Morning arrived clear and delightfully cool. I took an early stroll about the center of town before checking out and loading my things in to the car, and then I set off for Sarah’s home to pick up Edna. I was not particularly eager to make the visit to the cemetery, but it seemed a small courtesy to these people who had been so willing to accept me- call it recompense for my necessary deceptions.

I have never made a habit of visiting my dead; it always seems so pointless. Even my visit to Jeremy’s grave, so stylized and staged and Hollywood-dramatic was really nothing more than a lark. I was content that I had done it, but I believe I could have found as much closure reminiscing in my own living room with a bottle of brandy to mellow the mood. That I had been drawn back to this place so soon afterward was nothing more than the natural consequence of finally putting that entire episode of my life to rest.

Jeremy is dead. Catherine is dead. I could fill many, many pages with the names of those who meant something to me in some way who were now dead. To visit their graves would mean nothing to me. I understand that graves have meaning to those who are left behind, but I believe I have spent so long watching as one generation after another are returned to dust that any possible meaning has been diluted beyond detection. Cemeteries are packed with the dead and empty past. I choose not to dwell there.

Edna was already up and waiting for me when I arrived. Sarah had departed early so it was just the two of us sharing coffee and light conversation as we waited for the day to warm a bit before setting out. Edna seemed in very good spirits, commenting that she had felt guilty for neglecting her duty to visit her relatives, in particular her husband, over the past years.

“Henry’s been gone over thirty years now, so I suppose he forgives me, but I’m glad you were willing to come. I think Catherine would have been pleased to see that somebody from Elaine’s family had finally found this place.”

We were in the car and I smiled at Edna’s prattling. It is a common delusion of the living that the dead are witness to the day, but Edna seemed to take particular delight in the idea of me standing over Catherine’s grave. I felt better then- I have nothing against making a kindly old woman just a bit happier. We turned in to the gate of the cemetery and she directed me up towards the back, where the older plots were laid out over and about a low hill.

We parked at the foot of the hill and I helped her out of the car, then we began walking up towards the McAllister family’s section near the crest of the hill. As we passed various other collections of stones Edna pointed out families and individuals. I had known several of them personally.

“Surely your husband is not buried here?” I asked, “These are all quite old.”

“Oh, no- Henry’s down by the western lawn. I thought we’d stop up here first. See that tall spire? That’s where Catherine and Jonathan are buried. Why don’t you go on ahead- I’ll catch up.”

This was all so odd, and I found myself just a little more curious than I would have admitted earlier. Edna had stopped to admire the carvings on a stone near the walkway so I strolled up the remainder of the path, and found that brief segment of my past laid out in neat rows.

Catherine and her husband were together. Off to one side were two small markers: young children, neither more than four years old. There were other pairs, more husbands and wives, and solitary markers of those who never wed, or who met untimely ends only to have their loved ones make new lives when they were gone. I knew some of their stories from Catherine’s letters; others were a mystery to me.

I heard Edna come up behind me. We both stood quietly and I began to remember times when such places had held meaning for me: never the same meaning they held for others, but meaning nonetheless. Then she spoke, and everything became deathly quiet.

“I know who you are.”

Posted on November 20th, 2003
Filed under: Immortality, The Past, The Present | 1 Comment »

The town bore only a passing resemblance to what I remembered. The old church was still there- I wondered if people still worshipped in those same pews Mrs. Tremblay had gifted to the church so very long ago. When I had paid my visit to Jeremy’s grave more than a month before I had done no more than drive through- I had known then that the land was wrapped up in a dispute so I had come cross-country from a neighboring community. Still, there were enough familiar things and I found the Historical Society easily enough.

The building was easily a hundred years old and not well suited to its purpose as a museum of sorts. This had been some sort of a meeting hall, but I could not be certain, as it had been built long after I had left. The door was unlocked so I entered and found a table by the inside of the door with a small basket labeled “Donations Welcome” the sole decoration. There did not appear to be anyone about. I dropped a few hundred dollars in the basket and set out to explore, making enough noise to ensure that anyone inside would eventually take note.

