The Visitor of the Beast!

I would like to congratulate the visitor from Willis, Texas who visited my blog on September twenty-ninth, this year of our Lord two-thousand and eight. You are visitor number six-hundred and sixty-six. You viewed the blog, in all its glory, through Microsoft Internet Explorer 7.0 rendered at a resolution of 1280 x 800 on your widescreen monitor. It seems rather poignant that you clicked in through google.com with a serch term of "biblical good vs evil pictures", for I'm sure that this visit is an omen of the imminent apocalypse. It is my hope that you are one of the relatively few who are bodily taken up to the glories of god's kingdom. I, unfortunately, will probably be stuck down here. I'll try to wave to you.


Revelation 13:18 (KJV)

Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six.

Letters from the Lost Man, Part 16

"Tell me again about this woman. This...Loretta was it?" Dr. Kenner asks.

I nod slowly. "Yeah. I don't really know much about her. She was this...voice that used Linda's mouth to talk," I tell him.

"And she wasn't aware of it," he confirms, though I've already told him before.

I shake my head. "No. Nobody was. I was the only one who could hear her. I know it sounds crazy."

"And what did she say to you?"

Taking a deep breath, I sigh. "Well, she told me nothing was real. I mean, that everything that was happening was fake."

The doctor scribbles a little on his notepad. "Linda's death?" he asks.

"Well, yeah, but it was more than that," I say.

"Like what?"

I shrug. "I don't know. Everything, I guess. My whole life was some...experiment or something."

"And you say this happened before you went into the bank?" Kenner probes.

"Uh, yeah," I nod. "A few days before."

"When you were in the hospital for your accident," he says, flipping through my chart.

"Wonderful week..." I say dryly.

"Hmm," Kenner sounds thoughtfully. "The ER doctor says you reported hallucinations in relation to your concussion."

"That's right," I answer. "I thought there was someone else in the wreck."

"A woman," he says.

"Do you think it's related?" I ask him.

He smiles briefly. "Well, I'm not sure, though I do think that the concussion may have resulted in you being in a highly suggestive state. Tell me, Mike, have you heard the woman at all in the past three months?"

Three months...has it been that long? Come to think of it... "No, I haven't," I say.

Kenner nods and scribbles some more. "How have you been sleeping?" he asks, still writing.

I sigh again. "Oh, I don't know. Y'know, ok I guess. I get these weird dreams every once in a while."

"Tell me about those," he says, looking up from the notes.

"Well, they start off pretty normal for dreams, I guess. Sometimes I only remember from the middle or only the very end. There's always this...I don't know, guy. He's wearing this long black robe with a hood. Kinda' like death, y'know? Anyways, he attacks me..." I trail off, trying to remember.

"And what happens when he attacks you?"

I shrug. "I don't know. I black out. Or wake up."

"How often do you have this dream?" Kenner asks.

"Uh," I think aloud. "Maybe once or twice a week."

"Mm-hmm," he mumbles, scribbling once again.

I wait expectantly for his response to all of this, but the doctor simply takes more notes and rummages through a desk drawer for a few moments. He pulls out what looks like a small pad of paper and begins writing again.

"Am I going crazy?" I ask him impatiently.

He looks up with surprise. "I don't think you're crazy, Mike. You've been through a pretty tough time. Sometimes our brains do things that don't seem to make sense to protect us from things that would seriously harm our mental well-being," he explains.

I nod slowly. "So, Loretta?" I ask.

The doctor looks down at his desk for a moment and sighs. "Mike," he begins delicately, "I think Loretta was something that your mind created after the fact, again to protect you. I mean, think about her message that none of it was real. It may even be that she was created after your accident to reassure you about that, but when you lost Linda the a few days later, she arose once more."

All I can do is stare off into space. It seemed so real.

"Anyways, what I'd like to do is give you a prescription," he continues.

I swallow. "Anti-psychotics?"

He chuckles a bit at that. "No, no, Mike. This is a drug called EuphorZen. It's a mild anti-depressant. I'm going to start you off on a low dose. I think you'll find it will help you do what you need to do to get through this tough time."

To get through this 'tough time', eh? Do doctors have a knack for understating things? Is it something they teach in med school? Or psych school, in Kenner's case, if there even is such a thing.

