Category Archives: My Bad Science
(i) My body functions as a pure mechanism according to the Laws of Nature.
(ii) Yet I know, by incontrovertible direct experience, that I am directing its motions, of which I forsee the effects that may be fateful and all-important, in which case I feel and take full responsibility for them.
The only possible inference from these two facts is that I—I in the widest meaning of the word, that is to say, every conscious mind that has ever said or felt ‘I’—am the person, if any who controls the ‘motion of the atoms’ according to the Laws of Nature.
—Erwin Schrödinger, What is Life?
How do we live in this world that science has imagined for us?
For starters, we live on a spinning rock circling around a mid-sized star that is one of 2-400 billion stars in a mid-sized galaxy. Light can travel around our planet in about 0.13 seconds, but would 100,000 years to travel across our galaxy. The closest neighboring galaxy (the Canis Major Dwarf Galaxy) is only 25,000 light years away, but most major galaxies are over 2 million years away. In fact, our galaxy is just one of perhaps 200 billion galaxies in the universe, and our sun is just one of about a septillion (1024) stars. The universe is currently about 46 billion light years across, but we will likely never see all of it because it is only 13.7 billion years old and still expanding. There has not been enough time for light to travel even one-third of the way across the universe. Our planet is about 4.5 billion years old—one-third the age of the universe.
The numbers are just as daunting in the other direction. The vast majority cells, often considered to be the most basic living things, are not visible to our eyes. Our bodies are made up of at least 100 trillion (1014) cells. 90% of these are gut flora, made up of over a thousand species of independent organisms doing much of our metabolic work. An average cell contains about 200 trillion atoms—amounting to about 200 septillion atoms for the entire body (2X1026). If atoms were stars, we would have around 200 universes inside our body. The comparison is not totally absurd, because the universe in our body is just as empty as the universe out there. Each of those atoms is well over 99 percent empty space—and this is only if we imagine that the nucleons have size. If nucleons are made up of quarks which (like electrons and photons) are essentially one dimensional objects that take up no space, then we are virtually empty. And so are the stars and galaxies that make up the universe.
It is one thing to calculate the vast empty spaces. Quite another to understand them. In both directions we really have no idea what we are talking about (well, maybe the mathematicians do, but they still have had little success translating that into a universe we can imagine). On the smaller scale, the fundamental units are impossible to perceive. Subatomic particles sometimes behave like waves, and sometimes like particles. Some people say they are fields. Others depict them as knots in a fabric, or as one-dimensional oscillating strings. If we try to figure out where they are, we can’t see how fast they are going. When we measure how fast they are going, we have no idea where they are. We can only statistically estimate the probability of their turning up within a certain space at a certain time—a statistic that is only meaningful and that only creates solid objects when we have millions and billions of the darn things.
And what does it mean to say the universe in 13.7 billion years old? The speed of light seems like a reliable constant by which to measure distance. That speed does not change relative to how fast we are going (unlike, say, our perception of a flying bird which changes whether we are standing still or in an airplane). But the ‘geometry of space time’ warps around objects of large mass. When you look into a black hole the speed of light slows down. When you look away, it speeds up. Things that move quickly experience time more slowly; and things that move slowly experience time more quickly. A photon will have no experience of time. Yet this is what we use to measure time? What does it mean to quantify the age of the universe when that quantification may have no relevance to substances that make up the universe?
And all of those atoms that make up molecules, cells, bodies and stars of the universe—in other words, that have made up the substance of this account so far—only account for 4% of the entire mass-energy content of the universe. 23% is cold dark matter, and 73% is dark energy. Which seems only like another way of saying that we really have no idea, that our cosmological theories are just wild guesses that have shot wide of the evidence. The incomprehensible numbers are there. Our speculations on them are phantasmagoric.
But what a phantasmagoria it is! Most scientists imagine that the universe began as a point of infinite density and temperature where the current laws of physics did not apply. In the first few seconds after the explosion, matter, energy and the basic laws of physics started to differentiate. Some imagine this universe contains multiple dimensions, at least 11 but possibly as many as 26, most of which are folded up, imperceptible and inhabited by vibrating 1-dimensional strings. Others imagine multiverses that are all the products of different quantum possibilities that were unrealized in this universe—both backwards and forwards in time with nearly infinite permutations. Others have postulated that black holes are the locations of other universes, implying that our universe is just a black hole in yet another universe, and so on and so on. Perhaps all the parts of our universe, or of all the diverse universes, come together in some neurological network that is part of a greater cosmic consciousness—or more likely something else that is entirely incomprehensible to our consciousness. These are the kinds of places where science imagines we live!
