The art of surrender

Surrender has gotten a bad name, mostly because people misuse it grammatically. Try this:

Find a comfortable place to sit, with the lights turned down low. Close your eyes. Think of everything that irritates you, intimidates you, even infuriates you. Bring it all clearly to mind. Visualize it as sharply as you can. Then, surrender.

Not to anyone or anything. Don’t surrender to your enemies, or to your friends. Not to your thoughts or fears, your desires or misgivings.  Don’t surrender to life, the universe, fate, or Jesus. That’s the intransitive use of the word. Surrender transitively.

Surrender your resistance, to life, to pain, to joy, to temptation, to yourself. Just let go. You will find a stubbornness; surrender that, too. You will find skepticism and credulity; let them both go.

You might think that by surrendering resistance to, say, temptation, you will be giving in to it. Instead, if you really surrender, you’re more likely to find any particular temptation suddenly less appealing. You might find that the pain you’ve been resisting vanishes.

Try it. Then keep trying it.

ithink therefore iam

I see lower case i being used for the personal pronoun more and more frequently these days. I suggest that, rather than railing against this usage, we could take it at face value. Mathematically, it stands for √(-1) which is an irrational number, since any number multiplied by itself must always be positive. Nevertheless, it can be mathematically useful at times, and so too in ordinary discourse. Lower case i, when used as the personal pronoun, can be interpreted as an indication of the person using it self-identifying as irrational. This can save a lot of misunderstanding, and obviate the need for a rational response to any statement made subsequently.

This usage can also help enrich our understanding of various words in the English language, such as icon, idolatry, and idleness, or, indeed, enhance our appreciation of technology, in the case of any device made by the Apple Corporation. That this last would be ironic is itself the ultimate irony, receding into infinite regress.

It can even be a handy prefix for anything irrational: icontact, ipinion, or indeed, the word irrational itself.

i think this makes sense. Do u?

C

I don’t get it. C, that is. The speed of light.

I get that it’s supposed to be constant, and I get that the idea enables us to have GPS and all kinds of other wonderments, and I don’t even wonder why, since the universe gets to have any rules it wants, as far as I’m concerned. I just don’t get what it means that the speed of light is constant. Not light itself, mind you, but its speed. An attribute trumps the thing it’s attached to.

When you’re talking about speed, the first question that pops up is, relative to what? With light, it doesn’t matter, it’s the same regardless of what it’s measured against. If I’m standing still, and you’re moving, we will still get the same reading on our cosmic radar guns. As if that weren’t enough boggle for one topic, yours would arrive a little bluer or redder than mine, because, of course, the frequency, which I would have thought had some relation to speed, is not constant.

What exactly was Einstein on about when he was talking about the speed of light? Clearly, velocity, almost by definition, is what relates time to space, so I get why it should have a central place in a theory that regards space-time as a continuum. But velocity is an attribute, dammit! It has no existence outside of the thing it is a characteristic of. How can it possibly be the root phenomenon of reality as we know it?

Then again, I still don’t understand airline pricing, so maybe such things are just beyond my grasp.

À la recherche du temps déplacé: memory as myth

In the intro to my recent post about the death of Bill Vukovich and its effect on me as a child, I lamented my mistaken memories, and how I had conflated distinct events. That made me consider how that could happen; after all, we should be able to remember things we have experienced in their right sequence, shouldn’t we?

Actually, no.  Eye-witness accounts of even fairly recent events are notoriously unreliable, and the situation doesn’t improve with the added distance of time.  Complicate this with identity issues, and it isn’t so surprising.  But how, I asked myself; what is the mechanism?  The answer, I believe, lies in the way we construct our past, that is, our identity.