The doctor tears off the script and hands it over the desk. "Take one a day and we'll continue our weekly sessions. You got a thirty day supply there, so we'll see how you feel in a month. If we need to adjust your dosage, we will then. Keep in mind that it usually takes a week or so for your body to adjust to either starting or stopping this medication, so you might feel some minor muscular fatigue and stomach upset. Just be patient and stick with it. You'll be glad you did."

"Ok." Great. Isn't that always the way? These drugs are miracles of modern medical science, but oh-by-the-way, they'll make you feel worse before they'll make you feel better. I guess I gotta try something, though. I've been pretty low key the last several weeks, but I'm not so sure that I've been taking things well. I've been seeing Kenner since about a month after...well, you know.

Honestly, I think I would feel a lot better if I didn't have the district attorney’s office calling me every other day. They want me to testify against the bastard that...that shot Linda. It sounds great in theory. They'll try him and seek the death penalty. His partner will go to jail for years for driving that car too. Justice will be served and everyone will be happy. Except Linda's still gone. She's gone...

I wonder how many of these pills I'd have to take to...

Stop. Stop thinking that crap. I'm gonna testify and get that sonofabitch what he has coming to him. And then...then I'll figure out what's going to happen next. I'll move on, never forgetting her, of course, but living the full life she would have wanted me to.

Yet, I can't help but wonder. If I died right now, would I see her? Was there something keeping me around besides her?

Let's go fill this script and just make it to tomorrow. That's how I got to today, except without the drugs. The past three months have been day after day of just delaying my decision about what to do with myself. Maybe the meds will make the decision to go on easier. God, I hope so...

"Race" Relations

I use quotes around the word "race" because it's a problematic word that has some very specific definitions that often get blurred together. On the one hand, race comes from an Old Italian word, razza, which means "lineage". In many ways, we use this word the same way today. At some point, though, biology commandeered "race" and applied it to animals that were part of a taxonomic category within a species, or a subspecies. And here's where part of the problem arises. There is a danger with these two definitions of people believing that the different "races" of humans are "subspecies" of humans.

Let's be clear about this. There is a human race. We are all members of the human race. There are not enough genetic differences between any two people of any two heritages to squeeze them into separate taxonomic categories. The differences in our appearances, from a biological standpoint, are purely superficial.

The other problem in the whole "race" thought process is the perceived differences between us. For the most part, these differences are based upon cultural perceptions, but the most problematic perceived differences are due to stereotypes. Stereotypes happen when someone interacts with a particular group of people and notices that multiple members of that group share certain personality traits. The fallacy in stereotypes is the assumption that these traits are inherent to all members of that group.

In a recent and fascinating Associated-Press Yahoo! News poll, conducted with Stanford University, one fourth of white Democrats ascribed at least two negative traits to blacks. Now, they didn't go on to specify whether blacks ascribed similar traits to whites or whether either blacks or whites ascribed similar traits to themselves. I would be curious to know how those questions stack up against one another. Some of the negative traits listed in the poll included "boastful", "irresponsible" and "lazy".

One wonders, though, whether or not the people who attributed these stereotypes to blacks understood the dynamics behind what might have caused these behaviors that they have either observed or have heard others observe. Surely, it is easy to understand why someone might be boastful when they think or know that most people don't expect much out of them. A similar argument might be proposed for irresponsibility or laziness. The question then becomes, are these traits really inherent to black people? Or are these traits you might possibly witness in any group of people who are part of a minority who, until fairly recently, were actually legally repressed? When prejudice and racism are a reality in your life and you don't get EVERY SINGLE opportunity that others in your supposedly egalitarian nation get, doesn't it seem reasonable that members of such a group might feel disheartened to the point of apathy or desperation?

I know that there are some who might read the above paragraph and roll their eyes and say something about picking oneself up by one's bootstraps and rising above. There are those who say that blacks are just complainers who scream "racism" at the slightest provocation, maybe even none at all. If you would say that, then I would place you in the group of people who do the exact opposite. That is to say, there are those who minimalize, even deny, the existence and effect of racism in our society. This Associated-Press Yahoo! poll seems to back this up. Whereas 57% of blacks said that the amount of "discrimination against blacks" that exists is "a lot" and all but a fraction of the rest said "some", only 10% of whites said "a lot" and 45% said "some".

