It's St. Patricks Day and some of you may remember my Irish stepfather, William E. Murphy. He told me once that he never worked a St. Patricks Day in his life. It was probably a lie, but I believed him anyway. He was born in Boston where he and his brother were given up for adoption by his poverty stricken parents. He went to a few homes but apparently his Irish prevented him from ever sticking in one place during his youth. He ran from the orphanage several times. He learned that the cops would recognize the metal toes of his shoes and cut of his jacket and put the collar on him. He learned that when he was returned to the orphanage the thankful brothers would beat him for running away. It took a few times, but he finally left and didn't return. He learned a lot on the streets of Boston too. He found friends that taught him how to swim by tossing him off the pier into the Harbor. He was stronger than any of us ever realized and he learned how to use that physical gift along with a sharp mind to survive in times that were less than forgiving. He learned from a wide range of experiences and kept the successful lessons close and never forgot the failures. He was in the National Guard, played professional baseball in the minor leagues, worked at the horse track, tended bar, worked as a salesman and drove anything that had wheels. Once while playing ball for the Hollywood Stars he was mistaken by some for Bing Crosby, until they got a little closer or heard him speak.
I was just getting into Junior High when my mother met him. She and my father had been divorced for several years and she was attempting to raise my older brother and me by herself. She found some support and he found something to settle down for. It wasn't me or my brother, just in case you wondered. Their lives improved and although I was clueless, mine did too. He tried a variety of jobs before settling in with Salt Lake City Streets and later the Airport as a Materials Engineer. Not bad for a guy without a degree. He may not have even had a diploma, but he was able to work nearly two decades before retiring. I need to address that "settle down" thing. He still had adventures, he was still Irish and there was this thing about Gin, Horse Races and playing Craps that I'm still trying to understand. He even had a chance or two to run away, but times had changed and he was welcomed home to people who really did care about him. While he didn't invent "Murphy's Law" he was a practitioner of the first order. From picking paint colors that never failed to disappoint to getting to Ireland for his only trip to the homeland, only to spend most of his time sick in his hotel room near the Shannon Airport, he found a way to keep that particular faith.
We thought that when my mother passed away that he wouldn't be around much longer, but he was a stubborn as ever and battled shingles, loneliness, mouth cancer and the NFL on a regular basis for many years after that. One day I got a call from him and went to see him at the hospital. He told me he had cancer again and this time it was a bad one. A couple days later I took him home and a few nights later I slept on his couch in case he needed something. While I wasn't paying attention he left and all there was left for me to do was to say "May you be in Heaven a half hour before the Devil knows your dead."
I learned more from him that I'm really aware of. While it's evident that my streak of bullshit is genetic, I like to think that Murph allowed me the opportunity to put a flower on it. He opened my eyes to some of the worst jokes a bartender ever told and pushed me, in spite of himself, to the left politically. He demonstrated that marriage wasn't a test but a career that required dedication, respect and trust. He set standards high and even now I try to buy good gin and I try my best not to work on St. Patricks day. So I'll drink my morning cup of Irish Coffee today (Bushmills) and wish you all the best as spring begins to roll out in front of us.
May the road rise up to meet you.May the wind be always at your back.May the sun shine warm upon your face;the rains fall soft upon your fields and until we meet again,may God hold you in the palm of His hand.
May your horses always finish in the money.
May your gin always be cold.
And may the world smile on you fondly
as you very slowly grow old.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Saturday, January 9, 2010
The God Gene
I read recently about “The God Gene”. The hypothesis being there is a genetic tendency toward religious belief. For those with this gene it is more likely they believe in god, participate in regular religious activities or are generally more likely to see themselves in a spiritual context. While not well or widely accepted the theory has plenty of support and I like it. I have attempted to find my spiritual center on a number of occasions and end up with a blank, the eternal void. The only times I've been close to organized religion it was through peer or family pressure and I never found the comfort or reassurance promised. I'm guessing that I'm genetically an atheist and will always have that wall between myself and an ability to commune with and trust in God.
I know it has been said that my odds will be better to believe. If it is true, somehow God will like me more and I'll better off in the afterlife with that extra chip in my pocket. I've never been a very good gambler, as most of my poker playing friends will attest, so I'm willing to wander toward those streets paved with gold without the benefit of a holy hall pass and hope my behaviors haven't been so evil that I can remain. Stuff like that just doesn't make sense to me. Nor does concept that there is either a kind and loving God or one bent on punishing our evil choices. And the large number of religions we have invented doesn't help me either. The simplist explaination very often is the best and most accurate. Let me go with brain chemistry being the source of most mystical experiences. The moral foundations are common sense that needed to be codified, first in an oral tradition and later written down. How it became organized and the basis for really odd choices that are contrary to what was written is beyond me.
