Blinded by Science

 

I have something of a love/hate relationship with “Science.” My father would be considered a scientist today, he has a degree in chemistry, and actually worked as a chemist for a few years before applying his degree towards the sale of devices to measure chemical processes. This is the “Science” I grew to love, every evening there was likely to be at least one discussion about science and its applications, they might relate to the preparation of dinner, the PH balance of the pool, the earthquake we experienced the night before, the latest gas chromatograph or liquid scintillation counter his company had produced or the most recent space launch. I remember being yelled at about a few projects I had devised with my chemistry set, a part of me chuckled when he would say “Don’t you realize what could happen” because I did, that was the purpose of the project. Back then, a scientist performed research.

Science made sense. It was rational. It didn’t care how you felt about it.

As an adolescent, “Science” became popular with society. Quotation marks science, just the word, not the method. With total disregard for the scientific method, the word “science” was bandied about as if it were some deity. In many cases, it was, as people made thoroughly misinformed statements about a conflict between God and Science. This is where my hatred was formed. An individual who understands neither God nor Science claims they are in conflict. Were it one person the data would be anecdotal, but it was common. This is the beauty of science, you can reproduce the experiment yourself. Ask a dozen atheists about a conflict between science and God, they will demonstrate an ignorance of both, regardless of the God in question. Well, perhaps not in the case of the Church of the Flying Spaghetti Monster, but any religion based on historical texts. The most frequent error is assuming a religious text is a science book, then pointing out differences in language. Assuming every follower of a religion interprets the texts precisely in the way the atheist interprets what he’s heard about it is also quite common.

As common meanings continued to be discarded, everyone became a scientist. Typically the credentials these scientists hold is having read an article about an interpretation of an abstract. In an impending “Scientists March on Washington” everyone is included in the name of diversity, it’s not even being called a “Scientists March” anymore, within days it became “The March for Science.” It was no longer about science, it was about “Science” advocacy, which means whatever you want it to mean. I received this message before dropping out:

“We are taking seriously the many important criticisms regarding (lack of) diversity on social media stating that for this march to be meaningful, we must centralize diversity of the march’s organizers (both in leadership positions and at all levels of planning), speakers, and issues addressed as a principal objective for the march. We hear you, we thank you for your criticism. In the March for Science, we are committed to centralizing, highlighting, standing in solidarity with, and acting as accomplices with African American, Latinx, API, indigenous, Muslim, Jewish, women, people with disabilities, poor, gay, lesbian, bisexual, queer, trans, non-binary, agender, and intersex scientists and science advocates.

-March for Science Diversity Team”

I’m not quite sure what “Centralized Diversity” is, I had heard enough doublespeak to know better than to pose a question. Which is, of course, the reason for throwing around the word “science.” To silence opposing viewpoints. To enhance the self described “intelligence” of the speaker. No doubt it works with large groups of people. You have heard someone say about anthropogenic global warming “The science is settled.” Science is never settled. Anyone who tells you it is does not understand the scientific method. Science is about excellence, not diversity. You do not know who George Washington Carver was because of the color of his skin, or Marie Curie because of her gender.You know them because they performed revolutionary experiments, verified their results, and then communicated the reproducible results.

So it is a Brave New World. I’m thinking it’s more of an Animal Farm, the porcine population seems unusually prominent. I am fortunate in that part of my therapy is recognizing things won’t be like they used to be,  but it is supposed to be me that is different.

We made such complicated things look so simple, we forgot how hard it was to get here. Everyone was not just equally important, they were special. Everyone might be unique, but they cannot be special, superior to each other, and still equal. The next step is even more bizarre, everyone else is stupid. I’m not sure how these folks celebrate diversity when they truly believe people who do not share their views are not just misinformed, they are mentally deficient. This would give me a headache even if I didn’t already have a brain injury. The generalities and exclusive inclusion suggests a logic most often found in asylums.

You will see a March for Science, they’ve already ordered merchandise for the selfie crowd. Suggested speakers include Alan Alda, whose television commercial mocking actors as doctors should be force fed to the organizers of the march a la “A Clockwork Orange.” Other pop-science advocates have been suggested, Bill Nye and Richard Dawkins among them, and Neil deGrasse Tyson surely won’t miss an opportunity to be on camera. Sir Magnus Pyke would have been excellent, but as an actual scientist I suspect he would have declined. What you will not see is a march of people who are scientists, or have any idea of the components of the scientific method. It will be a March for Obfuscation, quite the opposite of the original intent.

I had hoped, out of naivete, to actually advocate for Science, perhaps help lead people to an understanding of why the method has been revered since the seventeenth century. Perhaps the realization that we have arrived at the tower of Babel is the most depressing thing I have learned in all of this.

 

 

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Review

I’ve been doing some cleaning, physically and metaphorically. Sam is moving in, so I am making space for her, and as I do so, I find myself making space in my mind.