That's quite a discrepancy. So, who's right? I don't think it's as clear as that. As I've said before in other posts, I think there's more racism in this country than the majority of whites are willing to admit or recognize, but there's also less than the majority of blacks claim. Regardless, any amount is unacceptable. We are not subspecies of one another, so we are all physically capable of the same things, and we are all susceptible to the same emotions and weaknesses. Before you ascribe negative qualities to someone of another "race", think about how you would react if you had to deal with the same kinds of things in your life. Also, ask yourself if you really can't think of someone, anyone, who has overcome such difficult odds to laugh in the face of such ridiculous stereotypes. Need some hints? How about Harriet Tubman? Frederick Douglass? Booker T. Washington? George Washington Carver? W.E.B. Du Bois? Rosa Parks? Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.? Colin Powell? Barack Obama?

These are only a handful of the most well-known names in the proud tapestry of African American history. These are people who rose up to fight the misguided perceptions of a resistant society. Despite the great impact of these men and women, the perceptions they struggled to overcome still exist. We need to open our eyes as a society and stand up to fear and oppression. We are one race, the human race. Let's stand united and achieve everything we can achieve together.

Letters from the Lost Man, Part 15

"This is nice," Linda says cheerily, turning down the radio.

I nod with a smile. I should probably be home in bed, but I felt pretty good today and was already starting to get cabin fever. I haven't heard from Loretta since she started doing whatever she said she was going to do yesterday morning. For now, I'm just going to enjoy some time with Linda, for whatever it might be worth.

"We're going to make a little stop, hon," she informs me. "Have to deposit Bree's check."

"Oh..." I'm totally drawing a blank. Of course, there's no reason to let her know that.

"Remember?" she asks, catching on to my confused tone. "I took those photos for Jim's birthday."

Oh yeah. Linda's a photographer. How could I forget that? "No, I remembered," I cover. "I just thought you had already deposited it, that's all."

Linda's smile dissipates. "I was going to, but something more important came up." She glances at me with the remnants of concern.

I can only nod.

"It's okay, though," she says, the cheeriness returning. "Everything's back to normal."

And here we are. She turns into the bank entrance and takes a second row parking spot in front of the entrance.

"No drive thru?" I ask.

She frowns apologetically. "No deposit slips," she explains. "Want to come in? It should be real quick."

I shake my head. "I'll be fine here."

She grins and leans over to give me a kiss. "I'll leave the car running," she says, making sure the AC is on. It's pretty warm out. "Love you!" she calls as she opens the door.

"Love you too!" I call back.

I watch her step quickly up the walkway and into the bank. She's really attractive. If she isn't real, someone made a pretty nice attempt at making her likeable. Loveable even. I hope she is real. I hope I have a shot at finding her when I get out of this and...what the hell is this?

A gray station wagon pulls up to the entrance and some dude jumps out of the passenger side, runs to the rear of the vehicle and opens up the back. He rifles around back there for a few seconds, then steps back and glances around furtively. He pulls on a ski mask and walks into the bank.

"What the..." I start to say. Linda. I need to get in there. I reach over and turn off the car and exit the vehicle. Trying to look nonchalant, I stride toward the bank. I can't help but glance at the driver of the wagon. He's eyeing me like I just spit in his face, but he doesn't move. Trying to act dumb, I grin at him and nod. He squints at me, but nods back.

Okay... I have to make an effort not to pause at the door. It's bright out, and the tint on the glass doors of the bank entrance makes it next to impossible to see inside. I step into the vestibule. It's much easier to see through the second set of glass doors, and I see there are people on the ground, but no sign of the guy in the ski mask. I walk in as though nothing were amiss.

A little electronic doorbell beeps as I enter. Immediately, I hear a gruff voice say, "Don't move!" At first, I think it's directed at me, then I realize it came from around the corner and was directed at someone over there. I vaguely recall being in this bank before and remember that the vault is down the hall around that corner. I hear some shuffling and a figure steps out from behind the corner. It's the guy in the ski mask. He's got Linda's head squeezed under his arm and a gun pointed to her head.

My heart practically leaps out of my chest. I put my hands up immediately. "Don't...don't hurt her..."

"Get down!" the man shouts, pushing the gun harder against her scalp.

"Ok," I say meekly, getting to my knees. "Just, don't hurt her, Ok?"

"Michael?" Linda weeps.

"Shut up, bitch!" the robber snaps, tapping her head with the muzzle.

She shrieks briefly, then says, "You shouldn't have come in here, Richard."

Loretta! "What should I do?" I plead with her, my pulse racing and sweat forming on my brow.

