I've known from an early age that the world isn't quite what it seems. My earliest inkling came at the tender age of five, courtesy of a rather vivid "vision" of Atlantis. Now, I refer to it as a "vision," but it was more like a waking dream, complete with iridescent fish and rather stern-looking mer-people.
That was the very same summer my great-aunt Nanny, a woman whose wisdom was as profound as her tea-leaf readings were inscrutable, taught me to see fairies. It wasn't difficult. The fairies weren't hiding.
And I don't know what to call that experience, because I actually, genuinely, saw them. Tiny, gossamer-winged beings flitting among the azaleas, no less. Ms. Wonder, bless her pragmatic soul, often attributes these early experiences to an overactive imagination fueled by drinking too much of my great-aunt Maggie's tonic, but I maintain it was merely my young mind grappling with the universe's inherent whimsicality.
Through the years, after much fantasizing and delving into any subject that seemed to offer some explanation for the "unseen" world – from ancient myths to the more esoteric branches of philosophy – I finally encountered science. Eureka! I felt much like Archimedes must have felt when the water ran out of the bathtub and he realized the principle of displacement. A sudden, glorious clarity!
Through the years, after much fantasizing and delving into any subject that seemed to offer some explanation for the "unseen" world – from ancient myths to the more esoteric branches of philosophy – I finally encountered science. Eureka! I felt much like Archimedes must have felt when the water ran out of the bathtub and he realized the principle of displacement. A sudden, glorious clarity!
Here, I thought, was the answer. Logic, observable phenomena, repeatable experiments! The universe, finally, was going to make sense.
For many years, science explained existence for me, and the observable world began to make a comforting, predictable sense. Then, as is often the case with life's grand promises, I found quantum mechanics. And suddenly, there was a promise of understanding the unseen world, the very fabric from which those elusive fairies might have been spun. This, I believed, was the final frontier, the key to unlocking the universe's deepest secrets.
That promise, dear readers, was a false one. It didn't happen. Quantum reality brought little understanding and, in a cruel twist of intellectual fate, raised many more questions that seem utterly unanswerable. It's like being handed a map to a treasure, only to find it's written in a language composed entirely of shrugs and existential sighs.
At the deepest, most fundamental level, researchers began to take seriously the idea of an exponentially growing number of universes caused by the collapse of the wave function (and yes, you absolutely must Google it, if only for the sheer delightful absurdity of it all). Think about it: every second, a new universe is born that is just as complex, just as large, just as unexplainable as ours.
For many years, science explained existence for me, and the observable world began to make a comforting, predictable sense. Then, as is often the case with life's grand promises, I found quantum mechanics. And suddenly, there was a promise of understanding the unseen world, the very fabric from which those elusive fairies might have been spun. This, I believed, was the final frontier, the key to unlocking the universe's deepest secrets.
That promise, dear readers, was a false one. It didn't happen. Quantum reality brought little understanding and, in a cruel twist of intellectual fate, raised many more questions that seem utterly unanswerable. It's like being handed a map to a treasure, only to find it's written in a language composed entirely of shrugs and existential sighs.
At the deepest, most fundamental level, researchers began to take seriously the idea of an exponentially growing number of universes caused by the collapse of the wave function (and yes, you absolutely must Google it, if only for the sheer delightful absurdity of it all). Think about it: every second, a new universe is born that is just as complex, just as large, just as unexplainable as ours.
Somewhere out there, there's a universe where I actually did manage to convince Ms. Wonder that a miniature dragon was a perfectly acceptable house pet. And another, where Island Irv finally understood the nuanced difference between a scone and a biscuit. The possibilities are, quite literally, infinite and infinitely baffling.
'Sure,' you say, perhaps with a weary nod. 'Why not? At this point, what's one more universe?'
Now, layer upon this cosmic chaos the delightful pronouncements from neuroscientists who tell us that memory is about as reliable as a politician's promise. My own, I can attest, is particularly prone to creative embellishment, especially when recounting tales of my youthful exploits or the exact moment I realized my cat, Eddy, was clearly plotting world domination.
'Sure,' you say, perhaps with a weary nod. 'Why not? At this point, what's one more universe?'
Now, layer upon this cosmic chaos the delightful pronouncements from neuroscientists who tell us that memory is about as reliable as a politician's promise. My own, I can attest, is particularly prone to creative embellishment, especially when recounting tales of my youthful exploits or the exact moment I realized my cat, Eddy, was clearly plotting world domination.
The "world" itself, they assure us, is clearly not what we're told it is; our human brains, those glorified squishy processors, are utterly incapable of imagining, let alone understanding, what's really going on out there.
Princess Amy, my imaginary critic and constant companion, often chimes in at this point with a rather pointed, "Well, your brain, Genome, seems to struggle with the concept of matching socks, let alone the multiverse." And she's not entirely wrong.
