Getting the Status on an Even Quo
In Which the Flash Old Geezer Sets Out A Few Parameters
Parameters- yes. Well, I’ve got the pegs. You bring the lump hammer. It’s a purely arbitrary term- final furlong. I
suppose my final furlong started two years ago, with my 80th birthday. When does it finish? Obviously with a croak, but sitting here, looking at the wrong end of what? 20yrs? Is that a modest assessment or an optimum target?
Someone once wrote (at the bottom of my desk diary, in fact) “I always knew that everyone dies, sometime, but I always thought that, somehow, an exception would be made, in my case”. And of course we could always make a better assessment with a more fulsome dossier. Time is always more understandable after the event.
We need to take a thorough look at time. I believe that most folk don’t really understand it, but before we do ( and we will, very soon, in fact) I must confess that when my chief proof reader ( my Petal, my Bluebird of Happiness, Moon of my Delight) got a mere page or so into my discourse on ‘Time’ She threw a wobbler- “It’s too intellectual! I can’t understand it!” and more (oh yes, more!) in like vein. So I ask you to take it slowly. If something sticks, read it again; roll it around in the chops; chew on it a little. Be patient with your unworthy scribe in his inability to communicate. It must be my fault. It can’t be –yours, say. Let’s have a go. We can always knock off, have a few jars, and come back, refreshed. Here we go. Even Einstein wasn’t quite right (Let him sue if he dare) when he said ‘Speed slows down time’. What he should have said was ‘Speed slows down the apparent effects of time. Time is merely a reference system, invented by man, to relate, say breakfast to suppertime. Time is not involved in the physical world. The former is unaffected by the latter. The former is unaware of the latter’s existence. Imagine a ghost living in Trafalgar Square. Apart from an occasional sensation of someone walking over your grave, you are totally unaware of each other. Talk about time travel is rubbish.
Arthur C Clarke, Isaac Asimov, that other Herbert, and all their Science Fiction writing chums seemed quite justified in labelling time ‘the fourth dimension’, up, down, side to side, and back and forth. But Time is not in space.
I mean space under the settee and in the loft, not just space between galaxies. Just as our ghost is in time- his own time. He can cross Trafalgar Square and not touch a soul. Some say he can do that and more, but that doesn’t concern us. We aren’t talking supernatural, just natural.
Yes, with hindsight, Asimov and Co did us a great disservice. Yes, it is involved in the inter-defining elements of the metric system. Wasn’t that chalked up to Napoleon? One gram of water is one millilitre, or cubic centimetre. One centimetre is one hundredth of the length of a pendulum (at sea level) with an interval of one second, which is 1/60th of a minute, being the time taken to raise the temperature of one cc of water by one degree, and so on, but in all that chain of definitions, time is only involved as a means to relate one dimension, or value, to another, and at the end, when all the metric lego blocks are in place, time slips out of the bottom of the pile; and off it goes unhindered, unaffected, undiminished.
Time is only involved in that we use it as a point of reference. We can’t affect its progress, weight, length, specific gravity. It is impervious to heat, pressure, water, sound, vibration. Would you believe we need to look closer. Let’s consult one of my favourite Gurus-Terry Pratchett; yes, I know he is; just trust your tour operator.
Extra time- Each Way
He has this idea of an imaginary clock, lost in the depths of space, with neither face, nor fingers, nor numbers- just the tic-toc of a pendulum, which is also unseen. This tic-toc goes on, and with every tic and toc, the invisible (or imaginary) pendulum slices off another second of time. I honestly can’t remember whether the next bit is Pratchett’s or mine; I think mine, but just suppose that all of physical existence ceased- to exist, I mean; never mind how or why.
Galaxies, universes, all suddenly switched off. That tic- toc-ing would still carry on, not being of a physical nature,
even though there were no one or nothing to witness it, nothing for it to impinge upon. Time would still pass. There would always be another second, hour, a millennium. To give Dylan Thomas a glass of future tense- ‘Time would pass- Listen! Time would pass!