It was typical fare. Flags, documents, war memorabilia, some pictures, pieces of furniture, all of it documenting the passage of more than two hundred years: the town was older than that- perhaps the oldest pieces were stored away some place. Still, it was somewhat unsettling to be wading through pieces of lives that I might have touched so long ago. Things were familiar by their type and form, but nothing that I might point to and say “I remember that.” Then I entered the main hall.

I felt it before I saw it. Everything in the room was so very, very familiar. There was furniture from the south parlor, the large dining table, my harpsichord… so many things that had been ours. I turned and froze, for hanging on the south wall there was a portrait of a young woman, decked out in Victorian splendor, her hair piled high in scarlet curls and ringlets… me. Jeremy had commissioned that portrait on our tenth wedding anniversary. The artist had paid particular attention to the eyes…

“Mesmerizing, isn’t she?”

I turned to face the woman who had spoke and saw her start nearly as badly as had I. She was older; perhaps fifty or sixty, with dark hair going gracefully gray worn in a very modern style. Her blue eyes were open and friendly, though somewhat startled and there was something about the shape of her mouth and the angle of her jaw… I had to stop myself from commenting on it as her gaze tracked back and forth twice between the portrait and my face.

“I… I believe she was my great-great-…” the lie refused to fall gracefully from my lips, but she interrupted me as I stumbled on it.

“Oh, Lord, I believe it! Just look at the eyes, my dear!”

“Not to mention the hair, of course.” I smiled then, back at ease now that the moment had passed. “I am Genevieve Baker.”

“Baker? Oh! You’re the one who’s got Josh in such an uproar!” She laughed then and the sound passed in to and through me, calling up memories- young Catherine at her wedding, her laughter as she danced with Jeremy. I was in control of myself now, none of this showed on my face. “I’m Sarah, Sarah Jameson,” she turned towards the back of the hall and called out, “Edna! Edna, come and see who’s here!”

“I’m out front!” came a dry, yet sprightly voice, then an elderly woman appeared in the entrance to the hall. She was small, and clearly closer to one hundred than to eighty, but she was spry and her eyes were clear. In her left hand she wielded a cane that certainly had to be a mere prop for her stride was brisk and her gait even. In her right hand she waved a clutch of bills. “Somebody dropped five hundred dollars in the… Oh! Oh my word!” She stepped closer and looked me up and down, just radiating a mischievous delight as she grinned and said, “Well, it’s a good thing I didn’t bump in to you alone in here- I’d have figured I’d finally had The Big One. And that straight hair does nothing for you, dearie.”

They offered me coffee- we sat at a table in the kitchen at the rear of the hall and they both began asking and answering questions. Edna was Edna Carstairs. Josh was her eldest son, Joshua, and co-executor of the McAllister Trust along with his mother. Sarah was Edna’s niece. Edna and her late sister were the great-granddaughters of young Catherine. I felt somehow lacking in the presence of these women who knew their ancestry and their family histories, where I was forced to lie and in turn keep my stories simple and boring. Despite this Edna seemed fascinated with my story.

“And you had no idea about the trust, or your connection to this place until you found Elaine’s diary?”

“That’s pretty much it, yes. Oh, I knew a little about the family history, but it wasn’t until I found her diary and the legal papers that I had any idea what had happened. Even then, the diary only covers the year 1843. I assume she kept a yearly record, but I’ve not found any others.” Another lie- I had all twelve volumes, but this was the only one I could safely share with anyone.

“Did you bring it with you?” Sarah asked, “I’d love to see what it has to say.”

“I don’t have it here- it’s back at the hotel, but I’d be happy to let you look it over after I’ve met with Joshua. I’m assuming he’ll want to see it as well.”

“Oh, don’t let yourself be too concerned with my son,” Edna commented, “he’s really in no position to argue with you and he knows it. Truth is the trust is nearly bankrupt. He couldn’t afford to put up a fight even if you were a fraud.”