Today, I started organizing the “cat room,” a large walk in closet in the hallway which holds Autumn’s food, water, and litter box. It has a great deal of storage space, which has never been wonderfully organized, and after I changed bedrooms last year it failed to miraculously arrange itself. So far I have combined the contents of two shelves into one full shelf, one empty shelf, and a full recycling bin. Three shelves and a four by six floor to go.

Some of the items that made it to the recycling bin were my collection of Belgian beer bottles, which I had already been feeling rather foolish about. It started a few years ago and spread to cover every windowsill in my bedroom, but was really the domain of a teenager. I wasn’t bothered at first, convincing myself it was a sign of rebellion, not acting my age, but in reality it was silly.

I threw out my retirement notebook with all my 401k statements, it was rather depressing to see how much money I had when I retired, and the memories of where it went. I’ve been shuffling off my memories of Lieve and her children over the last few months, forgiving them for their behavior, this was a good physical act to remove reminders. It has been an interesting exercise, and I am fairly certain I understand the events better than when I was living them.

Two large packages were paperwork from Emma. All sorts of things I shouldn’t have, she saved everything. I have her documents safe, in these packages were her previous marriage certificates, and Death certificates from her husbands and father. Pay stubs and IRS returns from before I met her, photographs of her father and mafia elite, a lithograph her father had purchased for his grandson which no one ever wanted to retrieve. There were some things I kept, pictures of her in grade school, cards I had given her, and the silliest picture of her on a tractor which her first husband had adored; it makes me happy to think of them together now.

I’ve been moving around a number of “feelings” lately. I have chosen to walk away from a few friendships with people with myopic views of the presidential election rather than argue. Some were so vehement in their passions I actually found it necessary to block them. Oddly, this space has allowed me to make new friends, they share the beliefs of my old friends but feel no need to bring it up in every conversation. This is not a unique situation, Lieve and I were visiting one of her friends back in 2013 and said “We brought you something you’ll like.” She responded “Dick Cheney’s head on a platter?” This was four years after Cheney had left office, but he was still on the top of her mind, probably dying of loneliness.

I settled my feelings about a woman I cared for deeply who had brain damage. It saddens me that I needed to experience it to understand it. I had known she was fragile and was exceptionally gentle with her, but my fortune was to know her during a remission of symptoms, I was not responsible for her relapse.

A friend called last week, in panic. She had overstepped her morality, and was filled with shame and embarrassment. I understand how that works, but I don’t truly understand the feeling. I was quite impressed she turned to me, I know I’m a warm and understanding person, but my morals have been questioned repeatedly. We share the experience of losing a spouse, so I suppose that is why she trusted me. My brother (yes, I am accepting that I have a male sibling) once told me I had no morals (I did, they just were not his), I could never tell if he was serious or jealous. Most likely he was just judgemental, which I increasingly am not. It is pleasing to know that I am seen as non-judgemental and egalitarian.

I am doing better with the analysis of my thoughts and motives, and although this gives me insights into the thoughts and motives of others, I dare not reveal what they show me. In a conversation about an article in Pravda about unrest in America, one person suggested the use of water cannons to disrupt protests. This sparked a discussion on why water cannons are not used in America, with someone insisting that water cannons and mace are still used in America, which turned into an argument about the difference between “mace brand” and “MACE.”  Yes, the conversation about a Pravda article claiming that Americans will argue about anything devolved into an argument about anything other than the subject of the article. I watched helplessly as any possibility to share information vanished. One person stepped in and made the point I was trying to reveal, they were ignored as the argument carried forward; the initial discussion completely forgotten. This is why I am shying away from discussion, most people only want to argue. I do not. I want to exchange ideas, which does not happen on one way streets.

I am finding peace in stepping away from disruption. This may result in life as a hermit, everything has a price. I still believe the tide is turning, I’m just in no condition to surf.

 

2017

Happy New Year. I am much happier today than I was one year ago, waking in the hospital with what must have been a wonderful assortment of drugs. I do not recall pain in my elbow, but it was still a few days until I realized I no longer had an elbow. It must have hurt, previous experience suggests morphine would have eliminated pain without clouding my memory, although the brain injury should have clouded my memory.

Today, that rebuilt contraption functions better than any of the doctors and therapists expected, better than most of them thought possible, better than any of them were capable of doing themselves. That is one of my triumphs, something I am proud of even though I had little to do with it.

It appeared, to everyone, that an inordinate number of performers died in 2016. David Bowie died on the day I started writing again. It is difficult to remember, I can’t remember writing, but the article exists and is accurate and not horribly written. The brain injury was apparently not clouding my memory at that point. I could only have been typing with my left hand, I remember frustration with using the mouse left handed, and I remember the initial reports on the internet. I remember Sam being there, and saying to her “I think Bowie died.” This is how my memory works now, bits and pieces. From what I have been told, my brain may take another couple of years to heal, perhaps I will have rich, full memories again. They still exist for some moments of the past, not as many as before, but none in the past year.

