PAUL: Don, they need us. They need us bad!
DON: What? Who? Paul! It’s two-twenty in the holy morning!
PAUL: Time is of the essence, Don. Of the essence! Winter waits on no man nor woman nor child.
PAUL: Don, they need us. They need us bad!
DON: What? Who? Paul! It’s two-twenty in the holy morning!
PAUL: Time is of the essence, Don. Of the essence! Winter waits on no man nor woman nor child.
(About a 10 minute read)
The first thing I noticed about Elle was that she seemed mysteriously out of place. She was sitting alone at a table in Shotgun Willies’, watching a young woman dance on one of the stages, and smoking a cigarette.
Because Elle was fully dressed in street clothes, I wasn’t sure what she was doing there? Was she an erotic dancer? Then why the clothes? But if she wasn’t a dancer, what was she doing in an erotic dance club? I spent no little time wondering about her like that before she rose, crossed over to the other side of the room, and strolled through the dressing room door.
(About a 3 minute read)
There are so many toxic people and places on the net — villainous people who will jump you, not for money, but out of gratuitous outrage, or for some ideology they’re too dull to know better than to swallow whole.
Bloggers have it best. Almost no trolls. Every blog comes with a ban button, you see, in order to put the kids to bed so that the adults can have a conversation.
If humans had better foresight, there just would not be a whole lot of men who fail to ever ask out that woman. You know, that woman they’re going to keenly regret never having made an effort for, never having courted at all — regret in about twenty years.
(About a 13 minute read)
To oppress a mother is to oppress a democracy, for it is mothers who teach the value of democracy to their children.
Some years ago, if I heard a pounding on my door around 11:30 on a full moon night, I could reliably guess it was Suzanne come by to demand that we go for a midnight hike in the mountains. I always went for — after all — how often do you get to risk becoming a mountain lion’s next meal? Besides, the mountains are magic at night.
Suzanne was, and still is, highly intelligent, creative, beautiful, and resilient. At the time we were taking midnight hikes, however, she was also largely dysfunctional due to an untreated bipolar disorder. That kept me from developing a genuine emotional intimacy with her, for it’s difficult to feel genuinely intimate with someone who — for whatever reason — is wrapped up in themselves. Nevertheless, we did pretty good as casual friends.
One crisp night, we set out for a trail head, but when we got there, a noisy group of about seven or eight people were setting off down the trail, so we decided to drive on. That eventually landed us on a dirt road high up in the mountains. Since it was about two or three in the morning, and no one was likely to be traveling that narrow road but us, we parked the car in the middle of the road, put the top down, and threw a blanket over us in order to stargaze.
The moon soon enough went down behind the mountains. The sky blazed with what seemed like five thousand stars, and Suzanne and I fell into silence. After 45 minutes or an hour, Suzanne spoke. “Why do I have to be in love with Jeff?”
“I don’t know. Have you figured that out?”
“Not yet. I just don’t understand why I get along with you better than I get along him, but I’m in love with him.” After a moment, she went on, “I love you too, of course; just not in the same way.”
Jeff was Suzanne’s boyfriend. Like Suzanne, he was highly intelligent. He was also abusive. Whenever we were together, Suzanne would sooner or later start talking about him. Usually, she spoke of his most recent outrages.
I knew, by that time in my life, that criticizing someone’s partner — even someone’s abusive partner — would most likely achieve nothing more than cause them to rally to the defense of their partner, so I carefully avoided giving Suzanne any hint of how profoundly I loathed Jeff for his abuse of her. “That does seem strange”, I said as evenly as I could, “I mean that you get along with me better than him.”
“I do love him.” She turned to look at me.
“Is he good for you?” I replied, looking at her and trying my hardest not to make my question sound like a challenge. I thought that, if only she would ask that question, sincerely ask that question….
“But I love him!” She protested. “That’s got to count for something, right?” She’d done exactly what I feared: Taken my question for a challenge, rather than genuinely think about whether he was any good for her.
Suzanne was twenty years younger than me. She had yet to learn the difference between genuinely loving someone and merely being emotionally dependent on them. Nor was there anyway I could have explained those things to her that night. Although she never would have expressed it this way, on some level, Suzanne believed the world was fair and just, and that Jeff had to sooner or later come around if for no other reason than she loved him so much.
In time, Suzanne came to her senses and dumped Jeff.