Even at more manageable scales of time and space, science leaves us in an ever-changing landscape of uncertain footing. We are just one of a few million species of life on earth (only about 2 million are identified) and of perhaps a few hundred million that have ever existed. The ecosystem we live in is the product of millions of species emerging and changing and going extinct over hundreds of millions of years. Bursts of species production and development often came upon the heels of great disasters. The rise of mammals—and hence us—would never of happened without the extinction of dinosaurs 65 million years ago, probably as the result of a huge asteroid impact. In the overall development of the global ecosystem, particular species and organisms are but passing phases; symbiotic parts in a much greater system that exists across time.
Some species develop in competition with others, and some in symbiosis or collaboration with others. Overly-adapted species become narrow and unchanging, susceptible to extinction when their ecosystems change. Successful species can often overproduce and destroy their own ecosystem, undermining their own success. A few increasingly complex species like us are the occasionally produced. But if success is to be measured in diversity of species and length of existence, we primates are losers. The world really belongs to the insects, the fungi and, above all, the bacteria.
Our species has existed on this Earth only 200,000 years: about 0.004444% the age of the planet. We expanded across the planet over the past 70,000 years during a period of enormous climatological swings—changes of 5 to 15 degrees within periods of a couple thousand years. The last 10,000 years of a relatively warm and stable climate is uncommon, but has helped us to flourish even more. The social world as we know it has largely came into being over the past 200 years since the industrial revolution. It has only been in place 0.1% of the entire existence of the human species, hardly a blip. But it has been a significant blip. The human population has increased seven fold to over 7 billion individuals in these two centuries, a rate of expansion far faster than ever before. We are rapidly consuming fuels and minerals that have been residing and brewing in the earth’s crust for millions of years, now depleting them at rates that have not been seen for millions of years. We are also spewing many of these chemicals into the atmosphere and changing the climate—although the warming of the past century is still trivial compared to swings in the past.
Thinking at the scales of science is thinking statistically. This is perhaps the greatest challenge to living in the world that science has imagined for us, because it means thinking in terms of populations and patterns across populations rather than individuals. It is thinking about long term trends; about the likelihood that an electron will be found here and not there; about the tendency of energy to dissipate and of order to decay due to entropy; and about the likelihood of events that may be probable but never inevitable (although, when the sample is large enough, the difference between inevitability and probability becomes vanishingly small). It places humans in much larger contexts that are often beyond our control.
Statistical-type thought includes not only bell curves, probabilities and trends, but power laws, the organization of networks and complex behavior. It is a kind of thought that can show semi-regular patterns but rarely predict specific events. These show regular distributions of large and small events in complex environments; tipping points between disorder and structure; networked conditions in which massive changes in connectivity may have no effect and in which tiny shifts may lead to massive diffusion or cascading failure; patterns that replicate yet always with tiny variations; and complex situations in which all predictions are impossible. Many of these patterns are as applicable to humans as they are to molecules, microbes and sand. Free will or not, when we are considered in large numbers we behave no differently than any other object. The rise and fall of states, stock markets, book sales, journal citations, residential patterns and daily habits, follow these same patterns that shape galaxies, earthquakes, sand hills and the spread of slime molds. Yet individual choices (and chance contingency—the same thing?) may still matter—if they happen to take place in spaces and moments in which cascading failure or the generation of new structures is likely.
These same patterns can create self-organizing systems and emergent behavior. Most forms of organization tend either towards a static stability (think atomic nuclei or rocks) or formless chaos (gas). But at the critical boundary between these two forms—when units interact in the context of a few simple rules or structures—new systems can emerge that are complex, dynamic and self-reproducing. And as these systems themselves begin to interact with each other, some produce new and even more complex systems. Think of quantum particles coming together as atoms, which come together as molecules, to cells, to organisms, to ecosystems, and to human collective learning and self-awareness. At each level, the rules change. To be sure, brains, organisms and ecosystems are ultimately reducible to sub-atomic particles and quantum mechanics (i.e., to inconceivability). But we can never explain the behavior of these new emergent systems through resort to atomic physics. We find new patterns of interaction, new rules, new collective behaviors. And yet certain macro-patterns such as power laws, networking and self-organization itself may still hold across several, or even all levels.
