Pretend

hope at last arrives, packaged
to be consumed in markets
down in the middle, aisle 3
just enough above the floor
to be eye level with kids,
moms, dads not beyond reach
of those laser scanning guns

in aisle 7 plain spoken plastic
guns sporting GI Joes boxed
in sets tied with strings hanging
clear over the edge, a flat world
ripe as the harvest in produce

and mommies bing bang their carts
vigilantly positioned for the best
their jiggly-wheeled carts might find
like a huntress stalking the wild
drug-creamed forest of goods:
pressed fish formed treats pleasing
even to tight tucked tummies, eyes
and other common singularities
where light no longer can escape

except a warm home bathed
in aluminum tv light; heads
droning like drills into bone --
that uniform background noise
subtle as completely surrounded
might feel on a family holiday

the dog sniffed and fetched his ball, now
questions like the blank stare of trust
what invisible hand secures his bowl
that might stroke him into sleep

no matter – the plot surrounds the house
bordered by dad's strong piss with shouts
from mom, encouraging her man ape
who dreams through whispers of tunnels
reaching in his chest like a touch that pulls
a memory of joy fanned out in surrender

yet, held hard with knuckles
close as sports sorting winners
solely from winners: a cool panic
gripped secretly strained, weak
in a traitorous heart that gives

Who’s Your Daddy?

Galileo was the first “true” or modern scientist. It’s common wisdom. He was the first person to confirm his ideas through verifiable, physical observation and experimentation. I hear this all the time, even from “modern” scientists. I suppose that means, the still alive ones. Modern scientists tend to get caught up in what they know.

Maybe that’s why they forgot Erastothenes, who lived almost 2,000 years before Galileo was born. Erastothenes was a mathematician and a poet. A librarian, too. And an athlete. If he were modern, I’m certain he’d wear those small, barely-visible glasses above a chiseled, athletic jaw. Well, he did go blind eventually…

Erastothenes was the head librarian at The Great Library of Alexandria, perhaps the world’s first pure research institution. The Library was charged, by royal decree, with the modest task of gathering all the world’s knowledge. Over the few hundred years it survived the destructive consequences of war, Alexandria became a magnet for scholars of the ancient world. They flocked to this magnificent institution of knowledge, research and peer discourse and were even provided living accommodations.

Erastothenes had access to an enormous wealth of knowledge, both written on scrolls and through lively chatter amongst the inhabitants of Alexandria. One semi-famous account finds Erastothenes coming across a scroll which described how shadows fell in the city of Syene upon the summer solstice. Or, rather, how they didn’t fall. With clever insight, he hired a man to painstakingly measure the distance between Syene and Alexandria. Then, by using the geometry of shadows cast in Syene and Alexandria at the same time of day, combined with the distance between Syene and Alexandria, Erastothenes proved, through scientific observation and experimentation not only that the world was round; he also managed to compute the circumference of the Earth with astonishing accuracy.

I’m not exactly certain why “modern” scientists believe Galileo was the first modern scientist. Maybe it has something to do with the thousand or so years of intellectual darkness that fell upon us after the destruction of Alexandria and the ongoing pursuit of war in the Roman Empire.. Or maybe Galileo is the first modern scientist because he used a tool, such as a telescope, instead of just a ruler and a shadow like Erastothenes. Perhaps this demonstrates one of the fundamental differences between philosophers and scientists: perhaps Galileo was the first modern scientist because he is not considered a philosopher. The trouble is, he was. And Erastothenes used math to determine things about observations, and made predictions. Even Pythagoras applied geometry to the vibrations of strings, hundreds of years before Erastothenes. Maybe Galileo was the first modern scientist because he railed against the social power structures of his day, at great personal cost. No? Well, he did take advantage of his position to sell “his” telescope invention for military purposes, shutting out a competitor. Ok. Now we have it. Galileo is the father of modern science.

That’s not really fair, though. Today, nearly all leading edge physics and cosmology is done more in mathematics than experimentation and observation. Newton’s our guy, here. After all, he pretty much invented “the calculus”, not to mention our laws of gravity. He’s certainly the grandaddy of all theoretical physicists. Interestingly, he wrote more on religion than he did on science. Obsessively so. He also studied alchemy. Eventually he took over the job of making coins for the British Empire, entrapping counterfeiters, and personally seeing to their prosecution and hanging. Alright, I can see why scientists wouldn’t want this nutter, however brilliant, being the poster boy for “modern” science.