The crook answers for her, "You should get down on the floor before I decorate the wall with her pretty little brains."

"Ok! Ok!" I say a little more insistently, lying face down on the floor.

"Richard," I hear Loretta call to me from under the man's arm. "No matter what happens, stay there and don't move!"

No one has ever asked me to do anything more difficult. I breathe heavily, my cheek pressed against the lobby's cool tile.

"Remember," she calls out as the thief drags Linda back toward the vault, "none of this is real!"

If it isn't real, why does it have to feel that way? I wish this would all just end. I wish I would just wake up. Wake up, dammit! WAKE UP!!!

A deafening shot rings out. My heart freezes as I hear a thud and footsteps pounding around the corner. I can't help but look up. The thug is running toward me, the gun in his right hand and some glistening red on his left arm.

"Head down!" he roars as he stumbles over me toward the door. He hits me with it as he throws it open and bursts through the second door to the outside. "Go! Go!" he shouts at the driver. Tires squeal and the sound of the car's engine fades into the distance.

I quickly push myself up, ignoring the pain in my still sore muscles. I run across the lobby and around the corner and stop. The bank manager, huddled against the vault door, looks up at me with a terrified expression. I look at the wall next to me. There's a circle of red splatters dripping down toward the floor. My eyes follow their path reluctantly to Linda. She's lying there, still. A red puddle grows larger under her head.

"Oh no, Linda, no, no, no, no..." I sputter as I drop to my knees to turn her. Tears fill my eyes and I breath fast to try to fend off the crippling truth of what I see before me. Linda blinks and her eyes roll back and forth slowly.

"Linda?" I ask, wiping my tears away to make sure they're not fooling me.

"Mike?" she asks weakly. Her face looks ghostly white.

"I'm here, baby, I'm here," I reassure her, tears blurring my vision again.

"Mike, I...I think I'm bleeding," she tells me.

"Shhh," I tell her, my body shaking uncontrollably with sobs as I try to hold her this last time.

"In case I can't say it later..." she whispers.

I shake my head, unable to say anything to stop her.

"...I love you. Remember that."

I nod, tears rolling freely down my face. I try to tell her I love her too, but I can only mouth it. My shaky breath only allows weeping, not speech.

Still, she smiles, though it fades quickly. I can see her eyes trying to keep focus.

"Richard," Loretta's voice says with a hint of sympathy.

"No!" I force out. I can hear sirens.

"Richard," she repeats.

"NO!" I scream.

"I can't imagine how this feels, but try to remember..."

Who the hell is this woman? Making my dead wife's lips move. Talking to me morbidly in the midst of this tragedy as though nothing were happening. You're perverting my wife's memory! Stop it! Stop it!

"STOP IT!" I yell out with all the will I can muster. I stand up, Linda's now lifeless form rolling away. I need to get out of here.

"Stop right there!" a stern voice commands as I stumble out into the sunlight.

Squinting in the brightness, I can see the bank is surrounded by squad cars. Several police stand behind their vehicles with guns pointed squarely at me.

I raise my hands, only now realizing that they are covered in blood. Linda's blood. I don't care anymore. I don't care about anything. The police shout missives at me and I lay down, though not because of anything they're saying. I just lay down. I give up. I surrender. I don't want to do this anymore. Just take me. Take me away. Take me from this world of pain. I close my eyes and remember...nothing.

Letters from the Lost Man, Part 14

Sometimes I wake up and, stumbling through the semi-conscious haze that obscures wakefulness, I think about all the other mornings stretching behind me to the earliest memories I can muster. The most memorable ones are the Christmas and birthday mornings of my childhood, but a few others stick out here and there. For the most part, though, they all blend together into a blurry amalgam of alarms, showers, breakfasts and haphazard commutes. But this morning, I find myself wondering about all those memories. I even find myself wondering if I've ever really wondered about them before.

"Are you awake, hon?" a sleepy voice next to me asks.

"Mm-hmm."

"Are you feeling okay? Do you need some meds?" my wife yawns.

I know I'm not feeling pain right now only because I'm lying here, perfectly still. "No, I'm fine," I tell her. Besides, I wonder if pain medication is the best thing for me right now. If things really are as that woman's voice said, I need to be as clear headed as I can be.

"You should try going back to sleep," Linda says. "And don't even think about work today."

