And now, a little bit about the Babel fish, the translating creature currently residing in Arthur Dent's ear canal . . .
"The Babel fish," said The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy quietly, "is small, yellow and leechlike, and probably the oddest thing in the Universe. It feeds on brainwave energy received not from its own carrier but from those around it. It absorbs all unconscious mental frequencies from this brainwave energy to nourish itself with. It then excretes into the mind of its carrier a telepathic matrix formed by combining the conscious thought frequencies with nerve signals picked up from the speech centers of the brain which has supplied them. The practical upshot of all this is that if you stick a Babel fish in your ear you can instantly understand anything said to you in any form of language. The speech patterns you actually hear decode the brainwave matrix which has been fed into your mind by your Babel fish.
"Now it is such a bizarrely improbable coincidence that anything so mind-boggingly useful could have evolved purely by chance that some thinkers have chosen to see it as a final and clinching proof of the non-existence of God.
"The argument goes something like this: 'I refuse to prove that I exist,' says God, 'for proof denies faith, and without faith I am nothing.'
"'But,' says Man, 'the Babel fish is a dead give-away, isn't it? It could not have evolved by chance. It proves you exist, and so therefore, by your own arguments, you don't. QED.'
"'Oh, dear,' says God, 'I hadn't thought of that,' and promptly vanishes in a puff of logic.
"'Oh, that was easy,' says Man, and for an encore goes on to prove that black is white and gets himself killed on the next pedestrian crossing.
"Most leading theologians claim that this argument is a load of dingo's kidneys, but that didn't stop Oolon Colluphid making a small fortune when he used it as the central theme of his best-selling book, Well That about Wraps It Up for God.
""Meanwhile, the poor Babel fish, by effectively removing all barriers to communication between different races and cultures, has caused more and bloodier wars than anything else in the history of creation."
There you go. The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and the Babel fish prove that God does not exist. The circular logic is pretty interesting and funny. People have been trying to prove the existence of God since He created the universe. The Grand Canyon is proof of the existence of God. Or it's the result of the Colorado River carving a stream bed into a ditch into a cavern into a canyon over a mile deep in places through thousands of years of erosion. You can extend the logic. Who/what created the Colorado River? Melt from glaciers? Okay, then who/what created the glaciers? An Ice Age? Alright, then who/what caused the Ice Age? The collision into Earth of a huge asteroid that created a cloud of dust and dirt that lowered the planet's temperature for another thousands and thousands of years and caused a mass extinction. Okay, then, who/what created the asteroid? Well, that was the result of collision of two astral bodies in the universe that fragmented and sent pieces of rock to go soaring through the Universe on a collision course with Earth. So, who/what caused the collision of the astral bodies? That could have been of an offshoot of the Big Bang, which set into motion the creation of the sun and moon and stars and planets. You know the next question--who/what caused the Big Bang? Well, that was caused by the collapsing of matter, a reaction on the atomic level. Who/what created the atoms? You see this logic. Eventually, there will be a "who/what" question that can't be answered. That's plain logic.
Now, there will be some disciples and readers of this blog who will pick apart my reasoning here. That's fine. I'm a questioner, too. I believe in science. I don't accept things on face value. I struggle with my faith all the time. That's human and understandable. It's the struggle that deepens belief and understanding. It does for me, anyway. It helps me make sense of my life.
I don't know why my life had to change so much these last few weeks. Don't know the meaning of all this upheaval. I know the causes: the healthcare system in the United States. More specifically, for-profit healthcare. Whenever big business gets involved in anything, the middle and lower classes will be negatively impacted. Dem's da facts. That's the reason the surgery center where I worked closed. However, there are more existential questions for me to contemplate.
Why is there such struggle in my life at the moment? One of my friends keeps telling me that she believes something better is coming my way. I want to believe this. That goes right along with the idea that everything happens for a purpose. God has a plan. As a devout Christian, I'm supposed to believe this. And I do, in the front of my mind. In the back of mind, I'm still in a state of panic.