Now this doesn't mean I can't be spiritual in some sense. I feel there is strength in community and am comforted by time spent with loved ones and out in nature. My atoms came from somewhere and after I die they will move on at a less organized and hectic pace. However, my consciousness or soul is destined to vanish. Oh well. Since I don't really know or understand what I'm missing it's not a great loss to me. As Tommy Johnson in "Oh Brother Where Art Thou" says when asked why he sold his soul to the devil, "I wasn't using it." Those who believe in an eternal soul, reincarnation, heaven or hell may just have to plan either to not see me at the bar or be ready to laugh at my folly. Hey! It ain't my fault.
Since this might be a genetic trait it would be interesting to find out where it is headed in an evolutionary sense. Is it something that is proving to be a benefit for survival or is it something that is being weeded out by natural selection. It's common in many Christian faiths to “grow and replenish” and they tend to have more children, an evolutionary benefit I would guess. However, there seems to be a reduction in the number of people attending church or claiming belief in God. The latter is based on short term data and may be temporary. Surely there are a lot of people who are not being subjected to Harris, Newsweek, CNN or Gallup polls. Like those folks living in China, India, Indonesia, Africa, South America and most of the Middle East. These are people who practice or don't practice many other faiths or belief systems, some of them with very large numbers of devout believers. I don't have data for those areas and would be reluctant to offer opinion on what is happening in this regard in those locations.
Regardless, there seems to be a very strong tendency for religious beliefs to spring up or survive under (or maybe because of) even the harshest conditions. During the official ban on religion during the life of the Soviet Union there were plenty of churches operating underground. China has never seen a lack of people who believe in something beyond the state. It also seems that just as I am on the unbelief side of the gene, there may be folks who are just as far on the other side, filling out the bell curve of belief. Is it something we can apply statistics to? For every fanatic believing in the glory of God and the words of God's prophet(s) is there a fanatic who rejects it all as foolishness? I don't have a clue. It could be that I'm here with just one more genetic trait that manifests itself as a cultural characteristic.
If this theory is true, will there be genetic therapy one of these days to correct the defect, one way or the other? What would happen if we flooded the air with nanobots capable of delivering a gene that would either add or remove this trait? Will we see compeating factions with labs manufacturing genetic floods that result in mass religious conversion or abandonment of faith beyond what we can see? Breakdown or salvation of society? Damn, that's another story and well beyond my ability to figure out. However for the right price I will offer the idea to someone who wants to write the novels as a counterpoint to the series of Rapture related books that seem to be doing pretty well these days.
On the other side of this argument is the lack of a genetic component to belief in God. If that's the case then why is it I haven't been able to make the connection? Logic? Lack of rigor in my search? Inability to recognize spirituality when it's right in front of my face? I had a chance and misinterpreted the experience? I'm correct in my disbelief? I'm open for suggestions. After all, I'm just barely past mid-life now and this sort of thing should be a bit more important as I approach the end of days. However, I've always been approaching the end of my days since the moment I made my entrance. Why worry now? I'm comfortable as a spiritual slacker and will most likely remain one for the foreseeable future. Anyway, when God wants my opinion she will give it to me. Until then my Sundays are free and morals unencumbered by anything other than love, respect and a little common sense.
I know it has been said that my odds will be better to believe. If it is true, somehow God will like me more and I'll better off in the afterlife with that extra chip in my pocket. I've never been a very good gambler, as most of my poker playing friends will attest, so I'm willing to wander toward those streets paved with gold without the benefit of a holy hall pass and hope my behaviors haven't been so evil that I can remain. Stuff like that just doesn't make sense to me. Nor does concept that there is either a kind and loving God or one bent on punishing our evil choices. And the large number of religions we have invented doesn't help me either. The simplist explaination very often is the best and most accurate. Let me go with brain chemistry being the source of most mystical experiences. The moral foundations are common sense that needed to be codified, first in an oral tradition and later written down. How it became organized and the basis for really odd choices that are contrary to what was written is beyond me.
Now this doesn't mean I can't be spiritual in some sense. I feel there is strength in community and am comforted by time spent with loved ones and out in nature. My atoms came from somewhere and after I die they will move on at a less organized and hectic pace. However, my consciousness or soul is destined to vanish. Oh well. Since I don't really know or understand what I'm missing it's not a great loss to me. As Tommy Johnson in "Oh Brother Where Art Thou" says when asked why he sold his soul to the devil, "I wasn't using it." Those who believe in an eternal soul, reincarnation, heaven or hell may just have to plan either to not see me at the bar or be ready to laugh at my folly. Hey! It ain't my fault.
Since this might be a genetic trait it would be interesting to find out where it is headed in an evolutionary sense. Is it something that is proving to be a benefit for survival or is it something that is being weeded out by natural selection. It's common in many Christian faiths to “grow and replenish” and they tend to have more children, an evolutionary benefit I would guess. However, there seems to be a reduction in the number of people attending church or claiming belief in God. The latter is based on short term data and may be temporary. Surely there are a lot of people who are not being subjected to Harris, Newsweek, CNN or Gallup polls. Like those folks living in China, India, Indonesia, Africa, South America and most of the Middle East. These are people who practice or don't practice many other faiths or belief systems, some of them with very large numbers of devout believers. I don't have data for those areas and would be reluctant to offer opinion on what is happening in this regard in those locations.