Consciousness is perhaps the most challenging of emergent phenomena. The brain is made up of at least 85 billion neurons. Our thoughts and self-awareness are surely reducible to a dance of firing electric charges. But knowing that tells us nothing. The shifting patterns and reorganizations of those firings, the self-referential loops, the creation of abstractions and categories to guide subsequent firings, the constantly imperfect reproduction of memories and concepts are among the many things that have made an understanding of consciousness totally elusive. How can self-awareness be aware of itself? Some scientists try to cordon consciousness off as a trivial epiphenomenon. And much of it may indeed be an unintended artifact of neuronal developments that evolved for other purposes such as throwing rocks, getting laid, collective hunting or bipedalism. But it has taken on a life of its own. Indeed, consciousness has made science possible in the first place: language, memory, learning, reflection, plans for the future, ego, vanity, critical self-awareness, our ability to transform thought into material action, and the incredible feedback cycle of our mind creating the world which then creates or minds and so on.
Some scientists say that if we can understand the evolutionary contexts that created certain behaviors we can better understand moral behavior and make effective policies in the present. But this does not capture the constant change and plasticity of our brains. Neurons change and rewire according to our interactions with the environment. Epigenetic rules create certain structures and rules that may then produce an enormous variety of behaviors and body shapes, depending on how they interacts with other epigenetic rules, with the environment, with our parents, and with social norms. There is a nearly infinite variety of possible outcomes. And yet all those variations only happen within certain constraints—be they genetic, cultural or environmental. An even greater number of possibilities will not happen.
At even more mundane levels—such as the social and material world created by our species over the past 200 years—things are no less incredible and fantastic. We can ride in huge metal tubes that fly in the sky. We are surrounded by an invisible world of radio, television and telephone waves that can, at our mere pleasure and bidding, take form as sound and image in little plastic boxes. We can manipulate atoms (even if we can’t really understand them) into huge bombs and electricity-creating reactors. We can make incredibly complex information channeling machines at microscopic levels. And we continue to poke optimistically into the complexity of our bodies, our food, our environments and our own creations—sometimes successfully and sometimes not. But always with no real idea about where it will lead in the end, despite all the project proposals, grant applications and business plans that we write to claim that we do.
In sum, science has imagined and even begun to create a world beyond our wildest dreams: more amazing than Buddhist hells and Islamic paradises; more inconceivable than Shiva’s cosmic dance and the kalpas; more bizarre than Star Trek or Star Wars; and more miraculous than the unnatural events that take place in our nightly dreams (which are yet another mundane event about which he have almost no comprehension). It is a landscape of inconceivable sizes; of constant flux and incredible stability; of patterned behavior and complex unpredictability; of endless monotony and unimaginable possibilities; of random events and statistical regularities. The scientific vision can even make the most mundane habits of our daily life—smell, riding a bicycle in traffic, thinking about the events of the day, feeling happy, colors—seem utterly mysterious and incomprehensible both in their massive complexity and in our fundamental failure to understand the basic components. Enlightenment, salvation, realization, mystical revelation, understanding, progress, love: they are all trivial in the face of this vision.
Science even gives us a radical vision of death—just dust and decay; the inevitable victory of the second law of thermodynamics as our atoms and energies dissipate into the cosmic soup. The currently popular model for the fate of the universe follows this trajectory to its bitter end. The endless expansion of the universe and dissolution of all matter until lasts for about 1032 years until we have a universe made up of black holes and nothingness. Then, after a much longer time that dwarfs this initial 1032 years, even the black holes will evaporate and all we will have is an endless, sterile universe of incredibly dispersed neutronic matter. The constant production of complexity seems to conflict with the inexorable workings of this entropy. But even complexity is just a way to more rapidly disperse energy. The more complex something it is, the more energy it consumes, the more fragile it is, and the more likely it is to self-destruct and disperse energy more rapidly. That includes us.
If we accept this universal vision of entropy, shouldn’t our aim be to just ignite those warheads and disperse that energy as quickly as possible? Or perhaps a few more generations of stability is necessary so that we can get the ability to blow the whole darn rock to pieces, not just the atmosphere. But even that will barely register at the scale of the universe, the equivalent of brushing off a couple of skin cells. Nature cares little about us, and there is little we can do to catch her attention.
