The Yeti writes, offering the following theories and speculations. The links are my own, just to provide some background. I have comments to make; however, I will offer them seperately.

Man’s ancestor apes are now placed at a staggering 25 million years ago. Hominids appeared about 14 million years ago. 3 million years created the first Homo species, followed by Australopithecus. 1,000,000 years later, we have the first evidence of Homo Erectus. And finally, after another 900,000 years, primitive man, known as Neanderthal. The difference between Australopithecus and Neanderthal is noticeable only in evolutionary terms. They used the same crude stone tools, and had no civilization that we would recognize.
Suddenly, Cro-Magnon man appeared 35,000 years ago. Discoveries in the last two decades have shown that Cro-Magnon is a different offshoot than Neanderthal. Originally, it was thought that Cro-Magnon was our progenitor. Now we know that there truly is a missing link.

Fascinating. I eagerly await a reply.

Posted on August 24th, 2003
Filed under: Immortality, Philosophy, The Past | 4 Comments »

Let us assume it is late spring. Morning comes before the sun is above the horizon. Usually the adults rise first; however, in short order the children are up as well. Breakfast is simple and seldom hot- bread, fruit or nuts, dried meat (jerky, if you prefer) if there is any about and perhaps the milk of goats or cows, depending on the time and location. It is a quick meal for there is work to do. Always.

The men head out to their chores, be it in the fields with a plow or other tools, or in to the wilds to hunt, or to the river or the shore to fish. It hardly matters for the type of work is merely a particular iteration of the uniform struggle to wrest the essentials of life from the world around them.

Back at home, the women and children are just as busy. Carefree childhood is a modern construct, in these times any child who can walk and carry is put in to service, perhaps to gather fuel such as fallen branches or animal dung, or to tend to livestock or to whatever garden plot may exist. There is wood to be moved, water to be hauled, feed to be poured, bread to be baked. There are always things requiring mending: clothes, tools, dwellings, and even weapons. Often the older men remain behind to handle the heavier work while the women do finer tasks, but all are hard at work long before most modern peoples would have stirred from their beds.

Food storage is primitive. Human beings are ingenious and bend all sorts of knowledge to the task of taking what is in hand today and storing against need for tomorrow, but it is all labor intensive. Drying, smoking, salting (assuming you happen to have salt), mashing, cooking, preserving… as the technology grew more sophisticated the options grew broader and more effective, but not particularly easier.

Midday often produces brief respite. In warmer climes it is best to stay out of the sun if possible. The concern is not skin cancer; rather it is simply the heat. Chores that can be attended to indoors might be left to that part of the day. Perhaps a midday meal, usually more substantial than the morning meal, is prepared. It depends on the nature of the village or clan, whether the men will return to eat or will take whatever food they might need with them so as to remain at their own tasks.

Afternoon progresses and it is time to finish what tasks must be completed before nightfall. There is a constant bustle to get things organized for the evening meal, see to it that the animals are secured, sort through whatever has been gathered and see that it is properly stored. If the men are hunting or fishing there will be the day’s catch to be properly dealt with, and whatever was gathered fresh for the day must be prepared.

Evening is the only regular moment of respite, and it is brief by comparison to the day. A meal is taken- perhaps large if times are good, but more likely simply adequate. Sometimes, in bad times, it will be desperately sparse. As darkness closes in perhaps there will be rituals to whatever spirits your people pay homage. The hope is always essentially the same though: “Dear Lord, please keep the monsters at bay.” When it is time for sleep it settles quickly, the reward for a hard day’s work.

The routine varies with the seasons. Harvest time means twice the food, but four times the work. Winter in the cooler climes means cold and darkness and often worse. A bad harvest means deprivation no matter where you may be- not losing the farm, but perhaps losing your life, or the lives of your children. In my case a poor harvest almost always meant I was on my way out, either driven away or sold for whatever value I might bring. Summer in a farming community means pleading with fickle deities for rain. Everywhere summer means fear of disease. Spring means you have survived long enough to start this all over again.

One constant companion is death. Throughout the years babies are born, and babies are buried in the ruthless calculus of reproduction and mortality. Adults fare only slightly better. Once past puberty life is often just a span of thirty years or so. Hard living breaks bodies so that a man of thirty would seem far older to modern eyes, and in a relative sense that judgment would be accurate for at 45 years most are facing the end of their days. Some live far longer, but most do not. Burying the dead is a regular part of life and death is not so much a spectre as an accepted fate, surcease to the struggle of carrying on from day to day. There were times when I saw death as immensely desirable.