“Perhaps we shouldn’t talk about…”

“Oh, piffle! It’s not a secret. Lawyers should never try to be investment brokers. We sank a lot of the trust’s money in to Internet stocks- lost it all. Since then with the town putting the squeeze on us we’ve barely kept up with the taxes. We tried to take a mortgage on the property, but the trust’s got no income to speak of…” Edna trailed off, but I could see the wheels turning in her, thinking about the money in the donation basket. Somebody who dressed so nicely and could drop five hundred dollars in a charity basket on a whim might just be in a position to ease some of the financial stress. She smiled again. “Does my son know you’re in town?”

“I called his office when I checked in to the hotel, but he wasn’t in…”

Both of them laughed at that and Sarah said, “Oh, he’s in, he’s just avoiding you. He’s afraid you’re somebody the real estate developers dug up to try and break the trust…” At the same time Edna was digging through her bag and finally produced a cell phone, which she opened up and put to her ear.

“Joshua? It’s your mother. I’m at the museum with Sarah… yes, I know you’re busy, but I need you to come over right away… Now don’t be like that… I’m not getting any younger and you’re wasting my time and I haven’t got a lot to waste so stop complaining… of course, dear, I know… now don’t dawdle…” She folded up her phone with a sigh, “Don’t misunderstand, Jenny, he’s a good man. It’s just that he seems to think all the problems in town are his personal responsibility.”

Joshua Carstairs arrived within a few minutes. I was seated at the table having a second cup of coffee when he walked in and spied his mother over by the sink. He was tall and handsome, and quite distinguished looking with his thick silver hair and ruggedly lined face. His voice was quite warm and resonant- it must have been quite a boon to him in court.

“Okay mother, I’m here, now tell me what’s so important that I had to hang up on Jim Kelleher up in Boston?”

“Ah, talking with your spy? And what did he have to say? But you might want to turn around before you answer that…”

Joshua turned and stopped for just a second when he saw me, but no longer. Then he smiled and stepped forward, extending his hand. “Miss Baker, I presume?”

I rose and took his hand, smiling as openly as I knew how, “I hope you understand this was not my idea- I had planned a more formal meeting.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I know my mother’s handiwork when I see it. I had intended to call you after I, uh, finished conferring with my colleague in Boston.” He took a seat and Edna brought him a cup of coffee, after which she and Sarah departed without another word.

“Don’t be embarrassed. You’ve done your research, and I’ve done mine. Perhaps we should just lay out our cards and see where we stand?”

“Directly to the point, I like that. Okay, Jim Kelleher seems to feel you’re a legitimate heir, and now that I’ve seen you I certainly agree. You’re obviously not after any money, not with your bank accounts. So tell me: why are you here?”

I sipped at my coffee and read him for a moment. He was unconcerned, actually relieved, which was good. His curiosity was certainly piqued, but he was absolutely unaffected by my looks or demeanor. He had a wedding ring and unconsciously fiddled with it- a thoroughly married and honest man.

“You and your family are well-off, but the trust is broke. You can’t afford to keep it afloat and you can’t get financing. Four years, perhaps five and you’ll have to default on the taxes and be forced to dissolve the trust and sell the property.”

“That sums it up nicely, yes,” he sighed, “I’ve considered selling some of the pieces in storage, both to raise cash and save money- museum quality storage space isn’t cheap. But that would be little more than a stopgap measure, and mother would never permit it in any case. Now, you haven’t answered my question.”

“No,” I smiled, “I haven’t. I am not entirely certain what I want to do, but I think I’d like to help save the house. Once the pressure is off we can discuss the future.”

With that we agreed to leave any further discussion until the next day when I would present the trust document I possessed, just to make everything legal. Edna and Sarah rejoined us, having been not-to-secretly listening outside the door and the afternoon ran in to evening as we talked about the past and they filled me in on all the details of the family’s history they had collected. I had so little to offer them I again felt embarrassed, but Edna soaked up every little scrap I offered and was clearly eager to see the volume of the diary.

