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Category: Big Picture

Fatalism (or is it?)
To all you kids
With such a bright future
If I were you
I wouldn’t be too sure

Oh, your destiny might be
Completely okay
But whatever happens
You won’t have a say

You can’t make a difference
It’s just c’est la vie
Que será, será
Your will isn’t free

Now this doesn’t mean
That you shouldn’t try
To do the right thing
Or reach for the sky

Yes, give it your all
Your very best shot
Just don’t expect
For it to mean squat

Kismet is in charge
And Fate wrote the book
But think of it this way
You’re now off the hook

So get on with life
And never look back
Or up ahead, either
It won’t count for jack
Root Causes
It has been reported that the recent Super Bowl was the most-watched TV show in U.S. history. More than 114 million people tuned in. I confess that I was one of them.

Why “confess”? Well, I don’t care about the Super Bowl ads. I don’t care about the Super Bowl half-time show. Unless the Forty Niners are in it, I don’t really care that much about the game. Indeed, despite the increasing popularity of football, I find myself caring less and less about the sport itself.

I do like the whole nationwide party thing, but we could find any excuse to do that. So why do I watch? Good question. I’m afraid that finding the answer took me on a tour of some of the darkest regions of my psyche. While there, I came face to face with my own brutal nature.

That was disturbing, of course, but not particularly shocking. I’ve learned to coexist with my own brutality. I watch Game of Thrones, after all, and find deep satisfaction in the brutal deaths of the bad guys on that show. The brutality of football will, no doubt, eventually kill off the sport, but it’s not enough to keep me from watching. No, there is a much more insidious force at work in my soul, one that has caused me to re-examine my rooting practices in all sports.

Call it my lust for schadenfreude. I can’t deny that it’s there inside me, just as it is with the villains in Game of Thrones. It is, in fact, one of the very reasons I want those villains to be brutally slain — because they find pleasure in the misfortunes of others. I feel schadenfreude, you see, when people who feel schadenfreude are harmed. That’s the kind of circular emotional logic that resides in the dark regions of my psyche, and it puts me on a path of self-loathing that might, if I’m not careful, lead to feeling schadenfreude over my own misfortunes. Does that sound crazy? Well, yeah!

Fortunately, I have found a ray of hope amidst this gloom. At the end of the Super Bowl this year, there was a play that will become the most remembered event in a memorable game. It will live on, I think, as the most boneheaded instance of hubris in football history. The Seahawks were on the verge of one of the wildest, most heroic last-minute comebacks in any Super Bowl. With twenty seconds left, with the ball on the one-yard line, and with three downs to get the rock into the end zone, coach Pete Carroll inexplicably called for a tricky little pass instead of sending Marshawn “Beast Mode” Lynch up the gut. Catastrophe! The ball was intercepted by the Patriots, and the game was over.

Now, I have never met Pete Carroll. I can offer no real evidence that he is a bad person. Even so, I seem to dislike him. I know this because I felt a rush of schadenfreude at his self-inflicted humiliation. I am certain that this emotion is a byproduct of my insistence on making things personal when it comes to archrivals. The Seahawks are the blood enemies of the Forty Niners, so it’s easy to dislike their coach. There are other factors involved as well — an adversary’s coaching style can play into it, as well as his clothing choices, hairdo, and the way he holds his mouth. Let’s just say that Pete got bad marks in every category. He needed this misfortune to befall him, according to my rules of rooting.

That is a sad commentary on me, to be sure, but then came that ray of hope. Mixed with my schadenfreude, I detected another feeling: pity. When the enormity of Pete Carroll’s gaffe hit me — this was an ugliness that would cling to him the rest of his days — I felt sorry for the poor guy. I’m sure that pity isn’t the emotion he might want me to feel, but at least it’s not evil. Maybe I’m not such a bad person after all. At least I’m not dancing on his grave.

Of course, I’m not putting flowers on it, either. Go Niners.
A Buddhist friend of mine once gave me some useful advice about killing. “It’s not so much the killing,” he said, “but what you’re feeling when you do it.” You can’t really decide what your feelings will be, of course, but they are reliable barometers of your level of enlightenment. That was my take on what he said, anyway, though I’m never sure about this kind of stuff.

