Long ago I made the pronouncement that I’m not particularly crazy about teenagers. I’ve never made an attempt to hide it; Justin knew all about even as he careened through his teens. His teens ended up being exhibit B as to why I’m not a fan of the years between 13 to 19. I was exhibit A. 

Unlike many people, I remember well how horrible I was as a teen. I was fairly miserable, not fitting in where I wanted to fit in, not being as popular as I wanted to be, not getting everything that I demanded from my parents. I was impossible, moody, demanding, raging about nothing and everything, in no particular order; rude. My parents tolerated me, even loved me. I was why I decided that teenagers weren’t fit for human consumption.

I also know that I eventually became human again. It happened sometime during college and the metamorphosis, that time after I finished school and went out on my own. I still had insecurity issues and occasional bouts of mood, but I softened with age. I liked my parents again; more importantly they liked me again, too. While they always loved me, the like thing was difficult during “those years.” 

Much the same happened with Justin. We didn’t much like him. He was moody and difficult and demanding. He continually pushed us to the edge, and sometimes we went over. We didn’t like him, he hated us. Then he went to college and suddenly, we liked him again. He liked us. We were reborn as a family. 

I think the teenage years are some of the cruelest. Your body is betraying you, your moods are uncontrollable. You hate everyone and mostly yourself. When you get old and your body is once again betraying you, it’s also cruel because you know how good you once had it. As a teen you can’t imagine the wonder that awaits. I think that’s why it’s more cruel. 

Regardless, being a teen totally sucks. This is something I thought of today as I spoke with my sister who is in the midst of her own teen turmoil. I mentioned my theory, one she was familiar with. Here it is: 

Teens become awful because they’re getting ready to leave for college and by the time they do, as a parent, you’re so ready for them to go, you don’t really miss them. If they left when they were wonderful, when they were loving and generous and thoughtful and kind, as a parent, you’d be totally bereft.   

So kids go to college and become human again and as a parent, you start liking them again. And then they become wonderful. At least ours did.

Justin has been home for the past month or so, on a break from his tour. Where he was difficult during those terrible teen years, he’s a joy to have around now. Easy, personable. Smart as hell. He likes wine and conversation; he laughs easily and quickly. For Mother’s Day, he had a dozen roses delivered for me along with a lovely card. And today, before he left, another package arrived. He presented it to Kevin and I. We opened it and inside were four gorgeous wine glasses. Matching wine glasses. He had noticed that many of our pairs had become singles, had lost their mates. He thought it would be nice for us to have a nice set that we could use to entertain, that we could use on the deck for sunset, that would like nice and that we wouldn’t have to worry about breaking. These glasses are made with a slightly heavier stem; they’re harder to knock over. 

The point is he noticed. He’s thoughtful. He’s wonderful.

My new theory is better: Kids grow up and become teens and then they become people you like and respect and enjoy. They become equals. They become incredible. In our case, they become Justin.

I’m trying to remember a time when such a constant and overwhelming feeling of exhaustion existed, not just within me but throughout the entire country. I talk to my friends and my family and to a one, they all say that they are constantly checking the news, that every time they get an alert on their phone or iPad or fitness tracker proclaiming “breaking news” they – we – hold their breath. What the fuck has he done now? Oh my dog, what has happened now? Now? Now! 

It’s exhausting. The constant barrage of news and scandal and ridiculousness and ineptness and fear. It’s frightening. It’s demoralizing. It’s embarrassing. It’s the United States of America.

I find no solace in the fact that more of us voted against this evil creature than voted for. I find no tolerance in me to understand why people support him. I simply don’t understand how anyone could support the indignities that are happening, the lawlessness that is excused, the lack of spine in anyone in elected office to support the country rather than the party. 

Climate change. Water regulations. Help for the poor. Cruel deportations. Health care. 

The evil that men do.

It gets to me, the constancy of it, the inability to relax. It permeates my sleep hours. It forces me to continually check my sources throughout the day to make sure that nothing catastrophic has happened in the last hour, the recent minutes. It’s amazing how many times something has happened. It’s not always horrible but it’s always depressing in some way. 

Maybe it’s because of who’s in the office. Perhaps it’s because of the complete lack of experience of everyone who’s in charge. It is because of those things and the fact that we have lost all credibility in the world, that we are on edge. It is because of the fact that we wait – in fear – for something truly awful to happen. A terror attack, a natural disaster, a shooting. What will happen then? Will we retaliate with the “power of God’s own thunder” to quote Josiah Bartlett? Will we launch a nuclear fusillade on North Korea? Will we declare martial law? Will tanks patrol the streets? Will journalists be jailed? Will anyone who’s not Caucasian be interned? Will women turn into handmaids?