Of course, random events can break up the routines of life, forcing people out of their accustomed rut (random events being war, plague, disaster, and the occasional celebration). It was not all toil and drudgery, but the vast balance was and that made the bright spots that much the better, while placing the darkness in some kind of proper perspective. Still, all in all the routine remains constant, day in and day out, with minor variations as the seasons progress.

The paragraphs above are a fairly complete description of the first ten centuries of my life.

Posted on August 23rd, 2003
Filed under: Immortality, The Past | Comments Off on 1000 Years In A Nutshell

Just to restate, since I have received a number of inquiries:

I have no secure channel for outgoing mail at this time. It has nothing to do with being “hacked” or any such thing; rather I lost use of the machine I used to send mail. I am naturally quite paranoid regarding my privacy, and until I can parse through the arcana of mixmasters or find some other suitable alternative, I will refrain from sending mail to anyone.

So Loren, Joe, James and those who desire to remain nameless: stop fretting.

Posted on August 23rd, 2003
Filed under: Administrata | Comments Off on Reassurances

In the end the crisis point of my latest little misadventure stole up behind me on quiet feline feet. Several days had passed without any activity, meaning that none of my few very modest “monitors” had detected any action regarding inquiries in to my name, or my finances or my history. So of course early Saturday afternoon my doorbell buzzed.

I regarded the intercom for a full minute, fully aware that if the person who rang the buzzer was truly looking for me my days in this city, in this identity, were quite likely over. The buzzer rang again.

“Yes?”

“Miss Baker? I need to speak with you. My name is Roger Travis.” There was no anger in the voice, perhaps just a trace of apprehension. With a heavy sigh I triggered the latch for the security door and then opened the door to my apartment. Mentally I checked the location of my pistol, then examined myself in the mirror- I was wearing a light white sun dress as I had been preparing to go for a walk and enjoy the summer heat after so many days of rain. I was not made up. I appeared painfully young.

The man who arrived at my door was nearly forty, tall and in good condition- barely breathing hard after climbing four flights in the heat of this summer day. He bore a strong resemblance to his father, handsome in that square-jawed, steely-blue-eyed quintessential American Cowboy way, all of it accentuated by blue jeans that had obviously seen their fair share of hard days’ work and a crisp, clean khaki shirt open at the neck and sung about muscular biceps. There was the scent of fresh hewn cedar about him, enticingly masculine.

He introduced himself again and I invited him in. We exchanged pleasantries and he commented on all the boxes still stacked in the kitchen and the hallway.

“Moving out?”

?In, actually. I’ve been in Colorado for several months- I only returned two weeks ago. Everything was in storage so I’ve been sorting out what I need and what can go. I just made a pitcher of iced tea, would you care for some?”

“Yes, thank-you,” he smiled then, put at ease by the nicety of domestic hospitality. Just as I had intended. It was a dance, each carefully feeling the other out in a game both ancient and tantalizing. I poured a tall glass over fresh ice cubes and handed it to him. He took it in his left hand and I deliberately noted the lack of a wedding band, allowing my index finger to trace the length of his ring finger. I produced a bowl of sliced lemons and sugar and we fixed our refreshments to taste then took our leave to my living room. There we sat, and an uncomfortable pause stretched out for several seconds.

“I hope your father was not terribly put out by my behavior the other day. I’m not normally so easily flustered.” That drained a great deal of the tension from his face and I began to hope just very, very slightly, that this might turn out well after all.

“My father…” he began, and then hesitated before starting again, “It’s been a very tough year for him. For all of us. Four months ago my mother passed away- she’d been sick for nearly a year, bone cancer.”

“Oh! I’m terribly sorry.” I did not have to feign sympathy- mortality always strikes a chord within me and I let it show clearly. I have seen so many times where death has wreaked havoc in otherwise normal, happy lives that it always leaves me feeling at least a little compassion towards those left behind. It is odd, but it is innate. Furthermore, I had suspected this was the case. “You all must miss her very much.”

“Yes, especially my father. They were inseparable…” he caught himself then, unwilling to offer any more to this stranger than he had to. “When he showed up at my place last week he was so badly shaken I thought he was sick. He wouldn’t talk to anyone about it, he just said he couldn’t be home alone.”