I wasn't. Hadn't planned on it. Besides, is my job even real? How can anyone sleep when all of reality is in question? If I'm hooked up in some kind of lab with my thoughts being controlled by some computer, am I not actually asleep already?

"Richard."

I jump at the sound of the woman's voice. Pain spiders through my bruised muscles. I groan loudly.

"Oh, honey, are you okay?" my wife chokes with a hint of panic.

I take a few breaths as the pain notches down a bit. "Fine," I say through clenched teeth. "Just a little spasm."

"I'm so sorry, Richard," the woman's voice says. "You should take some of your medication."

I register my confusion in the clearest, most silent way I can.

"Trust me," she says.

"You know what, babe?" I whisper to my wife. "I think I will go ahead and take some of those meds."

"Okay," she replies, hurriedly jumping out of bed.

She's gone for a few moments, then returns carrying the biggest pill I've ever seen and a glass of water. I struggle to sit up as Linda tries to help. It's a moderately painful affair, but I finally make it and eagerly swallow the massive tablet followed by some enthusiastic gulps of the water. I can feel the medication creeping down my throat. If this all isn't real, why does it have to feel so...real?

"Stop thinking about it, Richard," the other woman's voice says. "I'm sorry to have startled you earlier, but when you spend a lot of time thinking about none of this being real, you run the risk of calling attention to yourself."

"Better?" Linda asks.

I stare at her for a moment. "Oh, uh, yeah. I mean, I still hurt, but this should kick in soon and I'll feel much better," I reassure her.

"Good," she smiles. "More water?"

I shake my head. "Nope, I'm good."

She smiles again and gets back into bed.

I wonder if she's still here...

"I'm here, Richard."

I wonder why I can't think about...you know...it, but she can sit here and talk to me about...it.

"Like I told you before," the woman's voice says from my wife's side of the bed, "I hacked the system. I might not be quite the computer whiz you are, but I do know the monitoring system back and forth. I worked with it quite a bit on you."

I squirm a little internally. That sounds really creepy.

"I'm going to try to do the same things for you that I did for myself. After that we should be able to talk pretty freely," she explains. "Well, not really talk. And you'll still have to act fairly naturally, but you'll be able to think openly."

Oh, how nice. I'll be able to think openly. Such a luxury.

"Don't worry, Richard. We're going to get out of this."

"Hmm," I can't help but say out loud.

"What's up, baby?" Linda asks.

"Hmm? Oh, nothing," I lie. "Must've started to doze."

"Mmm, that's good. Doze away," she encourages me with a yawn.

"She's right, Richard, you should sleep. I'm going to get to work here."

"Okay," I say to both of them. I look down at Linda. Her eyes are closed and she's breathing slowly. For the first time that I'm aware of, I wonder what will happen to her through all this. Is she another patient going through this memory therapy? Is she really my wife on the outside? When my treatment is over, will they send me to her? I feel like I have so many memories with her, like I feel so much emotion for her. Of everything, Linda's the one thing I think I would miss about this if it really was all fake.

I pause and look around the dark bedroom. Are you still here...Loretta? That is your name, right?

Silence. Dark silence. I should be used to that by now, I think. Shouldn't I? I look back down at Linda. "Love you, babe," I whisper.

"Mmm," she moans sleepily, a hint of a smile showing in the dim red light of our alarm clock.

I lay back gently, the pain in my muscles just a hint of an ache, more a tightness. My head begins to feel a little light. I close my eyes and breathe. The darkness closes in. My only reality.

Petty, Partisan Palin

Well, I watched Sarah Palin's historic acceptance speech last night and was moderately impressed. She proved that, despite her relative inexperience and apparently nonexistent vetting process, she is just as capable of toeing the party line, stretching the facts and playing the same petty, partisan politics that a certain presidential candidate has beseeched us to change. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I didn't expect the RNC to descend to the lowest common denominator of political publicity. I just hadn't expected Palin would come off like such a pro at it.

I didn't hear anything that I haven't heard the broken-record Republicans spout every time an election comes around. "The opponent is a tax and spend liberal!" "The opponent is inexperienced (either politically or militarily or both)!" "The opponent is the anti-Christ, just look at how much people love him!" Blah, blah, blah. You know, when Obama started shooting barbs at his opponents during his acceptance speech, I thought, "Yeah, you get'em!" Now I realize, with the benefit of hindsight, he may as well have been singing their praise. His campaign's reasonable, accurate criticisms of the "McPalin" ticket pale in comparison to the outright warping of the facts and tainting of American perceptions that the Republicans have shown they will employ throughout this election cycle.