But science neither embraces nor confronts its own inhuman visions. When it turns towards the human condition, it digs in the heels and spews out platitudes of human spirit and the value of human life. It tries to help us live longer, develop sustainability, halt destruction, promote progress, and protect those ephemeral things which we have accumulated over the recent few decades (goals that are not even consistent with each other). It circles the wagons against the inexorability of change and destruction, refuses to face up to our trivial and ephemeral place in the universe, tries to deny its own vision of death, and treats humans as something outside the relentless processes of this phantasmagorical universe. Even science’s self-justifications about the thrill and nobility of understanding are just platitudes to feed our egos and vanity, and our sense of specialness.
It could be argued that this very obsession with self and self-preservation is precisely the proper activity of organisms of our scale that makes natural selection so effective. But natural selection also shows that any incredibly successful species (such as ours) will soon overreach, and that the evolutionary success of particular species has nothing necessarily to do with progress or increasing complexity. And at the same time we still believe that somehow, with our consciousness, we have escaped the laws of nature—that by our concerted action on the world we can evade our natural fate. But even if we accept this obsession with mere self-preservation as the way things are—is this the extent of the meaning or the good life that the scientific vision has wrought for us?
To be sure, this phantasmagoric vision is easy to ignore. I completely forget it every time I talk to my daughter, have sex with my lover, suffer a back spasm, enjoy a good laugh or live in a nightly dream. For better or worse, we live within the pains and pleasures of our curious, fearful, innovative and repetitive consciousness, feelings and sensations. How can we make these daily experiences fit with this vision of this universe that science has created, other than just denying and ignoring it?
We probably can’t do it as individuals. We can surely give it a shot with psychedelic drugs and yogic or spiritual exercises—or maybe even math. These things can give us experiences that at least feel like we have somehow engaged with the boundlessness of the universe. But I suspect that the most significant way forward to better entangle our self-concerns with the nature of the universe can only be undertaken by the species as a whole, by blending ours strongest emergent qualities—our consciousness and our massive collective learning—into new kinds of complex systems. We can take our great collective skill in manipulating the physical world and use it to work on our consciousness. We can go beyond merely manipulating our environment to creating human-technology hybrids, genetic and physical self-modification, biological machines, expanded trans-human networking and greater trans-species symbiosis. In other words, we can develop a consciousness able to change the foundations of its own functioning, and perhaps create new, unimagined ways of being. It will be reckless (from the perspective our local, ego-centric concerns) and who knows where it will end. But not knowing where it will end is the whole point of any emergent system. Perhaps it can help us return vitality to “dark” energy and matter, perceive the constraints of time and space differently, experience those folded dimensions and quantum uncertainty, see the universe as something other than the dualism of matter and energy—and perhaps even learn to stand outside consciousness. Most likely, it will bring us (them? it? those?) face-to-face with some new self-referential mystery that we once again won’t have the faintest idea how to confront.
Imagine 10,000 years ago. Anxiety is rampant. A feeling of impending doom is pervasive. The crisis seems inevitable.
Everywhere people are repeating the tales told by bards and shamans: “The massive and rapid climate fluctuations of the past tens of thousands of years have become flat. We used to have fluctuations of 5 degrees or more every few centuries. But now our temperatures have been stable for nearly a millenium. And not only that, they have also stabilized at a brutally high level! The oceans are drowning us. The climactic conditions which helped humans to spread to all corners of the earth are ending. We can no longer count on our superior ability to adapt to diverse and rapidly changing climates as an advantage that will help us to survive in this hostile world!
Population keeps growing, but with less and less food to support it. The great herds of large animals have long disappeared–perhaps in part because of our own overhunting. Competition for food has created more and more violence among humans. Every year more of our dead are buried with wounds inflicted by fellow humans. Is it our destiny to follow the fates of the many large herds and great predators that have already disappeared?”
In the long run, the anxieties were misplaced. Humans proved adaptable even to climactic stability. In fact, they flourished more than ever before. This was the beginning of the agricultural revolution, when human populations grew even greater, more complex societies emerged and more technological development took place than could even be imagined before.
But the anxieties were not completely unjustified. These advances came at the cost of poorer nutrition, smaller bodies, more work, smaller brains, and perhaps even smaller testicles. The joys of hunting and wilderness and travel were replaced by the drudgery of plowing and harvesting. Gender and social equality were replaced by hierarchy and exploitation. Humans domesticated themselves hand in hand with the other plants and animals that we trained to work for us.