“He did seem very distraught.”

He ignored me and went on. “That night, he told me about Claire. Mind you he’d never mentioned her before, I don’t even think my mother knew about her. It’s not like it’s some giant scandal in the family or anything like that. Hell, it’s just something he never, ever mentioned… ?til he ran in to you.”

I could see everything coursing through him: concern over his father’s reaction to me, relief that I was so obviously not some youthful-looking sixty-something, an uncomfortable and titillating awareness of how thin my dress was and how neatly I curled in to my chair. I drew him out with a dangerous and carefully applied mix of genuine concern for the words he spoke, inviting sexuality, and open friendliness. It was an elixir he was ill prepared to resist, assuming he had cared to. Men cannot be badgered in to opening up, instead they must be invited, seduced.

“He had a photo album, pictures from his racing days I’d never seen before because all of them showed your mother. You really do look exactly like her, you know.” I nodded and he went on. “I can see how he might mistake you for her at first glance, from a distance… but after he introduced himself? What happened?”

I recounted the meeting in full factual detail, only prevaricating where my own internal reactions were concerned. Roger nodded and I knew he had already spoken to others about it, ticking off facts in his head as I replayed the scene for him. I could sense his concern deepening and once again I had to review my own impressions, but I saw nothing beyond what I had originally surmised.

“Damn,” he sighed, “I don’t know what to think. I thought he’d bounced back as well as anyone could expect after ma passed away.”

“He still thinks I’m Claire?” That thought disturbed me immensely, not so much for its implications for me, but rather for William.

“No… at least he understands that it’s not possible that you’re her, but…”

“He knows it up here,” I whispered, touching my head.

“But not here,” he finished, touching his chest, “exactly. I’m not sure what to do. Hell, I’m not even sure why I’m here, telling you this. I have to wonder if there’s something wrong, something psychological…”

He said psychological, but he was thinking Alzheimer’s. It was a possible out for me except that it was absolutely untrue, and I knew that for a certainty. I could have let Roger continue thinking that, perhaps go and convince his father that something was wrong… and curse him as fully as were I some ancient shaman of myth and lore. Such doubts could become self-fulfilling prophecy. No matter how much I desired to see this episode filed away as something innocuous I simply could not purchase my security at such a price.

“You said yourself that your father has been through a lot. What if he actually was sick that day?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, his eyes looking directly in to mine, piercing, searching. It was all well and fine for him to privately consider his father’s mental state, but he would brook no disrespect from me on that topic.

“You said he looked ill when he got to your place. What if he was? Has he been sleeping well? Has anyone been looking in on him to make sure he’s taking care of himself? What if it was just a long day and he was coming down with something? He saw me and got one shock, then was told something he certainly didn’t want to hear, that had to be another blow, and then I got all defensive when he wanted to meet again. So for a moment he thought he saw something that he knows he couldn’t have seen, and now it’s something that he can’t let go of because it upset him so much.”

Roger was nodding because it had a certain consistency about it, and because I was prodding him as hard as I possibly could with body language. No man truly wants to be in disagreement with an attractive woman, particularly when she is telling him something he desperately wants to hear. He mulled it over for all of thirty seconds.

“I have a favor to ask…”

“Of course. I would be happy to meet with your father again.”

“Thank-you,” he said, smiling. I felt myself blushing. This was growing more complicated by the second, but I did not let that stop me from returning his smile.

Posted on August 18th, 2003
Filed under: Friends Found, Immortality, Regrets, The Past, The Present | Comments Off on Resolution, Of Sorts

Fate smiled upon me: the bus was preparing to pull out and I caught it just in time. Even then I was soaked to the skin from the downpour. The weather fit my mood perfectly as I took a seat in the back to wait for my stop and attempt to sort out what had just happened. I wanted to believe I had not seen what I had in William’s eyes, but I am far, far too old to deliberately deceive myself.

Throughout the ride I went over the events in the restaurant, assessing what problems I could expect, drawing out every shred of information I could recall. Part of me was screaming to drop everything, take the thousand dollars in my purse, get out of town and never look back. This was actually the most reasonable part of me. The colder, more calculating, more selfish part of me wanted to stay and tackle this head-on. That part of me could be quite dangerous and had to be held in check.