I want to make clear, for the record, that I have never killed anyone, I don’t want to kill anyone, and I hope that I never do kill anyone. On the other hand, I am not one of those people who would never hurt a fly. In fact, I’ve hurt plenty of flies. I’ve also got the deaths of rats, mice, gophers, mosquitoes and many, many other species of insect on my rap sheet.

My friend the Buddhist didn’t elaborate about which emotions I should be concerned about. I assume that taking pleasure in killing, for example, would be a red flag. But what about annoyance, anger, rage? Again, I am uncertain.

Right now, at the end of summer, the issue of killing is coming up more and more. I have killed four flies in the last week — with my bare hands. Well, that’s not precisely correct, now that I think of it. Three of them were dispatched with a rolled-up newspaper. The other was flicked with a fingernail, however, and I think that qualifies as bare-handed killing. Since the flies around here are coming to the end of their lives right now, they tend to be big…and slow. They are also at their most annoying. They are easier to kill, then, at the very time that they seem to be asking for it the most. It’s at times like these that I fear for my own enlightenment.

I should say here that I am not a Buddhist myself. I don’t believe, as some Buddhists do, in reincarnation, so I’m not trying to upgrade the status of my next life. I’m not a Christian, either, so I’m not trying to be good so I can get into heaven. As far as I can tell from where I sit, there is no next life of any kind. If I have any religion at all, it would be about trying to do right. Or maybe trying to try. Something like that, anyway. It’s hard to be sure when you’re making it up as you go along.

So far, my made-up religion includes trying to be someone I could be proud of —someone, for instance, who doesn’t kill thoughtlessly or with cruelty. But then, what if pride itself is one of those red-flag feelings my friend talked about? I confess that when I finger-flicked that fly last week, I did feel a surge of pride in my killing skill. I’m not sure, but that doesn’t feel like a positive indicator for my level of enlightenment.

I like to think that all this uncertainty is actually a strength of my made-up religion. It makes me think twice before acting, and that’s usually a good thing — as long as it doesn’t stop me from doing what I have to do. Those flies carry disease. They are unwelcome intruders in my home. I have to act.

So I will kill them if I can, but I will try to do it in the most enlightened way possible. More likely, however, it will be because they were asking for it.
Black holes! They are among the scariest things in the universe, but as long as you don’t get your spacesuited butt on the wrong side of their event horizon, there’s no reason to let their presence in our galaxy upset your day-to-day life. You will probably not be stretched into a pink string then slammed into a space (approximately) eight billion times too small for you to fit in. So please, stop worrying.

Instead, why not think about white holes? Yes, white holes — with this crazy universe, it’s always something.

Readers of this blog will know that I am something of an expert when it comes to subatomic physics. And by “something of an expert” I mean that I have only the loosest grasp of its basic principles. Fortunately, it’s a free country, so let’s talk loops. These teeny-tiny things are at the very center of this business about white holes. We have Dr. Carlo Rovelli of Aix-Marseille University and his theory of loop quantum gravity to thank for that. He says that the plucky unsquashability of these loops (which are a lot like the memory foam in your Serta Perfect Sleeper) keeps a black hole from collapsing beyond a certain point. Not only that, they would provide a “quantum bounce” that would fling the matter back the way it came — out the black hole and into open space.

Since the effect is roughly the opposite of a black hole, they’re calling this explosive event a “white hole.” (I would have preferred “the universe yodeling groceries,” but the scientific community is notoriously prissy in their naming practices.) It has even been suggested that our Big Bang could have been a mega white hole that spewed the contents of a black hole so big that it had swallowed Everything That There Was.

I find this theory, despite its reliance on cosmic regurgitation, to be very comforting. For one thing, it tends to confirm my own Pulsating Nodes Theory of time and space and everything else (which has never received the attention it deserves). But more importantly, the loop quantum gravity construct seems to indicate that there are limits to how small things can be. Those little sub-subatomic loops are as teensy as it gets, and still they’re resilient enough to repel the impossibly huge weight of a collapsing star — or even of an entire universe! Kinda gives you hope, you know?

Of course, the theory also says that time is an illusion and death can be cheated, even if you’ve somehow gotten yourself stretched into that piece of pink string. That’s a little hard to swallow, even if you’re a black hole.
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No "new normal" for me, this shit ain't normal.
~ MS, Truckee