It’s day 110. I’m exhausted. We’re all destroyed. And yet tomorrow will come, at least for the immediate future. I will sleep fitfully and awake to walk the dog, to drink coffee, to work. It’s strange how normal it all is when everything that swirls around is anything but.

We go on because there isn’t an alternative. We work, we cook dinner, we commiserate with friends; we drink wine and too much. We try to sleep and we awake unrested. 

Day 110. And nothing at all to celebrate.

In 1530, Italy, which had evidently broken into several factions, came back together. In order to help build support for initiatives, the Italian government created something that was, essentially, a lottery. Called Lo Giuoco del Lotto d’Italia, the name meant the Clearance of the Lot of Italy. It involved the drawing of five numbers from a box. By 1778, the game had reached into France and was played primarily by wealthy Frenchman. By 1880, the game reached Germany and was used as a teaching tool to help students learn math, history and even spelling. In 1929, the game came to North America and was known as Beano. Players would have a sheet of paper with numbers arranged in a square. They would place small beans on the numbers as they were called with the object being to create a straight row in any single direction.

Edwin Lowe changed the name to “Bingo” that same year and turned to a mathematics professor named Carl Leffler with a request: Increase the possible number of card combinations to 6000.

I would imagine everyone of a certain age has played Bingo at one point or another. Maybe in kindergarten; maybe at some sort of church function. If you haven’t played it, you’ve probably seen it on television or in a movie. It’s usually a scene involving elderly men and women. They all sit around with a white card on the table in front of them. Someone up front picks a random number out of some sort of container, calls it out and eventually whoever gets a straight line yells out “Bingo!” Everyone gets jello and the winner gets a dollop of whipped cream on top. Woo hoo.

This morning, Justin announced that we should play Desert Bingo. 

It all started on our morning walk. Justin went with me for the first time since he’s been home. Usually on Saturday mornings, I walk alone and was planning to do so today. Kevin was already working outside in the dirt and rocks. I was glad to have the company. 

It was about 7 am, the sun was already high in the sky, a nice breeze was blowing. It would get windy later on but while we were walking, it remained pleasant. We walked to the gate. Along the way, we heard deer in the hills above. There was a falcon, sitting on the wall. I’m pretty sure I heard a snake slither in the grass. 

On our way back from the gate, we were talking. We rounded a curve, right before descending into what we call the hollow. I noticed something big and dark and thought that it was a rock. I wondered why I hadn’t seen it before. Then I noticed that there was another dark rock in the middle of the road. Justin was chatting away, swatting at bugs. Riley was trotting along paying no attention. 

“Wait,” I said. “Stop.” Everyone stopped. I gestured ahead. “Javalina.”

A herd of about seven crossed the road and went up into the hill. We continued on. A truck was coming toward us, on our side of the road. I mentioned it might be nice if he got on his own side as Justin chuckled. Eventually, the truck went to his own side. He slowed down as he got closer and rolled his window down. He was a pool guy. 

“Gila monster in the road just up there,” he said, motioning behind. We thanked him and kept going. Sure enough, there was a big Gila monster not too far from where we were. Riley was fascinated. It took me a while to pull him away. But eventually, we were on our way again. 

Justin started to laugh.

“It’s like a game of desert bingo,” he said. “All we need is a tortoise and we win.”

Maybe tomorrow.

We have no window coverings on our windows. Because we live on a hillside, with no one below or above us, we are fairly isolated. We can see houses around us, but they’re all acres away and nestled on their own hills. The entire back of the house, which overlooks the city, is glass. The front of the house has a lot of glass as well, but not the big, nearly floor to ceiling glass. The front looks up into the hillside above, a hillside where the only eyes belong to deer and javelina, ravens and falcons, gila monsters and tortoises and rabbits. And if any of them really want to peer into the bathroom, I’m ok with that. 

Without window coverings, though, we’re at the mercy of the sun. While we don’t get direct sun into any of the rooms at any time of the year (save for winter when I get the tail end of late afternoon setting-sun in my office), we do get daylight. The light flows across the valley before the sun crests the Rincon mountains to the east. In the winter, that doesn’t happen until after 7 but now, it’s happening before 6. The light, while not direct, is enough to act as a built-in alarm clock so we’re up every day by 6:30. It’s good in the summer because otherwise it would be too hot to walk Riley. 