They tell me I will continue to get better, and that progress will not be linear. My goal, which I believe I have achieved, is to accept this. I no longer judge myself against two years ago, I judge myself against two months ago. I don’t always see the improvements, but people around me do. As many reminders I receive that TBI is an “Invisible injury,” I like to believe what others see as improvements.

There have been some disappointments, but I am certain I am not the only one to have been disappointed. I like to think I have become accepting and tolerant, and in reality one cannot be tolerant unless they are aware of what they are tolerant of. The election cycle appears to have been far more divisive than previous elections. I have friends who stepped away from social media altogether, many of whom have stated “All my friends became monsters.” I have seen a failure of civility, related to but not a part of the election. The route to proving one’s point has somehow degraded to insulting the opponent’s intelligence. It hurts a bit when you’re recovering from TBI, but it has been a learning experience, both in illuminating the character of people who claim my opinions are due to my brain injury, sometimes in crude and derogatory terms; and in learning not to argue with people who have no interest in reality. I am trying to open my own mind, I do not have the energy to open others.

I have not been as irritable as it appears is common in people with brain injuries, I have become more frugal with the energy I am willing to expend. It is fascinating to discover how much energy it takes to do nothing, I find myself exhausted after completing one or two simple tasks in a day. I shy away from meanness and anger, so perhaps I am more sensitive to it. People rarely feel they are cruel, telling them so makes them angry, so I have had to simply avoid some dear friends and family. This should tell me something about my former self, I have yet to figure out what I have learned. In some cases I wonder why I ever put up with them in the past, in most cases I see my own failure in enlightening them.

I have done enough. That’s just me talking, I really have nothing to say in the matter, but I have no desires of conquest. I intend to spend some time volunteering at the Brain Injury rehabilitation center down the road, I recall an ability to communicate with the non-verbal. I haven’t expected a long future for some time, but I can do my best with the days that present themselves. Who knows? Maybe I will fulfill my genetic predisposition and go another forty years. Time will continue, and all of this will eventually be meaningless.

 

 

 

 

The life of this author

When I was working on my first book, my wife made a T shirt for me. On the front is a quill, on the back “Writer at work” is written in red letters. Being married to a graphic artist is filled with such things. I wear the shirt when I am not writing, attempting to share the idea that a large part of writing takes place away from the keyboard. As I think about it, a large part of my time at the keyboard is not putting words together, but doing research and confirming sources.

Some of my best poetry came to me when I was mowing the lawn. Complex plots occur while I’m in the shower. Watching the network news or a cardinal in the garden have similar, often annoying, results (Rascal sets the birds into warning mode), as my blood pressure rises and my mind clears. Noticing the ironies and inconsistencies in society are hard things to miss, my problems stem from realizing that there is no cure, I survive by knowing there isn’t supposed to be.

My full time job is “House husband”, one of my more enjoyable vocations. I’m not a huge fan of the vacuum cleaner, but I actually enjoy doing the laundry, and cooking is pure joy (The other day I made falafel stuffed peppers, and falafel patties with guacamole for dinner, and banana bread). Shopping is dangerous, I always want to try new recipes or ingredients, usually successfully, always a learning experience. Caring for the cats is interesting, their microcosm of society always a curious blend of passive aggressive behaviors.

I spend my days wondering how people can be so mean to each other. Maybe not so much how as why. I know how. I’ve known people who couldn’t learn from their own mistakes, usually because they can’t admit to their own mistakes. I used to think such people were stupid, or masochists. Now it occurs to me that such people are the catalysts for the rest of us to do better. I no longer pity the wankers, I’m thankful for them.

When my grandfather was very young, shotgun shells used black powder, prior to the popular use of smokeless powder, or “cordite”. As kids, they would open shotgun shells, place the powder in their hand, and ignite it. The powder would flash, like an old time camera flash. Black powder essentially explodes, leaving little residue. When the first kid with a cordite shell tried igniting the powder, it just burned. Right into the kid’s hand. My grandfather said other kids tried it (I suspect not too many), but seeing the first one was enough for him. He would tell that story when talking about learning from your own mistakes. He had gone one better, learning from other people’s mistakes.

There are some people, however, who learn from their mistakes, but what they learn is the wrong lesson. Every new technology manages to be turned into a weapon, positive ideas are used to mask evil, pain motivates as much if not more than love. So we just have to speak louder. I honestly believe there are more of us than them, so why allow them any time in the spotlight?

So I’ve spent much of my life learning. That’s what a writer does. I made plenty of mistakes of my own, and I spent a lot of time listening and reading. I assembled a huge inventory of stories, with a lesson inside each. I’ve tried to guide others with the lessons within their own lives. When someone asked the other night “How long have you been writing?”, I said “Three years”. In reality, I’ve always been writing.