I do not remember getting off the bus. I became aware that I was standing in my apartment, staring out the front window with the lights off. The air conditioner was running and my clothes were becoming clammy from the chill. I undressed in the bathroom and turned on the shower as hot as it would go, but before stepping in I went to my bedroom and took my pistol from its drawer. Nothing fancy: a model 1911 Colt .45. Large, unlovely and utterly reliable it had been my companion on and off for over eighty years. I loaded it, chambered a round, verified the safety was on, and set it on the vanity in the bathroom.

The scalding spray cut in to my skin, shocking, invigorating… cleansing. I flipped the control over from full hot to full cold, turning as liquid ice coursed down my back, then over my shoulders, across my breasts, down my belly. It centered me, driving away the uncertainty as I let it cool my scalp and my face. Five minutes was all it took, five minutes to bring logic and order to the chaos that had forced its way into my life unbidden. Even then, it was too long.

I slipped into my bathrobe and took up the pistol. I felt silly now for taking it out- by any objective measure I had little to fear tonight. I secured it and slipped it back in to its holster, but I did not put it away. I had to consider- instinct made me take it out. Instinct told me to run in the restaurant, I ignored it, and that turned out quite badly. I am no huge fan of guns, instead I accept the basic truth about them: when you need one nothing else will really do.

What course to take? The encounter in the restaurant could conceivably turn in to nothing, depending on who and what William was today. Both the hostess and the manager of the restaurant had recognized him and from their reaction I knew he was more than just a regular customer. As chaotic as things had been that still came through unmistakably. I went to my computer and called up a search on the mall- I did not dare to search for his name, but instead began methodically browsing through the information on the web site. I found it almost frighteningly fast.

General Manager: William Travis

I began a mental inventory of my visits to that particular mall; when, what stores, what purchases. I always pay cash so there was no easy way for anyone to come up with my name… I nearly laughed when I realized my largest problem was sitting directly in front of me: the cherry wood computer desk. Paid for with cash, of course, but delivered and assembled in my apartment only a week after I returned from Colorado. The panicked voice that wanted to run began piping up again, and this time I listened a little closer, but still…

Running posed a problem, just as it had in the restaurant. If William did search for me my disappearance would make the mystery more intriguing. Furthermore it would mean leaving the country, for I currently have no new identity prepared that would allow me any degree of security. I do have an escape route prepared against need, but… I do not want to go.

With that decision made I began to prepare for a confrontation, should it come to that. The story regarding “Claire” was verifiable- it was how I had transitioned from that identity to the one I currently wear. The best lies are always spun about a framework of truth, after all. I could produce everything short of a grave to prove that Claire had lived and died in Guatemala and that I was her daughter. My financial records would hold up to an audit, but not a criminal investigation, at least not a determined one.

The time I spent in Colorado could be problematic, but a phone call or two would help to close any holes in the time line. Once again I was forced to confront my foolishness: what had ever possessed me to go skiing? It had not been a bad fall, but I fractured my left leg in three places. I can only imagine the perplexity of the doctors when I failed to follow up with them or anyone else- hopefully they were used to injured vacationers going home to their own doctors. Perhaps those doctors sometimes failed to request records and X-rays. It was plausible, but I should have been more diligent.

Of course the problem was more complex than that: the injury had healed rapidly, but I had also dropped a number of years in appearance as well. It happens and I have no control over it. While my birth certificate and driver’s license said I was twenty-four, without make-up and a conscious effort I looked all of eighteen. Not a huge difference, but enough that the last time I presented an ID to someone he had looked twice.

Despite the cumulative effect of these issues, I felt I had a very good chance of defusing this if I held my ground. Most in my favor was that no reasonable person could seriously entertain the idea that I was over sixty years old. Most likely William would wake up in the morning feeling foolish for having accosted that girl in the restaurant, for thinking even for a moment that she might be other than she claimed.

It made sense. All I had to do was sit tight and most likely this would pass.

Still, I slept with the .45 under my pillow.

Posted on August 10th, 2003
Filed under: Friends Found, Immortality, Regrets, The Past, The Present | Comments Off on Escape

It was a chance encounter, all the more unnerving for that. I was at a mall shopping for some replacement items for my wardrobe. Since returning from Colorado I had been feeling an urge to make a change in my daily attire and I finally decided to indulge it. As it was well past dinnertime I decided that I could stop for a bite at one of the restaurants just off the food court. I am not terribly fond mass-produced food, but this mall is rather upscale and the dining options were fairly attractive. I took a small table looking out upon the mall that allowed me to engage in my favorite hobby: watching people.