Time, we imagine, proceeds according to the strict logic of causation.  Events follow one another relentlessly in a sequence.  Whether this is so is not relevant here; it’s how we’ve been trained to see things.  But we file the events of our own past in terms of epochs rather than linear chronologies.  I was a boy, a teenager, a young man, etc.  We know which things can be assigned to which epochs of our past, but the internal ordering of these things remains murky.  To make matters worse, these categories themselves remain fluid, constructing and deconstructing according to our needs.  Not only do specific events swirl around within these contexts, but physical events are thrown together with emotional events, and when we call on our memories to arrange specific occurances in their proper relationship to one another, we do so according to the logic of compatibility rather than chronology.  Thus, the separate events of a racing death and the loss of a friend got pulled out of the soup together, since both occurred in the same epoch, and had similar emotional consequences.

I’m tempted to think that this is the same tendency that leads historians to construct eras in history, rather than being satisfied with chronology.  The truth is I don’t even know whether it’s accurate for personal histories.

What do you think?

Apocalypse how?

The guy down the street is talking about militias.  He sees the signs of the coming anarchy everywhere.  Especially, I’m thinking, on Fox News.  But even without Fox’s fear mongering, it would be easy to become discouraged about the future of the world.  Every day, the inescapable images of Jihad bombard us, new school shootings, carried out or just threatened, besiege us, and random acts of carnage seem to surround us.  The moral fabric of humanity appears threadbare, on the verge of ripping apart.

It has happened before.  I’ve just been reading Barbara Tuchman’s remarkable study of the 14th century, A Distant Mirror.  A combination of the Black Death, which wiped out as much as 40% of the population of Europe, and endemic corruption in the Church and aristocracy, made people despair of anything good coming of the human race.  They were convinced that, somehow, they had so revolted God that he resorted to torturing them willy-nilly, without regard for who was righteous and who was not. It was not God, of course, but themselves to blame, but in a way, that just makes it worse.  In comparison with those troubled times, ISIS seems just a dim reflection.

But we were beyond all that barbarism, weren’t we?  Or, at least, we thought we were.  Taking a realistic look back at the 20th century, the standard by which we seem to be measuring the 21st, maybe not.  The two world wars alone accounted for nearly 70 million official deaths, and who knows how many more were missed by the official tallies.  Stalin was reportedly responsible for 50 million deaths all by himself.  Add all the sideshows, and you might add half again as many.  We forget the brutality of the Khmer Rouge, I suspect, mostly because they didn’t behead Europeans and Americans on TV.

All of that notwithstanding, as Stephen Pinker demonstrates in his book The Better Angels of our Nature, the world is less violent now than at any point in our history.  Yet you wouldn’t know it from the daily news, and therein lies the answer.  A combination of our all-news-all-the-time media and direct threats made from distant places by religious fanatics creates the impression of impending doom; reality is undoubtedly not as horrendous as it seems.

But don’t take that deep breath just yet.  The other day, I noticed my internet connection having trouble, and a couple of IOT things had to be reprogrammed.  It happened that this coincided with a rather lusty blast of solar radiation.  A few years ago, a stronger one messed with GPS and caused all kinds of problems, but the worst instance was in 1859, something called the Carrington event.  Telegraph wires were so electrified that the service was completely shut down; one operator was reportedly killed by a surge coming down the line.  People could read, it was said, by the light of unusually bright Northern Lights.

More troubling from our standpoint was solar storm that occurred in March of 1989.  That one fried the electrical grid of Quebec and caused a massive blackout, and it was a fraction of the estimated strength of the Carrington event.  It is a certainty that something of the intensity of 1859 will happen again, sooner or later.  It’s probable that even stronger solar storms have occurred before the world was wired, and they could very well return with a vengeance now that we’re virtually (pun intended) dependent on little electrons behaving the way we want them to.  In short, it is possible that not only could our electrical grid get fried, but all of the data we have stored magnetically could be erased permanently.  Computers, which now inhabit everything from nuclear weapons to cars to toasters would be, well, toast.  I leave the full consequences to your imagination.

On the bright side, however, we will probably be done in by climate change long before any of that happens.  Cheer up!