So, for the sake of my sanity (and quite possibly yours, as listening to me pontificate on quantum foam can be rather taxing), I've decided to simply accept my make-believe world as the genuine article. Why wrestle with cosmic truths when a perfectly comfortable delusion, custom-fitted to my personal whims and desires, is so much more inviting?
So, for the sake of my sanity (and quite possibly yours, as listening to me pontificate on quantum foam can be rather taxing), I've decided to simply accept my make-believe world as the genuine article. Why wrestle with cosmic truths when a perfectly comfortable delusion, custom-fitted to my personal whims and desires, is so much more inviting?
After all, if our brains are just doing their best with limited data, why not let them process whatever makes for a good story, a pleasant Sunday morning, or a surprisingly convincing argument for an extra biscuit? The pursuit of ultimate truth can be exhausting; settling for delightful fiction, however, sounds like a grand old time.
This new philosophical stance, I must say, has brought a certain liberation. Take, for instance, the ongoing saga of Wilmawood. As you know, I have a penchant for chasing movie and television production crews around our fair city, hoping for a glimpse of cinematic magic. Lately, however, the "magic" has been rather elusive.
This new philosophical stance, I must say, has brought a certain liberation. Take, for instance, the ongoing saga of Wilmawood. As you know, I have a penchant for chasing movie and television production crews around our fair city, hoping for a glimpse of cinematic magic. Lately, however, the "magic" has been rather elusive.
Filming has been slower than a snail on molasses, and the scene's been quieter than a library during a power outage. Then there was that recent Jonas Pate series, "Waterfront," on Netflix. My excitement was palpable – our coastal paradise on screen! But then, in the very first episode, a sheriff shot a drug dealer, and a swamp full of alligators was left to "take care of the rest."
My newly embraced make-believe reality instantly kicked in. In my version of Wilmawood, that scene simply didn't happen. Perhaps the sheriff offered the drug dealer a nice cup of tea, and they discussed the merits of organic gardening. Much more palatable, wouldn't you agree?
And speaking of palatable, let's address the pressing issue of our backyard garden. You may recall my recent, entirely serious, concern that our decision to cease feeding the neighborhood squirrels might lead to a full-scale, bushy-tailed invasion, much like the one that apparently plagued the White House garden during the last government shutdown.
And speaking of palatable, let's address the pressing issue of our backyard garden. You may recall my recent, entirely serious, concern that our decision to cease feeding the neighborhood squirrels might lead to a full-scale, bushy-tailed invasion, much like the one that apparently plagued the White House garden during the last government shutdown.
Ms. Wonder, ever the voice of reason, suggested it was "just squirrels being squirrels." But in my new reality, those squirrels are highly organized, politically motivated, and quite possibly planning a coordinated assault on the bird feeders as we speak.
It’s a far more entertaining narrative than simply "hungry rodents," and frankly, it keeps me vigilant. I've even started sketching out plans for a tiny, yet formidable, squirrel-proof perimeter fence. Princess Amy, of course, merely rolls her imaginary eyes and suggests I invest in a very large bag of birdseed and ask Dr. Coast to up my lithium.
This Sunday, as I settle into my usual corner at the Circular Journey Cafe (or perhaps Cafe Luna, depending on the prevailing winds of inspiration and the availability of a particularly comfortable armchair), my coffee will taste all the sweeter. Not because I've definitively proven its chemical composition, but because I've chosen to believe it's the finest, most perfectly brewed elixir in all the infinite universes.
This Sunday, as I settle into my usual corner at the Circular Journey Cafe (or perhaps Cafe Luna, depending on the prevailing winds of inspiration and the availability of a particularly comfortable armchair), my coffee will taste all the sweeter. Not because I've definitively proven its chemical composition, but because I've chosen to believe it's the finest, most perfectly brewed elixir in all the infinite universes.
And if a rogue thought of quantum entanglement or a particularly stubborn memory of a past embarrassment tries to intrude, I shall simply remind myself: it's all part of the grand, delightful fiction I've chosen to inhabit.
After all, why strive to understand a reality that's inherently incomprehensible when you can simply enjoy the one you've so painstakingly, and humorously, constructed for yourself? It's a far less taxing way to live, and frankly, makes for much better blog material.
After all, why strive to understand a reality that's inherently incomprehensible when you can simply enjoy the one you've so painstakingly, and humorously, constructed for yourself? It's a far less taxing way to live, and frankly, makes for much better blog material.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I believe I just saw a fairy flitting past the window, and I need to determine if it's a new species or merely a particularly enthusiastic dust bunny. The mysteries, it seems, never truly cease, even in a world of one's own making.
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