Author: Daniel Hero

It’s December and among other things, this means it is time for me to order a new calendar. This is one of the easiest things in my life because I always order the same calendar each year. This year’s Space calendar from the Smithsonian featured images from the Chandra X-Ray telescope. This particular calendar features Chandra images composited with the other orbiting satellites, Hubble and Spitzer, as well as from the Very Large Array down here on the ground with us.

For some people, it’s standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon for the first time. Or it’s in a canoe on a fantastically still lake. Perhaps for you it’s diving a reef or watching a beetle crawl over a leaf. Whatever it is that touches off that spark of awe and wonder, which drives home that sense you’re a part of something vast, ancient, and ineffable, whatever that thing is for you, highly detailed images of our universe does that for me.

But in a sense, it’s important to remember that these pictures are not real. The sense I’m talking about is sight. Let me explain. The final month of this calendar (which sits directly above and behind my laptop, less than a foot away) reads:

“NGC 4258 is a spiral galaxy well known to astronomers for having two so called anomalous arms that glow in X-ray, optical, and radio light. Rather than being aligned with the plane of the galaxy, they intersect with it. This composite image of NGC 4258 shows the galaxy in X-rays from Chandra (blue), radio waves from the Very Large Array (purple), optical data from Hubble (yellow and blue), and infrared with Spitzer (red). Researchers are using all of these telescopes to better understand how the supermassive black hole is affecting the galaxy and its anomalous arms.”

In a way, I see these images as works of art. No more “real” than Van Gogh’s “Starry Night.” Both images are works of human creativity, understanding, and passion. They are not representations of nature as we see them with our naked eye. Which is to say, the magnificent galaxy I see hovering in mid swirl over the edge of my laptop screen would not look anything like this if I were viewing it out of the window from my luxury suite onboard the good ship Hey look, We figured it out. What Van Gogh saw that starry night was most certainly there, but no human other than him saw it that way. The galaxy I have on my wall is most certainly there – an image created by many who all view it as no single human physically can.

Pictures of galaxies and gaseous pillars and nebulae, these things are just small parts of even larger structures we can now apprehend. Views no other humans previous to us were privy. Their sheer immensity is one of the things which overwhelms me. The amount of matter and energy they represent is staggering, and still only a fraction of what must be there in order for our universe to make sense with how we currently understand it. The knowing of this and where I place in both scale and importance… I can think of few things as awe inspiring as that. We are both utterly insignificant and more precious than anything else I can think of. We are hydrogen that has organized itself in such a fashion as to recognize and appreciate that fact.

Seeing a different stunning image of what lies beyond the everyday experiences of human beings each month soothes me on a number of different levels. I experience a certain amount of pride for being part of a civilization which is daily uncovering truths and explaining the nature of our reality in a way our ancestors could quite literally not imagine. It places the uncomfortable vagaries of my life in their proper place. Of all the times and places I could be an organized collection of transmuted hydrogen capable of awe and wonder, now is the time I find myself, at the edge of the already wondrous.

And things are just starting to get interesting.

These thoughts also help me to remain positive in a culture that has only just recently made concern, alarm, and downright fear a part of our everyday life. Someone somewhere is telling a group of humans that another group of humans wants them suffering and or dead. The terrifying part is a good portion of what is presented as fearful is worthy of that reaction. Our conversion of natural resources into pollution is a danger to most of the complicated life on the planet. Our political processes and institutions are seemingly hamstrung by an extremely small part of the global population for reasons that primarily benefit them, to the detriment of more than just their fellow human beings. Rationality and a respect for the truth are under increasing disdain for a number of reasons, as keeping people ignorant and misinformed is useful for more than just financial gain.

But like the composite image of NGC 4258 this is only one particular view of the world around us. Yes, those things are certainly there but they are presented to be viewed in a certain light, a composite image formed by many, presented to many, designed to foster a view according to its own set of values, its own priorities of hues and framing. Both NGC 4258 and “Starry Night” offer valuable ways of seeing the night time sky, neither of them do so faithful to the human eye. Wisdom requires seeing both for what they are, noting their differences, and appreciating that reality is big enough to accommodate both. Unless you think the Earth is flat, no older than 6000 years, and will soon end in fire and death. How can one accommodate an outlook such as that?