Regardless, there seems to be a very strong tendency for religious beliefs to spring up or survive under (or maybe because of) even the harshest conditions. During the official ban on religion during the life of the Soviet Union there were plenty of churches operating underground. China has never seen a lack of people who believe in something beyond the state. It also seems that just as I am on the unbelief side of the gene, there may be folks who are just as far on the other side, filling out the bell curve of belief. Is it something we can apply statistics to? For every fanatic believing in the glory of God and the words of God's prophet(s) is there a fanatic who rejects it all as foolishness? I don't have a clue. It could be that I'm here with just one more genetic trait that manifests itself as a cultural characteristic.
If this theory is true, will there be genetic therapy one of these days to correct the defect, one way or the other? What would happen if we flooded the air with nanobots capable of delivering a gene that would either add or remove this trait? Will we see compeating factions with labs manufacturing genetic floods that result in mass religious conversion or abandonment of faith beyond what we can see? Breakdown or salvation of society? Damn, that's another story and well beyond my ability to figure out. However for the right price I will offer the idea to someone who wants to write the novels as a counterpoint to the series of Rapture related books that seem to be doing pretty well these days.
On the other side of this argument is the lack of a genetic component to belief in God. If that's the case then why is it I haven't been able to make the connection? Logic? Lack of rigor in my search? Inability to recognize spirituality when it's right in front of my face? I had a chance and misinterpreted the experience? I'm correct in my disbelief? I'm open for suggestions. After all, I'm just barely past mid-life now and this sort of thing should be a bit more important as I approach the end of days. However, I've always been approaching the end of my days since the moment I made my entrance. Why worry now? I'm comfortable as a spiritual slacker and will most likely remain one for the foreseeable future. Anyway, when God wants my opinion she will give it to me. Until then my Sundays are free and morals unencumbered by anything other than love, respect and a little common sense.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Suicide is . . .
Very few people go through life without thinking of suicide at least once. I had more than one flippant conversation when I was in my early 20's about the subject. The focus wasn't the dull pain of life and the need to end a meaningless existence. It was about the most thrilling means to that end. My friend John had selected a high speed motorcycle to propel him off the rim of the inner gorge of the Grand Canyon at Toroweep as his choice. After my first visit to that spectacular site I understood the draw it had. My knees nearly buckled at the sheer drop and mind-boggling beauty of the place. The view from the middle of the canyon looking back and up at the ledge would be one you would remember for the rest of your life. Right.
I attempted to find a similar testosterone-fueled demise for myself. After quite a bit of consideration I settled on a trip to the far north where I could seat myself on the very lip of a melting and calving glacier. There I would sit and wait for that piece of ice to metamorph from the leading edge of a long tongue of ice to a free-floating iceberg. The choice of time would rest on the ice and I would eventually tumble with tons of brilliant blue ice into oblivion, my body a frozen meal for whatever critters would find it. It seemed good for the time and still would work, re-written as an action scene in a blockbuster movie, but no longer seems the best for me.
I have yet to find the pathos needed to bring my worldly existence to a premature end. Still the hopeless Pollyanna I look for rainbows in the rooms of dying people and wait for the first crocus of spring like a child waits for Christmas morning. Some people with a more realistic grasp on the nature of the world look at me with pity. Others just don't address the issues fearing cross-contamination would make them incapable of making sound, adult decisions. I respect that and would like to experience the hopelessness and futility that creates a well-rounded adult. So far I've only dipped my toe in that dark pool and find it's cold and not very inviting for the lightweight spirit I claim as my own.
I've tried once again to think of the best means of taking my life. Hell, I just turned 60 years old and feel at times like I'm still a kid, not knowing what the world expects of me. So I listened to the darkest music I could find and drank whiskey as I set about deciding how I would bring this life to an unnatural end. The music was classical stuff by Malher and before long it was Wagner and then Beethoven. From there it went to Bach and finally to Gilbert and Sullivan. It wasn't working as I was soon singing along with the Major General in “The Pirates of Penzance.” The whiskey got me thinking of sharing drinks while camping or playing card with friends or while watching a good game on the tube. It just wasn't working.
While driving this morning the DJ played the theme music from M.A.S.H., “Suicide is Painless”, a wonderful song by Johnny Mandel, I think. I was re-inspired and finally came up with some options for this stage of my life.
Suicide by Patience: I'll wait here for death to come and fetch me.
Suicide by Grandchildren: When they have had enough of me being silly or realize that money can come in a truck rather than in dollops, I'll move on.
Suicide by Talk Radio: When Sean Hannity is President and Glenn Beck is V.P. I'll lay my head under the free-market bus and be done with it.
Suicide by Clean Basement: By the time I've gotten it cleaned up and ready to finish it into organized storage, guest rooms, bath and recreation rooms, I'll let them deliver a load of sheetrock on top of my chest. Or maybe I'll be so startled by the vast space that now needs to be attended to that I'll die rather than engage in another lengthy enterprise that illustrates the lack of balance between my expectations and my skills.
