Economic Life Of Modern Man Essay Writer

Early Man vs Modern Man

Early man and modern man could be easily distinguished from each other as the differences in lifestyle would provide a better platform to discuss rather than the anatomy and morphology. The question of defining an early man should be cleared out first as it either could be the first of man-like apes, known as Australopithecus afarensis, or the aboriginal people. Interestingly, recent fossil evidence reveals that the complexity of human evolution is very high and the present knowledge is far from truth. Thus, instead of being lost in the history which is few million years old and barely known, it would rather make more sense to discuss the recent early men, the aborigines. Indeed, the aboriginal men are in the same taxonomic group, Homo sapiens, as the modern man.

Early Man

Australian Aborigines, Red Indians, Sri Lankan Veddas, Japanese Ainu, Kung Bushmen of Africa, Mayans of Mexico… etc were some of the dominant inhabitants of the Earth before the establishment of the modern man. They are culturally different among themselves, and the geographical boundaries viz. oceans have been the main extrications. These early men lived with the nature and, most importantly, they utilized the natural resources in a sustainable manner. Indigenous people lived in tribes those were composed of family units while some were nomadic. These un-urbanized self and sustaining societies had very simple lifestyles with primary hunting methods and simply sheltered houses. They followed in spiritual beliefs more often than not. The development of technology was very low during the time they were thriving on the Earth, which was at least several thousand years ago from the present. The communication between distant places was primary as the loud sounds were frequently used as signals to others. Travelling and transportation took more time and effort to complete. At present the indigenous people or true early man is declining in numbers. There are only about 5000 of them living in over 70 countries.

Modern Man

Modern man is vastly different culturally among continents as well as among countries. In addition, these cultural differences could extend even more within a country. With the globalization takes place, those cultural differences will become narrower. Physical barriers within modern men could not restrict them to isolate from others as the technologies arose to travel and transport over oceans and through aerial routes. Lifestyle of modern man is complex with increasing needs for several things viz. food, shelter, power, money, attraction… etc. Hunting has become a least interested foraging method hence, livestock management has become prominent for the need of proteins. One of the sounding characteristics of the modern man is the development of communication techniques. Through internet, e-mailing, social networking, and telephones the communication has developed. However, the modern man is still in the increasing mode in terms of population size, it was almost 6. 8 Billion by 2009.

Early Man Vs Modern Man

In reviewing characters and lifestyles of modern man and early man, some interesting and contrasting differences are notable.

Early ManModern Man
Simple lifestyleComplex lifestyle
Physical barriers mattered for distributionPhysical barriers were conquered by developed transportation means
Oriented towards the natural productsOriented more towards artificial than natural products
Preferred to hunt and sustainable utilization of the natural resourcesDownward trends on hunting, but livestock management for meat, milk, fur… etc
Primitive communication techniquesAdvanced and high-tech communication
Decreasing population (around 5000 individuals at present)Increasing population (almost 6.8 billion by 2009)
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Filed Under: BiologyTagged With: Aboriginals, Australopithecus afarensis, Early man, Homo sapiens, human evolution, Indigenous people, Modern man, tribes

“Were you guys together?” she asked.

“Well, we’d been seeing each other for a few weeks.”

“Yeah, but it wasn’t on Facebook,” she said. “It’s only real if it’s on Facebook.”

I was devastated when Peter and I stopped seeing each other, except for the fact that when we stopped seeing each other, we couldn’t stop seeing each other, because we followed each other on Twitter and Instagram and were friends on Facebook. So I saw him all the time, his grinning profile picture shadowing my feed.

“Unfollow him!” my friends would roar. “You’re never going to get over him unless you unfollow him on all that stuff.”

But I couldn’t. There was something so enthralling about being able to track his social life. Was he seeing someone else? I had to know. Besides, unfollowing him was too dramatic, as if I were proclaiming, “I can’t handle this!” Remaining friends on social media, however, showed I was unfazed, cool, “chill” and whatever.

But I wasn’t any of those things. I’d find myself scrolling through his tweets and Instagram posts, which included photos of other women. I’d shove my phone into my friends’ faces, their noses practically fogging the screen, and ask, “Is she prettier than me?”

One night, drunk at 2 a.m., I was trying to decipher if an innocuous Drake lyric he tweeted could somehow be directed at me as a possible admission of affection. Sensing the craziness of that, I clicked “unfollow” and then “unfriend.” With this tiny act of defiance, I was finally free. “This is closure,” I told myself. “This is moving on.”

After that splash of romantic failure, I remembered the wisdom of George Costanza. In a classic episode of “Seinfeld” (are there any nonclassic episodes?), George, in realizing that his life is a failure, decides he should do the opposite of what he normally does, reasoning that if every instinct he has is wrong, the opposite must be right.