The next morning I met with Joshua at his office and we signed the various papers that made me an official beneficiary of the trust. I had already made arrangements with my bank so we were able to make a transfer of funds to the trust’s operational account- not a lordly sum, but enough so that Joshua could make the next few quarterly payments without having to liquidate any more of the trust’s dwindling stock holdings.

The remainder of that day I spent with Edna and Sarah, first letting them pour over the diary I had brought with me. Sarah was in heaven- it was filled with all sorts of minutiae regarding the daily activities of the family, both the children of the household as well as the activities of the other adult relatives and their families. Edna was quite please as well, but there was something overriding her happiness at having this piece of her family history in hand. She questioned me repeatedly about what I thought of this passage or that and I had to be very careful to avoid offering anything even remotely detailed, particularly when either of them got some piece of information egregiously wrong. Edna seemed to delight in having an outsider of sorts past whom she could run her historical narrative.

We took lunch together at a local restaurant and they took great pleasure in introducing me to any who happened by. After that Sarah drove me up to the house, Edna choosing to sit out that trip, as she was not up to “traipsing through the wilderness” that day. I had been there just a few weeks before, but it was enjoyable still, as Sarah was able to tell me where work had been done, what had happened to the barn and stables (a fire in 1956), and other details. The house had not been lived in since 1951, but the family had used it as a reunion spot for twenty or thirty years after that time. It had not been sealed up for good until 1985, which explained why it was not in far worse condition.

Sarah and I returned to her home in the early evening and I prepared to take my leave. I would be driving back to Boston the next day.

“So soon?” Edna complained, “I was hoping tomorrow Sarah and I could take you up to see the family plot- Catherine and her husband are buried up there, you know.”

“Oh, why go up there? You haven’t made that trip in over ten years,” Sarah protested, “and I can’t take you- I have to go in to the city tomorrow.”

Edna looked at me and I could feel her anticipation. I smiled. “I could stop by in the morning- I wouldn’t mind visiting the graves if that’s what you would like. I can leave for home after lunch.”

That night I was actually quite pleased with how things were going. I still had no firm idea what I would do beyond helping the family keep hold of the property, but I was already considering making some major investments to restore the house and the surrounding land. Perhaps we could move the Historical Society’s museum in to the house itself- the town had a tourism industry of sorts. A restored Victorian era home might make a nice addition. I took some time to review my cash status and see where I could gain liquidity without drawing too much attention. Then I started packing for the trip home. I hesitated over my pistol- I had been carrying it illegally for the past two days and it seemed silly to do that given the circumstances, but I am always reluctant to have it out of reach in situations like this. I do not like guns, and that makes me very, very serious about them. In the end I left it in the bottom of my purse. When I got home I would lock it up again.

I went to sleep that night with a smile on my face.

Posted on November 17th, 2003
Filed under: Immortality, The Past, The Present | 1 Comment »

What follows was not easy to recount. I have alluded to such things before, but I have never been explicit, and even here I find myself forced to soften the words and the images. I nearly posted this elsewhere to keep it off of this site, but that would be inappropriate. If what follows offends or disturbs I can offer only that life often offends or disturbs. If it makes it any easier to accept, know that I still carry the sickening weight of this monstrosity. It haunts me to this day.
Read more…

Posted on November 16th, 2003
Filed under: Immortality, Regrets, The Past | 1 Comment »

This is proving to be quite vexing. I should put this behind me and think of it no more- let it lie as quietly as it has for a century or more, but it will not allow me to do that. Retrieval of the records was no mean feat itself: a company that specializes in the safe keeping of museum-quality historical documents stored them. One does not simply drive up and haul away cases of old records from a facility such as this. Nonetheless I was able to get at them after some hours of effort.