Suicide by Regulation: So afraid that they will be caught by their own people for the exaggerations over the Health Care bills, the Republicans will amend the bill with a real death panel that focuses on old Democrats exclusively, thus killing more than two birds with one stone.
I attempted to find a similar testosterone-fueled demise for myself. After quite a bit of consideration I settled on a trip to the far north where I could seat myself on the very lip of a melting and calving glacier. There I would sit and wait for that piece of ice to metamorph from the leading edge of a long tongue of ice to a free-floating iceberg. The choice of time would rest on the ice and I would eventually tumble with tons of brilliant blue ice into oblivion, my body a frozen meal for whatever critters would find it. It seemed good for the time and still would work, re-written as an action scene in a blockbuster movie, but no longer seems the best for me.
I have yet to find the pathos needed to bring my worldly existence to a premature end. Still the hopeless Pollyanna I look for rainbows in the rooms of dying people and wait for the first crocus of spring like a child waits for Christmas morning. Some people with a more realistic grasp on the nature of the world look at me with pity. Others just don't address the issues fearing cross-contamination would make them incapable of making sound, adult decisions. I respect that and would like to experience the hopelessness and futility that creates a well-rounded adult. So far I've only dipped my toe in that dark pool and find it's cold and not very inviting for the lightweight spirit I claim as my own.
I've tried once again to think of the best means of taking my life. Hell, I just turned 60 years old and feel at times like I'm still a kid, not knowing what the world expects of me. So I listened to the darkest music I could find and drank whiskey as I set about deciding how I would bring this life to an unnatural end. The music was classical stuff by Malher and before long it was Wagner and then Beethoven. From there it went to Bach and finally to Gilbert and Sullivan. It wasn't working as I was soon singing along with the Major General in “The Pirates of Penzance.” The whiskey got me thinking of sharing drinks while camping or playing card with friends or while watching a good game on the tube. It just wasn't working.
While driving this morning the DJ played the theme music from M.A.S.H., “Suicide is Painless”, a wonderful song by Johnny Mandel, I think. I was re-inspired and finally came up with some options for this stage of my life.
Suicide by Patience: I'll wait here for death to come and fetch me.
Suicide by Grandchildren: When they have had enough of me being silly or realize that money can come in a truck rather than in dollops, I'll move on.
Suicide by Talk Radio: When Sean Hannity is President and Glenn Beck is V.P. I'll lay my head under the free-market bus and be done with it.
Suicide by Clean Basement: By the time I've gotten it cleaned up and ready to finish it into organized storage, guest rooms, bath and recreation rooms, I'll let them deliver a load of sheetrock on top of my chest. Or maybe I'll be so startled by the vast space that now needs to be attended to that I'll die rather than engage in another lengthy enterprise that illustrates the lack of balance between my expectations and my skills.
Suicide by Regulation: So afraid that they will be caught by their own people for the exaggerations over the Health Care bills, the Republicans will amend the bill with a real death panel that focuses on old Democrats exclusively, thus killing more than two birds with one stone.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
A unique travel opportunity presents itself.
Greetings fellow traveler,
Like so many others you have probably put off the kind of travel we offer for any number of reasons. Cost, Official Restrictions, concern over the technology and Lack of meaningful opportunities all come to mind and I'm sure you have others. We share your frustration, but I believe we have come up with an option that will have you off on the adventure of a lifetime.
First let me clear up the technology issue. Our company is staffed with some of the finest programmers in time travel research. We have attracted former government service employees who bring with them a broad knowledge of the cutting edge of this environment. Added to researchers who have been with our company from the very beginning and Adventure Time Travel Associates (ATTA) becomes the most respected name in the business. We have a safety record that is second to none, including Government, Universities and Private contractors around the globe.
Official Restrictions have been a source of frustration for many of us. We all remember the cost, complexity and emotional burden we shared with the Lincoln and Kennedy Re-Assassination projects. And the recent indictments of misguided time travelers that resulted from the dot com and housing investment bubbles prove that we can't be too careful about how we interact with the past. We have a solution in mind that we believe will bring you back to time travel.
These restrictions have also created that lack of meaningful opportunities. Currently trained professionals continue to visit and record many of the critical moments in history. Those recordings are a boon to researchers and are critical to our understanding of our shared past. Many of these events could be altered if we were to send even one casual visitor. If that is your ideal trip, there are many less critical moments open and we may be able to accommodate you. However, this note is something very different and equally exciting.
You are in this mailing because of your interest in the outdoors, adventure and this particular part of our world. For nearly 100,000 years there were very large freshwater lakes in western North America. The largest of these Pleistocene lakes were Missoula and Bonneville. Imagine the Little Cottonwood glacier calving off icebergs into Bonneville, or the great floods from Lake Missoula carving the Channeled Scablands. And while we can't guarantee a Mastodon or a Saber-toothed Cat sighting on the shores of one of these lakes, our success rate has been nearly 90%.