His use of higher-order mathematics was a staggering revolution in science, nonetheless. We long knew that math could be applied to the observed physical world, but calculus was cooking with gas. It had all the bells and whistles, and you didn’t even need to get your hands dirty or waste any time mucking about with experiments and contraptions. And somewhere along our path to modernity, the metaphysics of mathematics seems to have shed most of its “meta” qualities. Reassuringly, mathematicians recognized this trend and a slight schism ensued, resulting in a new branch of mathematics called “applied” mathematics. It’s a very special bridge, between the physical and the metaphysical. It makes things go.

And from here, we have a multitude of scientists exploring and defining the mechanics of existence, getting far out ahead of themselves, where science might, hopefully, some day, find ways to test through old-fashioned experimental validation. Our best tests for theories rest in the aesthetic of a beautiful math snippet. Elaborate, intricate and towering structures are built with metaphysical instruments, and even more is built upon those if they appear aesthetically pleasing enough to prevailing trends or factions. It’s a frantic obsession within the metaphysical, worthy of Newton in his most manic conditions, deep in the isolated darkness, lost in the magic of alchemical experiments.

But we do get experimental results occasionally, as experimental scientists laboriously claw their way toward the math, concocting physical instruments that might show us what we do, or do not expect. And since there are an infinite number of numbers between 0 and 1, hope remains.

The tensions between philosophy and science are interesting ones. Scientists have a tendency to discount philosophers, while at the same time employing philosophical reasoning to their work. I imagine philosophers appear somewhat willy-nilly in their sensibilities since their sensibilities are not absolutely dependent upon science. And in a universe where scientists wrestle with the notion of free will in a potentially mathematically determinate wad of body and brain particles, I imagine it is no surprise that a good song might be all the more appreciated at the end of the day.

Undetached

I recommend living in the house you grew up in, at least for a while. Long forgotten memories have a peculiar way of surfacing. They’re not always photo album keepsakes, either. Sometimes they roar in from the past, binding themselves, somehow, to your present life. Not at all disjointed. Your past, a little like a story that speaks, loud and yet subtly, to your present situation.

Zen masters, gurus and CEO’s all would say that’s bad: the past is weighty baggage from which you must find freedom. In their view, the past is not who you are, now. Others, of a more academic persuasion, claim that a past unexamined is a past that forever shapes your destiny, while you remain an unwitting participant. Once again, you’ll find me straddling the fence. Possibly because it feels good, but mostly because I can’t help it.

The town I grew up in has grown a lot, itself. Tim, a close friend from high school, left for the West Point Military Academy. I had a dream last night. It began where I first went to college, in Bellingham. Nils and Matt stood with me, looking up a deep green mountain. There were two paths up it. One was a street, the other a trail. We never decided.

I was then at a busy intersection, 5 lanes wide, in my home town, during rush hour, packed with cars. Tim and I were walking. He was pushing a bike. I saw my wallet, made of black leather, bulging thick with stuff, laying in the middle of the packed 5-lane road, cars zooming by, knocking it around. It had money, credit cards, identification, and was bloated with important receipts. I wanted to leave it and go on. Tim wouldn’t hear of it.

I thought I could walk out, and the cars might stop. Or, I could wait a very long time until some break might just happen, and I could safely retrieve it. Tim was always impatient, so I walked out. The cars never stopped or even slowed — they just swerved, treacherously. Tim stood out there with me. I forgot what I was doing, being amazed by the powerful flow sucking at my limbs from every side. He handed me my wallet. He told me I did good. And I thanked him.

When Tim left for West Point, I couldn’t follow. I gave him my saxophone to take with him. I got it back a few years later from his parents. He was off doing military things. I gave away my saxophone one other time, a few years later again, to Tabetha, an artist, who also had to move away.

But that wasn’t part of the dream. A path, still, has not been chosen. There are so many people, in so many cars. They swerve, get flats, gas up, and carry on. And in the rear view mirror, maybe a reflection when changing lanes. A signal to others, out of courtesy, during positioning.