I was waiting for my meal, sipping at my tea, casually looking over the passers-by while avoiding any direct eye contact. It actually works better if I have a magazine or a book, but I can put forth an expression of bored indifference well enough to convince anyone that my gaze in his or her direction must be nothing more than coincidental.

I spotted him as he left the food court, and he instantly made eye contact. His reaction was so startling that I nearly reacted myself, but I let my eyes slide off of him as if he had not come to my attention. Still, in my peripheral vision, I saw him stagger over to a bench and carefully take a seat. Alarm bells began ringing in the back of my head after another pass revealed him to be sitting, staring at me intently. Then I recognized him: William Travis.

William and I had shared one very short, exquisite year of hedonistic pleasure together in Southern California on the cusp of the 1960’s before I had ended our relationship for his own good. He had promise, and he wanted children, eventually. It helped that I only liked him, I was still too deep in the grip of my last true love to be foolish enough to let it go any further, but he had felt otherwise. Or at least he thought he had. How could he love me when he knew only what little I had been willing to show him of myself?

Our eyes locked. I gave him a “confused, why you are staring at me?” expression I hoped would convince him to move on, but as he rose to his feet again he made straight for the entrance to the restaurant. For a brief moment I considered fleeing, but I knew that might make matters far worse. I pretended not to notice as he came in, waving off the hostess who addressed him by name, saying he was here to meet somebody and, oh, there she is right over there, thank you very much.

He came to my table and I looked up in to his earnest, questioning face.

“I’m so sorry to bother you like this, miss, but… you wouldn’t be related to Claire Simon by any chance?”

Lie? Or deny?

Lie.

“Claire Simon is my mother,” I replied, smiling, “and you are?”

“Will, Will Travis. I knew your mother many years ago- I would have guessed you to be her granddaughter, rather than her daughter, but the resemblance is… striking.” He gestured to the empty chair, “May I?”

“Please, yes,” I smiled at him. This had the potential to be very, very painful for him, but once begun there was no way to stop it. “My mother was forty when I was born. It came as quite a shock to her, or so she said.”

“I’m sure it was. Your mother and I… Claire was very important to me. We were very close…”

He seemed at a loss for words, trying to put it in to some sort of context he thought I might understand. I had to help him out, so I offered, “Mom always thought she was sterile. She said she had ended more than one relationship because she couldn’t have children…” His eyes were still so very blue, and the way he looked down at the table, the set of his jaw, was the pain still so sharp? How deeply had I wounded this man? And I was about to multiply it, for there could only be one answer to the obvious question he was about to ask.

“How is your mother? I would love to see her again.”

I let my face tell him before I uttered any word, waited for him to see, and to draw the obvious conclusion. “My mother died several years ago. She was doing medical missionary work in South America at the time…”

We had dinner together and talked about Claire as I tried my best to ease his pain, but there were problems. He kept coming back to how uncannily like my mother I seemed to be.

“I noticed you in the window here, but it wasn’t so much your appearance at first, as what you were doing. You were people-watching, weren’t you?”

“Well, yes, ” I smiled, letting a little blush show.

“That’s what startled me so- Claire used to do the same thing, sometimes she would be very dramatic about it, telling stories about people who passed by, stories that you always had a feeling just might be true. When I saw you, the way you were sitting and looking over the people walking past… it was such a shock of recognition… though Claire usually had a newspaper or a magazine in her hand when she did it. At first I was sure you were her, then I realized how young you were…” but he was looking in to my eyes. Always in to my eyes.

I could see the wheels turning inside him and I knew this was becoming more dangerous by the moment. William was never stupid, nor was he given to flights of fancy, but at such close proximity, the two of us talking about my “mother”, his senses were picking up all sorts of signals from me, unmistakable signals that kept drawing him towards a conclusion that his rational mind had to deny. Suddenly he inhaled deeply.

“You wear your mother’s perfume,” he commented.

Oh, Dear Lord, if you exist, please, you have to help us both! Right now!

The check arrived and he insisted on picking it up. He wanted to continue our conversation, but I pleaded other commitments. I tried to make it clear that I had enjoyed meeting him, but that there really was no reason for us to make plans to meet again. He became insistent almost to the point of rudeness. I could see the turmoil inside him, the certainty that there was something more he needed from me, the inner shock at his own behavior and the irrationality it bred. Every attempt I made to circumvent, to handle and direct him, was overwhelmed.