With limited opportunities to change history during this type of travel, Official Restrictions are reduced in number and complexity. The large time window and extensive geography available create offerings are nearly limitless. This flexibility simplifies the complex time placement calculations and power demands thereby reducing our costs. How much? Two weeks are less expensive than a “Weightless Week” in orbit and much less than the popular Disco and Spa weekend at Tranquility Base. And those trips are fully booked well in advance as I write this letter.
While this may be an “Adventure” trip, it won't be lacking in amenities. Each of our vessels is prepared to sail for the full two weeks offering everything from gourmet meals and on-board spa, to fully equipped primitive camp experiences on isolated islands in northeastern Nevada or overland trips to see the mighty Virgin River carving Zion Canyon. Your budget and interests are our concern and within our program. Call today and be ready to go tomorrow.
Like so many others you have probably put off the kind of travel we offer for any number of reasons. Cost, Official Restrictions, concern over the technology and Lack of meaningful opportunities all come to mind and I'm sure you have others. We share your frustration, but I believe we have come up with an option that will have you off on the adventure of a lifetime.
First let me clear up the technology issue. Our company is staffed with some of the finest programmers in time travel research. We have attracted former government service employees who bring with them a broad knowledge of the cutting edge of this environment. Added to researchers who have been with our company from the very beginning and Adventure Time Travel Associates (ATTA) becomes the most respected name in the business. We have a safety record that is second to none, including Government, Universities and Private contractors around the globe.
Official Restrictions have been a source of frustration for many of us. We all remember the cost, complexity and emotional burden we shared with the Lincoln and Kennedy Re-Assassination projects. And the recent indictments of misguided time travelers that resulted from the dot com and housing investment bubbles prove that we can't be too careful about how we interact with the past. We have a solution in mind that we believe will bring you back to time travel.
These restrictions have also created that lack of meaningful opportunities. Currently trained professionals continue to visit and record many of the critical moments in history. Those recordings are a boon to researchers and are critical to our understanding of our shared past. Many of these events could be altered if we were to send even one casual visitor. If that is your ideal trip, there are many less critical moments open and we may be able to accommodate you. However, this note is something very different and equally exciting.
You are in this mailing because of your interest in the outdoors, adventure and this particular part of our world. For nearly 100,000 years there were very large freshwater lakes in western North America. The largest of these Pleistocene lakes were Missoula and Bonneville. Imagine the Little Cottonwood glacier calving off icebergs into Bonneville, or the great floods from Lake Missoula carving the Channeled Scablands. And while we can't guarantee a Mastodon or a Saber-toothed Cat sighting on the shores of one of these lakes, our success rate has been nearly 90%.
With limited opportunities to change history during this type of travel, Official Restrictions are reduced in number and complexity. The large time window and extensive geography available create offerings are nearly limitless. This flexibility simplifies the complex time placement calculations and power demands thereby reducing our costs. How much? Two weeks are less expensive than a “Weightless Week” in orbit and much less than the popular Disco and Spa weekend at Tranquility Base. And those trips are fully booked well in advance as I write this letter.
While this may be an “Adventure” trip, it won't be lacking in amenities. Each of our vessels is prepared to sail for the full two weeks offering everything from gourmet meals and on-board spa, to fully equipped primitive camp experiences on isolated islands in northeastern Nevada or overland trips to see the mighty Virgin River carving Zion Canyon. Your budget and interests are our concern and within our program. Call today and be ready to go tomorrow.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
The rules of the road
A fly was buzzing around my head off and on all day yesterday. Since the weather has changed from summer to fall I've seen a lot of these little guys looking for new places to live. The housing crisis must be a problem for them similar to the problem being face by those of us with only two legs, but I'm not about to open my doors for them to move in. There are contaminants enough being brought in by grandkids. I just don't need any more things to worry about. I would swat at this fly with my hand when it landed within arms reach and was only giving it exercise and a chance to mock me. It wasn't going to be a good relationship and we needed to end it soon.
I like Ed Abbey's take on living things. In “Desert Solitaire” he said, "I'm a humanist. I'd rather kill a man than a snake." I don't know if I feel that strongly about it, but I do like the sentiment. This fly was straining the relationship I have with the natural world/human world interface. We were not making progress toward a de-escalation in hostilities, but moving toward a serious confrontation. I would come to the table with plans and proposals, my needs and expectations and wait to review the materials offered by the fly. Nothing came. He was stonewalling me and expanding his territory and thumbing his proboscis at me by landing on food and utensils. All of them places clearly outlined in my negotiation documents that were being ignored. There was a confrontation brewing, but I was attempting to find ways to avoid violence if I could. I opened the door so he could go to the screen and use that as eventual access to the outside world where another place of refuge might be found. He ignored my offer and landed in the fruit dish and wandered from apple to banana and back, mocking me once again. This was getting personal.
