On Knowledge

Berty had an interesting love life...

I wrote about the Dunning-Kruger effect a while back. If anyone is interested, they can search the 'back catalogue'. In essence, folk with limited cognitive abilities overestimate their competence (there is a caveat). Not only that, but they are also blithely ignorant of their own shortcomings. There is more to the effect than, a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. What many people don't realise is that there is a flip side to the phenomenon. There is a tendency for highly competent people to downplay their own skills, especially in comparison to their professional peers. It is often misunderstood by 'lay folk' that those afflicted with the condition are necessarily stupid and unintelligent. However, misconceptions about their skills may be restricted to a specific area of knowledge. In other regards, they may actually possess expertise. That said, I suspect there are more dullards than wise men within the Dunning-Kruger community- tis a very large assemblage.

Most of us have encountered an individual afflicted with classical Dunning-Kruger at some point in our corporeal existence. The typical pub boor who will painfully berate anyone within earshot of how incredible they are at any given task or subject. Usually, these folk are self-confessed polymaths. Any topic you mention will garner a quick and confidential reply about how skilled and knowledgeable they are concerning said task/topic. A typical pub boor is forever lost in his inconsequential world, never comprehending. 

I remember quite distinctly when I was 16 and studying for my O'levels, feeling I had grasped everything I needed to know about physics, chemistry, and biology. What else did I need to comprehend? I confess that, at 16, I was a foolish proto-man. I was angry and reactive, responding to the chaotic swirl of the hormonal deluge. Luckily, this was just a stage in my natural maturity, physically, emotionally, and intellectually.

I'm curious about many things and have a particular and abiding interest in a few subjects. With one exception, I do not consider myself an expert in the interests I follow. There is only one subject where my knowledge base borders on the expert: Human Clinical Diagnostic Cytogenetics. I confess that my genetic knowledge extends to other areas of human genetics, but I know enough to know that I'm not an expert in these subjects. This is not false modesty but a cold, hard reality. Expert status in any endeavour can only be achieved through hard study and application over many years. And then the student must admit that further hard work is ahead. Regardless of the subject matter, any expert knows that the quest for ultimate knowledge is folly as it can never be attained. We are all perpetual students lost in the chase. When we think we are close, we are far away.   

There are a few, very few, intellectual souls that come close to the sublime when it comes to knowledge acquisition. We are oft to use the word 'genius' rather glibly, and the term is loosely applied, daft buggers that we are. True folk of genius are rare eggs indeed. For instance, John Lennon is often cited as a genius; he was not. He was a mediocre poet and an average guitarist with a poor taste in women. The rest is just media hype. Isaac Newton was a genius, as was his contemporary Leibnitz. Other folk of this ilk include the mostly forgotten Spinoza and the sadly tortured and probably mad Wittgenstein. Obviously, Einstein and the mobility-impaired Stephen Hawking enter this exclusive arena. There are others (don't forget Darwin), but I won't turn this post into a list. A gaggle of ancient philosophers also enter this restrictive club. Perhaps Plato comes to mind, but I'll place his derivative student, Aristotle, in the enclave instead. Paradoxically, the vast majority of Aristotles' work, excluding his ethics, logic and political musings, is complete and utter bollocks. Sadly, his 'scientific' work would stifle the advance of Western thought for nearly two thousand years; such was the man's authority, especially with the Catholic Church.     

I'd like to finish my disjointed discourse with a brief consideration of a vastly underrated man of genius, Bertrand Russell. Some books leave a distinct imprint on the intellect. This is the case with Russell's 'History of Western Philosophy'. My paperback copy is falling apart—I should have bought the hardback edition. The breadth and depth of knowledge within this hefty tome is impressive enough. However, this, combined with Russell's astute analysis of the subject matter, elevates the book into the monumentally profound category. Not only are we participants in a work of astonishing erudition, but we are also privileged to be part of Russell's brand (sorry, I couldn't resist) of breathtaking, if audacious, synthesis.  Anyway, I recommend that my readers purchase a copy. But be advised, it is best to own the hardback edition. Enjoy.       