Today, May 11, is the anniversary of Richard Feynman’s birth. He was born 1918 and died 1988. Probably, I think, not only one of the greatest physicists of the 20th Century, but also one of wisest people of that century.
I have a friend who’s an artist and has sometimes taken a view which I don’t agree with very well. He’ll hold up a flower and say “look how beautiful it is,” and I’ll agree. Then he says “I as an artist can see how beautiful this is but you as a scientist take this all apart and it becomes a dull thing,” and I think that he’s kind of nutty. First of all, the beauty that he sees is available to other people and to me too, I believe. Although I may not be quite as refined aesthetically as he is … I can appreciate the beauty of a flower. At the same time, I see much more about the flower than he sees. I could imagine the cells in there, the complicated actions inside, which also have a beauty. I mean it’s not just beauty at this dimension, at one centimeter; there’s also beauty at smaller dimensions, the inner structure, also the processes. The fact that the colors in the flower evolved in order to attract insects to pollinate it is interesting; it means that insects can see the color. It adds a question: does this aesthetic sense also exist in the lower forms? Why is it aesthetic? All kinds of interesting questions which the science knowledge only adds to the excitement, the mystery and the awe of a flower. It only adds. I don’t understand how it subtracts. — Feynman
I think Sarah was fifteen when I met her. She and I were both regular customers at the coffee shop and we often enough sat together at the sidewalk tables. Sarah was one of a small handful of girls who would keep me company even when I was not sitting with any handsome boys their own age. She also struck me as generally cheerful, optimistic, and sensible. The sort of level-headed, but occasionally mischievous, young person who gives you hope for the future.
One sunny morning, about a year after Sarah and I first met, I was sitting by myself when I happened to glance down the street towards the local high school. About two blocks away, a woman was walking towards the shop, and though I couldn’t make out her face at that distance, there was something in the way she walked that made me recognize it was Sarah. I think it might also have been the style of skirt she wore, for Sarah favored long, flowing skirts with a certain kind of print — almost paisley.
As I had guessed, it indeed turned out to be her.
When she arrived, she came straight to my table, and we were soon discussing her jewelry for no other reason than to pass the time of day. “I have the worse luck, Paul. Every piece I own has lost its partner. This ring — see the naked man? This silver ring had a naked woman that went with it. That way you could divide the ring into two pieces, and give one piece to your lover. But I lost the woman. An ex of mine wouldn’t give it back when we broke up.”
“And you see the man in the moon in my earring? I used to have another earring just like it, but I somewhere lost it.” She grinned. “Now I have the moon in one ear, and a dragon in the other.” She turned her head one way and then the other to show me.
We went on like that for an hour or two it seemed: Simply enjoying the sunny, but cool weather. Eventually, she had to go back to school, for though her high school had an open campus policy, she was of course expected to attend classes if they were not study halls.
A few weeks later, Sarah and I were again at the coffee shop together. At some point in our conversation, she decided to draw a dragon for me. She explained as she was drawing it, that she had practiced and practiced drawing the dragon until she could almost draw it blindfolded.
“Ah! Well executed! I know you like dragons.” I remembered her earring.
“Oh yes! Did I tell you about my dragon lamp? I have a lamp that a candle fits inside. When you burn the candle, it casts dragon shadows on the walls. I love it! I use it as a night light.”
It all came together for me one evening a few months after that. Sarah and I were once again at the coffee shop, but this time it was towards dusk. Another man had joined us — a guy about my age, which was twenty-five or so years older than Sarah. He and Sarah were flirting with each other, which rather more bored me than anything else. I became absorbed in watching the sunset.
Presently, the man left to go home, or go to his job, I don’t quite recall which now. Sarah soon turned to me, “I love flirting with older men”, she said. “I know I won’t let it go anywhere. The age difference makes that impossible. But you can learn so much! Should I be ashamed of myself, Paul?”
I don’t remember now exactly what I said to her, but she responded by almost pouting — a very unusual expression for her — and then playfully suggesting that I was a public killjoy for refusing to flirt with people, especially with her. That so surprised me that I felt I needed to make amends! Hence, within a few days, I composed a simple poem just for Sarah.
