The Unanswerable Question, and the Unquestionable Answer

For any philosopher, religious person, or someone with an active curiosity, problem questions are bound to come up. Things like “who are we?” “What is the meaning of life?” and “What is the meaning of thinking about the meaning of life?” Often such ideas are posed to the reader in writing, as if we are to assume that the author has all the answers. After reading one’s fair share of books and articles, it becomes obvious that every writer who asks such questions always employs some tactic to escape from answering them. No one ever has the ultimate answer. True they can speculate, coming up with things like “Death is just mother Earth calling us home again,” but have you honestly ever read such a piece and walked away thinking, “I now know what no one else can know”? No! We the readers, the learners, the listeners are always promised something we can’t have. Still, every time a scholar poses an unanswerable question, a part of me wants to believe that they are about to answer it once and for all. Unfortunately I am always bitterly disappointed.

I will start off this work by stating the obvious. I do not have the answers to ANY of the big questions, so do not get your hopes up. I have thought long and hard about a few of them, but so have others throughout the ages and still there is not a single comprehensive theory of everything. Even science has failed in that respect. In the end, how do we know we are even capable of unlocking such mysteries? What if such concepts are too far beyond the potential of our highly glorified minds? According to Plato this is not the case. His argument is especially evident in his famous “Allegory of the Cave.” As the story goes, a group of humans are chained inside a cave, unable to move in any way. Their eyes are fixed upon shadows on the cave wall, created by a fire out of their range of vision. Since all they have ever known are the shadows, they are their reality. That is until one of them is suddenly unchained and dragged out of the cave to see the daylight for the very first time. When the prisoner has learned the true nature of the world, he returns to the cave to teach his comrades. Alas, they are unwilling to believe his radical rants, and dismiss his ideas as unrealistic. Quite a conundrum to say the least.

A friend of mine and I were discussing how the enlightened human might make the truth clearer to the others. According to Plato, this is almost impossible. In time, perhaps the general public will learn to understand the teachings of an enlightened being as fact, but they will do so kicking and screaming all the way. My friend was adamant that this was in itself the truth. I claimed otherwise. I believe that what is necessary is a proof that is undeniable. Something that ignorance cannot refute. The returning cave person made a grave mistake when trying to teach the others. He (or she) tried to explain what lay outside the cave when everyone else was unaware that there even was a cave, or perhaps what a cave even was. The only way to truly gain their acceptance would be to drag them all out so they could see for themselves. But this is not what happens. Instead, the enlightened being is shunned from the group, and life continues more or less as before. This is hardly surprising. After years of conditioning to a certain view of life, people will not give it up so easily. To do so, they must either be hounded until they do (in which case, the acceptance is more to escape the unpleasantness than actual belief), or they must be presented with that undeniable proof. In this case, they needed to see the outside world.

Around this point, my friend rebutted that there is no such thing as an undeniable proof. Even if one was presented to us, we would likely dismiss it as some form of illusion, and thus show that it was not undeniable. As an example, she told me about her father, who had gone in for extensive surgery. While unconscious, he had an out-of-body experience. For an instant, it made him see the world with a completely different perspective. But when he woke up and told others about it, they dismissed it as merely a hallucination, effects from the anesthesia. After listening to this tale, I asked my friend if her father had believed himself that the occurrence was real. She said that he had. Voilá! A man presented with a defined image of the world for his entire life had dropped it after being out cold for a few hours. Why? Because he was presented with an undeniable proof. It doesn’t matter that the rest of his family didn’t believe him. After all, how could anyone else but one who had gone through a similar experience have the authority to deem the event true or false? None of the others in the family had gone through such an event, and so it is hardly a shock that they chose the sensible choice. Like the teacher from the cave, the man could explain the event all he wanted to the family, and they would probably never truly believe it. Only by experiencing it themselves, by being dragged out of the cave, could they ever hope to understand his perspective.

It is in the nature of the human race to seek out answers, even if they may not exist. Scientists continue to dissect the galaxies (with the Hadron Collider this isn’t a metaphorical statement), philosophers continue to speculate on God, and curious people continue to wonder. Can any of these unanswerable questions ever be answered? Perhaps. But if they are, it must be with their opposite, the unquestionable answer. An answer that undeniably shows that something is so. With the elevated level of the topics involved, how can the answer be anything less? Proving it to yourself is only part of the task. Do not declare wisdom and expect ignorance to bow down. But do not leave your comrades in the cave. Take their arms and pull with all your might, no matter how hard they try to fight. Because at the end, they will see the light.

Particle Collision

Wonseh Telbuod!

Well maybe the cold snow wasn’t so bad, because now I feel sad that it’s gone for a whole year, I might just shed a real tear it’s clear.