Quake

Wellington Earthquake, the Aftermath

I have lived in New Zealand with my family for nearly 25 years. During that time, I gained NZ citizenship and now hold dual British/New Zealand citizenship. I visited the UK once about 21 years ago and have no plans to return. As a single child, I have no close relatives left in Britain. I do have two close friends in England. I have known these drunken reprobates since I was eighteen years of age, and to be honest, I miss them, but not enough to shell out the travel costs. Also, I hate flying, not because of any innate phobia of flight. I suffer from severe spinal arthritis, and I find the cramped seats horrendously uncomfortable. This becomes an issue on a combined series of flights lasting approximately 27 hours. I have never been able to make friends easily, and though I have met many wonderful folks since emigrating to NZ, I have made zero friends. The friends I do have here were originally from the UK.

I love it here and would not contemplate living elsewhere. I believe New Zealand is one of the best countries to live in this turbulent world if you have moderate financial means. However, this does not mean that New Zealand is without problems. New Zealand is subject to the same issues as the UK and the US but differs in degree. Having said that, the United States is, in my opinion, the best place to live if you are very wealthy, but hell on earth if you are poor. 

There is one thing about living in New Zealand that is frankly terrifying. Due to the vagaries of nature, New Zealand lies directly on several geological fault lines. In fact, one runs several kilometres from where I live. As a consequence, New Zealand is subject to earthquakes and volcanic eruptions. The 2011 Christchurch earthquake flattened large parts of the city and killed 185. In 2016, Wellington shook to a less devasting event. I was a resident of the northern suburbs at the time, and the event was pretty scary. 

One week ago, as I lay in bed at about 10.30pm, I felt a little bump; it did not last long. Fifty minutes later, just as I was about to turn off the lights, I heard a sound. It was difficult to describe but similar to an approaching train. I had heard this sound before and knew what was to come. And then it hit. It lasted a second, but in that brief period, the house violently shook. Once I had gathered my wits, I checked out the online earthquake resource, Geonet. According to Geonet, the earthquake was classified as 'Severe' and occurred 10 km east of Eketahuna, 35 km in depth, with a magnitude of 5.3. I did not sleep well that night. Since then, NZ has been subject to 32 quakes, all classified as light or weak.

If the 'Big One' hits, I'm as prepared as you can be in such circumstances. My home is a brick bungalow. As I understand it, a brick home does not do well in the event of a strong earthquake because bricks do not flex. In contrast, timber homes do better due to wooden frames having a degree of give. My home is an 'odd one out' as most Kiwi homes are constructed of timber. In the wood-framed barn, I have a small tent and a bugout backpack containing the usual survival items. I'm hoping that it never comes to that.

Life goes on. It is best not to dwell on catastrophic eventualities I cannot control. However, initiating and maintaining a survival mindset and establishing the relevant systems makes sense- just in case.   

Apparently, there was an earthquake in Dudley in 2002. Sadly, there was only minor structural damage.     

Watch and Weep

           

   

It's a Secret.....

All seven of my regular readers know my attitude to Pseudoscience. Let me begin with a definition. A thorough understanding of what we are considering here is of prime importance for the following discourse: pseudoscience is a system of theories, assumptions, and methods erroneously regarded as scientific. The scales now fall from our eyes, giving us clarity and enlightenment.

The Secret, by Rhonda Byrnes, was published in 2006. The tome belongs to the Self-Help genre, a large and diverse selection of books devoted to edifying all who partake. Many of these books linger unread and unpurchased by the public, destined for a short publishing run and subsequent oblivion. However, this was not the case with The Secret, as the book struck a chord with the public and ultimately sold 35,000,000 copies. My reader will now be all agog. What is the 'Secret' that so many crave? Surely, there must be ancient wisdom therein. Perhaps arcane knowledge hidden for millennia only to be released to a select 35 million.

