The Answer to Life, the Universe and Everything, Part I

Don't Ask the Vogons to Read Their Poetry

The question posed in the title was answered by the supercomputer Deep Thought after 7.5 million years of binary cogitation. And the final answer to the fundamental, most profound puzzle that has occupied the minds of brilliant individuals for the past 2.5 thousand years is: Forty Two. Well, that is according to the late, great Douglas Adams in his book, 'The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy'. An excellent book, by the way. However, the BBC series adaptation will haunt me to the end of time. In particular, the incarnation of 'Beeplebrox' with a poorly constructed second head, made of rubber. It was unconvincing and wobbled precariously on Beeplebrox's shoulder. Occasionally, the mouth would move up and down in a parody of a demented ventriloquist's dummy. It looked ridiculous and was disturbingly distracting. Rant over.

As mentioned, the Great Question has fascinated and intrigued our species over the millennia. The question can be put forth in several ways, such as: Is there meaning to the universe? What is the purpose of our existence? Is there an underlying purpose to life? Philosophers contend that there is no answer to these questions. That sounds unsettling. We strive to understand, and we become perplexed when we are thwarted in our quest. Not all are so limited in their understanding. Great systems of thought have solved the conundrum, or so they think. Religions have the answer. In fact, their answer is definitive and true. There is something terrifyingly unsettling in certainty.    

Generally, there is no wriggle room when it comes to religious systems. The question is definitely answered by belief in an unknown, invisible, supernatural deity. A deity of superlatives. A deity that acts in space and time and gets things done. Believe, and there is no reason to ask for an alternative solution. God knows the answer to all things, and that should be enough for the devoted. Deities do not directly project their wisdom and knowledge to the common folk; an intermediary is required. A special class of men who act as conduits to pass on god's edicts and other profound stuff to the simple devotee; a cadre of individuals solely devoted to the role. Usually, the work is well paid and not demanding- a good gig if you satisfy the entry requirements.  

We don't have to understand the mechanism or minutiae of existence. We have the broad outline, and that should suffice. Asking for clarification or raising objections is strictly forbidden. But here is the rub. Different systems propose different solutions to the ultimate question. Even those who claim to adhere to the same deity offer different resolutions. Compare Catholicism with Jehovah's Witnesses. Both, at the very core of their beliefs, worship Yahweh, an Israelite warrior, storm god; however, their versions of '42' are fundamentally incompatible. This can't be.

Simply put, when it comes to religions, various (take your pick), either one system is correct, or none are correct. This is basic logical analysis that cannot be refuted. Unlike induction, deduction provides absolute knowledge. As long as the premises are true, the conclusion is unassailably true. The thinking man knows this and ponders anew. He knows that so-called religious 'veracity', regardless of type/flavour/cult, is not founded on knowledge but on speculation without evidence. When pushed, the theologian will invariably resort to the concept of 'Faith'. Faith, as a theological vehicle for knowledge acquisition, is a baseless fabrication. Invariably, the believer will falter and resort to 'Faith' as a special form of cognition bestowed by the deity. Not only is the concept dependent on supernatural intervention, but some theologians have the intellectual audacity and breathtaking dishonesty to declare that atheists are denied access to this special form of cognition as a consequence of their nonbelief. Frankly, this is where rational debate must end. 

My Personal Journey toward a Solution to the Great Question: Prologue

As a young man of 21, my intellectual development was ragged, fantastic and filled with supernatural causation. It was a time when I earnestly believed in the existence of ghosts. Admittedly, this stemmed from an unsettling visitation by an apparition at the tender age of three. My ghost was no ephemeral shade. It was solid, in vivid colour and materialised within a foot of my bed.  

My Story

I awoke to see an old, bespectacled woman seated on a large wooden chair next to my bed. I was transfixed, unable to look away. I still remember how she was dressed, her grey coiffed hair spun into a bun. A shawl was draped across her shoulders. There was something antique about my visitor, as if she belonged to a bygone age. How long my unearthly, unbiden phantasm tarried, I could not tell. Eventually, the image broke and dispersed into a kaleidoscope of fractured colour. During the experience, my visitor remained still, staring, inert and expressionless. The spell was broken, and I ran to my parents' room crying in terror. This vision had a significant impact on my immature mind.