Thirteen large cases awaited me: the accumulation of over two hundred years of documents, books and letters. What concerned me would be contained in one of two particular cases and I set about the task of sorting them out once I had had them moved to my apartment outside the city. I suppose those who first collected these at my behest had been methodical in dating and storing them, but over the years as they were moved from one place to another they had become somewhat jumbled. Still, my money had been well spent- they were in remarkably good condition.

I started with letters dated after I had ended my contact with Catherine. Even after she was certain I was unlikely to respond she had continued to write in a most conversational manner. I nearly became ill when she mentioned that she had co-opted her son in to the task of ensuring I would be welcomed should I ever choose to return- this was written in 1890. Not once in any of her missives to me had she made any overt statement or even hint that she was aware of my secret: it was clear to me that her son was a lawyer and she had merely employed him in the creation of a trust to hold the family property inviolate for a great span of years, until 2050 to be exact. Unlike her words, her actions made it unmistakable that she had indeed been told, and that she believed.

Her last letter was dated December of 1896. Following that there was a letter from an attorney, informing me of her death and that I or my descendants had been named in a portion of her will. Two further letters followed, requesting a reply, then a final large packet.

Catherine and her son had been quite clever. The family fortunes had apparently grown quite large by that time so they set up a trust to hold title to the house and property. I am no legal scholar, but it appeared to me the trust stipulated any family member could reside in the house at will, but that efforts must be made to maintain the current structure and properties as they were. The trust also endowed a Historical Society for the town with a stipend for a museum. Finally, almost as an afterthought, it was noted that any person in possession of a specific legal instrument could present it to the trust as proof of descent from Elaine in order to take full advantage of the trust and its assigned properties. That instrument was sealed within an envelope in the packet.

It seems Catherine had been quite thorough.

I had already been aware that the property was in a trust- I had quietly engaged two different law firms to look in to the status of the property back when I decided to visit Jeremy’s grave. Now I was faced with having them probe more deeply, investigating the financial status of the trust and the Historical Society, as well as determining the legal status, if any, conferred by the instrument I possessed. These could conceivably be very dangerous acts on my part. They could also quite easily come to nothing. I found it hard to believe that whoever was holding the trust at this time would suddenly agree to surrender use of the property to somebody who arrived with a letter over a century old.

I chose to tackle the simplest task first: the instrument. A few hours huddled with some fine (and expensive) gentlemen determined that the instrument appeared to be valid, assuming the provisions of the trust were properly described and had not been changed; however, to execute it I would have to become personally involved as it could not be done by proxy. What surprised me was how easily I made my choice. I then set them to the task of learning everything they could while I set about making my own preparations.

Common sense tells me I should leave this be. Whatever threat there may have been is obviously minimal- digging in to this can only serve to make it worse. So why am I unwilling to walk away? Why am I so excited?

Posted on November 12th, 2003
Filed under: Immortality, The Past, The Present | Comments Off on Vexatious Fate

It could be worse.

More lawyers, then decisions must be made.

Posted on November 11th, 2003
Filed under: The Present | 1 Comment »

Jeremy betrayed me. He told me he had done it in a letter he wrote some few days before his death, but in that letter he made it clear he expected I would not learn of his act for some time:

“I know you, my love. I know this missive shall remain unread for decades, perhaps centuries. It is conceivable you might never read it, and never know what I have done, or why…”

He was correct on both counts. I had only recently begun carrying bits of my past forward, storing them against future need. Oh, I have left hordes in the past, but I have never returned to them- best to leave the past behind, let it remain dead. Only over the past few centuries have I made an effort to change this, with some success, I might add. Thus I still had my diaries from my years with Jeremy.

I retrieved the first volume of that diary some months ago, along with the letter he wrote on his deathbed. At first I had not opened it because my grief was too deep. Later I was afraid to read it and reopen the wound his passing had left in my heart. Finally, I had set it aside as part of the dead past. When recent events lured me in to revisiting that time the letter was still there. Once I had made my peace with my past I decided it was time to read it.