The people I know who seem most spiritual, most connected to God or a higher power, are very happy, centered people. It's because they have faith. Believe that God is looking out for them all the time. Yes, bad things happen in their lives. Death. Illness. Job loss. The big difference, however, is that they have hope..
That's it. Hope. It makes darkness less dark. Good times more joyful. Without hope, there isn't a whole lot to look forward to. I hope that my daughter and son will have happy, fulfilling lives with people who love them. I hope that Donald Trump will be removed from office. I hope that I will have bacon for breakfast tomorrow. Big and small hopes.
That's why I think faith is important. For my atheist friends, I hope you have faith in humankind to make the world a better place. For my religious friends, I hope you have faith that God's got your backs, won't abandon you.
Saint Marty will always err on the side of hope.
Poet...Musician...Thinker...Blogger...Teacher...Husband...Father...I'm not perfect, but I try!
Saturday, March 2, 2019
March 2: Tired of Snow, Green, "The Art of Growth"
Okay, I'm a little tired of snow. Woke up to a couple of new inches of white on the ground this morning.
I need to think of spring. Melt. Thaw. Green. Sun. Warmth. A time when I was watching my daughter sprout like a dandelion in my house. It seemed every morning she was taller, faster, smarter.
Saint Marty misses those times of bloom.
The Art of Growth
by: Martin Achatz
A coworker carries her granddaughter
around the office, showing off
her dark curls and serious eyes.
I am amazed how much the child
has grown, size her up
like a blue-ribbon squash.
The last time I saw her,
she fit into the fold of my arm,
a mitten of sleep. Now,
in this thick June, she is
all height and weight, a moving
field of sprout and fruit.
My coworker knows the art of growth,
the moisture and heat it needs,
the cycles of sowing and reaping.
With her daughter, she kneads manure
into black earth, thick with cow smell,
watches her granddaughter plow
dirt with her fingers.
I wonder if she is ever astonished
by the size of her roses,
the yellows of her daylilies.
I wonder if she ever listens
to her garden at night,
the way I listen to my daughter
stretch and grow in the dark.
I need to think of spring. Melt. Thaw. Green. Sun. Warmth. A time when I was watching my daughter sprout like a dandelion in my house. It seemed every morning she was taller, faster, smarter.
Saint Marty misses those times of bloom.
The Art of Growth
by: Martin Achatz
A coworker carries her granddaughter
around the office, showing off
her dark curls and serious eyes.
I am amazed how much the child
has grown, size her up
like a blue-ribbon squash.
The last time I saw her,
she fit into the fold of my arm,
a mitten of sleep. Now,
in this thick June, she is
all height and weight, a moving
field of sprout and fruit.
My coworker knows the art of growth,
the moisture and heat it needs,
the cycles of sowing and reaping.
With her daughter, she kneads manure
into black earth, thick with cow smell,
watches her granddaughter plow
dirt with her fingers.
I wonder if she is ever astonished
by the size of her roses,
the yellows of her daylilies.
I wonder if she ever listens
to her garden at night,
the way I listen to my daughter
stretch and grow in the dark.
Friday, March 1, 2019
March 1: Bottom Fell Out, Swallowed by a Whale, Inside Out
Arthur and Ford, aboard the Vogon ship, are about to jump to hyperspace . . .
The noise stopped.
Arthur discovered to his embarrassment that he was lying curled up in a small ball on the floor with his arms wrapped round his head. He smiled weakly.
"Charming man," he said. "I wish I had a daughter so I could forbid her to marry one . . ."
"You wouldn't need to," said Ford. "They've got as much sex appeal as a road accident. No, don't move," he added as Arthur began to uncurl himself, "you'd better be prepared for the jump into hyperspace. It's unpleasantly like being drunk."
"What's so unpleasant about being drunk?"
"You ask a glass of water."
Arthur thought about this.
"Ford," he said.
"Yeah?"
"What's this fish doing in my ear?"
"It's translating for you. It's a Babel fish. Look it up in the book if you like."
He tossed over The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and then curled himself up into a fetal ball to prepare himself for the jump.
At that moment the bottom fell out of Arthur's mind.