It was becoming a scene; people in the restaurant were turning to see what was going on. The hostess and a man who had to be the manager were approaching, discreetly, but deliberately. William was known to them- the hostess had greeted him by name. It was time to leave.

“Mr. Travis, I’m certain that your memories of my mother, and the news of her death have upset you, and I am very sorry for that, but I must be going.”

I snatched up my bags and rose to leave, but the manager was in the way and as I tried to brush past him he caught me by my arm.

?Just a moment, miss…” he stopped in mid-sentence because I had his wrist in my free hand and had twisted it from my arm, turning it just enough so that he knew another inch would make it quite painful.

“Jack! No!” William cried out, “Let her go… let her go.”

I released the manager, and the tableau froze- William’s eyes and mine locked for the second time that night. And he knew. The manager made no move to stop me as I sped out the door and made for the nearest exit, fleeing in to the rain-soaked night.

Posted on August 9th, 2003
Filed under: Friends Found, Immortality, Regrets, The Past, The Present | 3 Comments »

What destiny awaits mankind? This is a question that often occupies my mind and I can see no purpose to avoiding it.

Destiny and spirituality seem to be linked for most people. If one contemplates fate, one is often drawn to further consideration of the nature of God, or the problematic existence of any deity or deities. I have commented upon this before and I restate here that I fall firmly in to the camp of “I Do Not Know.” I have no intention of abandoning that position here tonight so please understand that what follows is nothing more than rambling.

Honest atheists understand they cannot disprove the existence of God. With that in mind I have to wonder if we have not all been somewhat misguided regarding the plan of some theoretical supernatural being. For instance, why would a creature capable of creating all of what we know to be reality care one whit about the morality or lack thereof of any given act? What motivates Him? I know that the devout response is to admonish, “Who are you to question God?” but that tends to offend my critical nature. I do believe that this incongruity often precipitates questioning of the existence of a deity- once the question is asked it becomes increasingly clear to those so predisposed that God seems to be standing by whilst all sorts of chicanery is propagated in His name or against those who believe in Him. Once that becomes firmly entrenched in the mind it is a quick step to rejecting the existence of any God on strictly empirical grounds and coming to believe that whatever destiny awaits a man it will be one of his own making and not the result of some divine plan.

This is always where I begin to have questions.

I do not believe that God, if He exists, takes a personal interest in me; however, if God does exist, perhaps He takes an interest in mankind as a whole. In this case God has no interest in men. God’s interest is in Man, the complex totality of humanity. In that case the destiny of Man would be tied to the future progression of the species, rather than to the subjective successes or failures of its individual parts. This is essentially what I was referring to in an earlier post when I mused on the existence of a “racial soul”.

Let me be perfectly clear on this point: I do not expect anything I might say here to be taken terribly seriously. I am no theologian.

That said I do not come to such speculation lightly, instead it is the result of three-and-one-half millennia of observing the human condition. Mankind has shown a drive to expand, to improve and to manipulate that is so innate that it moves me to speculate it is by design. Of course there are examples of human cultures that do not appear to be driven in the manner I describe; however, said cultures appear to have no part to play in any grand scheme of overall human development. Just like myself, they are an evolutionary dead-end.

The judgment that some extant cultures are essentially “dead” may seem harsh, particularly if one is deeply ensconced in the “equal validity / equal value” meme that defines part of the multicultural values craze currently infecting the west, but one must understand that reality usually is harsh. Ask any existing members of the homo erectus branch of hominids what they think of homo sapiens sapiens… but of course, you cannot: homo erectus was an evolutionary back water once the new hominids arrived in town. Cultures locked in stasis face the same fate. They may totter on for decades, even centuries, but eventually they become extinct.

My take on all of this is simple: cultural evolution, just like species evolution, is not about fairness and equality. Instead it is about progress towards a goal, a destiny. It is quite likely that when humanity makes the next great evolutionary step, be it as a species or as a culture, only a portion of humanity will actually be involved. Indeed, it is hard to imagine how it could be any other way. When that happens, the remainder will be as homo erectus: obsolete and left behind.