I cannot begin to recount it in its entirety for it is too detailed and I am loath to remake his words for my own petty needs. I am also somewhat at a loss to describe how I feel about this.

Five children survived the fire that took the lives of Reginald, Clarice and their youngest child, Sarah. I have made little specific mention of them for several reasons, none of which I am at liberty to discuss here. The eldest I shall refer to as Joshua, the youngest as Catherine (named after Reginald and Jeremy’s sister). Joshua was fourteen when Jeremy and I arrived in his life and while he respected his uncle he absolutely despised me. His intense dislike persisted until the day Jeremy’s Will was read and he understood that I had been left nothing of the family’s fortunes, and that I had been pleased to have it so. After that day he subsided in to simple irritation with me and with his youngest sister who, along with her husband, inherited the family home and its lands.

Catherine had always adored me, something I am sure contributed to Joshua’s dislike of me. After Jeremy died she insisted I remain with her and her family at the house, and I did so for one year, mostly in response to this odd feeling that she desperately wished me to remain more out of concern for my welfare than for her own purposes. When I did choose to leave, journeying to Boston, Catherine went to great lengths to maintain correspondence. We exchanged frequent letters for several years and when I was ready to set aside my identity as her Aunt Elaine I actually went to the trouble of hiring a law firm to collect any further letters or packages from her and hold them indefinitely until I sent an agent to retrieve them. I then became Melissa Burns and disappeared.

I had always wondered in an offhand manner why Catherine had been so concerned with me. Now I know why.

Jeremy revealed my secret to Catherine just over a year before he died. That I did not detect this I attribute to my foreboding of his coming end. He was still healthy, but he was no longer young. At sixty-one years of age he was now prone to infections in his lungs during the winter and I knew that it was only a matter of time. Preoccupied with what for me was an immanent change I failed to notice or properly account for Catherine’s change in attitude. In the wake of his passing, well, everything had changed for all involved.

His letter explained that he was not content to have me wandering the world, hiding here or there, always lost, always alone. He wanted to provide me with a refuge, a place to come to whenever I wished where I would be known and accepted. He wanted me to have a home. He charged Catherine with seeing to it that our home would always be available to me. He laid that obligation upon her because he knew she was fond of me and because she was such an extraordinary woman herself (a trait he insisted was my doing), having studied literature and law and the sciences at an advanced level despite her youth. He trusted her with my secret because he felt he knew her heart nearly as well as he knew mine. What surprises me most is that she might have believed him at all.

My very first instinct was to disappear: to drop everything and go underground in Eastern Europe or South America. I thought better of that- the secret had been “out” for better than one hundred and fifty years to little or no effect so there could be little harm in taking the time to examine what this meant. Still, I did make certain arrangements against possible need.

Then I returned to Boston to sift through everything I had from Catherine.

Posted on November 9th, 2003
Filed under: Immortality, Love, Regrets, The Past | 1 Comment »

On the naming of names, and the placing of places. As I go through my narratives I deliberately obscure certain facts. Jeremy, for instance, was not named Jeremy, Catherine was not Catherine, Rufus was not Rufus… I do believe the pattern is clear. Locations are obscured as well as specifics as to dates, particularly as I speak of relatively recent events. You may take this as an expression of a desire for security, or as simple sloppy storytelling- either conclusion suits me.

Despite this I do pay attention to detail, so the naming of names and the placing of places are consistent within the narrow context I provide. I mention this only because what will follow is rife with names and places to the point of encouraging one to attempt to parse out the truth. I would spare anyone that trouble, if I could.

Posted on November 9th, 2003
Filed under: Administrata, The Present | 1 Comment »

Interesting (actually, somewhat disturbing) developments over the past two days. As a result I shall be wading through a sea of lawyers. Posting will be light to non-existent until some time next week. Do take care.

Posted on November 5th, 2003
Filed under: The Past, The Present | 1 Comment »

Mr. E asks: can one argue the predisposition to love as being a more likely attestation of evolution or of creation?