My work load has been crazy lately. It was even worse when I had school, but I’m not taking a class this quarter, which theoretically should free me up a bit. It hasn’t. And I don’t sleep as well as I used to. Even in the past when I’d be up in the night, I could get right back to sleep. That doesn’t happen anymore. Now, I’m awake for at least an hour, maybe more because I’m too hot and then I’m too cold. Then the light floods the room and it no longer matters. I’m up. I am, thus, exhausted; all the time. 

Last night we made a nice dinner and the three of us (Justin’s home) proceeded to polish off several bottles of wine. Kevin went to bed around 10:30 but Justin and I stayed up talking for a couple more hours. I finally crawled into bed around 12:30. I was up once and awake, and then the paper was delivered at 5:55. I was awake again. By 7, I thought, screw it, I’ll just get up and get on with the day.   

And then it was 10:07. Somehow I had managed to fall asleep and stay asleep for another three hours. I felt groggy. I felt foggy. I felt not good at all. I had a headache. I felt as if I could fall back asleep if I allowed myself, but it was after 10 and way past the time I usually get my day started, even my Sunday. 

I was hoping that it would help me feel as if I’m catching up, at least for the day. I was hoping it would allow me to better enjoy my Sunday. I was hoping that it would prepare me for the coming onslaught that will be my week.

Sleeping in is something I used to do almost weekly. It wasn’t cause for discussion because it was so common. The fact that today I slept in and I consider it newsworthy is a significant step in my journey toward being an adult. I think that’s something to celebrate.  

I got a text from my neighbor earlier in the week about going to the powwow this weekend. If I was interested, we’d have to leave fairly early as it started at 7 and if we got there too late, it would be over. Or there wouldn’t be any goodies left to be got. I had tried to go to the one last week but got there too late so I know of what she spoke. I texted back “absolutely.” This morning at 7:17, I texted her that I was on my way.

I was first introduced to the idea of powwow just over a week ago. It’s actually an acronym: Produce On Wheels With-Out Waste. POWWOW. This program “rescues” 30 million pounds of fresh produce from the warehouses of produce distributors. For whatever reason – and based on what I “rescued” today – it has been deemed unmarketable. The grocery stores don’t want it; neither do the restaurants. You show up at one of their locations around the city, and for a $10 donation, you leave with a box full of fresh stuff, up to 60 pounds worth depending on what they have for that week. The donation goes to help feed the homeless and the needy. Each year, they help with over 4 million healthy meal supplements.

Susan (my neighbor) and I got to the powwow around 7:45 or so. We paid our $10 and then we started through the rows. There was eggplant and Brussel sprouts, neither of which did I take. Try as I might – and I have – I just don’t like eggplant. I think it’s one of those vegetables that you’re either for or against. Nothing in between. I’ve parmesan’d it; I’ve fried it. It just has a weird texture. 

Brussel sprouts I don’t mind especially if you cover them in garlic and mushrooms, but Kevin absolutely. Will. Not. Eat. Them. 

But then I came upon chilis. There were hatch chilis and the fiery red chilis. There were sweet peppers and red and yellow bell peppers. There were onions. And tomatoes. Lots and lots of tomatoes. I felt myself starting to grin. I was in my element. Since we moved to Tucson, I use chilis and peppers a lot more than I ever did before. I put them in everything. Needless to say, I loaded up my box and came home from POWWOW with a bunch of stuff.

Stuff that I immediately set about using once I got home. I made a big pot of marinara sauce, using one of the onions and all of the tomatoes. I found my garlic in my veggie drawer, along with some celery and carrots, all diced very thin. I cooked and simmered and stirred and tasted. I added spices; I cooked some more. 

Then I turned it off and let it cool. Once cool, I put it into my food processor, added some fresh basil (coincidentally from a plant given to me by Susan) and distributed it into several containers to freeze. 

Cooking all day is not something everyone likes. But for me, it was the perfect way to spend my Saturday. In fact, I’m not sure I could have been happier. 

I powwow’d today. I got veggies. I cooked. I lived it out loud.

Once upon a time, it was 1957. I was not yet born and wouldn’t be for several more years. This was back when a crooner named Perry Como was popular and that year he gave the world his second RCA Victor 12” long-play album. It was called We Get Letters and it was a concept record, based on requests from the singer’s television show. It was a soft, breezy record and did not include a song by the same name. Years later, David Letterman had a regular skit on his show where he sang, gleefully, “letters, we get letters” while opening his mail. 