His eyes turned inside out. His feet began to leak out of the top of his head.
The room folded flat around him, spun around, shifted out of existence and left him sliding into his own navel.
They were passing through hyperspace.
Yes, that little description of hyperspace sort of describes my entire week. Started out with a blizzard that nearly buried my entire house. Ends tonight with me, sitting in my kitchen, feeling like the bottom has fallen out of my mind and everything that I've known for the past 20 or so years has shifted out of existence.
No, I'm not going to go all Sylvia Plath or Vincent van Gogh on you. You will not need to increase your dosage of antidepressants or sit under a light therapy lamp for hours after reading this post. Rather, I just want to meditate on how unreal the last five or so days have been. Like something from a van Gogh painting or a Plath poem.
This afternoon, I sat in my new office at the hospital, the door closed and locked. I was surrounded by remnants of my old office, including my Employee of the Month picture, which I nailed onto the wall behind my desk. I listened to my online Christmas radio station and assembled patient charts. All stuff I would have done last week, as well. Except that I felt like I'd been swallowed by a whale or something.
Like in the movie Pinocchio where Geppetto and Pinocchio and Jiminy Cricket are sitting on the deck of a boat in the belly of Monstro. Everything is sort of normal and sort of isn't. There's the boat and the wooden mast and the windows and a lamp. But look up, and all you see is a heaven of whale ribs and stomach. It isn't quite right.
Until I somehow find my footing in my new space (which will only last for about six weeks), I am going to continue to float around on my little boat, waiting to be coughed up onto some foreign shore. (Yes, I am now mixing narratives. I am no longer Geppetto or Pinocchio. I am Jonah, on my way to the shores of some distant Nineveh. Stick with me.)
That is the extent of my wisdom this evening. Everything is inside out, upside down. I've made the jump to hyperspace, and I'm not enjoying it right now. I'm on a voyage, but something much larger (and fishier) is doing the navigating by the green auroras of winter.
Saint Marty isn't much for sea food.
The noise stopped.
Arthur discovered to his embarrassment that he was lying curled up in a small ball on the floor with his arms wrapped round his head. He smiled weakly.
"Charming man," he said. "I wish I had a daughter so I could forbid her to marry one . . ."
"You wouldn't need to," said Ford. "They've got as much sex appeal as a road accident. No, don't move," he added as Arthur began to uncurl himself, "you'd better be prepared for the jump into hyperspace. It's unpleasantly like being drunk."
"What's so unpleasant about being drunk?"
"You ask a glass of water."
Arthur thought about this.
"Ford," he said.
"Yeah?"
"What's this fish doing in my ear?"
"It's translating for you. It's a Babel fish. Look it up in the book if you like."
He tossed over The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy and then curled himself up into a fetal ball to prepare himself for the jump.
At that moment the bottom fell out of Arthur's mind.
His eyes turned inside out. His feet began to leak out of the top of his head.
The room folded flat around him, spun around, shifted out of existence and left him sliding into his own navel.
They were passing through hyperspace.
Yes, that little description of hyperspace sort of describes my entire week. Started out with a blizzard that nearly buried my entire house. Ends tonight with me, sitting in my kitchen, feeling like the bottom has fallen out of my mind and everything that I've known for the past 20 or so years has shifted out of existence.
No, I'm not going to go all Sylvia Plath or Vincent van Gogh on you. You will not need to increase your dosage of antidepressants or sit under a light therapy lamp for hours after reading this post. Rather, I just want to meditate on how unreal the last five or so days have been. Like something from a van Gogh painting or a Plath poem.
This afternoon, I sat in my new office at the hospital, the door closed and locked. I was surrounded by remnants of my old office, including my Employee of the Month picture, which I nailed onto the wall behind my desk. I listened to my online Christmas radio station and assembled patient charts. All stuff I would have done last week, as well. Except that I felt like I'd been swallowed by a whale or something.