Dear Flaxen, I beseech you to release the genie of ultimate insight to the chosen elect burdened with the temerity to follow this blog. This principle should be available to this sacred band of folk so they may live their lives to the limit of their potential, fully encompassed by its esoteric doctrine. 

Well, gentle reader, you are in the right place, for I'm about to reveal the book's recondite and abstruse (this is not a spelling mistake) secrets.....

The Secret by Rhonda Byrnes: A precis by the astute Flaxen Saxon, sometime resident of Tipton and responsible ferret wobbler.

Stage 1 Inspiration

Rhonda was beset by life's tribulations. Her father had just died, and work was becoming intolerable. Just as life's travails reached a crescendo, she was handed a 100-year-old book resplendent with archaic lore containing fragments and hints of the Secret. Rhonda began a search for further insight. In a vision, she was inspired to move to the US, where the 52 teachers of the Secret lived. What followed was the book.

Stage 2 Book's Content

The Secret is The Law of Attraction. If you earnestly believe you are about to achieve a goal or need, it will manifest. There is mention of cosmic and biological frequencies aligning to facilitate your desires. Magnetic attractive resonances and vibrations must coincide for the technique to work. The Law of Attraction works best by visualising your wants and desires. Also, it is recommended that you act as though you have already received your gift. While waiting for your million dollars to arrive by 'vibration post', go forth and buy a new Porsche. The rest of the book is fluff wrapped within a narrative.

Commentary

Gentle reader, you are now the recipient of ultimate Ancient Wisdom. Use your newfound gift/grift wisely and for the good of mankind.

What are to make of this mixture? There is nothing new here. The concept underlying the Law of Attraction and Manifestation has been considered for millennia. Ancient Greek philosophers were undoubtedly aware of this principle. Plato's concept of Forms idealised the perfect blueprints for everything material, organic, and inorganic. This quasi-real mindscape could be visualised to influence conscious reality.

In proto-modern times (the 19th and early 20th centuries), there was an upsurge of interest in the supernatural and psychics, and their ilk flourished, akimbo. It was a fertile time for such speculation. Rhonda became enamoured by Wallace Wattles' 1910 book, The Science of Getting Rich. This book opened the sacred gate to true enlightenment and introduced Rhonda to the Law of Attraction. Clearly, Rhonda craved much gelt because she obtained sumptuous revenue from 35 million copies of The Secret.   

No doubt the general public has a taste for this sort of thing. Everyone wants health and wealth; however, the means to these ideals in life are difficult to achieve, if not impossible. If only there was a cheat code, a shortcut to obtain all this good stuff without putting forth effort. It is an attractive allure that defies reality. The world is simply not built that way. Sprinkle the 'mechanism' with pseudoscientific babble and add a pinch of lost ancient wisdom, lore, and Bobs, your mother's brother. A gossamer panacea for all that ails us. With all that said, the placebo effect is a verified phenomenon demonstrated numerous times in clinical trials and elsewhere. A positive mindset can have beneficial effects; conversely, a negative attitude can have a baleful impact on the body (nocebo effect- placebo's evil twin). However, the placebo effect will not bring wealth unless it acts as a motivator for action. Sitting in a chair straining and projecting a 'Positive Frequency' supposedly in tune with wealth acquisition will not generate riches; more likely, piles will descend in painful abundance. Nor will positive thoughts, as a sole remedy, cure cancer. 

The book was a roaring success. Indeed, if it worked once, it will work again. Thus, 'rinse and repeat'. In 2010, Rhonda authored 'The Power', 'The Magic' in 2012, 'Hero' in 2013, and so on... Undoubtedly, Rhonda has tapped into a rich vein. The fact that these books and similar are able to garner revenue is a doleful reflection on the current state of educational attainment, particularly the lack of critical analysis and thinking in the West. 

Yes, Rhonda has uncovered the Secret of abundant and sumptuous wealth, but only for herself and for her publisher. 