 At 21, I should have known better. The hint: my wraith came as I awoke from a deep sleep. I no longer believe in ghosts. That said, our present home is afflicted with a mischievous poltergeist whom I have named Rupert. We never see him; however, he takes delight in hiding my pens, reading glasses, car keys and wallet. He is a very naughty sprite! Flaxen, enough of this nonsensical digression and rambling narrative, you must return to the topic in hand. You have something important to say, at least it is important to you and your understanding and conception of ultimate reality.     

I had the fervent hope that I could cover what I wanted to say in one, coherent post. This was not to be. For reasons not apparent to the reader, or the author, to be honest, I have veered from my avowed purpose and found myself mired in narrative verbage that has lurched from 'sensible' to a babbling brook of words, that swirls and disperses into the depths of muddied/muddled soggy inconsequence. Thusly, I have wisely decided to split the post asunder into two (unnecessary redundancy), to prevent 'reader fatigue'. It is my avowed intention to conclude with a second post before the arrival of the new year or the next medication cycle. 

 

Yuletide

As Good as Anything Else

Just finished the Christmas meal and am presently lying on the bed post-dinner. All the family was present; both children, partners and two granddaughters. 

Although I've lived in New Zealand for twenty-five years, I have never got used to Christmas in summer. Today, it is sunny and hot. Just never seems right.

Well, readers, I hope you have a great Yuletide, and don't forget the pagan origins of this Mid-Winter festival. Christianity usurped the festival for its own. The truth is, no one knows the date of Jesus' birth.  It was an act of expediency by the early Christian church. The pagans had an essential festival at that time, and the church fathers knew that it would be virtually impossible to stop those dumb but violent Germanic tribes from relinquishing this highly culturally ingrained festival. Their solution: They imposed a Christian event, 'The Birth of Jesus', on top of the Yuletide festival. As Jesus' birth date was not known, it proved an effective and easy solution. Regardless, the vestiges of the old festivity remain. The yule log, misletoe and other symbolic vestiges are there to see, to the restless mind. 

The same is so with Easter. The Easter celebration was originally pagan. It represented the time of renewal and fertility. The name itself has nothing to do with torturing a Jewish Rabbi and his subsequent crucifixion. The pagan fertility goddess Eostre lends her name to this fest. A goddess of renewal and spring rebirth. The banishment of winter and the celebration of the coming bounty. Again, the deceitful early Christians applied and tried to bury the pagan source of this crucial Germanic celebration of life. The antithesis of the symbolism of non-life as applauded by Jesus' death by Roman justice. As with 'Christmas', the fragments of the old buried remains poke out from the overlying Christian pageant. What do eggs and bunny rabbits have to do with the Christian parody of Easter?

Regardless of belief, custom, or banal celebration, enjoy the day as fits. Tis all subjective and of little consequence to the broader experience. I'm off to sacrifice a virgin (sex not specified) and bathe in the milk of an Ass, seasoned with a tincture of Raven's blood. Who are you to judge?

Nerve Gas III

Don't Tell the MOD

During the 1950s, ICI in the UK was working on organophosphate pesticides when it discovered a highly effective agent. However, the new 'pesticide' proved too toxic for release in the British countryside. The Ministry of Defence took note and recognised the agent as a potentially effective weapon of war. The British had manufactured a chemical that would soon be classified as VX. It proved to be the most potent of all the nerve agents. VX has the viscosity of motor oil, although it can be turned into a fine aerosol by an explosive force. It is highly persistent, taking several weeks to evaporate. Because of VX's persistence, it can serve as an area-denial weapon. In this way, it can be used to secure flanks or as a chemical minefield. In 1956, the British relinquished the use of chemical and biological weapons; however, details concerning the manufacture of VX were passed on to the Americans. In response, the US built up large stocks of the nerve agent. It can be delivered as a binary agent, which is supposedly safer during transport. The two chemicals are then mixed together before deployment. The separate chemicals, although toxic in their own right, are nowhere near as poisonous as the final brew. 

The agent is considered a weapon of mass destruction by the United Nations. Its manufacture and stockpiling have been prohibited by a UN resolution in 1993. Well, I'm sure the 'civilised' nations will comply, but what about rogue nations and terrorist organisations? This is not just a theoretical consideration. Read on and weep. Yep, nerve gas in its early stages will cause lacrimation.