There’s more. Hold on to your hats. Down the other end of the time train, rapidly disappearing from sight, over the back rail of the guards’ van, there would always have been another second, a millennium, an aeon, whatever- before. Time is infinite, impervious and indestructible from both ends- in both directions. Now where have we heard something of that ilk before? Never mind. Leave it for the moment. Time to do something different.
Buffers Ahead.
Now we’ll turn to something a bit more specific- a bit more pertinent. Somewhere up the track, or down, if our rate of knots is feeling a bit more brisk (perhaps a reference to ‘wind in the tresses’ might not be appreciated in some cases) at an optimum range of twenty years as the crow flies, beyond squint range, at least, there lurk the buffers. Remember how they’re constructed? The rails turn up, at 45o, for a 3 or 4 foot length, (never mind metric; we’ll show our true colours- imperial) then another 45o into the vertical. This pair of rails is backed by another pair, laid in sort of mirror image- down a foot, 45 turn out for same three or four foot length, then one more 45 turn to bring it back to the horizontal, the whole construction being bolted to sleepers. I can’t remember the anchoring pattern ferzackerly, but it’s not going to move. It won’t let you down. Or up, or sideways.
There is some variation as to nature, speed, program, and perception of approach, but at this range, it’s all pot luck.
You may be just reaching for the last piece of pork, cheese and chuntney pie, when you find yourself leading a 30 foot plume of vaporised aviation fuel (not that you’ll know it), or leading a Forlorn Hope armoured division charge against an invasion of Red Star chicken products in articulated leviathans on one of our more spacious motorways, or mayhap you’re re-addressing the comparable mortality statistics on penguins and ferry passengers.
At the other end of the ‘What a Way to Go’ brochure, by far the most gentle option is the one which starts with the maximum notice, but still not very specific. One becomes aware, or one is informed, that on a clear day, one can almost discern up ahead- the buffers. Over a period of time, the image becomes quite clear, but then, the focus softens and distorts, until one isn’t sure that it was ever there. Later, one can’t quite remember what one was looking out for, but it doesn’t matter. The staff of the hotel that you find yourself in are very kind. One or two seem quite familiar. Can’t think where from. This sounds like a very attractive and popular option.
And in between these two extremes are what I think of as the ‘Man Traps’. The fall on the ice- only broken bones, but at a time just too late to sustain healing; the cancer which plays out almost like a game of chess, with point and counterpoint; the ‘dicky heart’ which suddenly decides it just isn’t up to it; the bout of flu’ just too soon after that cold spell, and many similar. These ‘man traps’ are easily avoidable, as long as you don’t get too many, too close.
But there we all arrive, at the far side of the buffers, but where, and what is there? Is it just (another Pratchett coming up, I think) endless black sand, under a starless sky, with the faint (imagined?) sound of small waves (in which direction?) spilling on a shingle shore- and- or- nothing? Sleep? Cue for a smart bon mot about Hamlet but I haven’t got one handy.
Relax- We aren’t There Yet
While we’re this side of the buffers, the wild, physical side, ‘real and solid’ side, if you like, let’s look around. If what we just scared ourselves with is inevitable, with no
alternative, then what we’re looking at now, our environment, our existence, must be an accident.
Now all you grammar school kids in my bracket- post war and early 50’s- imagine going back into the chemistry lab. No staff around, so let’s cook up an accident, as big as we can, and see what happens.
Retort (round bottomed glass flask)- clamp it on a stand with room for a Bunsen burner under it. Now into the retort go iron filings, granulated zinc, phosphorus, sulphur, mercury. Liquids? Acids- hydrochloric, sulphuric- water? Meths? I think we need a bigger flask- concrete. Yeah, then we can put in potassium, and stir it all up with a bundle of uranium rods. Maybe for convenience, we could use a live volcano for a mixing bowl.
Yes, I know I’m talking rubbish, but you can see where it’s going, can’t you? This sort of accident can’t sustain itself. It’s got to progress, like a forest fire, a Dresden-type fire storm, across the whole of the universe, burning bright, until there’s nothing left to burn- bright or dim, or even a glimmer. Apocalypse now! Showing soon at a galaxy near you! For a short season! Flash bang wallop! Glim,
Glimmer, Gonne!