Like in the movie Pinocchio where Geppetto and Pinocchio and Jiminy Cricket are sitting on the deck of a boat in the belly of Monstro. Everything is sort of normal and sort of isn't. There's the boat and the wooden mast and the windows and a lamp. But look up, and all you see is a heaven of whale ribs and stomach. It isn't quite right.
Until I somehow find my footing in my new space (which will only last for about six weeks), I am going to continue to float around on my little boat, waiting to be coughed up onto some foreign shore. (Yes, I am now mixing narratives. I am no longer Geppetto or Pinocchio. I am Jonah, on my way to the shores of some distant Nineveh. Stick with me.)
That is the extent of my wisdom this evening. Everything is inside out, upside down. I've made the jump to hyperspace, and I'm not enjoying it right now. I'm on a voyage, but something much larger (and fishier) is doing the navigating by the green auroras of winter.
Saint Marty isn't much for sea food.
Thursday, February 28, 2019
February 28: Gargle Howl, Out of Sight, Garlic Aioli
A message from the commander of the Vogon constructor ship . . .
Howl howl gargle howl gargle howl howl howl gargle howl gargle howl howl gargle gargle howl gargle gargle gargle howl slurrp uuuurgh should have a good time. Message repeats. This is your captain speaking, so stop whatever you're doing and pay attention. First of all I see from our instruments that we have a couple of hitchhikers aboard. Hello, wherever you are. I just want to make it totally clear that you are not at all welcome. I worked hard to get where I am today, and I didn't become captain of a Vogon constructor ship simply so I could turn it into a taxi service for a load of degenerate freeloaders. I have sent out a search party, and as soon as they find you I will put you off the ship. If you're very lucky I might read you some of my poetry first.
"Secondly, we are about to jump into hyperspace for a journey to Barnard's Star. On arrival we will stay in dock for a seventy-two-hour refit, and no one's to leave the ship during that time. I repeat, all planet leave is canceled. I've just had an unhappy love affair, so I don't see why anybody else should have a good time. Message ends."
An unhappy love affair for the Vogon captain. Therefore, he wants nobody else to experience happiness. I get that. I'd bet that most of my disciples are getting tired of hearing about the closure of the surgery center where I work. Er, used to work. I know that these last few posts have been more than a little sad. Never fear. After today, I will no longer be at the surgery center. I will be stationed at the main hospital, checking in patients. That doesn't mean that I'll be happier. It means I will be removed from the primary source of my unhappiness. As the saying goes: out of sight, out of mind.
Okay, I'm lying there. The place is not going to be out of my mind for quite some time. Can't quite scrub close to 20 years of life from my thoughts that easily. In fact, in my new office digs, I'm still surrounded by objects and equipment for my old office, including the name plate from the wall (which I've placed on my office door) and my Christmas frog (which will sit prominently on my desk). I have about six weeks of surgery center work left before it goes away forever.
This morning, I walked through the place, turning off lights, opening and closing drawers, like I do at the end of a vacation when I'm checking to make sure I haven't left any underwear or socks in the hotel room. Of course, I've opened and closed those drawers about 50 times in the last few days. It was just my way of holding on. I walked out the door for the final time with an armload of belongings--a three-pound bag of M&Ms (half-eaten), some printer paper, my lunchbox, and a few coffee mugs.
I spent the rest of the day settling into my new space. Unpacking boxes. Testing computers and printers. Answering phone calls. E-mailing work tickets to get things fixed. Watching my coworkers try to adjust to our new environment. I was sort of lucky. All my work will be in one place. I have a refrigerator and microwave. My own desk. There's a bathroom right around the corner. I'm all set.
The rest of the employees from the surgery center are having a harder time, I think. They are spread over two or three different floors. Their processes are going to be vastly different. And, due to the 20-day time frame we were given for this whole closure process, nothing was really prepared for us at the main hospital. No computers. No phone lines. No fax numbers. No patient spaces. No operating/procedure room. The I. T. guy who was working on my computer and printer said at one point today, "You really should have given us about a three-month warning." Hmmmmmm.