Of course there is a corollary position to be argued, that being that cultural evolution does not always have to produce something better. Evolution of species is rife with examples of plants or animals developing in to specific niches in the environment, becoming tightly bound to the conditions that drive their evolution. When sudden change comes the highly evolved species are suddenly too specialized to adapt. The niche disappears, and with it the species. Specialization equates to rigidity, which in turn seems to limit adaptability, or as author Robert Heinlein so aptly put it: “Specialization is for insects.” The same is true of cultures. New cultures can arise which at first appear to be an improvement, but eventually prove to be unsustainable for being either too rigid, or flawed in conception, or both. Old cultures that have endured for centuries, even millennia, can also be shouldered aside by changes to which they cannot or will not adapt.

What has all of this to do with destiny? Humanity seems to have some greater goal in its collective future. What that goal ultimately is cannot be known; however, some of the upcoming steps can be seen vaguely. One thing is certain: to remain tied to this globe is a dead end for the race of Man. This is not a matter of resources, or environmental degradation or any of the assorted causes of the day embraced by one activist group or another, rather it is a question of probabilities. Any number of calamities might befall the Earth, all having absolutely nothing to do with the presence of human beings. I will name just three here:

Impact of celestial debris
Solar Irregularity
Supernova

We know that large asteroids have impacted this planet in the past, the most popularly known instance being the speculation that an asteroid strike was responsible for the extinction of the dinosaurs 65 million years ago. While many see this threat as the province of fiction any person whose worldview is rooted in reality knows that the possibility is quite real. Solar irregularity would be things such as flares, or sudden changes in the sun’s output- I include this only because I have seen it mentioned from time to time both in fiction and in science journals, most of which would put this threat far below that of an impact event, at least over the next few million years. Supernovae are a problem in that the energy output by a nearby (in celestial terms) exploding star could very easily sterilize this solar system.

All of these scenarios are predicated upon very low probability events; however, if you project out past the foreseeable future and in to the very far future the chances go up measurably. Proceed far enough and you come as close to certainty as the assorted theories of probability will allow. Hence the determination that to remain tied solely to planet Earth is to accept a racial death sentence.

The ultimate destiny of Man may be shrouded in mystery, but I am certain that God, if He exists, expects Man to reach for the stars.

Posted on August 4th, 2003
Filed under: Philosophy, The Future | Comments Off on Destiny

Minor administrative toothache: my outgoing channel for e-mail has been compromised. (Compromised. Sounds so mysterious, yes?) This means that while I can read e-mail I cannot securely send it for the foreseeable future. Those several people who regularly e-mail me: I have received your messages, but private replies will not be forthcoming. My apologies.

Posted on August 4th, 2003
Filed under: Administrata | 2 Comments »

Etherian asked me about loneliness. It defines my life, but not in the way one might think. Early on, after I came to understand what I was, every dislocation was wrenching and death came to take on an aura of a prize that I had been deliberately denied. I have never had children, but I raised many and to have to leave them… to this day that is the single most difficult act I have ever committed. So, the short answer is yes, I am terribly lonely.

Despite this, loneliness does not cripple me. I know that death stalks every relationship, that friendships are ephemeral, but I am blessed as well: I have had so many friends, so many interesting people in my life that I have to count the balance as in my favor. I met Samuel Langhorne Clemens. He took my hand and smiled when I offered up the notion that his writing was timeless and he said, “Perhaps it is, my dear. Unfortunately, I am not,” and he chuckled. I remember his scent and the twinkle in his eye, thirty seconds of time locked forever in the vault of my treasured memories. Who is there living today that can recall that day? (And before anyone asks, I have just described the entire encounter- he was a magnificent man.)

There is a secret inside me that aches to be told, to be shared with people who, when they look upon me, see an object of adoration, a partner in their journey of life, someone they love. I have had that precisely four times in my long life, each time an all too brief episode of delirious joy, followed swiftly by devastation. Each time I swore I would never again allow myself to become so delusional as to love anyone. The interludes between those times grew longer, but I am afraid I crave the wholeness that is part of being in a loving relationship and I will stumble again, and again I will weep for a century when my nemesis, time, steals away all I hold precious.