Maybe that black sand, starless sky and distant pebbly wavelets option was all a bit on the…er…generous side?
Is There an Alternative?
Well of course there is; we all know that; always have done, but it has the misfortune to be regarded as ‘unfashionable’ from time to time, in certain watering holes of passing, intellectual popularity. Mastermind Specialist Subject- Statement of the Bl***ing Obvious! Somedobby in charge! Someone with time on his hands, a sense of humour, unlimited recourses, a good memory, and lots of patience.
I’m sorry; I’m a traditionalist- an old traditionalist. I don’t have time for this new ‘gender’ rubbish! I think God is a bloke. Yes, technically he could be a mother- no evidence either way. Definitely not ‘it’. So. Tradition holds, here, then- a Feller. My bat, my ball, my rules. No argument. God. Father- Godfather? We can discuss it later if you like, but all that means, under the circs is I talk, you listen, otherwise you just wait for the next bus.
Yes- someone with lots of patience is where we were. I have a couple of dear friends, married, and if they were reading this, would at this point, quietly close the book, and put it down, saying “I’m sorry but we’re not religious people”. To which I would reply “I wouldn’t ask any more of you than I would of ‘religious people, which is logic and reason”, but their minds would be clanged quite shut. Pity. To continue-
Remember my comments about time being infinite, both fore and aft? That’s the scale he’s familiar with, both in time and space. That doesn’t sound quite right. I’ll try again. That is the scale which he inhabits. Before I go any further, there is something I need to clarify about myself.
I am neither evangelical, nor preacher nor priest; not even lay reader or lay brother. My daughter is the wife of an evangelical, Anglican minister, so it suits me to attend their church, but I just keep schtum. I’m just a storyteller. Some of my stories I tell with words, like the job in hand. Under the snappy headline, all I’m doing is telling you the story of how I intend to cope with a particular situation, in the hope that it may be of help to those in a similar situation .
Most of my stories, though, are in a much shorter time scale, because they are told with paint and brushes. I just paint pictures, but whether working in words or paint, I simply try to present the evidence, and leave folk to draw their own conclusions.
I must tell you that the word pictures, while they have accumulated over the years, were always very much of an indulgent pastime, whereas the paintings were my means of earning a crust, or to put it another way, of avoiding work. Apart from my wife's sporadic, not inconsiderable employment in teaching, painting was my sole, visible- etc. In a working career of say forty years, there was a peak of maybe 15 when I could honestly say I had fully supported my wife and family. The rest of the time, we would not have survived without my wife’s earnings.
Was it Norman Fowler who started the ‘Set Aside’ scheme? I offered to join by hanging up say half a dozen empty frames while taking a modest subsidy, but my words fell on stony ears. There was a union available, of sorts, but you have to be dead to join. Once, when putting a couple of my canvases into an auction, my wife was soundly berated by an overall-clad ‘jobsworth’ when he realised I was still alive, because they only wanted business with stiffs. In effect, when I slide under my easel, I promise not to paint anymore. Have you noticed how many writers still manage to throw off a few earners after they’ve croaked? Oh, it’s easy for them; they just ‘dictate’ into somedobby’s shell-like, or tell them which ‘secret drawer’ to look into. Usually it’s their accountant, nephew, or publisher- totally disconnected, of course, while they are dreaming away in Winkyland, and in no time at all, the Joanners (that’s short for Jewish pianner, which I’m possibly not allowed to say) are ringing out their merry anthems.
I stopped counting at 5000- pictures, I mean, so nobody will be getting rich on my bones- there’s already too many out there, and I ent finished yet. I still manage the occasional, when the fancy takes me. You won’t find many painters who have sold pictures to their bank manager and their tax inspector at the same preview. On the other hand, you’ll find many a painter running art classes on the side, pushing a line of greetings cards across the county, giving (selling rather) exclusive, private tuition, turning their hat round, so it reads ‘Art Critic’, then selling a column or two to glossy county magazines. There once was a nasty piece of work who was art teacher at a private school, art critic for the local newspaper, and arts columnist for a county mag. Whenever he reviewed an exhibition, he was always mithering on about artists being too money minded and not being progressive enough- for art’s sake. While there he was drawing a minimum of three pay cheques. I never met him, and he never reviewed anything of mine, but I
never missed a word of a chance to give him a kick in the slats however and whenever the opportunity arose. I was told that, aware of it, he often complained of my persecution, and was bewildered by it. He should have asked the right bloke. This was all of twenty years ago, and now I can’t remember his name. He’ll have forgotten me, probly. It’s all blood under the bridge.