She’s a woman in the grace of sixteen summers
With skirts flowing in the morning sun
And she speaks of the silver man ringed naked
A dancer who dances alone
For her jewels have all lost their partners
But the moon still laughs in one ear
And she sleeps in the shadow of dragons
With a heart uncorrupted by fear
Physics isn’t the most important thing. Love is. ― Richard Feynman
Some “religious” people are just contrary. They profess to be Hindus or Christians, Muslims or Jews, Buddhists or Taoists, but their real religion is simply to find fault with other people.
God, enlightenment, the Tao are to them little more than concepts that they imagine give them ultimate permission to condemn folks, to dehumanize them. “I speak for God”, they imply. “I speak for the Tao.” Such strange people: Always hiding behind some pillar like “God”, peeking out only to snarl!
But such people are not confined to religions.
No, you find them in the lunatic fringes of every political and social movement, every ideology — including the better ones. What sort of person makes it their life to condemn others? What sort of person lives for it?
It is part of the comedy of our species that we often give them the time of day.
The first principle is that you must not fool yourself and you are the easiest person to fool. ― Richard Feynman
To me, the ultimate goal in life is neither meaning nor happiness, but to be as true to yourself as you can be in a socially and environmentally responsible way. The way I see it, if you shoot for that, then you’ll find what meaning and happiness there is for you in life, like icing on the cake. But I don’t see how living falsely can bring about either meaning or happiness. Of course, all I really know is that it works for me.
I think it’s much more interesting to live not knowing than to have answers which might be wrong. I have approximate answers and possible beliefs and different degrees of uncertainty about different things, but I am not absolutely sure of anything and there are many things I don’t know anything about, such as whether it means anything to ask why we’re here. I don’t have to know an answer. I don’t feel frightened not knowing things, by being lost in a mysterious universe without any purpose, which is the way it really is as far as I can tell. ― Richard Feynman
Top 40 Lovers
I listen to the radio play those old two songs:
“How I love him more than life itself” and “How she did me wrong”.
And I think it’s hard to be a simple lover
If the goal’s a cosmic truth.
And I think it’s hard to be a simple friend
If we’re lawyers in the end.
Humans are natural born cartographers. We make maps of the world, which we call “beliefs”. It’s what our species does.
Sometimes, our maps are more or less accurate. And sometimes, they are fantasy maps, like the ones we made as children to show where a pirate’s treasure lay buried in our backyard.
The accuracy of our maps often matters less to us than the fact they are ours. Because, for most of us, our maps are something we think of as us.
I’m smart enough to know that I’m dumb. ― Richard Feynman
“Don, this is Paul. We’re rich!”
“Rich, Don, we’re richer than our wildest dreams!”
“Are you kidding me? What happened? Did you win the lottery?”
“Lottery? You can’t depend on lotteries, Don. This is so much better than a lottery. This is Big! Huge! I’ve had an idea, Don. An idea!”
“Paul, I have always believed you are capable of having good ideas. Which is why I am still patiently waiting after all these years for you to actually have one. But if this is like that last ‘good idea’…”.
“Don’t worry, Don, this one can’t miss. It’s huge! What is the number one complaint people have about foods, Don? The number one complaint?”
“Paul, where is this leading?”
“Don, I’ve been researching this, and nine times out of ten, when people complain about food, it’s because they don’t like the taste. It’s a scientific fact, Don. Nine times out of ten!”
“Six words, Don, six words: Spray-cans filled with liquid nitrogen! Zap that awful taste right out of your mouth! Instantly! Never worry about a bad tasting meal again!
“Don we are going to get rich here! We are going to get so rich! I’ve already called some architects, asked for designs on our office building. Are you excited, Don?
“Don? Damnit, Don! You’re a going to have to get a new phone. Yours keeps dying on me!”
(About a 9 minute read)
Thunder has been rolling off the mountains since the afternoon. The breeze has carried the scent of rain for hours, but there’s been no rain. It’s once again warm enough to leave the doors and windows open to the night air.
Someone was telling me that judgmental people are always jealous people. If that’s so, I haven’t noticed it. But it sounds like something that could be true. And if it is true, I wonder if the converse is also true: Are jealous people always judgmental people?
Waking Up in a Coffee Shop
The sun slants geometric on the floor,
Van Morrison drags the air,
Serbian troops surge forward,
And two old women sit and tell
The lives of relatives —
Their jobs, their marriages,
Births and deaths
Recounted at a trot
With shoes kicked off —
Statistics on estrogen.
The cup of Kenyan is just enough
To provoke the thought Don and Becky
Like the smell of leather better than most religions
And a good walk better than the rest:
Then it’s time to do the laundry.