This morning, Riley was on the deck and I was in my office, a ritual we engage in daily. He had just had a bath and was drying in the cool desert breeze; I was working. It was about 9:30. I had just taken a sip of coffee when suddenly, from the general direction of the deck, came the apoplectic barking and carrying on of my dog. I got up as I usually do and went to the door with the intention of asking what I usually ask when the dog is apoplectic. What is the issue? But before I got the door open I saw exactly what the issue was: trotting up the hill toward the house, as nice as you please, were two dogs, one a beagle, the other what looked to be a beagle mix.

I sprang into dog wrangling mode and headed toward the front door, yelling behind me that there were two dogs and for Kevin to grab a couple of leashes. As dog people, we have at least six leashes, only one of which do we use on a regular basis. Outside, I crouched down and in my friendliest voice called to the dogs who both came to me willingly. Kevin got the leashes, I attached them, and down the hill we went. 

I hadn’t met them but knew they were our new neighbor’s dogs because I knew they had beagles. I also know every other dog in the neighborhood. It’s not that big of a ‘hood. My neighbor, Alan, who had several workers at the house, couldn’t believe the dogs were out. 

“How…?” he asked, his question trailing off. 

“Gate’s open,” I said just as the worker – a pool guy – came in apologizing for leaving the gate open. 

Mission accomplished, I decided to head back up to the house. Alan remembered something as I started out the door. 

“Oh, hey,” he said. “I have some mail here. It has your house on it.” 

My house? How could that be? Someone was sending mail that showed my house? Our house? What? 

Alan handed me an oversized postcard and there, sure enough, in the place of honor taking up the top two thirds of the card, was the home we affectionately refer to as Il Sogno. The card had been sent by our architect/builder because our neighbors had pulled permits to build a house and he was advertising his services. Better late than never, since the house is already built and the card was stamped 4/18. 

So our house is being sent all over the city, perhaps further. We’re famous. Just like Perry Como. Without the crooning.

Everything bites. Angrily. Heartily. Hungrily. Feedingly. Dogs bite, cats bite, horses can bite. Spiders, turtles, snakes. Until we immersed ourselves in the luxury of the desert, we didn’t realize how much plants bite. 

In Little Shop of Horrors, Audrey is a plant that bites. It needs human blood to survive. The Venus fly trap, described as a carnivorous plant, has teeth-like leaves that open and trap its prey. Neither one of these plants is particularly attractive; they’re not pretty.

In the Sonoran desert, the plants are majestic, flowing and, in my opinion, beautiful. They’re not like the plants of other parts of the country. I’m not even sure they’re like plants elsewhere in the world. I know there are other deserts, but each environment, each landscape is different. The desert in Tucson is different than the desert going up to, through and beyond Phoenix. That desert is desolate, brown. It looks dirty. Our desert is green. It might be considered lush except lush normally means rich, soft, plush; intoxicating. Our desert is green and gorgeous, and now that it’s spring it’s bursting with color and flowers. Also, it’s prickly. It bites. 

Today there was a Gila monster skirting the outer edges of the driveway. He turned into the rock wall and free-climbed vertically, up and over. It was pale pink and washed out black with hardly any tail. It disappeared over the wall and into the desert. Gila monsters bite, scarily. They move relatively slowly and when someone or something, like a dog, get in their way, they bite. Their jaws snap and lock. It’s not pretty. 

All around the Gila monster were prickly pears and hedgehog cactus and munz cholla and whipple cholla. All were flowering. All have needles. If you get too close, they all bite. Definitely not pretty. 

The trees have thorns, the brush have thorns, the thorns have thorns. If you get too close to anything, it bites, sometimes harshly, sometimes just a little nip, but it’s always a bite. 

I looked at the flowers on the prickly pears and the whipple cholla, gorgeous yellow, dancing in the sunlight and all I could think of was how beautiful they were and are. Pretty. And each one also maintains the ability to stick, to bite. 

Pretty and biting. A beautiful combination worth celebrating.

Many years ago, cocktail party conversation often veered into discussions of “the list.” This was before we all got too old and cynical, before we started worrying regularly about what was going to happen to all of us at any given moment; about the decaying state of the world. We’d get together with friends, and we’d laugh and talk and drink. The list – the frivolous and fun list – would come up.