   

Tales From The Lab, Part I

Definition of a Lab Tech: A Stool sitting on a Stool analysing a Stool

Many years ago, before I decided to study at university, I worked as a trainee technician in a diagnostic biochemistry lab. This was during the 1970s when you could gain a responsible position without a degree. My entry qualifications at the time were a modest 7 CSEs and 5 O'levels (GCEs)—the sort of qualifications that you get at 16. After gaining the position, I attended day-release college to obtain the relevant technical qualifications (ONC and HNC). It was a challenging series of courses spread over 5 years. College attendance was from 9am to 9pm, and once the exams were passed, you were eligible to enrol as a registered basic grade technician. Even as an 'apprentice', I received a decent salary plus additional money for out-of-hours on-call work. As can be imagined, I was young and stupid and spent much of my money on motorbikes, women, and beer- at least I didn't waste it. Regardless of the obstacles put forth by my stupidity, I eventually managed to satisfy the requirements and became fully qualified. Enough introduction.

On this particular day, I was busily analysing faecal samples from patients with gut disease. The analysis was primarily concerned with measuring fat content. I'm sure there are more sophisticated tests available today that don't involve delving unto the murky depths of someone's shit, but this was the mid-70s. Now, it could be thought by many that this job was rather unpleasant. And indeed, the smell was something to behold. That said, this was an analytical duty that I enjoyed performing for several reasons. First, most of my responsibilities in the lab involved working with autoanalysers. Blood samples from patients were transferred to the analyser's carousel, and I ensured that the reagent bottles contained sufficient chemicals. Once satisfied that all was good, a button was pressed. Later, the results were read off a graph, and that was that. I found the whole process tedious and unfulfilling. The testing of faeces was wholly different as the processes involved were not amenable to automatic analysis. Part of the process involved placing the faecal matter in retorts with a caustic chemical and subjecting the sample to reflux. The resulting liquor was then manually titrated using a burette. This was real chemistry involving several manual steps culminating in a calculation. 

Before all the interesting stuff could be performed, the faeces needed to be rendered into a semi-liquid sludge. This was achieved by adding a measured amount of water to the faeces, which was transferred to a sizeable industrial-style blender. A lid was placed on top, and a switch flicked. The procedure was contained within the Sluice Room, where all the 'wet work' was done. Unfortunately, on this ill-favoured day, the rubber seal on the lid failed. This seal usually provided a perfect occlusion containing all the smelly grossness. I'm sure my readers can guess the sequel of events following the loss of perfect closure-  O, woe is me... Within a microsecond, I was sprayed, from head to foot, with faeces, both liquid and semi-solid. Luckily/unluckily, I was close to the instrument of my misery, and with a hand beset with foul ordure, I reached and turned the source of my torment off. My cries of gross misfortune brought forth my colleagues. None would come too close, and I could hear barely suppressed giggles in the background.

The sluice room contained a shower, and I promptly shuffled in and turned it on to full power. Once most of the faeces had been removed, I stripped and had a long, hot shower. Spare clothes were found that were vaguely fitting. My colleagues, as one, came and helped in the subsequent cleanup. Overalls and rubberised boots were obtained from the 'Emergency Cupboard'. The sluice room was self-contained with a thick, durable vinyl floor that crept up the wall for about 30cm. The cleaning was completed within the hour. After a backup blender was found, I returned to work.

As an aside, back in the 1970s, 'Health and Safety' was not a concept yet inculcated into laboratory culture. Had the accident happened today, I would have had to complete a lengthy Incident Report, and a sample of the offending faeces would have been sent for testing for the presence of a myriad of diseases. After a suitable delay, I would have been tested for conditions such as Hep B and C.   

After my mishap, the boss decided that a change in protocol was required. The blender was superseded by a stomacher system. Although it took longer to mulch faeces this way, it was deemed safer.

Moral of the story: Shit happens.          

A Christmas Tale: An Alternative Nativity Story

Let Us Adore Him

In those days, Caesar (Ipod Mugumbo) declared that a world census (Tipton and Dudley North) should be taken. And lo everyone should report to their ancestral home for registration. 