I might have been 14 or 15 the first time I heard that socialism fails because people are not equal in their abilities. Of course, the truth of the statement, “people are not equal in their abilities”, is indisputable. But does any prominent socialist assert that people are equal? Not that I know of. The argument seems to be a straw man.
So far as I know, socialists only assert that people should have equal economic, social, and political rights and liberties — not merely in theory (as under capitalism), but in practice.
Nor do socialists typically hold that everyone should receive the same compensation for their work as everyone else. Rather, compensation typically varies according to the principle, “To each according to their contribution”:
The term means simply that each worker in a socialist society receives compensation and benefits according to the quantity and value of the labor that he or she contributed. This translates into workers of high productivity receiving more wages and benefits than workers of average productivity, and substantially more than workers of low productivity. An extension of this principle could also be made so that the more difficult one’s job is—whether this difficulty is derived from greater training requirements, job intensity, safety hazards, etc.—the more one is rewarded for the labor contributed. [source]
Surely, a sense of humor has prevented more murders than a sense of morality.
As I understand it, there are four major religions that contain within them some kind of a fundamentalist movement: Hinduism, Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. According to one scholar at least, the four fundamentalisms are united in that each is a reaction against modernity.
That would seem to make sense to me. But I would go a bit beyond that to speculate that the fundamentalisms are also rooted in the same psychology as political conservatism. Over the past several years, a growing body of psychological research has demonstrated that liberals and conservatives tend to have differences that run deeper than mere politics. That is, their differences tend to be rooted in their psychologies.
For instance, studies have shown that conservatives, when compared to liberals, are among other things:
One seems to find the same pattern in the four fundamentalisms.
Some years ago a friend of mine, Theresa, saved enough money while working as a $1000/night erotic dancer in Los Angeles to start her own small import/export business. For a reason I no longer recall, she specialized in trade between the US and Costa Rico. It was in Costa Rico that she met her husband.
Theresa is athletic and is in the habit of running every day, regardless of where she is in the world. Consequently, when she was getting her business up and running in Costa Rico, she would run each day, taking the same route, at about the same time in the morning. As it happened, her route took her by a bank.
Working at the bank was a young man who I’ll call Carlos here because I’ve forgotten his real name (Sorry, Carlos! But I’m bad with names — even though I recall how handsome you are!). One day Carlos noticed a beautiful blond woman running past the bank’s windows. But it wasn’t just her beauty that stopped him in his tracks.
Carlos, you see, had had a dream in which he’d seen a beautiful blond woman running past the bank’s windows. In fact, it seemed to him that the woman he was watching run past the windows that day was the very woman of his dreams.
He soon became aware of Theresa’s routine and began watching for her around the same time each day. A month went by. Then one day, Theresa was not there!
Carlos looked for her the next day, and the day after, but she no longer passed the bank each morning. What Carlos didn’t know is that Theresa had found a local partner, and had consequently returned to the US.
Seven very long years went by for Carlos. His friends and family worried he would never get married. They — especially his mother — put pressure on him to find a woman. But Carlos resisted. It was not that he was waiting for the blond woman, though. Carlos had given up all hope of seeing her ever again.
Instead, the blond woman had made such an impression on him that he didn’t feel any other woman he met during those seven years quite measured up to her in beauty or physical grace — and for Carlos, those were deal breakers. He wondered if he would every feel differently, but he was adamant not to marry a woman he didn’t want at least as much as he had wanted the blond woman. That would not be fair to any woman, he thought.
Meanwhile, back in the US, Theresa had long ago cashed out her share of the import/export business and was now a partner in an L.A. restaurant. One year, though, she decided to take a vacation, and what better place to take it than the lovely country of Costa Rico? She arranged a month long lease on a house there.
Carlos looked up from his desk one day to see the blond woman running past his bank’s windows! He was so sure it was her that he didn’t hesitate even a second. Instead, he dashed out the door after her.
Theresa realized someone was calling after her to wait up, but when she looked, it was a stranger, so she kept running. He couldn’t possibly have any real business with her. Nevertheless, the man caught up with her. As they ran side by side, he begged her to stop.
She didn’t stop.