This is rather more like smoke signals. Or heads on a totem. A chanting medicine man, uninvited yet undeniable. A message through the past, informing the present. In a dream.

Where today, lillies have bloomed, after thunder and rain. And the dog sits, panting, muddy-pawed, lapping at milk.

The Pretty Knit Job and a Sledge Hammer

It is not always easy remembering what we know, or don’t know. Even in science. Sometimes just one new decision or assumption causes all our problems to seemingly vanish in a glorious wave of insight; profound in its simplicity and all the more plausible because of that simplicity. How can something so elegantly simple, so seemingly obvious, that fits so perfectly, be anything but true?

It seems inherent within our nature that aesthetics lends itself to trust and belief. We like simple things — beautiful things. We like easy, convenient things. What is aesthetically appealing to us often carries greater weight, even in terms of knowledge, than what might actually be. It is a strong temptation to embrace that which is beautiful and easily available. And, much like the company we keep, over time we may become blind to the perspectives we once inhabited, having shed them in increments along an aesthetic trail that may, or may not, represent an actual, or real, situation.

In other words, though it can often be prudent to follow the aesthetic, aesthetics alone do not determine actuality. Aesthetics can be a short-hand; conveniently embraced, which can just as easily obscure a more fundamental and meaningful issue. An issue that, perhaps, is messy-er (not to be confused with Messier). And when aesthetic determinations build upon other aesthetic determinations it is more than just conceivable that error results. And these types of errors can be excruciatingly difficult to find your way back from. An aesthetic foundation can often support an incredibly elaborate, hefty and lofty structure, but this building method is constantly in peril of collapse, with much effort and resources lost.

I was reminded of this two days ago, in a few different ways, when talking with a man at a store. He liked how the full moon was so much larger when it was low on the horizon. After wrestling with myself over aesthetics for a moment, I asked him if he knew this was really an optical illusion, and that the moon wasn’t any bigger when it was lower on the horizon. He answered that he knew the moon wasn’t really bigger, but that the earth’s atmosphere acted like a lens, magnifying it so that it looked bigger, and that’s what he liked.

Looking at him, and wrestling a little more with aesthetics, I told him, that was an answer I knew was out there, and many people believe it, but it isn’t true. The moon only looks bigger when it is next to objects on the Earth and you can see its relative size. If you were to hold a ruler out and measure it on the horizon or straight up in the air, you would find it is the same size.

In him, the large, romantic moon, rising on the horizon, had given way to a “scientific” explanation of atmospheric lensing. Now, without measuring for himself, his scientific explanation is proven erroneous, being replaced by another. I did, at least, offer that optical illusions seemed far more romantic to me than lensing effects. But it didn’t matter. Something had crumbled and a pissing match ensued. He asked me if I knew that the moon orbits the Earth because the Earth warps the space around it. I answered that I had heard something to that effect.

Then I might have cheated: I asked him if Earth is warping space, then what exactly is getting warped? He looked at me like I was an idiot. Space is getting warped, he answered. Yes, but what is Space, to be warped? Space is nothing — it’s the empty space that everything in the universe is floating around in. Well, how can something that’s nothing get warped? I asked. I don’t know, he said. And with that, he was a bigger man than many. I don’t know what space is either. And nobody does.

Regardless of this inconvenience, much science has been done about the universe, and with some spectacular results. The largest body of Einstein’s work dealt with the nature of space, or space-time, and how things behaved within it — but without being able to say what space actually was. This is, in many ways, a problem similar to Newton’s laws of gravity, which predicts a good many things that have withstood the tests of time. But strangely, Newton had no idea what gravity was. Instead, he was happy enough to predict gravity’s effects on things. Much the same can be said about Einstein and space — and gravity, too. Yes, we have no idea what space is, nor do we have any idea what gravity is. We’re just happy we can predict some things within it. Well, that’s not entirely true. We have some ideas. Some are aesthetically pleasing. Some are not. I leave it to you to imagine what the majority of our modern science is based upon.

It was a very long time ago that we humans began imagining that the substance of all matter around us might be made of smaller things that we could not see. The Greek philosopher Leucippus (through his student Democritus) suggested something called atoms exist which are very tiny, invisible components that give all the matter we see its properties by their arrangement. Even the soul was made of atoms, which were a little like fire, that float out and around while our body atoms followed along. I imagine he was dreamy. Atoms were mathematical: geometric — round or sharp or square, depending on what they made. For example, water was made of rounder geometric shapes, while stone had more solidly square atoms.