It’s December and time to order next year’s calendar. I’ll have twelve new images of our universe that Aristotle could never dream of. I’ll see things that Kepler would have given his left testicle for. I’ll gaze upon vistas in such detail, they would have caused Michelangelo to weep. This gives me hope that the future, not just my future, short as that will be in the cosmic scale of things, but the future of us as collections of organized hydrogen capable of recognizing and appreciating that fact, will continue to improve, continue to keep us on the edge of the already wondrous.

With things just starting to get interesting.

I’ve been giving much thought to the subject of self indulgence lately. Some of this springs from my merely pedestrian need to make better choices in diet and exercise. But that’s not the sort of self indulgence that’s been on my mind the most.

You see, I have a bad habit.

This particular monkey I’d managed to peel off his perch and stuff into a cage for a good two or three years. Prior to that, my habit got so bad at times I stood amazed at the volume of flung feces spattered all over the glass. Thus, my long period of keeping the monkey in his cage and off my back.

Alcohol? Heroin perhaps? ABBA?

Nope. Worse.

I like to engage in political and religious discussions on Facebook. In the beginning, political lifetimes ago, I approached it from a fairly academic point of view. Unfortunately, nowadays when I say discussions, I mean letting loose the hounds on some poor sap I often don’t know. Oh, I try and rationalize my behavior – I try and single out bullies and trolls, I try to reach for snark and sarcasm rather than immediately loading the cannon of castigation, I tell myself friends stick up for friends (especially when they’re correct), and I try not to say anything to a stranger I wouldn’t say to an equally egregiously wrong, say, brother.

That’s a lot of “I try” statements there. It also still leaves a country mile wide worth of leeway for bad behavior.

It’s a bad habit because I’ve failed at “I try” too many times in the past.
I’ve let loose on former friends and family, so at least I’m consistent. The question I ask myself is, how much of it is passionate strength of my convictions and world view, and how much of it purely because it feels good? Because I have to be honest here, it does feel good. That’s a problem. That’s something to feel some shame about.

When you start to pick apart why it feels good, well, there’s where the shame comes in. A portion of it is because we all like to think we’re on the side of the good guys; we can practically feel our heroine’s hand on our shoulder as we stride into the fray. This feeling is only reinforced for me when I start to become well pleased with the sound of my own voice. Nothing gets my writing juices flowing like a galloping charge on the back of my armored moral high horse. Especially when I’m bearing down on what in my mind is unprotected infantry. The poor bastard doesn’t simply get stomped and speared, he’s gleefully stomped and speared. Savaging someone you don’t know and enjoying it is a toxic practice, no matter how much the target has it coming. And believe me, they have it coming.

I know this about myself. I believe in ruthless self examination. I used the word shame. For me, shame is an emotion whose foundations were laid from a certain parenting style, a theme reinforced and buttressed by my brushes with organized religion during my youth, and as an adult with an acceptance that sometimes, shame is an appropriate emotion to experience.

Shame is the absence of honor. Its presence is indication of a deep betrayal. What then, is being betrayed? Almost always it is a betrayal of the self. All of us incorporate things outside ourselves that help define our self image. When we betray those things, be it how a loved one sees us, a religious tenet, or a set of values we cherish, shame is the result. It is the mournful wail that accompanies an act of self abnegation. The death cry of a little identity suicide.

I often experience at least a small portion of shame when I’ve unloaded on someone I don’t know, or to put a fine point on it, towards a stranger who I think I’ve pegged rather well. That I reserve the worst of my vitriol toward bullies, brutes, and bastards is really only allowing myself behavior that I wouldn’t engage in towards any other group of people. And it would be one thing if it were effective, if my willingness to cut to the bone actually excised the cancer. There is zero evidence to support that assertion, no matter how much I wish it were so.

I’m forced to examine the possibility that the main reason I feel compelled to engage in the Facebook equivalent of handing someone their own ass is mostly because it makes me feel better. This is not a noble sentiment. Nor does it reflect well on my personal sojourn toward self betterment. In fact, it skirts dangerously close to the very behavior I allow myself to attack.

Like any other addiction, lack of vigilance often presages a fall off the wagon. Knowing your triggers, when and why you’re likely to stumble, is key. Small rituals help. I often ask myself three times if I really want to post what I’ve written. More times than not, the simple act of typing it out is enough and I can delete what I’ve written and still gain the same benefit as if I let it loose barking into the world. I ask myself if what I’m posting is at least in the framework of pushing back against intolerance. At least then I can take refuge in the notion that by being intolerant of intolerance I’m at least avoiding complicity. Finally, if I still feel the need, I remind myself of the proverb, “He is a fool who deals with fools.”