You may argue whatever you like, but since you are asking my opinion the short answer is “no”.

I am afraid that I am about to disappoint a lot of people with my thoughts on this subject, as they are by no means original nor terribly unique.

It seems to me that the notion that Creation and Evolution are mutually exclusive is indefensible. Allow me to synthesize the arguments in extremely simple terms. The Creationist argues that Evolution strips Man of his unique spiritual nature, denying him the grace offered by his creator. The Evolutionist argues that Creation strips man of his critical nature, rendering the evidence of science at best a carefully constructed set of fallacies, at worst as a construct of the Father of Lies.

Where can we go from here? How can we reconcile these two viewpoints?

We need to decide if Man as an intelligent creature is unique. Consider the implications if we were to discover that Man is alone in the Universe as a critical and self-aware creature. This is not idle speculation for if we decide that science will answer this question, so far the answer is that we cannot prove that he is not. Before you all tell me- yes, I understand that proving a negative is logically impossible when all possible scenarios are outside the realm of testability; however, lacking evidence of extraterrestrial intelligences we cannot discount the possibility that Man may indeed be unique.

There was a time not very long ago when writers of speculative fiction used a certain hypothetical formula to suggest that the idea of Earth as the only inhabitable or inhabited planet in this galaxy was patently absurd. I believe the calculation was similar to this: There are approximately 400 billion stars in this galaxy. If one one-tenth of one percent of them has any kind of planetary system, and one-tenth of one percent of those has a possibly habitable planet, this results in 400,000 possibilities. Expand this to include the billions of galaxies that comprise the Universe and it seems absurd to think that there is no life anywhere else in the Universe.

It seems reasonable, yes? The problem with this calculation is that it makes broad assumptions that are quite unwarranted regarding the nature of stars in general and the observable requirements for the existence of life. Where just Earth-like planets are concerned it turns out that the possibilities are becoming more and more limited as Man’s understanding of those requirements expands. We can all speculate on the possibilities of forms of life that might exist outside the sphere of the carbon-based water band; however, such speculations themselves face their own limits as the unique nature of carbon becomes more and more apparent. Proponents of alternate-chemistry life forms refer to this “carbon chauvinism”, but a catchy phrase does little to lessen the reality that carbon does seem to be unparalleled both in its ability to form long chains of complex molecules and its ubiquitous nature in the Universe.

What we face here is a lack of sufficient discreet subjects to form a baseline of scientific knowledge. You and I have only a single instance of an inhabited planet from which to draw conclusions. We have only a single race of beings possessed of the gift of rational thought and a demonstrated ability to manipulate their environment. Given these limitations science is unable to provide concrete answers to questions such as mankind’s status in the Universe. Hints and trends and possibilities yes, but no certain answers. Nothing even close.

So, science has nothing to say regarding the uniqueness or lack thereof of Man, but it has plenty to tell us about his development. We have growing mounds of evidence that Man is the product of an evolutionary process set in motion by a confluence of near random and highly unlikely circumstances. While there are those among us who would argue that the picture is by no means complete I think most of us probably can agree that the image is there for any who are willing to see it.

And here we are, right back where we started. Science has plenty to say about evolution, but very little to say about Creation. And here is where I generally get myself excommunicated, assuming of course that the Catholic Church would have a creature such as me in its fold.

The idea that God, if he exists, created the Universe in seven days is nothing more than metaphor. Any creation myth is metaphor, a construct of minds too primitive, too ignorant to have any understanding of the nature of the world and the Universe beyond that which served their very practical needs. They had imagination and they had a thirst to know, but they had no tools sufficient unto the task of answering their questions. So they fell back on myth, on metaphor, because they had to have an answer. Men are quite stubborn that way, you know.