Back to the Plot
Each and every one of those paintings is a witness, a piece of evidence, if you like, in the case for a beautiful, well organised world. All right, Robert Capa’s collection would tell a different story; Leni Riefenstahl’s yet another, but a story, just the same; not a random collection of isolated incidents. The story is one of intense creativity, planned and executed over an unimaginable period of time. Of course, the three ‘boxes of evidence’ I mention are mere flecks of interest in the whole tale, which is there to be read by anyone who will.
It may have been Darwin who told this next tale. Imagine you had never, ever seen a pocket watch. Then one day, out walking, you find a pocket watch, lying on the ground. What does it tell you, apart from the time? It tells you that somewhere, there is a watchmaker.
Now even those who affect to scoff at our concept of an eternal maker of watches and all things bright and beautiful, even they can see the perfect logic of the idea of one creator, toymaker, music master, what you will- in charge, but still reject it. Why? Because, seeing things from their own imperfect level, they get bogged down in the detail. Then imagining themselves at the top of the intellectual tree, they conclude ‘If I can’t understand it, it must be rubbish. If I can’t do it, it must be impossible’.
‘Stuff’
Let’s have a look at some of the jumps. I seem to remember, from my physics lessons with old ‘Buzz’- our physics master, although English, he always pronounced his Esses as Zeds. He was totally unaware. Some years later, in the upper school, another teacher confided that Buzz had asked, in the staffroom, ‘Why do they call me Buzz?’ He hadn’t a clue. Kids soon got used to it, and accepted it, but it made him that little bit more interesting, so we listened. I was quite good at physics. I think I got 60% in GCE O level. So I remember Buzz taking us down through atoms, which were made up of protons and neutrons, which were little scraps of energy. The easiest way to think of them was as electricity. Even the messages, which the brain sends out to the body, can be seen as electricity, and the nervous system, operating like a phone network throughout the body- all energy- like little electrical charges. I learned only a couple of months ago that trees have a similar underground network arrangement, like a duplicate root system, but much more subtle and far reaching.
Now, on your feet, parachutes on, and link up, because we are about to take one helluva jump. What if all this energy were linked up, like an enormous computer. I didn’t want to use that analogy; I really didn’t. I’m talking about God (another place I didn’t want to go to, yet) and the only way to it is through your toy box!
First, let’s try putting a few things together without blowing any fuses or taking any casualties. In our infancy, on our knees, in our innocence, in our prayers, we talked about God being immortal, everlasting, all seeing, all governing. And so we grew up not really thinking about what we were saying. When we see this in other societies
we call it ‘brainwashing’, but British and Christians don’t do that sort of thing. So just forget I said that. Don’t know what I was thinking of. Silly me.
Now remember the pendulum swish- always another second, before and after; infinite time and space in all directions. Now, layer in the electrical network of controlling and conscious thought and will. Remember, a little while ago, I made reference to man assuming himself to be the top of the tree, in terms of ability and development. Well you’re doing it again, aren’t you? Yes you are. When I refer to combining optimum presence with the maximum consciousness, you see yourself creating something like a robot!
Now let’s see what you’ve got in that toy box. A computer or two. A robot carpet cleaner, and a similar for cutting the grass. A bracelet that tells you how much insulin and when. Similar gizmos for heart rate, blood pressure and varicose other bodily functions. An I-pad, a smartphone with myriad Apps which seem like tinned universities. Finally, games. No comment. There. On the whole, a rather impressive range of electronic toys. Oh and your motor is riddled with them. Neither you nor I have the faintest idea of how they work, other than they start with nothing more mystical than the splintery see-thru stuff we used to put in the windows of caravan stoves. Oh some can do the spiel, but that’s all it is. Virtual miracles of modern science, which are reduced to the commonplace by our familiarity.
