even with her hands on a concealed bottle of mace, she’s getting cat calls.
She hides true love
En su bolsillo
My Spanish is noticeably rusty considering I’ve never taken a Spanish class, but I’d be willing to bet this loosely translates to, “stop staring at my ass.”
She's got a halo around her finger
Around you
For the first time, we understand why Lady Gaga isn’t receptive to the cat calls—she knows that the construction workers have wives and girlfriends, and she doesn’t want to come between them. The use of the word ‘halo’ here denotes a religious significance. She understands the sanctity of marriage, and she doesn’t want to be the one to violate that trust. Wow. Genius and an upstanding moral code. Lady Gaga for President 2012!
You know that I love you, boy
Hot like Mexico
Rejoice
At this point I've gotta choose
Nothing to lose
This expands on her feelings toward the construction workers. She really does love them, but even then she’s unwilling to compromise her moral code for the sake of a quick fling. She knows that she has nothing to lose, but that they do, and that builds the crescendo toward the chorus, giving us a glimpse into the sadness she must feel, but also the sense of duty.
Don't call my name
Don't call my name
Alejandro
I'm not your babe
I'm not your babe
Fernando
Don't wanna kiss
Don't wanna touch
Just smoke my cigarette, hush
Don't call my name
Don't call my name
Roberto
Yeah, what did I tell you? Powerful stuff. Really powerful stuff. Not only is she turning down Alejandro, but Fernando and Roberto as well. The night club beat and dance pace of the song hides her broken heart.
Alejandro
Alejandro
Ale-Alejandro
Ale-Alejandro-e-ro
Stop
Please, just let me go
Alejandro
Just let me go
You can practically hear the desperation in her voice when you read these. You can hear it even better if you listen to the actual song.
She's not broken
She's just a baby
But her boyfriend's like her dad
Just like a dad
And all those flames that
Burned before him
Now he's gotta firefight
Gotta cool the bad
She’s using the third person to talk about herself, the way someone says that ‘a friend of theirs’ had a lesbian affair, you know, just once. Or the way someone says ‘a friend of mine’ killed a hobo and wanted to know if burying it beneath a freeway seemed too obvious or just obvious enough. She introduces another motive for not wanting the construction workers to pursue her—she’s going out with her own father and doesn’t want anyone to know. Because her boyfriend’s like a dad, just like a dad. You know what’s just like a dad? A dad. Bam. So obvious and yet so subtle. I wish I could write lyrics like she can.
Although I don’t want to if going out with my own dad is somehow part of the deal.
You know that I love you boy
Hot like Mexico
Rejoice
At this point I've gotta choose
Nothing to lose
Just a reprise. Nothing new. OR IS IT? Yeah, it’s just another setup to remind us of the pain of Gaga as she spurns her suitors.
Don't call my name
Don't call my name
Alejandro
I'm not your babe
I'm not your babe
Fernando
Don't wanna kiss
Don't wanna touch
Just smoke my cigarette, hush
Don't call my name
Don't call my name
Roberto
Alejandro
Alejandro
Ale-Alejandro
Ale-Alejandro-e-ro
Don't bother me
Don't bother me
Alejandro
Don't call my name
Don't call my name
Bye Fernando
I'm not your babe
I'm not your babe
Alejandro
Don't wanna kiss
Don't wanna touch
Fernando
Okay, you see how the stanza above is different from the regular chorus and then reverts back to the old chorus below? No? Read them and then come back to this. Good. This is a very important and minor detail that gives away so much more about her situation. She changes and then goes back. She tries to stop the cat calls once and for all. She tries to move on, then just when she thinks she’s out, she gets dragged back in. It’s a commentary on the cyclical nature not only of Mexican cat calls, but of love itself.
Don't call my name
Don't call my name
Alejandro
I'm not your babe
I'm not your babe
Fernando
Don't wanna kiss
Don't wanna touch
Just smoke my cigarette, hush
Don't call my name
Don't call my name
Roberto
Alejandro
Alejandro
Ale-Alejandro
Ale-Alejandro-e-ro
There you have it—irrefutable proof that her song is not about homosexuality at all as she claims, but has a deeper meaning, one that isn’t afraid to say, stop staring at my ass. By assessing her own situation with her father and with the men giving her cat calls, she’s assessing the essence of love with a depth that hasn’t been seen since Shakespeare and won’t be seen again until the ghost of Freddy Mercury rises from the dead to rock the world once more.
He took the band’s name very seriously when designing his costumes.
An Analysis by The Weird Leviathan
I won’t lie; I love Lady Gaga. It’s a guilty pleasure. Whenever her songs come on, I want to sing along. Then I stop. I think, and my English major instincts take over. There is a meaning behind her songs that we haven’t been paying attention to—a meaning other than the fashion interpretation of her latest hat made from endangered animals. I listened to Alejandro twelve times and still couldn’t find it. Then I got completely hammered. The thirteenth time, everything made sense.
The entire song is about Lady Gaga getting cat calls from Hispanic construction workers. It’s all there, right in front of us, and it took this long to finally figure it out. I think the biggest obstacle to understanding the true nature of her song was the distracting nature of her music video. That was some weird shit, and I don’t think it had anything to do with the actual song, but I guess that’s how the work of a genius is. Let’s not question it. Also, I refuse to review that video, because it was by far the most terrifying thing I have ever seen. Do not watch it alone, do not watch it in the dark, and do not say “Lady Gaga” three times into the mirror in your bathroom with the lights off after watching it. So without further ado, let’s begin our Journey to the Center of Gaga.