So Papa Flaxen the Elder went up to the 'city' of Stewpony. He went there with the incipient, Mrs. Saxon, who was greatly gravid with child. She had been impregnated by the itinerant Lugless Dugless after an ill-fated liaison in a Mazda 3. No guest rooms were available, so the child was born on the midden pit and wrapped in a swaddling shopping bag. Three filthy, thieving gypo bastards arrived from the East boroughs of Birmingham following a drone which hovered over the midden pit. When they arrived in Tipton they inquired where lieth the new king of the Tiptonites. The incumbent king, Herod the Addled, was sorely miffed and said unto the gypos. "Go find this child and report back so I can remove his bonce with my double-headed Danish war axe, 'Twat Cruncher', er I mean so I can adore him with sweetmeats and sundries akimbo including an iPhone 16 Promax". 

The three wise gypos continued their quest and found the baby Flaxen atop the Stewpony midden pit. And there they opened their treasures and gave the child a fake gold ring, a gallon of brut aftershave and a ferret called, Shagger. After the gypos left, it was noted that various items had gone a missing, including Mrs Saxon's iPhone (insert the latest iteration).

Suddenly a drunk appeared and blurted: "Yow must bugger orf to Coventry else the king will separate young Flaxen's noddle from his already well-developed shoulders". And so they fled to the east, but not before stopping off at 'Mr Khan's Kebab Shoppe and Home for Stray Tasty Animals.' There, they enjoyed a sumptuous repast of indeterminate meat.  

When the king learned he had been duped, he was mightily pissed and sent forth a gang of 'nere do wells' on a quest to put to the sword all young Tiptonites under two.

As fulfilled by the prophet, 'Eric the Inebriate', saying':

A raucous shout was heard in Merry Hill,

Wailing, bawling and grand tribulation,

Sharan bawling for her 12 kids,

No more child benefits.

And lo it came to pass wind which blew Herod down a disused mine shaft. As Herod was no more, our intrepid trio decided to return to Tipton, unabated and unsullied- excepting the new-to-be, Mrs Saxon. Virgin, my arse! More like verging on the ridiculous. Anyway, as Tipton was a shit place, they decided on a council house in Smethwick- a slightly less shit place.

Here Endeth The Tale  

Commodus Part I

 Marcus Aurelius Antoninus- 'The Philosopher King'

Commodus- Preamble

This is the first post in a series concerning the Roman Emperor Lucius Aurelius Commodus Antoninus (Commodus). I've had to split this topic into several posts, as the sweep of the subject is too grand to fit a single narrative. 

It bodes ill when your name calls forth the image of a toilet. But it is not Commodius' fault. The word 'Commode' did not appear in French until 1680. In hindsight, the young Commodus had it all. His father was the illustrious Marcus Aurelius, no less. As it turned out, Aurelius, 'The Philosopher King', would be the last of the 'Five Good Emperors'. His death in 180 AD marked the end of Rome's Golden Age. The stability and prosperity established from the time of Augustus was about to wither, dry up and flop to the side.      

The Emperor Commodus was brought forth to the popular imagination due to the film Gladiator (2000), directed by Ridley Scott. A very enjoyable film, by the way. The writing and acting were outstanding, even though historical accuracy was a little off. But that is okay; liberties were taken for viewer enjoyment and breathtaking threatre. Russell Crowe played his part well- this was Crowe at the height of his fame and acting abilities. As I recall, the plot turned on the fact that Marcus Aurelius had recognised his son's inadequacy to rule and, on his deathbed, had entrusted the empire to his general, Maximus (Crowe). In the film, Maximus would act as an interim caretaker and champion the restoration of the glorious Republic. However, Commodus forstalled his father's dream and seized the throne through his evil machinations, and poor Maximus was enslaved and doomed to fight as a gladiator. The man, Maximus, did not exist as a historical figure. In the film, this fictional character acts as a dramatic anchor on which the action turns and writhes. At this stage in Roman history, the 'Glorious Republic' was beyond restoration and twas never to be again, from Augustus until the end.