The list mainly consisted of musicians or actors who, if allowed, we would have a fling with. It was a stupid game and also ridiculous since it was never going to happen and even faced with the possibility, most of us wouldn’t have taken advantage of anyway.

My list, once upon a time, included Mel Gibson and Kurt Russell. They were both so gorgeous. It expanded to included Antonio Banderas especially after I saw The Mask of Zorro. Then it expanded again to include Pierce Brosnan. And Taye Diggs. 

Kevin’s list included Sela Ward, Rene Russo, and for a while Angie Harmon. These lists were great sources of amusement in the house. I actually loved that the women on his list, with the exception of Angie Harmon, were older than me. It made me feel secure. He had no trouble that I loved the way Antonio Banderas moved or that I drooled over Pierce Brosnan. For the longest time whenever Pierce Brosnan’s name was mentioned it was immediately followed with the words “he’s a beautiful man” because he was. If you haven’t seen The Thomas Crown Affair, see it. I dare you not to drool.

I have since moved on from my list. I completely lost interest in Mel Gibson when he imploded. Actually, I think I started losing interest when he did The Passion of the Christ, for a number of reasons. I haven’t seen him in anything in a long time, though I still have a poster from the film Ransom hanging in my office. It’s the eyes. With Kurt Russell, it was the hair. 

I’ve dabbled with putting George Clooney on my list should I resurrect it. But as much as I like him, he’s not really list material. At least not for me. I’ve never felt particularly strongly about Brad Pitt though Bobbi is a huge fan. I never cared much about Ben Affleck and as much as I like Matt Damon, he’s not really list material either. I love Denzel Washington and Tom Hanks but again, not list material. I liked Patrick Dempsey for a while but not enough for him to make the list. 

Which brings me the guy who would probably be near the top of the list today. Matthew McConaughey. I love his smile, his Texas drawl; his hair, and his smile. And he’s a good actor. Forget the stupid romantic comedies. Revisit A Time to Kill, or The Lincoln Lawyer. Or even Contact or Interstellar. Watch Magic Mike or the Lincoln Commercials on television. Be still my middle-aged heart. 

I saw a bit of Contact today. It was made in 1997 and he looked so young. But he’s magnetic. I couldn’t take my eyes off of him, even though I’d seen the film several times; even though after seeing it several times, I’m still not entirely sure how I feel about it.

But the man at the top of the list is someone who’s not an actor or a singer, someone I saw today during a live broadcast from the University of Chicago. A man I miss every day. A man of grace and intelligence, who remains completely in love with his wife. A man with a great sense of a humor and an easy smile. Ladies and gentlemen, I give you 44, otherwise known as Barrack Obama. I just love that man. 

This is how far I’ve come, or at least that’s how I like to see it. That my infatuation with actors has waned a bit (except for McConaughey) and has been replaced, instead, with a man of known substance, the former President of the United States. I don’t know if it’s something to celebrate, but it something that’s causing me to smile out loud.

When you live in the southwest, you have brush fires. It’s part of the dark magic of the desert and whether talking about the Sonoran or about Los Angeles, it’s definitely desert. Our desert is not sand, though; it’s nothing like the deserts of the middle east or Africa. There is much plant life and desert grasses, things that grow dry in the 100 plus degree temperatures that are normal for several months of the year. 

We lived in Calabasas, off of Las Virgenes Road/Malibu Canyon, in 1996. On October 22 of that year, when the Santa Ana winds were violent, the air was dry and the canyons drier, a transformer blew and a fire started. It was about a mile from where our townhouse was located. The fire department responded quickly, as always, but the winds were horrific and there was no shortage of fuel for the fire. The winds were blowing west, toward the ocean, so we were never in any danger but the road was quickly closed. Kevin and I went to the barricades and watches as flames of up to 100 feet consumed towering trees and everything else in its 13,000 acre journey through the canyon and into the ocean. Six days later, it was finally declared contained, after destroying six houses and four mobile homes.

Several years later, we drove to a wedding in Santa Barbara and drove into something that can only be described as Armageddon. Fires were burning in the hills, and when fire is consuming fresh vegetation, the smoke is thick and black. It billowed out across the freeway, obscuring the sun and giving the day an eerie, apocalyptic feel. The same thing happened another morning as I drove to an early meeting in Santa Monica. In my rearview mirror, I could see the orange glow of hillsides on fire. After my meeting, I drove into smoke and ash. In neither incident was the fire close enough to close the freeway, but it was close enough to feel dangerous. 