I have no difficulty eschewing the Creation as described in Genesis in favor of a far more complex, far more miraculous act where God sets the Universe in motion several billions of years ago, setting the stage for the eventual ascent of Man from the primordial ooze of a tiny planet in one spiral arm of an unremarkable galaxy amongst billions of galaxies. That seems a much more impressive feat than simply willing it all in to existence over a week. It also puts to rest the need for God or the Devil to have put in place all the evidence of evolution, geology, chemistry, biology, physics, and astrophysics for Man to discover and puzzle over as some test of faith. Any God I might be tempted to believe in would be above that kind of foolishness. In this context since Evolution is merely part of God’s plan it cannot separate Man from God’s grace, and accepting that Evolution is God’s plan in no way robs Man of his critical nature since science becomes the primary tool Man uses to read the Gospel According to Physics. Finally, since we cannot prove that Man is not unique in the Universe our critical nature requires that we at the very least consider that Man indeed may indeed be unique. We do not have to accept it as fact, but we must admit that it is possible. Failure to do so in the face of a lack of any evidence to the contrary risks replacing one myth with another.

All of this leads me to the conclusion that asking whether Man’s predisposition to love is more indicative of a Creation origin or an Evolution origin is an exercise in futility. My opinion is that they are one and the same.

Bearing in mind, of course, that I have no firm opinion on the existence of God to begin with. And of course my own existence within the framework of this argument could be somewhat problematic. My faith rests on my observation of Man and my belief that Man does indeed have a destiny that is beyond mere propagation. Whether or not Man fulfills that destiny is pretty much up to you.

Posted on November 1st, 2003
Filed under: Philosophy | 1 Comment »

In response to Mr. E’s comment on a previous post:

If I were insane, how would I know? You and I could sit over coffee and have a nice chat and at the end of it you might be tempted to tell me you were fairly certain I was off my rocker, but would I be able to believe you? In my case I have lots of history to look back on and that gives me some perspective on myself. I can look back and say “Oh, my! I was certainly not thinking too clearly, was I?” It is all relative, after all.

So what about love? I have offered a few paragraphs here to describe my understanding of the nature of love and its effect on Man and I know I have mentioned that there is a difference between this love to which Man is predisposed and the Romantic Love that is the source of such joy, such excess and such sorrow. I understand that first love- I rely upon it when I try to understand you and everybody else surrounding me. The second love, let me spell it Love for clarity’s sake, is something I try to avoid. It is dangerous to me. It is madness most raw.

Just so that you do not begin to think I am talking nonsense, please understand that what follows applies strictly to me and not to others.

Love is an invitation to pain and despair. When I allow myself to fall in Love I am guaranteeing myself a painful ending, one that is not possible, but inevitable. Tell me, please, what is rational about willingly inviting such horror in to my life? Given that, is it at all surprising that I have only had Love in my life four times?

Each time, I fooled myself in some way.

The first time was easy- when I confessed to him that his slave was immortal, he nodded and pronounced me Diana for he had encountered me as a huntress in the wilderness. Somehow my lack of chastity did not deter him in his conviction. When over the next few years our mutual foolishness made itself clear he ordered me bound hand and foot and forced me to watch as he opened his veins and bled to death. He believed he was doing the right thing.

I was none too eager to repeat that experience, but I did, three more times, the last being my Jeremy, whom I have discussed at some length. Each time I told myself that I could grasp those brief years of delirium, that the pain waiting at the end would be bearable, that this time I was far too mature to allow the inevitable to scar me so. Each time I was wrong. Oh, to be certain with the passage of time the pain eased, to be replaced with a certain rueful recognition of my own foolishness, but the memory of those times…

Only the last time came close to breaking the pattern, but I begin to suspect that there is more to play from that episode in my life. Jeremy is not through with me yet.

So, Love lures me with the promise of decades of joy and blinds me to a century of pain in payment. Self-delusion indeed. Do not seek to find flaws here, instead recognize that what I say of myself does not apply to all- it cannot for reasons I do believe I have made explicit.

Posted on October 30th, 2003
Filed under: Immortality, Philosophy | 1 Comment »