10,000 years later, some trends have started to reverse. Body sizes have recouped their earlier stature, nutrition has improved, and the luxuries created by technological advance have become more broadly shared (although the overall reduction of work hours, the mitigation of inequality, and recovery of brain and testicle size has yet to be attained). Population has increased geometrically. Many humans—in a world population geometrically larger than any previous population—are completely self-satisfied with these advances. Others are wracked by anxiety and fear for the future. The see that climate is changing, species are going extinct, everything that we have built is under threat.
Sometimes it is hard to remember that life means a lot more than just preserving the comfort of our particular species at a particular moment in history. Shall we dig in our heels and work to perserve this fleeting social organization we have only recently constructed. Or shall we treat our problems as an opportunity for change?
(For more on early climate, see William James Burroughs, Climate Change in Prehistory: The End of the Reign of Chaos. Cambridge University Press, 2008)
Science is useless, or worse, on dealing with death (as I’ve suggested before).
On the one hand, science gives us these amazing evolutionary, geologic and universal time scales in which individual organisms, species and entire planets are just part of a much greater dance of creation and permutation. It grounds our consciousness in the material world–but it is a material world that ranges from an infinitesimal level where we can barely recognize it as matter at all; to a cosmic scale made up mostly of emptiness. It is a mystical space, in which life and death are part of something much more incredible.
Yet science so frequently evaluates its social success in terms of its ability to increase our life spans a few years, and to delay our inevitable death. It is obsessed with health, fearful of climate change and spends billions of dollar and person-hours trying to find more ways to evade and deny death. At the same time it denies reincarnation, resurrection, endless cycles of time that are much more successful in truly making death seem like more than just an end. It seems obsessed with pulling us out of this universal dance of permutation, in making us more attached to this body. In all other respects science is a relentless proponent of change. But in terms of human life, and the environment in which those lives currently exist, science digs in the heels and only wants to escape change. From this perspective, science is a totally futile endeavor.
Successful spiritual practice situates itself in the context of death as much as life. Science gives us a great cosmic context in which to place our lives and deaths, and then totally drops the ball.
Addendum: Of course, many individuals buck these generalizations–it is more about institutional organization than its practitioners. Some spiritual practitioners are obsessed with longevity and immortality. And many are healers–a concern with health does not necessarily mean fear of death. And many scientists are increasingly concerned with helping people experience a ‘good death’ that includes spiritual realization–such as the doctors engaged in the psylocybin and cancer research project (whom I saw at the Psychedemia conference).
“The natural universe is neither prickles nor goo exclusively. It’s gooey prickles and prickly goo.” –Alan Watts
“All perception of truth is the detection of an analogy.” –Henry Thoreau
“I maintain that the cosmic religious feeling is the strongest and noblest motive for scientific research.” –Albert Einstein
I’m at the Psychedemia conference on integratic psychedelics into academia at the University of Pennsylvania. The two quotes above are from a poster presentation by Sarah McManus, titled “Pricles and Goo: Playing with Scientific and Psychedelic Metaphors.” She argues that the even though the scientific and intuitive (mystical? psychedelic?) traditions are often grasping towrads the same insights, their different metaphorical styles make it difficult for them to speak to each other. She wants to discover common ground between reason and insight.
She gave several quotes from scientists–most of which I can no longer remember–who confess that their models are never truth but only useful approximations; that we are nowhere near understanding the basic nature of the universe; and that at best science can only capture fleeting moments in time and make very limited, context-bound predictions.
I know we could dig up several more quotes from scientists asserting the opposite: a firm belief in theories and particles; that we are at the verge of understanding everything; and only have to work out the details to work out. But I think she has a point. As I have written elsewhere, the most exciting science creates some of the most mind-boggling mystical visions around.
But after reading the poster I wondered: Why would scientists want to study mystics and mysticism? Why should mystics care about science? I don’t think they have much to offer each other yet, even when they are heading in the same direction. The divergence between the two lies in more than just metaphors. There are also fundamental differences in how to gain knowledge and what to do with it. The universe may be prickly goo and gooey prickles–but our modes of accessing it excessively emphasize either the goo or the prickles.