In Arizona, there was a fast moving brush fire in June of 2013, in the more northern part of the state. It started on June 28 and on June 30, it flared, trapping and killing 19 firefighters from the city of Prescott. It was horrific. 

Ten years before we moved to Tucson, to our little corner of the world in the north east corner, there was the Aspen Fire which that consumed Summerhaven in Mount Lemmon above us. Neighbors who lived here at the time talk of watching the sky, seeing the billowing smoke rise as if from a spewing volcano. Ash rained down like snow. The fire ate everything in its path as it descended the mountain. The last line of defense was Catalina Highway. Firefighters had told residents below to pack. If the fire jumped the road, they would have to evacuate. Our neighbors were here at the time and said watching the flames come over the mountain and knowing that all could be lost was serenely terrifying. As it was, the fire destroyed nearly every structure on the mountain, 340 in total. It burned 84,750 acres and there are still remnants of the destruction visible as you drive up the hill. 

Today, we watched as a fire burned in the Santa Rita Mountains just to the south of us. The mountains, one of the four ranges that rim Tucson, is at least 10 miles from us and perhaps farther. The telling smoke billowed up and hovered in the sky, hugging the mountains themselves. As I write this, it’s still burning, aided and abetted by the hot, fierce winds.

Another fire, more south and to the east, in Sierra Vista was contained early. But there was a chyron scroll on one of the local news sites about Fire Weather Warnings in effect for, among other places, Eastern Pima County. Where we live. I’m watching. I’m not apprehensive at all, but it reminds me that the dark magic is still at work. And while not something to celebrate, at least something to appreciate, in all of its destructive glory.

Once upon a time, science was discovered. You know, that niggly little idea that finds a distinction between something theoretical and something tangible.

The word itself stems from the Latin scientia and from sciens and has been with us since the mid-14^th century though the practice has been around for much longer. Science was the guiding force to build the pyramids and the coliseum in Rome. It was at play in Ancient Greece when Hippocrates used it to begin the practice of medicine. He called is skhizein. 

It is described as “what is known, knowledge (of something) acquired by study; information.” Old French science describes it as “knowledge, learning, application; corpus of human knowledge.” It evolved to become book-learning and, in more modern times, a “body of regular or methodical observations or propositions concerning a particular subject or speculation.” Modern being 1725. 

Very modern times, as in the 21^st century, have various ways to describe it. Some call it essential knowledge. Some call it a hoax. I’m not entirely sure how you can refer to it as a hoax since it is provable fact (in many cases) but we also know how pesky those things called facts can be. 

I was never very good at science in school. I never liked the class; it bored me. As someone who was more drawn to the arts, it didn’t seem relevant to my life. 

And then I grew up and realized just how relevant it is to everything. It is responsible for some of the greatest medical discoveries – like the cure for polio and penicillin; organ transplantation and the ability to create a mechanical heart; prosthetic limbs. It is at the heart of our ability to go into space and to send probes to Saturn. It allowed mankind to extract oil from the ground and to create planes and automobiles that run on its refinement. Oil, you would think, would cause some of those who express skepticism to embrace science since they also seem to embrace this type of fuel.

Science enabled men to split the atom, giving us the power to destroy the world. Those who are in love with the military would seem to love that particular type of science. Without it, we wouldn’t have napalm and stealth fighters, bombs and planes that can exceed the speed of sound. 

It gives us clean water and clean air, in spite of the havoc we insist on wreaking on both. It gave us computers and smart phones and twitter; the internet. It gave us power.

In 1981, Stephen Jay Gould wrote this in the introduction to The Mismeasure of Man:

Science, since people must do it, is a socially embedded activity. It progresses by hunch, vision, and intuition. Much of its change through time does not record a closer approach to absolute truth, but the alteration of cultural contexts that influence it so strongly. Facts are not pure and unsullied bits of information; culture also influences what we see and how we see it. Theories, moreover, are not in exorable inductions from facts. The most creative theories are often imaginative visions imposed upon facts; the source of imagination is also strongly cultural.” Deep. 

Science gave us art and music and philosophy. It gave us the ability to recognize and to reason. And today it gave us hundreds of demonstrations around the world. People stood up to say that science is good, it’s necessary. It’s human. 

That we have to say such things in the 21^st century is more than ironic. It’s disgusting. Embarrassing. Frightening.

And yet I remain hopeful because to do otherwise would be to completely despair. I have too much faith that someday, just as science was discovered, the idea that it’s good will be embraced. Because without it, we’re nothing. Without it, we have nothing to celebrate.