The Greek word atomos means uncuttable. That is, if you started slicing away at something, you can only divide it so far before you cannot cut it any smaller. It is there you reach the indivisible atom. Another peculiarity within this ancient idea is the concept of a vacuum. What this vacuum was, was a matter for debate. As it still is. Some held that a vacuum was nothingness. Others held that a vacuum was not nothingness, but was instead a vacuum, devoid of stuff. Aristotle, being a natural philosopher, just threw up his hands and said “nature abhors a vacuum”.

The believers in atomism needed a vacuum. The vacuum was the empty space in which atoms could move about. We had two main concepts: a vacuum, and atoms. This sounds familiar. Aristotle said this was wrong, mainly because atoms in a vacuum could move without any hindrance, and therefore at infinite speeds, which was counterintuitive. The aesthetic of Aristotle prevailed and it was well over 1,000 years before we returned to the notion of atoms and found it valid. And shortly, relatively speaking, after doing so, we discovered that these uncuttable particles were, in fact, made of other things, namely electrons, protons and neutrons.

To a naturalist like Aristotle, if he were still alive, this was troubling. If we are composed of all these atoms, and they are what is real, what about the aggregate of these atoms — our minds and bodies? Are they unreal? Are we unreal? Most modern philosophers have come to terms with the implications of atomism through mechanisms akin to plurality, where atoms can be fine and real, while what they make, like a tree, or us, are equally fine and real. Yes, it does soothe our aesthetic sensibilities, allowing us to re-focus back upon the atomic.

But then we discover that even protons, neutrons and electrons are not what they seem to be. By smashing them together really hard while we watch, we can see other things flying out from the debris. This leads us into the realm of the quanta, which, like atoms, we also claim are indivisible. The quantum realm operates down at the unimaginably small Planck length. I’m not certain if using the width of the human hair comparison is useful for us to get an idea of these relative sizes, but if we looked at how many Planck distances there are in a human hair, and stacked that many hairs side by side, we would have a table full of hair that stretched approximately 20 billion light years across space. That’s a lot of hair, and would span a good chunk of the entire universe.

So as you might imagine, the Planck length is quite small. However, the warping of space by objects with mass happens on a much larger scale. We assume that the Planck length is within or comprises space, however small it is. But, if gravity is the warping of space, how do you warp something at that small, immutable quantum level? Well, apparently you can’t. Instead, you must say that another particle exists down there, and we’ll call that particle a graviton. And this particle “communicates” gravity between other particles with mass, which somehow warps whatever space happens to be, only on larger scales.

Another troublesome aspect we face is this concept of mass. What is it? Well, we know what mass is, because we’ve defined it. In several different ways. For example, you can say that mass is measured by how strong a gravitational field is produced from it. Or, in a more classical sense, you can talk about how resistant a thing is to a change in its motion. But some particles have no mass. These are often the speedy ones. Like light. But if light has no mass, how can gravity change its course, as demonstrated again and again? Well, ask Einstein and you will see that gravity does not effect this mass-less light — instead gravity warps space, which in turn changes the path that light must travel. So again, it’s just an optical illusion of sorts, that gravity bends light. Really, it’s space itself that is bent, and light is traveling in a sensibly straight line, unaffected by gravity. The tiny quantum realm has no such definitive reasoning, however. But they are working on defining what quantum gravity might be. One of the biggest problems they face leads us back to our original question: what is space? Well, the answer depends upon who you ask. And they may change their minds at any moment. Interestingly, I don’t think you’ll find anyone who is willing to say they don’t know.

It is all well and good, if you want to make predictions, to say that space and time are analogous to a big sheet that gets warped by things put upon it. It is another thing altogether, when working at the tiny quantum scale. What is this sheet? How is it made, and the fabric, threads and strings all hooked together? Traditional quantum field theory cheats a bit, perhaps, as does string theory. They locked themselves, for the most part, into a given space-time plane. As such, these perspective really can’t say much about the actual structure of space-time, because space-time is an aesthetic-like thang built into the foundation. It is only when you venture into background-independent theories, like loop quantum gravity, that you really have any chance to determine the structure or nature of space itself.