All made by the likes of us- who were originally made by that maximum consciousness- Darwin’s watchmaker- the great Toymaker in the sky- God. There. I've said it. All those flashy toys in your box, you cope with, because you think you’re in charge, but the really big one, most important, most viable, most profitable, has you calling for the brown trousers. And what are the biggest problems?
How can he be in more than one place at once?
How can he listen to lots of people individually, yet simultaneously.
Why does he let bad things happen?
If he offers heaven after earth, why do we bother with the earth bit?
Enough for now; the rest of you can try again, later.
Omnipresent
Cast your mind back to a comment about all the little bits of electrickery being in tune with each other, on line, all sort of forming one vast computer or brain. I know it’s hard to keep hold of the one personality aspect, while stretching to encompass every individual as such, and yet it should be easier- not harder. If you want to win a game, it’s easier to start with three quarters of the counters than just a quarter.
Just think of your laptop. You ask it a question- any question, and it comes up with an answer, or a short lecture on an answer, or a psycho/intellectual discourse on the availability of an answer. And this isn’t after some librarian with bad legs has taken the trolley with the dicky wheel down fourteen floors into the book stack to walk x hundred yards of aisles twelve shelves high to locate the box files with the right numbers on them then nipped round into the next aisle for the ladder with the good castors then fetch down the boxes load up (take wot ladder back?) and smartly back up 14 flights. No. This is just a few seconds, while those little squiggles of electrickery bounce up and down off a few satellites.
Now we are looking at the creator of the performing animals who all on their little owns, made those toys that you just marvel at.
Communication- selective and Quantitive
Another little tricksy piece of gear which I remember from old Buzz’s gander bag, is the Wheatstone Bridge. Imagine a plank of wood (nice wood, smooth, varnished) with one or two wires stretched along its length, like fiddle strings; a few extra electrical terminals at each end, and sliding terminals running under the long wires. I’ve not got that right, but you see what sort of kit we’re into. The idea is that you can send different charges, in opposite directions, in the same wire. Now imagine a stretch of railway line with a break somewhere along the cable. With a bit of nounce, a bit of jiggery pokery involving different charges being balanced against each other across the ‘bridge’ it is perfectly possible to determine how far down the line is your trouble spot, without trudging about in the pouring rain, at something of the a.m. with a step ladder, a torch, and an electricians’ dryscroover. Now in case you haven’t noticed, we have just opened up the pissabolity of a communications network, in the literal sense. The net can stretch as far as far as its own weight can bear, with access nodules where ever you like.
And There’s More where That came from!
Now turn your attention, if you will, to fibre optics. Imagine a slender, pliable filament of plastic. Now if we shine a narrow beam of light into the flat end, i.e. into its length, the beam of light behaves as though it were inside a tube, and bounces from side to side, all along the length of the fibre. “Why would we want to do that?” I hear you cry. Because a beam of light can carry a message, and by manipulating the line of entry, we can send lots of beams down the same
fibre. Add to all this, the radio waves which give you sat. nav. parcel tracking, keyhole surgery over the phone and so on, and we are still only in the realm of tricks performed by the dancing bears, under the direction, training, inspiration and nurturing of the Ring Master!
The Big One
Is there life beyond the buffers, and on who’s terms? I know this just washed up as the tail end Charlie in the atheists’ gripe list, a page or two back, but there is so much chewy stuff in it that I’ve decided that it should be lifted out of the wine-and-spirit font, and raised to second billing, so as a curtain raiser-
Beyond the Buffers- Ts & Cs Apply
And now- Armpit Theatre presents, from the waste baskets of Marty Feldman and Barry Tooke, featuring Dame Celia Mole-Strangler, played by Betty Marsden, and Hugh Paddick as ageing juvenile lead, Binky Huckaback in ‘Beyond the Buffers’ or ‘Last Call for the Paradise Gardens’. Overture and beginners please!
Fade music in and out on emotional riff- 7 secs, total.
Binky It’s come out, Fiona.