Although some scientists like to make big theories and philosophize, most of science is about reducing the great, holistic, super-entwined structure of the universe down into manageable chunks that can be analyzed and transformed into clear, useful, focused results. They retreat in trepidation when confronted with ineffable, unmodular holism. This is both because of the need for testable hypotheses, and because of the social pressure to justify research through practical consequences. Mystics, however, are all about dissolving our attachment to the particular manifestations of the universe. learning to be aware of the whole and perceive the undifferentiated fabric. The scientists work hard to put words and formulas to the parts that they analyze. The mystics are searching for those experiences that are beyond words.
Some scientists are curious about the mystics. They even like to brain scan meditating monks. But even that is all about breaking the brain down into its modular parts to figure out how it works. It has nothing to do with helping people to reach those mystical experiences. In fact, encouraging an over-analytic mind may even make it more difficult to obtain those experiences. At most, after they study all their brain scans and understand the chemistry, science may be able to develop more drugs to facilitate mystic experiences (Alexander Shulgin, for example–as well as more underground chemists today). But there is little incentive to do so, because such drugs would surely be made illegal.
In the end, the mystical scenarios created by scientific theorizing are held from us at arms length, beautiful ideas for us to appreciate but not to experience. At best, we must take it on their word that a few elite mathematicians are experiencing ecstasy through the symmetries and algorithms they discover.
Some mystics (and scientists) like to point to the similarity between mystical perceptions and the conclusions of scientific research. But I never find that very compelling. The analogies are often vague and sometimes misleading representations of science. And I often feel that the appeal to science is merely an appeal to authority, a way to justify mysticism to a skeptical audience. It is not an appeal that really helps us to have the experience. And once you’ve had the experiences, you realize that the science offers just one of many possible interpretation.
Most scientific research into psychedelics these days has more modest goals, usually to investigate their potential for therapy (basically the only kind of research that can get government permission). The investigators recognize that mystical experiences are often a crucial part of the therapeutic experience—an experience which may lead to quitting smoking, curing cluster headaches, or reconciling to cancer. But they have little to say about that experience (at least in their published work). Their research is still limited to correlation, i.e. showing a high number of patients who receive the psychedelic treatment have good results as compared to those who take placebos. The reasons and mechanisms remain mysterious, and the experience itself is valued mainly for its practical results.
Technology is the one other place were many people see an overlap between psychedelic mysticism and science. Many people like to give credit to psychonauts and psychedelic drugs for many recent advances in computing and networking (although the military surely deserves as much, if not more credit). And in turn, structures and metaphors of networking, computing and information are providing new ways to interpret the psychedelic experience (among psychonauts at least–less so among institutionalized scientists). But the more thoughtful of these theorists will be the first to admit that it is just fun and games. That the most difficult thing about mystical and psychedelic experiences is that the minute you try to stop it, to think about it and describe it, you have lost it. That’s no use for science, and no use for mystics.
(But there is still the possibility that continued interaction of clinical scientists with people on psychedelics confronting the ineffable unverse will have some kind of long-term effect on science, and even vice versa. I suspect that the results will look quite different from the science and mysticism we currently have–perhaps something more like alchemy?)
I was raised secular—with faith only in the authority of science. But I’ve been having a bit of a crisis of faith. Come on guys, where is that 90% of dark matter you keep talking about? Does it really make sense to keep reducing the universe to an ever-expanding multitude of “elementary” particles? Does it make sense to reduce the universe to anything? So many of my scientist friends who are oblivious and dogmatic when talking about non-scientific matters. Are they equally oblivious and dogmatic in their specialties? Are there any more great theories like plate tectonics that have been languishing around for decades without getting recognition? Experimental and evolutionary psychology seem so far from understanding how the brain works that it is not even funny. I am tired of reading tautological analyses in which contemporary norms are used as standards for understanding how the brain works and how we evolved, which is then used to prove that contemporary norms are natural and right. Nutritional science is better, but not by much. And don’t even get me started on fields like economics and political science.
Two things keep me from leaving the church. One is that science keeps on churning out amazing technical technical achievements. TVs, cell phones, airplanes, lasers, microchips, trips to the moon. How amazing is that? These successes don’t always have the results that were intended (see the reference to clueless dogmatism above). But there is no doubt that, in the mid- to long-run, the experimental method is brilliant at solving narrowly-defined problems. I’m a little bit embarrassed by this. It is like believing in miracles—mistaking a method and technical proficiency as proof of the validity of a whole cosmological order.