So maybe once we figure out what space is made of, we might be able to explain how quanta, like gravitons, can seemingly “warp” space on a larger scale. In that case, I am left wondering, do the gravitons then communicate gravity between objects, or only to this space substance, whatever it is, between those objects?

It may well turn out that space (and matter) is actually a vast network of tiny, discreet “containers” at the Planck lengths that hold semi-indeterminate and probabilistic information. Much like a professor’s chalk scribbling an equation on a blackboard, or memory addresses accessed by a computer program. These “containers” can change their quantum arrangements or states only in increments of Planck time, which you would be correct in imagining is a very tiny, also irreducible, chunk of time.

If this is the case then everything in the universe truly is interconnected, and we inhabit, in our most fundamental components, a few globs within a vast network far beyond ourselves. Loop quantum gravity is most interesting, at least to me, in that space and time are derived qualities of the theory, and so the theory itself exists independent of space and time. Perhaps this can help explain observed anomalies such as quantum entanglement, where objects can effect one another, regardless of their distance apart, instantaneously.

But loop quantum gravity makes some aesthetic assumptions, too, as surely as string theory does. Oh, and they love to bicker. Generally, string theorists accuse loop quantum gravity (LQG) people of being old-fashioned (where quantum particles must be incorporated into the theory by hand instead of predicting them), while LQG people accuse string theorists of making wild assumptions (such as a flat, fixed space-time which is not even relativistic, or the addition of 7 or so extra dimensions that we cannot observe).

But that isn’t the beginning, nor the end of their problems. Despite all the complexity, the mathematical beauty, and verifiable predictions emerging from quantum mechanics, there are still more assumptions. Going back to this notion of mass — what gives something mass? We can say that particles or groups of particles have mass, but what is it about those particles that cause them to spontaneously “create” a gravitational field, or resist change in their momentum? Well, much like, “it must be a graviton”, we have, “it must be a Higgs boson”.

Now this, at least, we might be able to test when Europe’s Large Hadron Collider comes online shortly. The collider will allow us to smash things together harder than we ever have before. Those particles will blow up real good! As an aside, it is far from certain that the LHC is powerful enough to reveal Higgs boson if they exist. However, there is little doubt that the US Superconducting Supercollider would have been powerful enough. Unfortunately, that project was canceled years ago when the cost estimate reached $12 billion. And that cost isn’t even a month’s worth of war.

This “Higgs field” supposedly permeates all of space as a quantum fluid and carries various quantum information. Discovery of the Higgs boson will apparently confirm that this Higgs syrup exists, and that certain subatomic particles get bogged down by it, resulting in what we call mass for them. If this proves to be the case, then the particle physicist’s Standard Model will get a big crowing gold star, since the Higgs is the last particle yet to be observed.

I didn’t say any of this to the guy at the store, though. I saved it for you. I just told him that I didn’t know what space was, either. I suppose I could have written here, “I don’t know!”. Instead, I thought I would share some of the neurosis going on, in case you might be curious, and didn’t already know or suspect.

There are many people who claim that our scientific approach to understanding existence will always result in an infinite regress. That is, our definitions, knowledge and current understanding used to formulate our questions, will always lead to us having to redefine them after we achieve our result. I would say these people are probably right. But that is, by no means, a reason to abandon a scientific approach. To my mind, all knowledge is good, even if it is somewhat askew or sends us down rabbit holes — as long as we were trying, in good faith.

We must ask questions, of everything, as surely as we must take our time to enjoy our simple existence along the way. Scientific inquiry, and even mathematical models, are ways we can ask questions and discover things with some reasonably definitive results. However, I am not entirely convinced that all valid answers come through science alone, or ever will. It is adorable watching so many scientists behaving like philosophers. And at least the Philosophy of Science offers some employment opportunities for modern philosophers.

And in our keen information age, we can sit back and watch the discourse and discoveries unfold. We can even have little mini-debates at the local supermarket. Ah, it’s good to part of the Empire. Well, except for the burdensome Philosophy of Ethics. I just thought I would un-bog myself from it for a few moments, so that I might share our better selves. Our selves that deserve our greatest attention and support. Those selves that want to do better for all of humanity. Just because. Or, if you must, because it’s aesthetically pleasing.