I admit though, sometimes, I simply say screw it, let the gate swing wide and let that bad monkey have himself a day.

It’s a guilty pleasure. Simply shameful.

A bad habit.

Bad monkey, bad.

I’m instituting another self appointed rule: Every time I feel I’ve gone over the line and flung my feces too forcefully, I’m donating another twenty dollars to Project Chimp.

A tree recently fell at an angle, blocking the path Kepler and I walk with regularity. It’s a tight squeeze going under, no problem for Kepler but a bit scary for me, as the tree is only held up by the upper branches caught in another tree where it fell. There’s the option of going over the top near the base but the footing there is treacherous because of a tangle of smaller tree limbs. I carry a hiking stick, so that helps.

I decided that today I was going to go over rather than under, so I carefully stepped on a small limb at the top of the tangle and using my hiking stick for balance, I straddled the tree. So far so good. In fact, my position was so stable I thought I’d easily be able to lean completely on my hiking stick and jump clear of the tree and the tangle.

At least, that’s how I visualized it in my mind.

I learned that at fifty one I can still pull off a decent shoulder roll. Unfortunately, the only place to execute it was into a generous swatch of Urtica dioica, also called burn weed or stinging nettles. Most of my right arm and shoulder are on fire and will be for the rest of the day.

I got lucky. Those nettles easily could have obscured a jagged tree limb, or a rotting stump, and my fifty one year streak of never breaking a bone, or worse, might have come to an end.

Given what the current pack of carrion feeders in congress are likely to pass, I have to be especially careful about jumping over trees while Kepler and I are out chasing squirrels. Even though I have good healthcare and am fortunate enough to be in a position to cover my deductible without undue hardship, I know that there are millions of people who cannot say the same. With the likely passage of what can only be described as the legislative equivalent of a middle finger two inches from the face of everyone who isn’t obscenely wealthy, the vast majority of us will need to literally watch our steps.

This only addresses the selfish concerns of a middle aged white man with good health insurance who happens to be in better health than many men his age. My mother is on medicare and has a fixed income. My brother has an incurable neurological disorder that is chronic and progressive. My son has been in a wheelchair since he was 13 and requires regular medical supplies for day to day living. All of these people in my life will be fucked when the Koch conservatives and their congressional lackeys finally get their shit together and gut the Affordable Care Act.

And don’t kid yourself, they’re going to get around to it. Soon.

What’s especially enraging is that congress has voted to exclude their healthcare from any of the deleterious changes (and they all are) they want to impose on the rest of us. It’s like they want us to hate them.

I wish there were some way to involuntarily effect wisdom and empathy on those emotionally stunted and empathically challenged humans known as the American conservative, those who chanted “Let them die! Let them die!” when it comes to the uninsured. I daydream about forcing Mitch McConnell into an utterly convincing virtual reality where he is confined to a hospital bed, intubated, and forced to rely on a caregiver for everything from being fed to wiping his ass. That would be a caregiver relying on medicare to get paid, mind you. Maybe that would foster some compassion. Then again, he’s had a political lifetime of not caring about anyone but his donors, so maybe even that wouldn’t do the trick.

One of the worse things about the hateful and ignorant modern American conservative is how effective they are at spreading the mud they wallow in. I’ve always been a live and let live kind of person. I hate conflict, hate violence, hate being angry. The way they’ve conducted themselves, not just conservative congressional members, but the rank and file, invites a reciprocity that practically takes a Dalai Lama to eschew.

Yet they deserve what they wish to withhold from others just the same. I’ll keep telling myself that, no matter what. The only thing worse than having to deal with conservatives is falling into the trap of being just like them. It’s no wonder that so many of us choose to segregate ourselves politically. I try being nice to them. I try to listen to their concerns. I try to remind myself that the overwhelming majority of them are victims of lies, distortions, and misrepresentations. They lack the critical and analytical tools to see through the fog. They’re addicted to self righteous rage and the feel good brain chemistry those emotions let loose.

I know how they feel. I have to remind myself that we on the left are no less susceptible to the warm glow of being certain we’re in the right. Everyday I tell myself that I have no monopoly on the truth and all of us know something others don’t. As Clint Eastwood’s Dirty Harry remarked: “A man has got to know his limitations.” I wish I knew how to spread that sentiment in a way that would cause conservatives to be more self reflective and less cock sure that everything is the fault of liberals, immigrants, and everyone who isn’t a Christian.

What I wouldn’t give for Douglas Adam’s point of view gun.