I loved them, and more important, they loved me. Rufus, who swore he only learned to love a woman in my arms. Robert, who gave up the only chance any mortal has for immortality to be true to his love for me. Genevieve… sweet, gentle, laughing Genevieve with her emerald eyes and golden hair. You saw right through me, so perceptive and so warm. And Jeremy. Good God, Jeremy, I still weep for you. So wise, and strong, and gentle, and firm… Jeremy, if the world desired a King they could have found no better than you. So desperately I tried not to love you, but you were in my soul, and you are there still. I stayed with you to the bitter end though you tried to send me away. You gasped your final breaths cradled in my arms, my tears the final blessing to fall upon your brow, and you told me you were immortal now, for I would always remember you. And your words were so true. I remember the promise I made you and here today, this day, I honor it again- you will never truly die, my love. There will be others, but never another Jeremy, or Genevieve, or Robert, or Rufus…

Loneliness. Loren was right: you people cannot truly fathom loneliness. Be thankful for that.

Posted on July 29th, 2003
Filed under: Immortality, Regrets, Triumphs | 2 Comments »

I am not an easy person to like, at least not for the past three hundred years or so. I spent the vast majority of my time hiding or as an add-on to somebody else’s life- it was a habit, and an excruciatingly difficult one to break. I do not believe you the reader can fully grasp the enormity of the challenges I faced when the need to re-establish myself in a new life forced itself upon me. That is why I was drawn to the Americas, and eventually to the North American colonies- it presented an opportunity to be less a slave or a servant and more an independent entity.

There was a television show I saw once a decade or so ago, the kind of silly, mindless entertainment that I mostly cannot fathom, but there was a character in this show that struck a chord with me- she was a creature destined to be paired with a man to whom she would bond completely by adjusting her personality to become a perfect mate for him. I did not watch the entire show (I seldom watch anything but the news) but that character stuck in my memory because that aspect of her was somewhat similar to my experiences through most of the centuries of my life. I adapted and ingratiated my way from one situation to the next, always making myself in to what I felt my new master/mistress/husband/duke wanted me to be. It was something I never questioned, my modus operandi, and I stayed with it because it worked. It also made me very popular so long as times were good.

When I first broke with this tradition I came as close to a mental break as I ever have. It was unnerving to be in a position to simply speak my own mind rather than carefully calculating the expected response and delivering it with a smile. Suddenly I could take lovers who interested me rather than seeking out those who would be least likely to ask uncomfortable questions. Having money helped as well. Needless to say it did not always go smoothly at first and I was run out of more than one community to cries of “Harlot!” or the like. As I ran I laughed with every step I took. It was pure exhilaration, a sense of personal freedom the likes of which I had never truly allowed myself to know, and it nearly drove me mad.

The Yeti asked me how I found the will to go on, century after century. I never answered him in any direct way for as I look back upon it now I simply do not understand it myself, at least not entirely. On an intellectual level it is clear that I maintained a survival mind-set and made choices that maximized my comfort, where comfort was defined as not having to move on every few years. Any time I remember feeling truly happy directly correlates with being able to spend twenty or thirty years in one place. Placed in the context of my life over the previous few centuries, that past bears a disturbing resemblance to Hell. It does not surprise me in the least that breaking with it proved so wrenching. My only regret is that I left so much wreckage in my wake as I worked out my new sense of self. Many good people tried to help me and most of them received far, far less from me than they deserved. My only consolation is that the vast majority of them never expected anything from me to begin with.

So, I am not easy to like, and I am nearly impossible to love. I have no real sense of humor and I do not suffer fools gladly. Furthermore I have it on reliable authority that my definition of “fool” is exceedingly harsh. I have been called “cold” and “aloof” and “spaced-out” and I deny none of those characterizations. Oddly enough I now spend less time intimately involved with people than ever before yet I feel far more engaged with those around me. I do keep people at arm’s length in as much as there is a secret I decline to share, it is a requirement, but I no longer have to hide my personality behind a pleasing mask in order to preserve my place in society and that has a value to me that I do not expect anyone to fully comprehend. I still have my moments (sometimes even decades- the late 60’s and early 70’s come to mind) when I simply wallow in decadence, but my life is much more deliberate now- I drive my own destiny and in a delightfully expressive turn of phrase I just “make it up as I go”. I like it this way.

Perhaps that is why I took exception to suggestions that I might have some larger role to play in the future of mankind: I have become quite fond of being my own mistress and I dislike the idea that I surreptitiously, even unknowingly, serve a higher power. I noted before that if I was created to a purpose, my creator is likely disappointed in me. Let me venture further to say that should this creator appear and demand its due, it will be disappointed further still.

Posted on July 27th, 2003
Filed under: The Present | 5 Comments »