A little research will show that Obama's tax plans will actually leave the majority of American families with more income, rather than less. That coupled with the strong economy that has historically coincided with a democrat in office will mean that most come out on top. The only people who won't come out on top are the minority who already sit at the top. I know that those of you Republicans who make $250,000+ a year have to stretch yourselves to survive, but you'll somehow have to muddle through for the greater good of the American people that you so desperately wish to serve.

One of the things in Palin's speech that really tickled every incredulous bone in my body was when she said, "Though both Sen. Obama and Sen. Biden have been going on lately about how they are always, quote, 'fighting for you,' let us face the matter squarely. There is only one man in this election who has ever really fought for you." I think my reaction hovered somewhere between hilariously bemused and disbelievingly outraged.

Look, don't misunderstand me. I completely realize that those who choose to serve our country in the military and who protect our rights and way of life from external threats are deserving of our highest respect for their sacrifices. However, to suggest that the people who fight to protect us from internal threats to the same are somehow comparatively less qualified is preposterous to the extreme. There are plenty of politicians who have not served (Palin, for one), and there have been several presidents who did not serve either (12, to be exact). Of those who did serve, six did not see action (including George W. Bush and Ronald Reagan). There is no doubt that there is a lot of potential to learn about leadership from the military, but that isn't the only source. If it were, we'd probably be a society of shiftless vagrants waiting for officers to retire or be discharged and whip us into shape. In case you weren't sure, that's not the case.

The point is, such rhetoric only appeals to the knee-jerk fears that our commander-in-chief won't be ready to make the necessary decisions should a military conflict arise. But let us remember, for a moment, that a president is not an island. Though some may buck the desires of a congress elected by the American people and make decisions that hurt our reputation, economy and the American families who have to subsequently make sacrifices, others serve as president always with the will and well-being of the people driving them and with the help and counsel of the many experienced and similarly elected public servants around them. Let's make sure that's the kind of leader our next president is.

Obama 2008: Change We Can Believe In

Determinism in a Chaotic Universe

Lately, I find myself frequently thinking of determinism. I'd like to put down some of my thoughts, though I doubt I have anything new to say on the matter. It's one of those things, like so many, that we probably can't really know the answer to, but that's one of the reasons these kinds questions are so intriguing. It's only when our questions are finally fully answered that we will stop asking them. So, let's hope for the sake of human intellectual development that some of these questions never get answered, or that, if they do, others take their place.

Anyhow, on to determinism. The question in most people's minds, I think, when they think about determinism is whether a deterministic universe can allow free will. Also, many proponents of free will often wonder how a belief in determinism does not result in fatalism or defeatism. Ostensibly, it does seem rather contradictory to believe in both determinism and free will. It's a complicated question, and not one that I'm all that sure I can even begin to answer. I don't think my purpose is really to answer any questions, rather to hypothesize, or at least to ramble thoughtfully. What I'm trying to say is, don't take me too seriously.

Okay, so as a basic definition, determinism is the belief that every event, from the most trivial to the most significant, has a cause or set of causes. Physics suggests that the universe is at least partially deterministic. Psychology tells us that human behavior is deterministic to some degree. Causality is a deterministic concept and popular fodder for time-travel-loving sci-fi writers.

For society in general, feelings about determinism are complicated. Some say there's a reason for everything. Concepts of fate and destiny are romanticized in popular culture. When we see someone we pity doing something horrible, we say he can't help it. It's just the way he was raised, or he doesn't know any better. If some tragedy befalls us, it's not our fault. There were events beyond your control. Suggest to the average person, however, that every decision she makes or feeling she has is the end result of a sequence of events that chains back to the beginning of existence, and she will likely feel insulted, or at least be a little indignant at the suggestion that her thoughts are not completely her choice.

That is not to say that all determinists believe that our actions are predetermined. There are those who also believe in free will and even those who say that, despite the deterministic nature of the universe and its influence on our thoughts and feelings, we are still ultimately in control. As I've already said, I don't think I can answer the obvious questions that spring from this stance. All I can do is discuss my thoughts.