This post is rapidly turning into a commentary on Gladiator. This is not my original intention. In conclusion, I will say that the opening battle scene between the Romans and Germanic tribes was awesome and epic. Moving on. By the way, Gladioli II is not very good.

There is little doubt that Marcus Aurelius was a wise, competent and highly intelligent ruler. He would likely have divined that his son and heir was unfit to rule. That being the case, why did he put forth his son for the purple? Could it be that Commodius' character defects were not evident when young and only became apparent later under the severe strains and pressures of autocratic rule? However, as argued further on, Aurelius was in a bind when selecting an heir. Regardless, at the time of Aurelius' death (58), by plague, Commodus was eighteen and, indeed, too young to ascend to the throne as sole ruler. To have ultimate power and wealth assembled on such young shoulders was a recipe for a 'Shit Show' unless those shoulders were guided by prudent and sagacious advisers- more on this in the next thrilling instalment. The wise Aurelius had already made Commodus co-ruler when he was just sixteen. This ploy served two purposes: at the time, Aurelius and Commodus were on the western frontier fighting the pugnacious and very naughty Macromani.  In this way, Commodus received firsthand war experience and tuition from perhaps the smartest emperor Rome had ever had. Secondly, this would smooth the transmission of power at Aurelius' death. The death of the reigning emperor and the accession of the new was always a perilous time for Rome. A transition, primarily based on heredity, was generally the 'Golden Ticket' but rarely achieved. However, it is worth remembering that there was always a gaggle of ambitious and rich senators /generals crouching in the shadows, ready to usurp the position if circumstances allowed. The lure of the ultimate accolade spurred men to risk all, though most would fail. This situation would inevitably lead to much bloodshed and, on occasion, civil unrest and outright civil war. 

Perhaps Aurelius hoped that his wise counsel and 'on-the-job training' would mould his young son into a capable ruler. No doubt, he would have made sure that there were competent advisors to guide the fledging emperor in his early years of rule. His plans were derailed by his early demise. Even the wise Aurelius couldn't have foreseen this untimely problem- 'Of Mice and Men'. Of course, he could have bypassed his son entirely and appointed an emperor based on merit. This would be a recipe for war. Influential individuals would coalesce and influence a disgruntled Commodus, urging him to take the throne by force. The populace would likely support young Commodus. The mob had an uncanny knack for adhering to the children of popular Romans (for example, consider Germanicus and Caligula). Aurelius was well-loved by the common folk and ruled with a sagacious guiding hand. And there was a further problem.

Let us imagine a situation where Aurelius appointed a successor based on his knowledge, political acumen and wisdom, and the juvenile Commodus accepted this political move without rancour. Commodus would have plenty of assets to enjoy a comfortable private life. Why bother to become ruler of Rome's vast territories. It would undoubtedly involve gruelling admin work and vexatious conundrums to ponder. Better to have a quiet life on a country estate far away from the turbulent political machinations of Rome. Better to contemplate a peaceful life of idle/idyll wealth far removed from the irksome intrigues of senators and the incessant rumbling of common folk only interested in the free dole and blood-soaked arena. However, there is a manifest problem with this scenario. Political reality must intervene. There is a saying: 'A plurality of Caesars is no good thing'. Even a sagacious successor possessing a mild and compassionate temperament must be aware that the male offspring of the previous incumbent is a potential focus for future intrigue and plot. However, it cannot be denied that emperors gifted with abundant clemency and compassion will unlikely remain enthroned for long. Ruling the Roman empire was not for the meek and mild. The meek may inherit the world in a work of fiction, but not in this life.