Grass is a growin’, but no winds are blowin’, and I miss moanin’

Which of the luck charms should I blame?

It’s not the same

No snow

Woe!

Double the Snow

No

Not snow

It really came?!

Which of the omens should I blame?

We’re trapped tonight in a sea of white, now we’ll all contract frost bite!

Please let it melt quick so the grass can start growin’ and please no more snowin’ from Tuesday the 1st of November to next September!

[Hint: Look at the number of syllables]

June 23rd

The other night I was bored and out of ideas for what to do. Not a pleasant combination. My usual entertainments had lost their charms, and I needed something to kill time. So I clicked on Google and on a whim began to search for a composer I liked. (This is the sort of thing I’ve been known to do, learn random but interesting information, and then spring it on people when they least expect and most need it.) Up popped the familiar name of Wikipedia, and I moved to the article. As I started to read I noticed with shock that the artist had been born on the same day as I had: June 23rd. (It was a different year of course.) My eyes kept scanning the page, but the surprising and delightful coincidence had side-tracked my focus entirely. What were the chances? Well, one in 365 actually. Still, it was impressive.

Since the artist had lost my interest, and the birthday coincidence had gained it, I began looking for things related to that date in history. Apparently the Roman emperor Vespasian died on that day. Hitler had conquered Paris by that day. As I kept going down the list I noticed that the entries were increasingly about wars, deaths, and other unpleasant affairs. This was depressing. Maybe the births would be more cheerful. Scrolling down, I suddenly stopped when I noticed a single name next to a year. It was the year in which I was born. This person was the same age as me. Almost exactly the same age. For a reason I cannot explain, I suddenly felt very connected with the person, like we shared a unique bond in that when one of us had just been released screaming from the womb into the world, the other, miles away, had just gone through the same experience. Who WAS this person? I found out they were an actor, but the article didn’t say much else. Switching over to Google Images, I ran the name through again, but with no luck. There were pictures alright, but none of them seemed to fit the person’s age or nationality. Finally I found him. It was not what I had expected. Instead of a handsome confident figure, as the pictures of actors often are, he had plain straight hair and glasses. His eyes were slightly too far apart, and he had a goofy look on his face. This was HIM? Now the connection lost some of its charm. I guess he wasn’t much like me after all. I hoped.

Now what? I decided to switch tactics, and began an image search for June 23rd. Well, the images didn’t have the same unpleasantness as the deaths and wars, but that was just because they were so random and unrelated that it was hard to make any sense out of them. For example, next to a Manga picture of girl was a boxer and a picture of fireworks. This was getting me nowhere. Clicking once again on the search bar, I added my birth year to the date. More pictures sprouted from the page, like a colony of mushrooms, but these were of a different species than those I had just seen. Instead of pop culture trash, I found images of everyday people. Over here was a someone with an American flag, over there was a couple getting married. Who were they all? What had happened to them in the time since that fateful date? Or was it fateful at all? I know it’s completely illogical, but the back of my mind had always had this idea that when I was born everything changed for 24 hours. The birds weren’t singing for their mates, they were serenading my arrival into the world. People everywhere had stopped in their tracks to look around themselves and perhaps comment on how beautiful the day was. No other events had happened that day, at least not important ones. Of course I knew that this could not be the case. Logic had conquered that territory of my mind long ago. But I had still always had that little voice of resistance leading me on.

Now that voice was crushed. It looked like it had just been an ordinary day for everyone on June 23rd of that year. Well, maybe not for everyone. The married couple for example. But by and large, on that day people went to work, people relaxed, people drove, people sang, people died, and people, yes other people, were born. No matter what happened, there would be no stopping. Don’t we all know it? Every day we muddle through our lives when out there somewhere someone is taking a breath for the first time. Or perhaps the last. But life won’t wait for them, nor will it ever wait for others in the future. On it will press, and all we can do it ride it like a train to infinity. But we hope that when we come to our last stop, a part of the world: the friends we’ve made, the people we love, will slow the pace of life for us, even if just for a moment.

The Explosion

She was sitting quietly in an office chair where plastic had met fabric and decided just to be friends, when it happened. From the deep recesses of her very being it arose like a terrible two-headed leviathan. She could feel the surge of power coming, uncontrollable, unstoppable, and knew what was about to happen, but still she tried to stop it, repress it like she had been doing all morning. This time however, the strain proved just too much. With a loud cry of release, she forced the wind through her nostrils and sneezed with the ferocity of a jet engine, the force of a pounding locomotive, and she knew she had gone where no sneezer had dared go before. She felt her nose explode in a shower of pale green, and clutched her face tighter, hoping against hope that no one would notice. Her embarrassment soon turned to despair, when she found the tissue box seated in front of her to be empty, but surrounded in a puffy cloud of crumpled up white.