Well, after a long, unsettled day, I went out for drinks and food with some good friends. We hit two different drinking establishments--one for happy hour ($3 beers), the other for the best French fries in the world with garlic aioli so good it would make an atheist believe in God. We laughed and bitched and got a little sad and then laughed again. It was a really perfect way to end a not-so-perfect day.
I am sad tonight, but I've had three drinks to combat that sadness. It's muted. Plus, the garlic aioli was a good aloe for my broken heart. I'm not saying alcohol and fried potatoes are great coping mechanisms, but they certainly lifted my spirits.
Maybe Saint Marty is a little drunk.
Howl howl gargle howl gargle howl howl howl gargle howl gargle howl howl gargle gargle howl gargle gargle gargle howl slurrp uuuurgh should have a good time. Message repeats. This is your captain speaking, so stop whatever you're doing and pay attention. First of all I see from our instruments that we have a couple of hitchhikers aboard. Hello, wherever you are. I just want to make it totally clear that you are not at all welcome. I worked hard to get where I am today, and I didn't become captain of a Vogon constructor ship simply so I could turn it into a taxi service for a load of degenerate freeloaders. I have sent out a search party, and as soon as they find you I will put you off the ship. If you're very lucky I might read you some of my poetry first.
"Secondly, we are about to jump into hyperspace for a journey to Barnard's Star. On arrival we will stay in dock for a seventy-two-hour refit, and no one's to leave the ship during that time. I repeat, all planet leave is canceled. I've just had an unhappy love affair, so I don't see why anybody else should have a good time. Message ends."
An unhappy love affair for the Vogon captain. Therefore, he wants nobody else to experience happiness. I get that. I'd bet that most of my disciples are getting tired of hearing about the closure of the surgery center where I work. Er, used to work. I know that these last few posts have been more than a little sad. Never fear. After today, I will no longer be at the surgery center. I will be stationed at the main hospital, checking in patients. That doesn't mean that I'll be happier. It means I will be removed from the primary source of my unhappiness. As the saying goes: out of sight, out of mind.
Okay, I'm lying there. The place is not going to be out of my mind for quite some time. Can't quite scrub close to 20 years of life from my thoughts that easily. In fact, in my new office digs, I'm still surrounded by objects and equipment for my old office, including the name plate from the wall (which I've placed on my office door) and my Christmas frog (which will sit prominently on my desk). I have about six weeks of surgery center work left before it goes away forever.
This morning, I walked through the place, turning off lights, opening and closing drawers, like I do at the end of a vacation when I'm checking to make sure I haven't left any underwear or socks in the hotel room. Of course, I've opened and closed those drawers about 50 times in the last few days. It was just my way of holding on. I walked out the door for the final time with an armload of belongings--a three-pound bag of M&Ms (half-eaten), some printer paper, my lunchbox, and a few coffee mugs.
I spent the rest of the day settling into my new space. Unpacking boxes. Testing computers and printers. Answering phone calls. E-mailing work tickets to get things fixed. Watching my coworkers try to adjust to our new environment. I was sort of lucky. All my work will be in one place. I have a refrigerator and microwave. My own desk. There's a bathroom right around the corner. I'm all set.
The rest of the employees from the surgery center are having a harder time, I think. They are spread over two or three different floors. Their processes are going to be vastly different. And, due to the 20-day time frame we were given for this whole closure process, nothing was really prepared for us at the main hospital. No computers. No phone lines. No fax numbers. No patient spaces. No operating/procedure room. The I. T. guy who was working on my computer and printer said at one point today, "You really should have given us about a three-month warning." Hmmmmmm.
Well, after a long, unsettled day, I went out for drinks and food with some good friends. We hit two different drinking establishments--one for happy hour ($3 beers), the other for the best French fries in the world with garlic aioli so good it would make an atheist believe in God. We laughed and bitched and got a little sad and then laughed again. It was a really perfect way to end a not-so-perfect day.
I am sad tonight, but I've had three drinks to combat that sadness. It's muted. Plus, the garlic aioli was a good aloe for my broken heart. I'm not saying alcohol and fried potatoes are great coping mechanisms, but they certainly lifted my spirits.
Maybe Saint Marty is a little drunk.
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