It's always amazed me that we can drive hundreds and thousands of miles and never crash into another car. Think about it for just a moment if you please. Each of us locked inside our own steel, plastic and glass machine barreling down our 10 foot wide section of highway at high speed, with all of these internal and external distractions and we do it safely. The rules of the road prevail. Even when we find those jerks who make their own rules and fail to signal or drive within 15 or 20 miles per hour of the recommended speed, our understanding of the rules work to keep us safe. It happens at times that two vehicles attempt to violate physics and occupy the same space at the same time. Usually its a small space and the result is a 'fender-bender'. Occasionally it's a large space they try to share and the results are serious, even deadly. The amazing thing is it doesn't happen all that often considering how many cars there are on the streets at any one time. Add to this the fact that each of those drivers is locked inside their own brain-case and some of them are mis-wired, malfunctioning, unfocused or closely focused on anything other than the operation of the vehicle, and it whole thing becomes nearly a miracle. 'Faith and Begorrah', we're all potential saints. I find it even more daunting that the average vehicle has thousands of parts, most of which are critical to safe travel and were manufactured by disgruntled workers after a bad fight with their spouse or kids. They don't know me and couldn't care less if I'm safe as I drive to the store for my weekly supply of bacon. If I die in a horrible accident because the framus came loose and flew into the discombobulator that they failed to secure, I'm just another statistic that will never be part of their life. All for my desire to eat a little bacon.
We constantly are making decisions as we do our daily time travel, bringing the other three dimensions into the equation as well as an awareness of all these other stable and moving objects out there. It shouldn't be as safe as it turns out to be. Time is ours to use and timing our turns, stops and accelerations is critical to our successful completion of each and every day. We grasp the operational nature of it, but not the math and science behind it. If we had to do that as well, we would probably die in our chairs, unable to successfully put food in our mouth or get out of the way of a runaway vacuum cleaner. The fly mocked me and refused to negotiate. He was convinced that his skill in flight, multi-faceted eyes and quick reaction times would be enough to homestead here in my house. I escalated the battle and with the extended reach of my light green plastic flyswatter on the wire handle, proved that he needed to improve his timing. Or at least he needed to learn the rules of the road. My road.
I like Ed Abbey's take on living things. In “Desert Solitaire” he said, "I'm a humanist. I'd rather kill a man than a snake." I don't know if I feel that strongly about it, but I do like the sentiment. This fly was straining the relationship I have with the natural world/human world interface. We were not making progress toward a de-escalation in hostilities, but moving toward a serious confrontation. I would come to the table with plans and proposals, my needs and expectations and wait to review the materials offered by the fly. Nothing came. He was stonewalling me and expanding his territory and thumbing his proboscis at me by landing on food and utensils. All of them places clearly outlined in my negotiation documents that were being ignored. There was a confrontation brewing, but I was attempting to find ways to avoid violence if I could. I opened the door so he could go to the screen and use that as eventual access to the outside world where another place of refuge might be found. He ignored my offer and landed in the fruit dish and wandered from apple to banana and back, mocking me once again. This was getting personal.
It's always amazed me that we can drive hundreds and thousands of miles and never crash into another car. Think about it for just a moment if you please. Each of us locked inside our own steel, plastic and glass machine barreling down our 10 foot wide section of highway at high speed, with all of these internal and external distractions and we do it safely. The rules of the road prevail. Even when we find those jerks who make their own rules and fail to signal or drive within 15 or 20 miles per hour of the recommended speed, our understanding of the rules work to keep us safe. It happens at times that two vehicles attempt to violate physics and occupy the same space at the same time. Usually its a small space and the result is a 'fender-bender'. Occasionally it's a large space they try to share and the results are serious, even deadly. The amazing thing is it doesn't happen all that often considering how many cars there are on the streets at any one time. Add to this the fact that each of those drivers is locked inside their own brain-case and some of them are mis-wired, malfunctioning, unfocused or closely focused on anything other than the operation of the vehicle, and it whole thing becomes nearly a miracle. 'Faith and Begorrah', we're all potential saints. I find it even more daunting that the average vehicle has thousands of parts, most of which are critical to safe travel and were manufactured by disgruntled workers after a bad fight with their spouse or kids. They don't know me and couldn't care less if I'm safe as I drive to the store for my weekly supply of bacon. If I die in a horrible accident because the framus came loose and flew into the discombobulator that they failed to secure, I'm just another statistic that will never be part of their life. All for my desire to eat a little bacon.
We constantly are making decisions as we do our daily time travel, bringing the other three dimensions into the equation as well as an awareness of all these other stable and moving objects out there. It shouldn't be as safe as it turns out to be. Time is ours to use and timing our turns, stops and accelerations is critical to our successful completion of each and every day. We grasp the operational nature of it, but not the math and science behind it. If we had to do that as well, we would probably die in our chairs, unable to successfully put food in our mouth or get out of the way of a runaway vacuum cleaner. The fly mocked me and refused to negotiate. He was convinced that his skill in flight, multi-faceted eyes and quick reaction times would be enough to homestead here in my house. I escalated the battle and with the extended reach of my light green plastic flyswatter on the wire handle, proved that he needed to improve his timing. Or at least he needed to learn the rules of the road. My road.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
this is a story that may go somewhere, someday
The problem he was facing made his head hurt somewhere between his left eye and the base of his skull. It wasn’t just complicated and frustrating, it was getting cats to square dance. He didn’t say it couldn’t be done but he wasn’t about to channel his inner politician and promise it would happen. This effort would require money, patience, a prostitute with a heart of gold, an attorney with poor judgment and a good cook. He had a few bucks in his wallet, a library card, coffee buzz and an old jeep he had just beat up with an aluminum baseball bat. It wasn’t looking good.