So he sputtered out his story as he ran beside her. She was the most beautiful girl in the world! Theresa rolled her eyes. He just had to meet her! Theresa picked up her pace. She was the girl of his dreams! Theresa pushed herself even faster. She must stop for he could not bear to lose her for another seven years! Theresa suddenly thought he must have known her from years ago — and remembered her! Curiosity brought her to a jogging standstill. She turned to face him. “Who are you? Have we met?”
The two were married within a year or so.
Kindness is our most powerful rebellion against tragedy. – George Wiman
The Hands Remember
The hands remember
More than the mind your skin
They think of their own will,
“This was the shape of her”,
When they find themselves cupped
Or curled in a certain loose way
Around the curves
Of you no longer here:
The left hand
Yes, I know
My left hand
Knew you one way,
While my right hand
Knew you another.
Was either best?
Once upon a time, a god wanted something to laugh at, while a goddess wanted something to weep for. The two created humans, and both were satisfied.
“Hi Don! It’s Paul! I’m calling to see if you want to go to lunch today?”
“Great! Can I come along?
“Don? Are you still there, Don?”
“Yes, Paul, but now I wish I wasn’t.”
(About a 5 minute read)
Earlier, Don and I drove out of town south into a hazy fall afternoon. We speculated the haze could be coming from the large California fires, for there seemed no other source for it. It’s happened before that smoke has drifted hundreds of miles into Colorado from large fires as far away as California. Was that happening today?
No way of to be certain. But the distant mountains to the south and west were obscured by the haze while above us the sky still embraced the royal blue depth of a perfect autumn day.
I hadn’t driven south of Colorado Springs in well over two years. You forget how beautiful the hills and canyons are. The colors are mostly understated and subtle in the fall. Olive junipers dot the yellow grasses, cling to the sandy red cliffs like freckles. The deeper greens of ponderosa and pinon pines crowd the junipers, and the scrub oak has copper leaves. All respectable earth tones. But then along the water courses, the light bursts as it falls onto the luminous yellow leaves of the cottonwoods.
Gorges and canyons, mesas and buttes. The land seems eternal here. It’s hard to believe people own it — you think more of the land owning them.
There’s defiance of the land in some of the houses people have built. Houses whose architecture is traditional in distant parts of America — in the northeast, for instance — but not here in Colorado. You can’t look at those houses without imagining some newcomer has tried to transplant a bit of the lush eastern United States, complete with well watered bluegrass lawns, to the rocky, thin soils of the arid west. Maybe he got homesick for a more congenial landscape. Maybe he’s in denial he no longer lives in Massachusetts, Georgia or Kentucky. Whatever the case, it’s not really your problem — yet in this land, his home is an alien.
Some miles south of the Springs, Don and I turned off the main road and, after a few miles, entered Phantom Canyon. Phantom Canyon is a narrow gorge whose rock walls rise 150 or 200 feet. It winds for miles up into the Rocky Mountains — right into the heart of the high gold country. The road changed from asphalt to gravel, and then from gravel to earth. The walls were mostly red rock deeply fractured by the weather, like an old man’s face; and brilliant cottonwoods lined the floor of the canyon.
It’s strange how in some parts of Colorado you can see everywhere the evidence of people — you are after all, traveling a road built by people — and yet you almost feel you are the first person to explore the land. Twice in the Canyon cars passed us coming from the other direction and each time the occupants waved to us as if we were the first people they’d seen all month. I think that feeling of being a little bit beyond the boundaries of society doesn’t just come from the scarcity of people on the Phantom Canyon road. I think it comes from the way the world rises up 150 to 200 feet above you. I think it comes from the way the trees, the grasses, and the brush obey their own laws — not some gardener’s laws. I think it comes from the uncivilized quiet that confronts you when you finally stop and step out of your car. But whatever the source of it, the effect is to give you a slightly different perspective on yourself.
It’s not the beauty of nature that most inspires me to reflect on myself. Nature is not always beautiful. But nature is always indifferent. And it’s that indifference that inspires both thought and feeling about the human condition.
You can never really put what you learn about yourself from nature in words because what you learned, you didn’t learn from words. Rather, you simply experienced a truth. You can write all the commentaries you want about your experiences, but you cannot recreate them through those commentaries. Words never brought a fractured rock cliff into existence.
At times, it seems that societies revolve around the ego. Perhaps it can even seem they are huge conspiracies to make the ego primary in this world. I think the ego is just as much a part of us — of who we are as a species — as our eyes and noses, and I reject any ideology that calls for the permanent annihilation of the ego. Yet, I don’t think the ego is of primary importance. I think it has its place, but that place is not central.