But the thing that most keeps me reading the sermons is that science produces the most mind-blowing mystical visions around. Black holes, the big bang, string theory, multiple dimensions, multiple universes, quantum indeterminacy, general relativity, complexity and power laws, autocatalytic processes, plate tectonics, the evolution of species, billion-year time frames, things that happen in infinitesimal fractions of seconds, trillions of stars in billions of galaxies–and even more atoms in the human body, matter made up mostly of space, the speed of light, life programmed onto DNA, the amazing complexity and plasticity of brains, the simultaneous holism and functional differentiation of all matter. That stuff is so great. It doesn’t have to be true. Just the conceptual possibilities of these things open my soul far more than any painting, church, movie or everyday practical concern. It almost makes me want to learn math.
But faith in science has some serious shortcomings. It tends more towards argumentative dogmatism than loving embrace. Its symbolic repertoire is a bit dry and unfulfilling when used to frame practical life. Skeptical inquiry is useful, but is hardly the basis of a fulfilling or meaningful life. A strong commitment to using scientific methods and findings to improve our lives is more likely to make us anal retentive and obsessive compulsive as to make us happy and healthy. Also, science provides few, if any, deep emotional, spiritual and mystical revelations—except perhaps for the occasional math adept and high priest in the laboratory. It’s mostly intellectual, an incomplete approach to life. And science has no good advice for how to deal with death. It only teaches us how to fear and delay it.
But where would I be without science? The Buddhist and Hindu stuff, while appealing, never quite sticks. Nor does the Jungian stuff (especially in its pretenses towards science). Non-sectarian enlightenment? Sex and psychedelics? It seems a bit reckless just to jump off without having a roadmap. Especially for somebody like me, who was raised in the certainties of science. . . . . But perhaps that is the only way to do it . . . .
I am a genetic dead end. Each ejaculation spews only a few dozen atrophied, useless sperms. Physical reproduction is impossible. I still have plenty of sexual fantasies, and a perfectly good (if contextually sensitive) libido. But the means fall short of the reproductive end.
According to the (more dogmatic and orthodox) evolutionary psychologists,* I am a total loser. The whole point of life, the foundation of morality and development itself is based on the perpetuation of genetic material. I don’t even have any brothers and sisters whose common genetic material I may help to disseminate. I may just as well commit suicide and stop hogging resources.
The less dogmatic evolutionary theorists suggest some other options, especially in the realm of group selection. They suggest traits that serve group cohesion and sociability may promote evolutionary fitness by making that group better able to deal with difficult circumstances and inter-group conflict. Thus, wisdom, experience, skills, the desire to care for others, and a legacy of creation and knowledge may all contribute to the perpetuation of certain lineages in the species, or perhaps even the species as a whole. Perhaps even sex is about more than just reproduction, but also about social bonding and attachment—the more promiscuous the better for the group!
I am—with a couple of notable exceptions—the kind of safe and reliable man with whom (according to the orthodox) women choose to partner because we are reliable and more likely to help to take care of family. I am clearly not the rugged, strong, genetically superior type that women prefer to fuck when they are ovulating. In other words, my genetic purpose seems to tend towards care, bonding and group perpetuation rather than genetic reproduction. That’s an odd fate for an introverted loner like me (although no more ironic than if I were a charming and promiscuous ovulating-babe magnet with no sperm).
But what if I embraced my genetic doom? What if I lived life constantly aware my impending total physical annihilation? Fuck convention, fuck the species, fuck getting along and taking care. If the future won’t have my DNA, what the hell do I care? Follow my heart, stop worrying about all those reasons not to do something, escape from my genetic and evolutionary bondage. Who knows, maybe I’ll even make some great discovery that all the fearful sheep, worried for their genetic legacies, could never possibly perceive.
Of course, the materialist view of the matter is only a minority. Plenty of people will tell me about my soul, the atman, my Self, Heaven and Hell, karma and rebirth, the five aggregates that condition the future, judgment and so on. Genetic perpetuation is only barely relevant to that. . . . . But, ultimately, the people telling us to worry about these things tell us to value the same things as the genetic materialists: family, education, authority, tradition, hard work, group feeling, politeness, social stability. Only a few of the more hardcore Buddhists, ascetics and libertines want out even from these values; compounding their genetic doom with spiritual and social doom—in the hope of liberation.
*I have in mind Richard Dawkins, Steven Pinker and early sociobiology of E. O. Wilson as the more well-known orthodox dogmatists who ground evolution in genetic and individual selection. Steven Jay Gould, later E. O. Wilson and the book Sex at Dawn are sources of less orthodox ideas.