I know that we are young
And I know that you may love me
But I just can't be with you like this anymore
Alejandro
This is just setup. She’s letting us know that she’s young, she’s sought after, and she wants no part of it. Personally I don’t understand why she doesn’t take it as a compliment, but when you go through the trouble of making an entire dress out of meat, I guess you want to be appreciated for something other than your looks.
She's got both hands
In her pocket
And she won't look at you (won't look at you)
So she’s giving them the cold shoulder, but it’s not working. Even with her hands on a concealed bottle of mace, she’s getting cat calls.
She hides true love
En su bolsillo
My Spanish is noticeably rusty considering I’ve never taken a Spanish class, but I’d be willing to bet this loosely translates to, “stop staring at my ass.”
She's got a halo around her finger
Around you
For the first time, we understand why Lady Gaga isn’t receptive to the cat calls—she knows that the construction workers have wives and girlfriends, and she doesn’t want to come between them. The use of the word ‘halo’ here denotes a religious significance. She understands the sanctity of marriage, and she doesn’t want to be the one to violate that trust. Wow. Genius and an upstanding moral code. Lady Gaga for President 2012!
You know that I love you, boy
Hot like Mexico
Rejoice
At this point I've gotta choose
Nothing to lose
This expands on her feelings toward the construction workers. She really does love them, but even then she’s unwilling to compromise her moral code for the sake of a quick fling. She knows that she has nothing to lose, but that they do, and that builds the crescendo toward the chorus, giving us a glimpse into the sadness she must feel, but also the sense of duty.
Don't call my name
Don't call my name
Alejandro
I'm not your babe
I'm not your babe
Fernando
Don't wanna kiss
Don't wanna touch
Just smoke my cigarette, hush
Don't call my name
Don't call my name
Roberto
Yeah, what did I tell you? Powerful stuff. Really powerful stuff. Not only is she turning down Alejandro, but Fernando and Roberto as well. The night club beat and dance pace of the song hides her broken heart.
Alejandro
Alejandro
Ale-Alejandro
Ale-Alejandro-e-ro
Stop
Please, just let me go
Alejandro
Just let me go
You can practically hear the desperation in her voice when you read these. You can hear it even better if you listen to the actual song.
She's not broken
She's just a baby
But her boyfriend's like her dad
Just like a dad
And all those flames that
Burned before him
Now he's gotta firefight
Gotta cool the bad
She’s using the third person to talk about herself, the way someone says that ‘a friend of theirs’ had a lesbian affair, you know, just once. Or the way someone says ‘a friend of mine’ killed a hobo and wanted to know if burying it beneath a freeway seemed too obvious or just obvious enough. She introduces another motive for not wanting the construction workers to pursue her—she’s going out with her own father and doesn’t want anyone to know. Because her boyfriend’s like a dad, just like a dad. You know what’s just like a dad? A dad. Bam. So obvious and yet so subtle. I wish I could write lyrics like she can.
Although I don’t want to if going out with my own dad is somehow part of the deal.
You know that I love you boy
Hot like Mexico
Rejoice
At this point I've gotta choose
Nothing to lose
Just a reprise. Nothing new. OR IS IT? Yeah, it’s just another setup to remind us of the pain of Gaga as she spurns her suitors.
Don't call my name
Don't call my name
Alejandro
I'm not your babe
I'm not your babe
Fernando
Don't wanna kiss
Don't wanna touch
Just smoke my cigarette, hush
Don't call my name
Don't call my name
Roberto
Alejandro
Alejandro
Ale-Alejandro
Ale-Alejandro-e-ro
Don't bother me
Don't bother me
Alejandro
Don't call my name
Don't call my name
Bye Fernando
I'm not your babe
I'm not your babe
Alejandro
Don't wanna kiss
Don't wanna touch
Fernando
Okay, you see how the stanza above is different from the regular chorus and then reverts back to the old chorus below? No? Read them and then come back to this. Good. This is a very important and minor detail that gives away so much more about her situation. She changes and then goes back. She tries to stop the cat calls once and for all. She tries to move on, then just when she thinks she’s out, she gets dragged back in. It’s a commentary on the cyclical nature not only of Mexican cat calls, but of love itself.
Don't call my name
Don't call my name
Alejandro
I'm not your babe
I'm not your babe
Fernando
Don't wanna kiss
Don't wanna touch
Just smoke my cigarette, hush
Don't call my name
Don't call my name
Roberto
Alejandro
Alejandro
Ale-Alejandro
Ale-Alejandro-e-ro
There you have it—irrefutable proof that her song is not about homosexuality at all as she claims, but has a deeper meaning, one that isn’t afraid to say, stop staring at my ass. By assessing her own situation with her father and with the men giving her cat calls, she’s assessing the essence of love with a depth that hasn’t been seen since Shakespeare and won’t be seen again until the ghost of Freddy Mercury rises from the dead to rock the world once more.
He took the band’s name very seriously when designing his costumes.
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