I believe I see that most clearly when I am out in nature, away from society, away from its tendency to make the ego primary. Yet, it is also out in nature when I feel I am being most true to myself. Is that a paradox?
Originally published October 28, 2007.
(About an 8 minute read)
I turned 60 a couple months ago. One of the things I’ve enjoyed about getting older has been that I don’t worry as much about my mistakes as I used to when I was younger.
I still make as many — or even more — mistakes as I ever did, but I just don’t worry about them as much. Instead, I let the victims of my mistakes do the worrying, for part of my getting older has been my learning how to properly delegate responsibility.
I recently got involved in a discussion of nudity. Someone said that nudity was against Christian principles for women. That is, women should be modest in their apparel.
Then someone else pointed out there wasn’t much that was more modest than nudity. “Hard to put on airs when you ain’t got nothing else on.”
Do you suppose American women, by and large, have similar handwriting?
At least, it’s my impression that a woman’s handwriting usually resembles other women’s handwriting to a greater degree than a man’s handwriting is apt to resemble other men’s handwriting. Put differently, it seems more difficult to tell women apart than it seems it is to tell men apart.
If that is indeed the case, then why is it the case?
And if it is true of American women, is it true of women elsewhere?
I’ve heard people say we can never know for certain what it feels like to be someone else. But is that really true? Is it never possible to know for certain what it feels like to be someone else?
Yesterday, I was with my friend Don for a late lunch. Don and I go back a long ways and we know each other pretty well.
At one point during our lunch, he said something that was so profound it went completely over my head and I couldn’t even begin to fathom what he meant. I felt lost and stupid.
Then I suddenly realized: “Surely, this is what it feels like to be a politician!”
Who am I?
If you ask most of us who we are, we will answer you by naming one or another relationship. We are, for instance, a husband. Or a golfer. Or a businessman. But to say we are a husband, or a golfer, or a businessman, is each case to define our self in terms of the relationship we have to something.
In contrast, we tend not to define our self in terms of what is happening with us at any given moment. I do not think of myself as someone whose shoulder is itching. Or as someone who happens to be looking at a computer monitor. Or as someone who is wishing it was dawn. All of those are transient things — too transient for me to think of them as “me”.
Yet, being a husband, a golfer, or a businessman are also transient. That is, if you really think about it, you are not simply “a husband”. You are only sometimes a husband. Just as your shoulder only sometimes itches. And it is only a convention of thought that you imagine yourself to always — or continuously — be a husband.
The Cosmic Dancer, declares Nietzsche, does not rest heavily in a single spot, but gaily, lightly, turns and leaps from one position to another. It is possible to speak from only one point at a time, but that does not invalidate the insights of the rest. – Joseph Campbell, The Hero with a Thousand Faces, Princeton: Princeton Univ. Press, 1968, p. 229.
While it might be true Nietzsche never wrote what Campbell attributes to him, Campbell’s “paraphrase” of Nietzsche’s views ranks as a sharp insight in itself.
We humans sometimes wish to construct systems of thought — worldviews — that are consistent throughout and encompass everything. Yet, such “views” are simply beyond us, and might even be logically impossible.
So, perhaps the best we can do is to become Cosmic Dancers. That is, folks who are capable of looking at things from many angles and perspectives, who are capable of dancing between views, but who do not settle dogmatically on any one point of view.
The mane is thought to keep the neck warm, and possibly to help water run off the neck if the animal cannot obtain shelter from the rain. It also provides some fly protection to the front of the horse, although the tail is usually the first defense against flies.
I’m not buying it. I find it implausible that manes would evolve because horses with manes had warmer necks, and that their warmer necks proved to be significant to their reproductive success. There must be some other reason manes evolved.
But what would that be?
I was thinking sexual selection. That is, I was thinking manes are like the male peacock’s tail. It provides no survival advantage, but the female peacock’s like it. So the females pick the males with the best tails to mate with. That’s what I was thinking.
But then I remembered that both male and female horses have manes. So now I’m thinking sexual selection probably isn’t the reason horses evolved manes.
But what is the reason?
For the sake of discussion, let us assume there’s an able god. By “able”, I mean that god is capable of doing anything that does not violate the rules of logic. For instance, it can create the universe, but it cannot create a square circle because a square circle is logically impossible.