What now?! she wondered, desperately seeking an escape route to her predicament. Her colleagues were already eyeing her with concern, and she quickly turned away. Standing, she crossed the room to the door, silently begging that her boss would not interrupt his talking to ask her where she was going. Fortunately, he did not, and she disappeared through the doorway. Now she stood in a hall, painted that horrible shade of yellow cream that all such buildings display in some way or another. It was supposed to be soothing, but now it just reminded her that she was vulnerable, exposed to the prying eyes of anyone she might run into. Like a cat burglar, she pushed onward keeping to the wall with her head down. Up ahead was the door to the adjacent office. She darted inside and tried to avoid the automatic glances of those already in the room, as they looked up to see who had just entered. There, placed conveniently on the nearby coffee table next to a glass dish filled with brightly colored jelly beans was another tissue box. Relief flooding her every fiber, she picked up the container and…she couldn’t believe this. She shook the empty box in frustration and set it back down rather harshly. Was there no where she could go? Was there no one she could turn to? In a world so complex and advanced, how could such a simple inconvenience become such a drastic issue? Turning on her heel, she whisked herself out the door of the office and back into the hallway.

And then it came to her. The answer to all her problems. She could see it in the distance next to the roguish elevator that always opened and closed when you least expected it. The bathroom. Drawing closer, she saw to her frustration a little icon of a man embossed on a blue sign over the door. Once again, the rules of her supposed utopia had foiled her actions. Suddenly she heard the soft padding of leather upon carpet that told her someone was coming around the bend at the end of the corridor. Shaking her head as if to fling aside the societal notions that had been drilled into her since childhood, she tried the handle of the men’s room and found it to be unlocked. Throwing her weight against the door, she pushed herself inside.

All she could see was darkness, broken only by the sliver of yellow cream light coming from the bottom of the door. Feeling around the wall, she found the light switch and flicked it on. At once, a calming pale light spread from the ceiling, leaving the far corners in dark shadow. She noticed the only differences between this bathroom and the one meant for her own gender were that the objects were reversed in their positions, and the lid of the toilet was up. Next to the toilet was, thank the Lord, a full roll of toilet paper. She stepped over to it, and ripped off a piece for herself. As she applied the thin scratchy paper to her face, she again looked around and realized how lovely it was in the bathroom. What an odd statement, she thought to herself. It certainly wasn’t designed for such a purpose. It’s only goal was to provide clean practicality. But here in the quiet light and the solitude, she felt more at home than in the glaring rooms outside. Here she could be alone. Here she could be at peace. Pulling up her skirt a bit, she gently eased herself to the ground, and sat listening to the hum of the ventilation. On the other side of the door, the footsteps passed her by without pause. Now she was truly left to her own thoughts, but found she didn’t want them. All she wanted was to listen to the hum, and think about how lucky she was to have found a sanctuary.

Crossing the Street

Crossing the street is what defines the big city from just a little town. In the city, the cars rule the streets but are constantly being challenged by the hoards of wandering people. Any time they get an opportunity, there they are flooding across the street, blocking all means of escape for the drivers. But as soon as there’s a break in the fence, on zoom the cars. It is a constant struggle for time, space, and speed. Meanwhile, the annoying crosswalk lights beep incessantly, as if telling everyone to hurry even more.

In the town, away from some of the noise, the cars still dominate, but here the fewer people have to acknowledge the drivers’ authority. Standing at the edge of the crosswalk with no traffic light, the walker waits by the road, hoping a merciful car will be generous enough to stop and let them pass. And when inevitably one does, the walker must scurry across the road, head bowed in submission. Perhaps they give a pathetic little wave of gratefulness, thanking the kindly driver for waiting five seconds.

Sometimes the walker is so awed by the presence of the royalty of the car driver that they remain stock still on the curb of the sidewalk, gaping at the magnificient vehicle that has suddenly slowed to let them pass. “For ME?” And then the driver must weaken themselves by raising a lofty hand, and gesturing across their windshield. “Go ahead…yes YOU. NOW, before I change my mind!” And then the ashamed walker hastens to follow the orders of the higher authority, bowed down and giving the apologetic little hand wave. No sooner are they across then the car roars to life, and blasts down the road in a puff of exhaust.

For the really courageous, there are ways to stop the cars before they can decide whether or not they want to. First, and my favorite, is the stare-down. Stand by the very edge of the curb, and gaze in the direction of the approaching cars, careful to make eye contact with the drivers. Now lift your head slightly, and incline the front of your eyebrows to give the impression of a dignified victim. All you want is to cross the street, that measly strip of gray that separates you from your true destiny. Who is the mere driver to stand in your way?

