"Although we may be frail and helpless,"-- Stephen Hawking
The Churchmen has a deliberate subtext. We're frail and vain and cruel creatures formed of the dust, and thus to dust we shall return, even if hit men acting to avenge a Russian criminal fail to give the actor Samuel Jouy a kill shot for the sake of series continuity. I'm much like his Jose, with a fervor worthy of destruction, a poor atheist and lousy Catholic both, I'm of course overjoyed the European studio system made him a paraplegic who is allowed to return to being a seminarian, and the Modern Catholic might be equally gratified by the admission, that, if I open my heart, I'm right back in Sunday school with the choir and a few hosanna's of my own, except it would be of little use. If I returned and did penance, I'd soon defy Francis and face excommunication. I don't like this Pope, and it's wrong to feel this way about a third world bishop playing the Vicar victims advocate on one lung. My decency is too tarnished for anything useful, still, Hawking set me thinking about why there necessarily need be particle motion and forces in the vastness of space. I can't think of any plausible reason why a void simply cannot remain a void, why gases have to react, why elements have distinct features. We can explain it, make analogies, but nothing about matter or our language for its laws is necessarily rational without God than with one, insofar as I can see. Our relatively stable star will one day nova, perhaps after humans go extinct, and what then? Awareness is almost unnecessary, and our minds will never fully understand physics, but take the observer out of the picture, and neither material processes nor supernatural ones have much validity. Neil De Grasse's question about what the purpose of a divine being would be may be valid, but so is the question of why electrons orbit a nucleus, why energy even exists, why I don't go to bed, with my swollen feet.
Showing posts with label materialism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label materialism. Show all posts
Wednesday, June 15, 2016
Wednesday, September 18, 2013
Pop Up Recollection: Enemy Consortium
"I'm a puppet of a high functioning sociopath."-- Megan Boone
Patty Duke is given a diva scene in the tepid drama, The Baby Sitter, tapping into her varnished mania to have an episode made leaden by booze, and it is sadly camped, almost stenciled in to a talented actress'es notable itinerary.
All aging actors seem to encompass these plot points: the breakthrough, the rise, the critical accolades in the train toward the apex, and then they attempt to cling to their glory through hackneyed scripts which then go to DVD. Shatner is no exception, and the only reason he had a resurgence on Boston Legal was because he played with audience nostalgia for his embodiment of James T Kirk, lampooning the action hero with considerable sophistication as the barging litigator. Boomer middle age anxiety was cruel, however, and heads rolled in the dust.
Duke is a footnote, and Shatner plays the gallant, and we're indifferent. Respectful to the elder celebrity with a nod, but know in the back of our minds he is fish meal for obit gurus. Duke's exit is more consequential.
Her bipolar disorder initially cycled her creativity, and in The Patty Duke Show, between the lines of the starched script, runs an argument for accommodation of mood differentials, as opposed to their classification through the ever gargantuan medical model. Arguably, Duke herself may have put a dent in her ability to get roles through her embrace of the term as a medical definition. As a teen, she channeled that intensity to humanize Helen Keller, but failed to transition over in maturity, in contrast to Sally Field, who dramatized the condition for ER.
If we're going to deconstruct our humanity through microcelluar biology, the potential cyborgs which emerge from Google's Tonka Toy kit in AI might provide an answer as to why self aware intelligent life destroys itself before a hospitable planet cooks in a nova event horizon. By the same token, competing theories, in certain instances, do more harm than good. We're all assuming Lubitz died a mass murderer, perplexed by his actions. Unless he left a manifesto in a drawer, we'll never know, and shouldn't automatically consign his fate to the need for advanced neuroscience.
Patty Duke is given a diva scene in the tepid drama, The Baby Sitter, tapping into her varnished mania to have an episode made leaden by booze, and it is sadly camped, almost stenciled in to a talented actress'es notable itinerary.
All aging actors seem to encompass these plot points: the breakthrough, the rise, the critical accolades in the train toward the apex, and then they attempt to cling to their glory through hackneyed scripts which then go to DVD. Shatner is no exception, and the only reason he had a resurgence on Boston Legal was because he played with audience nostalgia for his embodiment of James T Kirk, lampooning the action hero with considerable sophistication as the barging litigator. Boomer middle age anxiety was cruel, however, and heads rolled in the dust.
Duke is a footnote, and Shatner plays the gallant, and we're indifferent. Respectful to the elder celebrity with a nod, but know in the back of our minds he is fish meal for obit gurus. Duke's exit is more consequential.
Her bipolar disorder initially cycled her creativity, and in The Patty Duke Show, between the lines of the starched script, runs an argument for accommodation of mood differentials, as opposed to their classification through the ever gargantuan medical model. Arguably, Duke herself may have put a dent in her ability to get roles through her embrace of the term as a medical definition. As a teen, she channeled that intensity to humanize Helen Keller, but failed to transition over in maturity, in contrast to Sally Field, who dramatized the condition for ER.
If we're going to deconstruct our humanity through microcelluar biology, the potential cyborgs which emerge from Google's Tonka Toy kit in AI might provide an answer as to why self aware intelligent life destroys itself before a hospitable planet cooks in a nova event horizon. By the same token, competing theories, in certain instances, do more harm than good. We're all assuming Lubitz died a mass murderer, perplexed by his actions. Unless he left a manifesto in a drawer, we'll never know, and shouldn't automatically consign his fate to the need for advanced neuroscience.
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