Next, let us assume that god unconditionally loves all of creation, including each one of us.
Is that scenario logically possible?
Well, I think it is possible. I would not account it very probable. It’s not something I’d bank on. But possible? Yes.
Now, let us assume the same two conditions — an able god and that god’s unconditional love — plus a third condition.
The third condition is there exists a hell that is a part of creation and to which people are sent after their death if they disobey the god.
Is the new scenario logically possible?
I do not think so. Instead,. I think the new scenario involves a logical contradiction and consequently cannot exist. That is, it cannot be real. But what is that contradiction?
Well, how can you logically have an able god that loves you unconditionally and also causes you to go to hell if you disobey that god?
So far as I can see, you cannot. An unconditionally loving god would neither impose a condition upon it’s love ( i.e. if you do not obey me, I will not love you) nor would an unconditionally loving god, if it were able to prevent it, allow it’s beloved to come to harm (i.e. if you do not obey me, I will cause or allow you to go to hell).
But what do you think? Is it an amusing logic puzzle? Or have I just had too much caffeine again?
Four Quotes From Voltaire:
Les habiles tyrans ne sont jamais punis.
— Clever tyrants are never punished.
C’est une des superstitions de l’esprit humain d’avoir imaginé que la virginité pouvait être une vertu.
— It is one of the superstitions of the human mind to have imagined that virginity could be a virtue.
Nous cherchons tous le bonheur, mais sans savoir où, comme les ivrognes qui cherchent leur maison, sachant confusément qu’ils en ont une.
— We all look for happiness, but without knowing where to find it: like drunkards who look for their house, knowing dimly that they have one.
Il y a eu des gens qui ont dit autrefois: Vous croyez des choses incompréhensibles, contradictoires, impossibles, parce que nous vous l’avons ordonné; faites donc des choses injustes parce que nous vous l’ordonnons. Ces gens-là raisonnaient à merveille. Certainement qui est en droit de vous rendre absurde est en droit de vous rendre injuste. Si vous n’opposez point aux ordres de croire l’impossible l’intelligence que Dieu a mise dans votre esprit, vous ne devez point opposer aux ordres de malfaire la justice que Dieu a mise dans votre coeur. Une faculté de votre âme étant une fois tyrannisée, toutes les autres facultés doivent l’être également. Et c’est là ce qui a produit tous les crimes religieux dont la terre a été inondée.
— Formerly there were those who said: You believe things that are incomprehensible, inconsistent, impossible because we have commanded you to believe them; go then and do what is unjust because we command it. Such people show admirable reasoning. Truly, whoever is able to make you absurd is able to make you unjust. If the God-given understanding of your mind does not resist a demand to believe what is impossible, then you will not resist a demand to do wrong to that God-given sense of justice in your heart. As soon as one faculty of your soul has been dominated, other faculties will follow as well. And from this derives all those crimes of religion which have overrun the world.
A while back, I was sitting in a coffee shop when I noticed — just beyond the window — a girl of about 14 or 16 dressed in a highly sexualized manner. That is, her clothing was flamboyantly sexual even for an adolescent. Moverover, she was flirting with a boy, who appeared a bit older than her, and she very soon straddled his lap in order to grind against him. I couldn’t recall when I had last seen in public such an overt display of sexuality — outside of an erotic dance club.
Now, the girl was not physically attractive by American conventions. For one thing, she was much too fat to be fashionable. For another thing, she had a rather plain face thickly coated with cosmetics. And, though her clothing was notable for being revealing, it did not seem that she had put much thought into the combination she’d chosen.
So, it wasn’t long before I began to wonder whether the poor girl might be suffering from low self-esteem. That is, it seemed possible that she thought of herself as not having much to offer the boys besides sex.
I was thinking along those sad lines when I heard a male voice at the table behind me say, “God! Look at that slut!”
Of course, I don’t know whether he was talking about the girl, or about someone else. I didn’t ask. Yet, I assumed he was indeed talking about the girl — and that made me feel old. Old and tired.
You see, the one attractive thing I had noticed about the girl in the few minutes I’d been watching her was that she seemed so full of life. Even if her dress and mannerisms were motivated by low self-esteem — and I didn’t know that for certain — she appeared at the moment happy. She was, if only for a while, the queen of her universe. It wearied me to think anyone would simply dismiss her as a slut.