Dame C. Oh Charles. It always does after a cool wash.
Binky No, I mean the brochure.
Dame C. Oh Charles. We always knew it would, sometime.
We have to decide, what do we believe is the right
path for us. We just knew we couldn’t go on in
the same way for ever.
Binky We hoped for more time here.
Dame C. And yet we have to decide.
Binky We have been happy here, haven’t we, Fiona?
Dame C. And yet, we have to decide.
Binky I could stay anywhere with you, Fiona.
Dame C. And yet- we have to decide.(Long pause)
Binky Oh Well, Tambourines, I think. Don’t you, Fiona?
(Long fade- Trill of tambourines,
Fading to silence and darkness.
Now we haven’t touched on the business of a spiritual existence as opposed to a physical one. The first difficulty is that folk get spooked into thinking that spiritual precludes physical. Wot, no chocolate, Merlot, mango chuntney, crispy bacon, peaches, Worthington, pile ointment?
Pratchett again- he has a character, a nonagenarian called Cohen the Barbarian. A bunch of his ‘disciples’ ask him ‘What are the most important things in life?’
‘Shoup and shoft choylet paper’.
I believe that, in the early middle ages, in ecclesiastical circles, one of the most hotly discussed topics was ‘How many angels can you get on a pin head?’ which apart from being somewhat short of vital import, is nonsense; you don’t need the pin. Think back to that lone ghost in Trafalgar Square. All the ghosts whoever lived (or died) could live in the square, on just one pin or none. By the same token, they could each fill the whole square- simultaneously.
Peaceful Co-existence
Let’s take this a leetle bit further. There’s Trafalgar Square (or the galaxy) teeming with all those little twists of electricity- energy- power, which we’re all made up of, all twisting, dancing, communicating, experiencing. Actually, they’re not limited to the Square; they fill the whole of creation. Then along comes a new little soul (mayhap even you) having freshly conquered, circumnavigated, or received a leg-up, over the buffers. There you stand with your bundle of energy scraps, like a bag of breadcrumbs, and these beaming little urchins (or angels, or putti) pop up, and chirrup ‘Come on, Sunshine. Don’t be shy!’ and before you can say ‘Glory!’ they’ve tumbled you, timpani over triangle, into the melee of co-existence with the rest of creation.
Your own individual bag of sequins still works on the one to one level (talk to aunty Mabel; she’s dying to catch up) but you can visit the Milky Way, or whatever, at the same time as countless other things.
So this sounds a bit- White Rabbit? A bit Enid Blyton? Only because I just don’t have the vocabulary. It does bring other optional extras. It accommodates most other religions, including the Budhists multi-tier system. It even accommodates reincarnation, which makes sense in itself. I know we are told that the bible says that it is not an option, while quite forgetting that the Christianity Firm is built around the MD’s son rising from the dead. Make a note to discuss this later, if you want. I may leave you to it. Meanstwhile, God makes this endless stream of walking talking singing dancing live marionettes, equips them with infinite capacity power packs (souls) but the puppets themselves are only good for four score years and ten, or thereabouts. In a panorama shot, the people powered earth is dwarfed by the surrounding infinity, and the more you pull back the camera, the more infinity you get in the frame, the more indistinct and insignificant the world becomes.
Well I think that about winds up the parameters. I think we have about encompassed all the known rules, conditions, terms. You may not agree with them all, not consider them all applicable, necessary or unavoidable. As Clark Gable put it in ‘Gone with the Wind’- Frankly, my dear, I couldn’t give a damn.
The route lies between these rocks and hard places. Just try to lean into the bends, and hopefully, it will help to minimise the bruising. Whether you agree or not with any particular utterance of mine, I couldn’t care a fish’s tit (Brendan Behan). What matters is that this is a game you must play because you can’t afford to lose.
Apropos of Mr Behan’s alleged intimation that the piscine lactic gland is the least significant commodity in the whole of creation hardly merits discussion. Any charge of vulgarity is negated by the fact that, coming from Mr Behan, the remark becomes literature. Even then, it’s not as robust as Arthur Haines’ story about the tramp quoting DH Lawrence.