In February 2017, the half-brother of the glorious leader of North Chorea, Kim Dim Sum, Kim Jong Nam, was awaiting a flight to his home in Macau when two women approached and smeared a mystery liquid on his face. Although prompt medical aid was rendered, he died after 30 minutes due to respiratory failure. Later, the chemical was identified as VX. I wonder who could have been responsible? Tis inexplicable. A mystery wrapped in an enigma, and coated with a puzzle. There have been other instances of VX use by terrorist groups and foreign governments, however. I don't have the space to go into detail here.    

I would like to finish this trilogy with a personal anecdote. Many years ago, I worked post-university as a researcher in the Botany Department at the University of Bath in England. What a wonderful position you will no doubt shout. Surely, after many years of higher education, I had obtained a distinguished position at an English University, pursuing research at the cutting edge of empirical knowledge. The salary will be grand and the prestige great as I wend my way through research designed to uncover the genetic secrets ingrained in the humble but enigmatic dandelion. Sadly, my salary was slim, but I was desperate for a job. My girlfriend had recently given birth to a healthy baby girl and was residing in a council flat in an unsavoury part of the West Midlands. But enough about me, for this story concerns a PhD student in the department. I've mentioned this character on this blog before; however, one aspect of the original story is relevant here and thus deserves reiteration.

This particular student was indeed very odd and very smart. He had previously studied at Oxford University, graduating with a 1st Class Degree. Because of his strange behaviour, he was disliked by students and staff alike. I have always attracted life's flotsam and jetsam, and perhaps because I didn't treat him with open contempt and derision, he began to hang around the section of the lab where I worked and engage me in conversation. He would regale me with stories about himself and matters arcane. He was anachronistic in his speech and demeanour, with the air of an eccentric Edwardian gentleman. This is difficult to convey in words; however, I will illustrate with an example: He considered himself 'Anglican High Church'. A highbrow form of Christianity, closely akin to Catholicism in liturgy and tradition. Not many 23-year-olds count as members. Indeed, few folk belong these days. Its adherents are generally old and patrician. Although not old, he did have the air of a gentleman displaced in time.

Here is His story

Apparently, as an undergraduate, he had determined the chemical composition of the VX nerve agent and the means of its manufacture. This is before the internet, and the nature of the agent and its production would not have been public knowledge. This information is classified and outside the public domain. Now, there are gifted chemists, engineers and smart weirdos who have the skill to work this out. However, given the sensitivity of the topic and the possibility of government censure, it would be prudent for the chemist to keep their findings to themselves. Our story's hero was not of this ilk. Instead, he wrote to the Ministry of Defence with a complete exposition of his undoubtedly important research. Not long after, two large men in immaculately tailored suits, both sporting the same well-coiffed, short hair, materialised at the door of our hero's dorm. They entered his room without being bidden. Without further ado, they asked for all the information pertaining to the topic at hand. They carried out the work with quiet, unsmiling efficiency, and dare I say it, aplomb. Once the task was done, they explained to our friend that if he ever felt the need to share sensitive information in the future, they would pay him a further visit. This time, they would take him away to a place replete with disused mine shafts. Thereafter, a freak accident would ensue, and the subject of the story would be whisked from our mortal existence to join the choir invisible. He took the hint. However, he considered the incident a badge of honour.

Furthermore, for some strange reason, the chemical production of mercaptoethanol interested him. This is the most unpleasant-smelling chemical in existence. I've had experience with this chemical. Even though the procedure involved minute amounts of the chemical placed in a fume cupboard, the smell permeated the entire laboratory. As the experiment had to be conducted every day for five days, I became the focus of ill will from my scientific colleagues.  

Moving On...

As my readers have no doubt discerned, the problem is stark and terrifying. Nerve agents are not difficult to manufacture with the proper knowledge and facilities. Random nutters, terrorists and governments can use these agents to horrendous effect. Nerve gases truly deserve their designation as 'The Poor Man's Atomic Bomb'.    

This concludes the trilogy on noxious agents. 

Enough tales of horrific, poisonous substances, the next post will be an uplifting Christmas tale in keeping with the festive season.