Best to have a potential usurper removed from the political chessboard. Quietly, if possible. Accidents can be contrived and executed with skilled expediency. Do we remember Caesar's son by Cleopatra, Ceasarion (Little Caesar)? No, of course not. Caesarian was executed under the orders of the then Octavian in 30 BC; Caesarian was seventeen. Perhaps this was unnecessary, as Caesarian could never have wielded political power in Rome. Nonetheless, Octavian reasoned that a man bearing Caesar's name was too powerful a symbol to be left alive. Whatever Aurelius thought about Commodius' ability to rule Rome's vast empire, he no doubt wanted him to survive following his death. The filial bond between a father and son is beyond rational measure.

Enough rambling for now. The next post in this series will discuss the events following Commodius' succession and its immediate ramifications.         

     

On Nature

Beautiful Bird, You Have Escaped the Eternal Struggle. No More Pain. Rest Easy, My Little Friend  

Several months ago, I wrote about an enterprising pair of blackbirds who had wisely decided to build a nest upon my outside water heater unit. I documented the progress of the hatchlings. At the time, it was early spring, and hence, a precarious time of year to raise a brood. Nonetheless, atop a water heater was the optimum choice for survival. After raising a successful brood, the parental birds left the nest to do stuff that blackbirds do. The sequel: I noticed that our god-favoured birds (perhaps Demon favoured; the distinction blurs/merges) had returned a few weeks ago to take a chance at a second brood. As a professional biologist, I took an interest in the proceedings and noted five eggs within the nest. Of the five, only three made it to the hatchling stage. Two down and three to go. I took an emotional interest in the brood and kept a weathered eye on 'my chicks'. A day later, I noticed that there were only two offspring within the confines of the nest. I searched the immediate environs, but no sign of the errant chick could be found. I could only surmise that the missing chick had spread its wings and had become one with Nature. Or perhaps a pesky ferret had taken the chance to feed its hungry brood. Shagger, are you there? The remaining chicks were becoming vocal and waxing fat. Due to personal reasons, I was subject to a hiatus (not the extended abdominal wall variety), which caused a break in the continuity of my ornithological activity. Imagine my chagrin and displeasure when I returned to the nest to discover that a single chick, clearly bereft of corporeal existence, remained. Its life essence had departed, and the ever-waiting and inevitable agent of decay, entropy, was taking its toll/toil (see pic.). I carefully removed the nest and interred the bird with its bier unto eternal rest within the wildflowers flourishing within the confines of Flaxen Saxon Estate.  

Of the five eggs spawned, only two fledglings left the nest. Of course, there is no certainty that these birds survived. It is conceivable that one or both fell from the cosy confines and succumbed to a lurking predator. At best, 40% of the eggs survived as successful independent juveniles capable of flight. And this is only the beginning.

My observations and the stark sequence of events had got me pondering. Due to my biological training, I am well versed in natural selection's role in the great 'Dance of Life', or more prosaically, Evolution. In the wild, all organisms, great and small, plant or animal, are subject to natural selection's stark, cold hand. In the early stage of life, selection is at its most apparent, and generally, this is where the most potent selection pressure is manifest. In addition, the process is necessarily and inherently cruel for sentient organisms gifted with a sophisticated neural network. 

I state that 'Nature' is cruel. This could be construed as anthropomorphism, the application of human attributes to an inanimate concept. This is a common human trait often applied to the all-encompassing idea of Nature. In objective science, the urge should be avoided. That said, in matters relating to all other endeavours in life, it can add imagery, express emotions, allow pause for thought or confer poetic nuance. Digression over.

Evolution can only occur if the majority of organisms of a species die before reproduction. This is a given in any wild biological setting. As a mechanism of species change, evolution by natural selection, is, by its very character, ruthless, fundamentally brutish and mayhap, pointless. 

For those of a religious bent who invoke the mysterious, hidden creator of ALL, this poses a problem. As a mechanism, evolution through natural selection is rather profligate in execution. This method is not energy efficient. Why not make all living things ex nihilo and leave as is. Why is change part of the process anyway? But who am I, a mere man, a creature born in sin, questioning the ineffable God?  And what's the deal with parasites anyway? 

I wonder why, in his later years, Charles Darwin stopped going to church.  

       

More God Than Man, Possibly.......

underpinned