That morning he had taken a reheated cup of coffee from his kitchen to drink while the Jeep warmed. Late fall frost had turned the Cherokee windows gray in the pre-dawn light. The warm cup had melted a circle on the roof of the car in the time it took to fish the keys from the pocket of his worn jeans and unlock the “beast from the City of Soul-Sucking Darkness”. Beast had been his favorite vehicle ever, dependable, strong and with a kickass stereo that was the only place left that he could play his collection of cassette tapes.
The combination of cold moist air and no winds had allowed the frost to grow crystal patterns that as they flowed and grew appeared to be the size of dinner plate dahlias on the windows of Beast. The engine moaned three times as he turned the ignition and then caught, first rough and then smoothing to a smoker’s purr. He turned the defroster on just as the November sun was changing the elemental base of the frost from diamond and steel to topaz and gold. He turned toward the window and watched as the flat crystals of frost softened. Channels began to open and flow across the window as solar fusion and internal combustion conspired to vaporize this microns thick icepack. The world outside was revealed as frost slid downward on lubrication made of its own mass recently converted from solid to liquid.
It was going to be an unseasonable, warm day with clean air and plenty of promise for enjoyment. Except for having to meet with a former co-worker for lunch, the day would be his. As he started to back out of the drive he felt a bump and heard a crunch that made his teeth hurt.
That morning he had taken a reheated cup of coffee from his kitchen to drink while the Jeep warmed. Late fall frost had turned the Cherokee windows gray in the pre-dawn light. The warm cup had melted a circle on the roof of the car in the time it took to fish the keys from the pocket of his worn jeans and unlock the “beast from the City of Soul-Sucking Darkness”. Beast had been his favorite vehicle ever, dependable, strong and with a kickass stereo that was the only place left that he could play his collection of cassette tapes.
The combination of cold moist air and no winds had allowed the frost to grow crystal patterns that as they flowed and grew appeared to be the size of dinner plate dahlias on the windows of Beast. The engine moaned three times as he turned the ignition and then caught, first rough and then smoothing to a smoker’s purr. He turned the defroster on just as the November sun was changing the elemental base of the frost from diamond and steel to topaz and gold. He turned toward the window and watched as the flat crystals of frost softened. Channels began to open and flow across the window as solar fusion and internal combustion conspired to vaporize this microns thick icepack. The world outside was revealed as frost slid downward on lubrication made of its own mass recently converted from solid to liquid.
It was going to be an unseasonable, warm day with clean air and plenty of promise for enjoyment. Except for having to meet with a former co-worker for lunch, the day would be his. As he started to back out of the drive he felt a bump and heard a crunch that made his teeth hurt.
Time is a liquid
It used to be that if I had an appointment at 11:00 in the morning that I would incorporate it into my lunch schedule. I might get to work a little early and depending on the nature of the commitment, I'd grab something to eat on the way back to the office or just eat something at my desk. Not a big deal. Yesterday I was about to make up a pot of coffee to linger over with a visitor when I realized that I had 20 minutes to get to an 11:00 appointment. I was wearing my tee-shirt from last night, cotton gym shorts and I was barefoot. It used to be 11:00 came just around lunch but on that day it arrived shortly after breakfast. It's not always that way. In fact it's always different and I think I know why. Time is a liquid flowing in unique and incomprehensible ways.
It isn't a liquid we can consume like beer but we can drown in it. It can wash us away in a raging torrent or we may end up becalmed with no wind in our sails to move us along. There are steady currents and trends that, if we begin to understand them, may aid in our navigation. But it is complex beyond our ability to understand, constantly changing and occasionally surprising. The single major constant is movement, mostly in one direction. Sometimes we are aware of the drip, drip, drip of seconds falling out of a clock in a quiet room as we watch someone sleep. Other times we are pushed off our feet by a firehose full of days or weeks and we wonder if we will ever get a handle on what all has transpired. We can be surprised when we discover a whisp of time has stuck to us and we revisit a moment that has already flowed past or more strangely something that hasn't, but could be downstream, waiting.
