However, I've read Nietzsche's Genealogy of Morals and composing the HTML I realise there are many similarities that coincidence revealed. Except that it's not really coincidence: it's biology.
I appear at the desk and to my left is the commotion of a damsel in distress. Shouting at the receptionist. She seems crazy, says she lost her baby, she's pregnant, but there's no heartbeat, been stalked by thieves, who've been in her home, while she was alone, and burnt furniture over the road. None of this is funny, she's got no money for the phone and wants to talk to the police about her personal tragedy.
I don't get involved. I can't help but innately feel her problems can't be solved. That her display is about looking for sympathy and none of what she says is real.
They tell her to be quiet, but let her use their phone, she doesn't seem stable, but she gets through to the Chief Constable or, perhaps, some grinning junior impersonating his superior. In shrill tones she moans, "I've spoken to two of your officers who wouldn't even leave their car! Two blokes I don't even know, I'm pregnant, they punched me, now I'm going to miscarry and lose my baby!"
I'm hearing this, while trying to read National Geographic, apparently, our nearest relatives, Chimpanzees, can be quite barbaric. So the mothers carry their infants on their backs to keep them safe from attack from higher status members of the pack.
Yet, still, more often than not, they're killed.
Then she's across the room and pouring suddenly revealed money into the phone to call her mummy. It just doesn't work, won't work for her, and she remarks on this repeatedly before successfully begging for sympathy from the cold, old, source of her parent who, apparently, deals with her latest catastrophe dismissively.
Like these crisis' are an ongoing theme of her progenies' life.
"Man," I'm thinking, "this is fucked up," as I look at the picture of the Chimpanzee, with her young riding her back.
Then she says, "All my life, I've tried to tell people, and nobody ever listens, and it's a shame, a real shame." Then she leaves and I'm left wondering who's to blame? Nobody, her, the hierarchy, biology or mummy, for that?
Then I'm in my cubicle, getting my dressing changed, and she's back, walking by, where she probably oughn't to be, looking all purposeful, refusing to conform and being followed by a higher status female in a nurse's uniform.
Still trying to solve the riddle of her baby's missing heartbeat, which, even if it's a phantom, is real. I mean real in terms of an objective truth: that human society is a ruthless biological form of all these social structures, which dictate that from some mothers babies are torn.
Yes, indeed, we humans can pat ourselves on our anthrocentric backs, because there, friends, our similarities with our closest relatives end.
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