With this in mind, I decided to swear off modern men. No more Twitter games. No more Instagram dissections. No more Facebook predation. I wanted someone mature.

Byron was 10 years my senior and so mature he’d say things like, “I’m 10 years your senior.” He wore thick-rim glasses and grown-up shoes. He hated Disneyland and described things as being “like jazz.” He didn’t have a favorite gin distillery, had never attended Coachella, and was completely off the grid: no Twitter, no Instagram. He didn’t even have Facebook.

How sexy is that?

Byron was old-school.

We knew each other through a mutual friend and were vaguely in the same group but had spent little time together. I always had a feeling he couldn’t stand me, which I, of course, found irresistible. When we started getting to know each other, because we already somewhat knew each other, it felt as if all the most exciting parts of a new relationship had been combined with all the ease and familiarity of an old friend. The effect was something like spiked hot chocolate: warm, comforting, intoxicating.

We engaged in face-to-face, eye-to-eye conversations about books (actual hold-them-in-your-hands books!) and about our ideas and hopes, unencumbered by the need to take selfies or choose filters or stare at our phones. We ate at a new restaurant by my house simply because it looked good and not because of reviews on Yelp written by people we had never met. It was at once nostalgic and refreshing.

My Instagram feed had become a vehicle for acquaintances to announce their engagements and celebrate their partners with hashtags like “#engagedlife.” Sitting across from Byron at a nearby bakery, eating cookies and drinking milk, I couldn’t help but think they were trying too hard. How much time can you be spending together if so much of it is spent taking pictures and writing captions?

The modern-day equivalent of “shouting it from the rooftops” is adding a “Life Event” to Facebook, a proclamation of your undying love. Until your love dies and you have to painfully switch your status back to “single.”

Byron was not a life event; he was just sweetly in my life. For a while, as long as we lasted, I wanted, and got, something quieter. I wanted, and got, something more intimate. I wanted, and got, something too big to contain in 140 characters and that couldn’t be improved upon by filters.

And then, suddenly, it was over for us, too. I adored him deeply, but in the end that wasn’t enough. Like a star dying, there was a brilliant explosion and then a slow fade.

When we came to an end, my instinct was to gain closure in the ways I had in the past: to rid any semblance of him from my life, my apartment, my phone.

But he was already gone. There was nowhere to avoid him because he was nowhere to be found. His online presence was nonexistent. He left nothing in my apartment — no toothbrush, no sweater. I clawed through my life only to find no trace of him.

Except in one place. I held my phone gingerly in my hands and for hours reread months of texts, all that remained of us. I lingered over funny or sexy ones and clutched my heart at ones in which he called me “baby.” But after savoring them, I decided to erase those traces, too: Swipe. Tap. Delete.

Now Byron was really gone. Yet I thought about him every day. He had left no carefully chosen profile picture to hang over my screen, but he was all I longed for. I had wanted, and lost, something that could not be deleted.

Before Byron, romantic loss had produced for me mere heartache — a dull, pounding, bruising of the spirit. The loss of Byron had rendered me heartbroken. This was not just a bruise; I bled. Yet it was the kind of pain that seared so cleanly it made you feel more alive, like the emotional equivalent of getting a tattoo. It was a pain so grand you couldn’t bear but to hold it all, and a pain so exquisite you couldn’t help but want to.

There was something miraculous in caring about someone so deeply in an age where it’s considered wise to appear to care about nothing at all. It occurred to me then, in the trenches of my blankets, enveloped by Netflix and surrounded by bunched clouds of Kleenex, that this was love.

Then I downloaded Tinder.

I walked up to my first (and only) Tinder date with heavy feet and a slow-boiling regret. I spent most of the date wondering what Byron was doing while calculating how drunk I would have to get to make this evening not awful. My date spent most of the time on his phone checking out the restaurant he picked (“I saw some great reviews on Yelp!”), tweeting that it looked as if it might rain, and posting pictures of his entree on Instagram.

Finally, at the end, he looked up at me with eyes I only just then realized were green and not blue (the glow of his phone had thrown off their true color) and said four fatal words: “Do you have Snapchat?”

“No,” I said. “I’m old-school.”

On the way home, I bought stamps. It had been months since we’d spoken, and although I held no hope for second chances, I missed him too much not to say so. That night, I sat down and wrote Byron a letter: a hold-it-in-your hands letter.

Days later, because letters take days, his name flashed on my phone.

“Hey,” his text read. And then, after a long, pulsing ellipses: “I miss you, too.”

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