So, do I think our thoughts and feelings are predetermined? Well, as uncomfortable as the idea makes me, I'm kind of leaning towards yes. To me, thoughts and feelings are simply a sequence of complex chemical and electrical interactions. It might seem cold to reduce them to that, and I confess it is rather an oversimplification, but it's difficult for me to think otherwise, given my interpretation of what science has to say on the matter. If it can really be reduced to simply a sequence of chemical and electrical interactions, which by their nature are governed by the laws of physics, then how they could possibly be non-deterministic is beyond me.

Then what's the point of doing anything? Or deciding anything? If everything is predetermined, then what is the point of anything? Well, that attitude is fatalist, and I think you'll find that there are few determinists who are fatalists. Why? Well, to put it obviously, events that depend upon you doing them to get done won't get done if you decide not to do them. Of course, if that decision is not really in your control, that is to say, if whether or not you make that decision is based on every event in history since the beginning of time, then, again I ask, what is the point of "deciding" anything? Enough commas in that sentence for you?

Here's the problem with thinking of the universe in deterministic terms. It always leads to cyclic or self referential arguments. Whether it's about whether our decisions are our own or about the origin of a deterministic universe, we find ourselves getting caught up in the pointless infinite loop of logic that our limited brains must do when we try to reason about the unknowable.

The thing is, nothing is gained from the knowledge of whether or not the universe is deterministic. Even if we knew for certain that it was, it still wouldn't make the universe predictable. If the universe is truly deterministic, that would mean that if we knew every governing rule of existence and every single state of every infinitesimal piece therein, we could extrapolate future events with 100% accuracy. The problem is, that is not possible for us. No human brain, no matter how evolved, could hold that much information and process it fast enough to glean any useful information from it. Similarly, we could never build a computer that could do it either. In order to hold the state of every infinitesimal piece of existence, first of all, we would have to have discovered them all first, and second of all, we would have to be able to hold an infinite amount of stuff in memory. Even if there is only a finite amount of information in a single slice of time in existence, the computer would also have to have a simulation of itself in its simulation of the universe. And we're back to the self-referencing problem we had earlier. Even the finite information would become infinite because the simulation of the computer simulating the universe would have the same simulation of the universe running inside it, which would contain the same simulated computer running a simulation...ad infinitum.

Let me explain why it doesn't matter in simpler terms. Pick a random number between 1 and 100. Ok, now I'm going to guess what it is. Are you thinking of it? Good.

It's 68.

Was I right? According to probability, I'm not likely to be. According to probability, on the average I would guess correctly for 1 out of every 100 people who read this post. I would guess that, given a large enough sample, it probably works out that way too. Does that mean people are actually capable of choosing random numbers? Would I be able to guess any better if I knew every experience you had ever had since birth? Probably not, but that doesn't mean that your choice wasn't influenced by those experiences.

Now take this little JavaScript I wrote to generate a random Sudoku puzzle. It generates a bunch of random numbers to fill in a grid, then randomly deletes pairs of cells such that it doesn't end up in multiple solutions. Now, is it truly random? No. I know for sure that it isn't. I know that when the script requests a random number, it looks at the system time, does some kind of math with it and returns the result. If I knew the exact system times when each random request was made and the math that was used to generate the number, I could calculate by hand the solution to the Sudoku puzzle the same way the computer did.

Ah, now we're getting to the heart of my point. Here's the thing, even if I could know all of the starting information and solve it by doing exactly what the computer did by hand, why the hell would I want to do that? What's the point? Is it faster that way? Not with my math skills. Is it more fun? I daresay it isn't. Similarly, even if I could somehow calculate "by hand" which random number you would have chosen, is it worth our time? Is nearly as amazing as my simply guessing it "at random" (assuming either one of those is amazing to any degree)?

See, the thing is, JavaScript’s random number generator is "good enough", as it serves our purposes for such a trivial task. Just like the number I asked you to choose randomly. Even if it wasn't random, it might as well be. It works the same for the universe. It might be deterministic, but it may as well be at least a little random because we can't ever know every state in one timeslice of existence and thus the starting conditions for it all.

I don't know that this argues that we should be mindful of our decisions and keep trying to improve our lives, but the possibility that it doesn't matter isn't going to stop me. If the universe IS deterministic, then things aren't going to just get better randomly. It's going to require the initial condition of effort on my part. My decision to make that effort might be predetermined, but I'm grateful that it is if that's the case. I also take comfort, like many people, in the fact that, whether the universe is random or deterministic, some events (most of them, in fact) really are beyond our control. It might not be the highest note to end on, but it serves its purpose.