Second tactic is force-across. Sick of waiting for someone to care? Just dash across the street and HOPE the cars will stop! (Don’t worry they will. Usually.) At least if you get hit you may end up making some money from the experience. If not, well then at least you made it across. That was your ultimate goal anyway, right? Right?

Where I live there is such a crosswalk with no light. Unfortunately, the road has cars going in either direction with a wall of sorts splitting the road down the center. At the crosswalk there is a break in the wall, and two crosswalks banded on either side. Meaning I have to go through the humiliating ritual of sprinting across the busy street twice in a row! Sometimes, the cars only stop on one side, so you’re stuck in the center waiting for another generous driver to liberate you from your dismal confinement. Sometimes this doesn’t happen for quite a while. I’ve noticed this is especially true when it’s raining or snowing. There you are, stranded between the rushing automobiles, with your measly sweatshirt and armful of books, trying not to get completely covered in the cold blanket of white falling from the sky. Even more infuriating is that your house is right on the other side. You can see it! “Just let me pass. Please? PLEASE?!” Finally a car stops for you. You are just starting across the road when the idiot behind the wheel honks the horn, telling you to move faster. So you try to hurry, but the book on the bottom of the stack suddenly slips, and everything comes crashing down onto the filthy wet ground. And as you’re bending to sort out the mess, you hear the soft clink that tells you your keys have just fallen out of your pocket too. Meanwhile, the driver is gunning the engine,  and behind the car, others are starting to honk their horns too. And now of course the snow begins to increase in density. At last you have collected your last paper, and returned the keys back to the relative safety of your pocket. You waste no time in leaping across the remainder of the road, and jog swiftly back to your house, where you’ve no doubt the radiator will be acting up again, and the open windows are letting in the cold water, but you don’t care because your home is home. And besides, all you want to do is get away from the horror that is the crosswalk. The crossroads of reality where man faces machine, and bends before the blaze of the frowning headlights.

Beautiful Truth

Once upon a time, I was talking to a friend about the big picture of the universe. Surrounding us were waves of atheism, and I asked him a simple question with a complicated answer. Do you believe in God?

I wasn’t really sure what I expected to hear. This person was clearly a scholar, and had expressed no hints of a pious lifestyle. But faith, as I found out, comes in many forms. “Yes,” he said “because it’s a beautiful idea.” I stared at him for a moment before realizing he was finished. Beautiful? That’s it? I understand it when people have a genuine faith that drives them to believe in the illogical ideas. But here was something completely different. How could you trust your life, your existence, the existence of everyone and everything, to BEAUTY?

No one can deny the attractiveness of beauty. But when it comes to the big questions it’s not beauty I want, it’s TRUTH. I’m not someone who wants to be deceived by false notions. People die for their beliefs. How terrible to die for something incorrect. Complex nonetheless, but nothing more than a well constructed lie. Was it a lie of God I was trying to escape, or a lie of a Godless world? I will admit that I had no idea, but I did know that I wanted to discard one of them in favor of reality.

But how? How can someone possibly succeed by going down this path? For thousands of years at least, humans have struggled with the age-old question. And yet, what was the result of their efforts? No conclusive proof of any one belief, and massive amounts of bloodshed. How can a single life hope to accomplish anything more?

I was still trying to solve this monumental problem when a piece of news altered my course. I was reading Google News when I saw an article about a car bomb in Iraq that killed several people. I thought about what kind of person would do such a terrible act, and I realized that they must have been either driven by fear or love. Fear of eternal punishment in the depths of all darkness, whether as a general unease or as based upon an event earlier in one’s life. Love, as a result of a wonderful relationship this person had with a beautiful supreme being, or at the very least a beautiful religion. Why else would he (or she) sacrifice themselves so violently?

And then I began rethinking the problem. Beauty. Could that really be the answer? Perhaps beauty is an indicator of fact, a signpost of reality. Many theoretical physicists champion the notion that String Theory is the ultimate theory of the universe because of its elegance. Could they be right? Certainly in some cases, the way the world perceives beauty is not the correct answer. For example beauty in humans does not dictate worth. (Although that is an entirely different discussion, and if you wish to read about it further, see “Musings on Value”) But then again, perhaps there is more to beauty than meets the eye. (Excuse the pun) Perhaps beauty is enough to devote oneself to. Why? Because beauty is without a doubt beautiful, and maybe that is all we need to guide us to something greater.

Answers for “A Martian Reports”

Walking

Drinking through a straw until the drink is all gone

Stain-glass windows

Carving sculptures out of stone

Using a video camera (or a regular camera)

(My favorite) laughing

SNoW

The falling of snow gives a new blanket for everything

The cold may howl, and the darkness may press

But under the snow we lay in rest

Blank as the land around

While above the wind blows

Here is no sound

For it is only in the snow

 

That we learn who we truly are.