Someone with a strong understanding of fluid dynamics may have a better idea of how it all works, or what to expect from time. Me? I only have a few clues and stories that may help understand some of it. I think of old sayings that work for both time and water and my favorite is 'you can't step into the same river twice'. Time works like that, doesn't it? Even in those days at work when it seems like the tasks we did the day before are on our desk once again or it looks like the wall we painted has to be painted once more, there are differences. When we start planning on continuity and stability, the pattern changes and we are drowning once again. I walked down a narrow desert canyon once where the stream was flowing clear and slow, rarely deep enough to flood over the tops of my boots. I drifted into a walking meditation, Zen in the canyon. Multi-colored sandstone walls twisted around me, keeping my hiking companions out of sight and the sound of their passage away from my ears. A soft down-canyon breeze pushed the quietly applauding willows around and stirred up the scent of organic mud, flint and a sweetness of distant blooms. My pack was comfortable. my stride was regular and just as I was about to accend to the next level of consciousness, I stepped off a rock into a knee-deep pool disguised by sediment stirred by an eddy in the stream. Twisting and falling, trying to keep my camera dry and not break my bones, I ended up on my ass, cool water washing away my dignity as well as that cosmic train of thought. Laughing waters for sure.
Time and water came together at that moment but I wasn't ready to understand. Something about keeping my sleeping bag dry and being able to survive in the wilderness started nagging at my mind. The water didn't do anything different than it normally would, I just didn't see it. Now that I think I understand more about it, I'd probably still end up on my ass. I can't increase my ability to both think cosmic thoughts and walk in a stream. During that disorienting fall a flood of time washed over and around me, filling my world with enough time to think of how I was about to land, the importance of keeping the camera dry, if I was going to need to get someone's attention if I was damaged, who the hell put that hole in the river and why was the sky such a wonderful shade of dark blue against the yellow canyon wall at this time of day. No one else felt that same flood of time. It wasn't confined by the canyon walls like the stream and could have been moving in any of several directions. Regardless of the direction, straight up from the core of the Earth, downward, sideways or hopscotching along like a rook, it changed my capacity for experience and moved along.
It would be wonderful to be able to control it, dam it up, channel time along nice confined routes that benefit our world but it is a primal thing that can't be contained or controlled. Hell, just don't tell me it's other than normal to not see the knee-deep pools until we are drying our butt on the warm rocks as time and the stream chuckle.
It isn't a liquid we can consume like beer but we can drown in it. It can wash us away in a raging torrent or we may end up becalmed with no wind in our sails to move us along. There are steady currents and trends that, if we begin to understand them, may aid in our navigation. But it is complex beyond our ability to understand, constantly changing and occasionally surprising. The single major constant is movement, mostly in one direction. Sometimes we are aware of the drip, drip, drip of seconds falling out of a clock in a quiet room as we watch someone sleep. Other times we are pushed off our feet by a firehose full of days or weeks and we wonder if we will ever get a handle on what all has transpired. We can be surprised when we discover a whisp of time has stuck to us and we revisit a moment that has already flowed past or more strangely something that hasn't, but could be downstream, waiting.
Someone with a strong understanding of fluid dynamics may have a better idea of how it all works, or what to expect from time. Me? I only have a few clues and stories that may help understand some of it. I think of old sayings that work for both time and water and my favorite is 'you can't step into the same river twice'. Time works like that, doesn't it? Even in those days at work when it seems like the tasks we did the day before are on our desk once again or it looks like the wall we painted has to be painted once more, there are differences. When we start planning on continuity and stability, the pattern changes and we are drowning once again. I walked down a narrow desert canyon once where the stream was flowing clear and slow, rarely deep enough to flood over the tops of my boots. I drifted into a walking meditation, Zen in the canyon. Multi-colored sandstone walls twisted around me, keeping my hiking companions out of sight and the sound of their passage away from my ears. A soft down-canyon breeze pushed the quietly applauding willows around and stirred up the scent of organic mud, flint and a sweetness of distant blooms. My pack was comfortable. my stride was regular and just as I was about to accend to the next level of consciousness, I stepped off a rock into a knee-deep pool disguised by sediment stirred by an eddy in the stream. Twisting and falling, trying to keep my camera dry and not break my bones, I ended up on my ass, cool water washing away my dignity as well as that cosmic train of thought. Laughing waters for sure.
Time and water came together at that moment but I wasn't ready to understand. Something about keeping my sleeping bag dry and being able to survive in the wilderness started nagging at my mind. The water didn't do anything different than it normally would, I just didn't see it. Now that I think I understand more about it, I'd probably still end up on my ass. I can't increase my ability to both think cosmic thoughts and walk in a stream. During that disorienting fall a flood of time washed over and around me, filling my world with enough time to think of how I was about to land, the importance of keeping the camera dry, if I was going to need to get someone's attention if I was damaged, who the hell put that hole in the river and why was the sky such a wonderful shade of dark blue against the yellow canyon wall at this time of day. No one else felt that same flood of time. It wasn't confined by the canyon walls like the stream and could have been moving in any of several directions. Regardless of the direction, straight up from the core of the Earth, downward, sideways or hopscotching along like a rook, it changed my capacity for experience and moved along.
It would be wonderful to be able to control it, dam it up, channel time along nice confined routes that benefit our world but it is a primal thing that can't be contained or controlled. Hell, just don't tell me it's other than normal to not see the knee-deep pools until we are drying our butt on the warm rocks as time and the stream chuckle.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)