July 14 2013
All the begats
going back a hundred thousand years,
the accidents, and intersects
and fleeting sex
and fierce animal love
that led to this,
the hit, and miss
of contingency.
When all depends
on the delicate thread
of chance.
And so, I am.
Or not.
Because a second's
inattention
and all is lost.
But then
without error
doesn't progress stop?
The fateful mistake
on which nature depends,
her DNA
unravelling.
I do not believe
in Providence, the grace of God.
But still, am in awe
at such magnificent randomness,
staggered
by the singular self.
Fork after fork
on a zig-zag track
on a road, unmapped
going all the way back
to then.
And forging ahead.
Where it gets better
I'm told.
Because hope
is never false.
And perfection
the death
of us all.
This is the kind of philosophical poem of which I'm suspicious. Because that sort of poem so easily gets pretentious, turgid, and dry. So I'm pleased with the fun word-play and light imagery of this. And with its restraint: how it hints at complicated issues, while trusting the reader to go deeper.
If you're wondering, this is how an atheist contends with meaning. His world view is not utterly reductionist and rarefied. Because even without all that superstition and ceremony, it still admits of mystery and wonder and awe; notwithstanding the whiff of nihilism.
The contingencies, of course, go back billions of years: all the way to this planet's distance from the sun (the Goldilocks temperature for an atmosphere and for liquid water) and its molten iron core (a magnetic field that protects us from cosmic rays). The fact that generation after generation of ancestors met is unthinkably random, and hundreds of thousands of sperm even more so; but only if you try to make sense of it by projecting backwards, as if there were purpose and direction to any of it. (There's that whiff of narcissism I mentioned. Sorry, you're not so special after all. Turns out, the universe is utterly indifferent to your existence.)
And while God may be infallible, nature depends on error: evolution can only come about if mistakes have consequences (on both survival and reproduction); and even then only if DNA is inexactly copied, as well as susceptible to being both turned on and off.
I start off with a reference to those obscure and annoying Biblical "begats"; and then introduce the essential tension by ultimately rejecting all that God-talk.
Of course, I only briefly allude to the greatest most enduring enigma of all. This is the mystery of consciousness; of the ineffable and inscrutable conviction of the singular "self"; how a few pounds of fatty gelatinous brain beget mind. The religious respond by begging the question: the familiar hand-waving, circular, teleological assertions of the divine plan and the unique soul. That is, they answer the question with a version of the question that leaves it essentially unanswered. As a scientist, I have no answer, and am content to proclaim ignorance; but ignorance infused with gratitude and wonder at the brilliant unlikelihood of "me", in this fleeting moment of time, teetering on the pinnacle of billions of years of contingency and error and random chance. (And please don't put me on the spot with the mischievous question: "gratitude to whom or what?!!" Can't gratitude simply exist, without an object or agent; as a pure expression of humility and thankfulness?)
And even if you find much of this world-view offensive, the poem will at least leave you with a welcome consolation: that perfectionism is not only pointless, but unnatural. After all, evolution absolutely depends on mistakes. And we're only here because of an unimaginable series of mistakes; so why aspire such a misplaced ideal as perfectionism, or beat yourself up about falling short? ...Remembering that a lot of those "begats" were probably impulsive, regretted, youthful mistakes! And acknowledging that if you believe in an all-merciful and forgiving God, all the better to err!
All the begats
going back a hundred thousand years,
the accidents, and intersects
and fleeting sex
and fierce animal love
that led to this,
the hit, and miss
of contingency.
When all depends
on the delicate thread
of chance.
And so, I am.
Or not.
Because a second's
inattention
and all is lost.
But then
without error
doesn't progress stop?
The fateful mistake
on which nature depends,
her DNA
unravelling.
I do not believe
in Providence, the grace of God.
But still, am in awe
at such magnificent randomness,
staggered
by the singular self.
Fork after fork
on a zig-zag track
on a road, unmapped
going all the way back
to then.
And forging ahead.
Where it gets better
I'm told.
Because hope
is never false.
And perfection
the death
of us all.
This is the kind of philosophical poem of which I'm suspicious. Because that sort of poem so easily gets pretentious, turgid, and dry. So I'm pleased with the fun word-play and light imagery of this. And with its restraint: how it hints at complicated issues, while trusting the reader to go deeper.
If you're wondering, this is how an atheist contends with meaning. His world view is not utterly reductionist and rarefied. Because even without all that superstition and ceremony, it still admits of mystery and wonder and awe; notwithstanding the whiff of nihilism.
The contingencies, of course, go back billions of years: all the way to this planet's distance from the sun (the Goldilocks temperature for an atmosphere and for liquid water) and its molten iron core (a magnetic field that protects us from cosmic rays). The fact that generation after generation of ancestors met is unthinkably random, and hundreds of thousands of sperm even more so; but only if you try to make sense of it by projecting backwards, as if there were purpose and direction to any of it. (There's that whiff of narcissism I mentioned. Sorry, you're not so special after all. Turns out, the universe is utterly indifferent to your existence.)
And while God may be infallible, nature depends on error: evolution can only come about if mistakes have consequences (on both survival and reproduction); and even then only if DNA is inexactly copied, as well as susceptible to being both turned on and off.
I start off with a reference to those obscure and annoying Biblical "begats"; and then introduce the essential tension by ultimately rejecting all that God-talk.
Of course, I only briefly allude to the greatest most enduring enigma of all. This is the mystery of consciousness; of the ineffable and inscrutable conviction of the singular "self"; how a few pounds of fatty gelatinous brain beget mind. The religious respond by begging the question: the familiar hand-waving, circular, teleological assertions of the divine plan and the unique soul. That is, they answer the question with a version of the question that leaves it essentially unanswered. As a scientist, I have no answer, and am content to proclaim ignorance; but ignorance infused with gratitude and wonder at the brilliant unlikelihood of "me", in this fleeting moment of time, teetering on the pinnacle of billions of years of contingency and error and random chance. (And please don't put me on the spot with the mischievous question: "gratitude to whom or what?!!" Can't gratitude simply exist, without an object or agent; as a pure expression of humility and thankfulness?)
And even if you find much of this world-view offensive, the poem will at least leave you with a welcome consolation: that perfectionism is not only pointless, but unnatural. After all, evolution absolutely depends on mistakes. And we're only here because of an unimaginable series of mistakes; so why aspire such a misplaced ideal as perfectionism, or beat yourself up about falling short? ...Remembering that a lot of those "begats" were probably impulsive, regretted, youthful mistakes! And acknowledging that if you believe in an all-merciful and forgiving God, all the better to err!
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