All The Space

Carl Sagan said that if we were the only life in this universe, then it seems like an awful waste of space. Saying that is like calling that extra DNA “junk” or like saying that the 72.6% of us that is water is useless. His perspective is sorta narrow. The space, all the extra space without detectable life, without livable format, is useful. It wouldn’t have been created otherwise. Perhaps our idea of livable or useful is faulty—it just seems a little bit like the perspective of a creature who thinks he’s the biggest, baddest thing out there. The biggest, baddest creature who does things like define rules about physics, claims that babies have a certain way they need to develop, and can be convinced that all your relationship problems or money problems or sex problems or weight problems can be solved by his best-selling book. If the universe were thought of like a cell or an atom we wouldn’t question that the vast open space is valuable.

I think of the universe as a eukaryotic cell—the openness as the cytoplasm, containing all internal sub-structures. Here metabolic pathways define the functionality of the whole: the exchanges, the break-downs, the syntheses, the potential for entropy. It works toward homeostasis.

The sun would be our mitochondria: generating seemingly endless energy (one through the process of oxidative phosphorylation…and the other is a massive nuclear reactor releasing an energy equivalent of 1 trillion megaton bombs per second… both insanely cool, and both life sustaining.)

Earth is the nucleus.

People are her genomes. Limitless, independent in function while dependent on organization, creative, whole only if functioning in community… indescribably gorgeous.

And of course, the Millennium Falcon would be the endoplasmic reticulum.

Well…

Let’s just say anything could happen. And, um, despite the war in the stars…we’ll always find out who our father is in the end.

Not where you thought that would go, huh? ;o)

When You're Wrong

In a debate or general disagreement it’s obnoxiously uncommon to have both sides be objective, considerate, and calm. Debates usually fire us up because we just know there is something brilliant we know that our “rival” doesn’t. And most people seem to have to state it with condescending disdain …speaking down to the other like this discussion is a joke and a waste of time, when in fact, it’s probably a key component in the harsh-speaker’s very livelihood. This person probably fears ridicule. He fears being wrong more than he fears his mother standing over him with a hot frying pan after he just tipped her china cabinet. He’s probably said he’s sorry just as many times as he’s said he’s wrong.

There are a few things every person with a viable opinion should know. Once you become an accuser or a name-caller, you are exclaiming D.O.R… essentially disqualifying yourself. What you’ve said thus far in the discussion becomes nil because you’ve shown that your emotions are hot and volatile. If you walk into a debate, walk into it with thought, with consideration. Know that one of you doesn’t necessarily have to be right. That’s the beauty of humanity. And usually the root of the vice of humanity. Discussion is the point. Conviction is the point. Walk away if your first thought is, “This guy’s a moron”. Walk away if your pride is more important to you than your growth.

Again...One Day

I’m dreaming about standing against the rail by the lighthouse overlooking the water in Santa Cruz, with the cool, salty breeze licking my face. The birds are landing on the seals out on that rock. The ocean just goes. In between the Boardwalk and the lighthouse is Cowell’s, where I used to surf. You take the stairs down to the water, let the cold water fill your wetsuit, say to yourself “…Okay”, then start paddling. Then you wait. It’s mostly waiting. Then you come back out after it carried you in. Someone asks, “How was it?!” maybe wishing that’d taken that one too. The feeling of the water on my skin, the booties on the feet, reminds me of diving. I hear the underwater sound of breathing through the regulator. I feel the stiffness of the blade strapped to my ankle because the towering bull kelp can get you in trouble if the water pushes it around just right. You are constantly adjusting your buoyancy, trying to get your body just right in this foreign place. Your hands are a bit less dexterous but now you have a stronger urge to feel your surroundings because you are only under here for such a short time. A bumpy chocolate chip star, a pokey urchin, a squishy bulb on the kelp. The shadow from another diver freaks you out because your initial instinct tells you it’s a predator. He waves and you nod and you carry on, investigating, breathing, checking your gauges. When you get out you’re hungry and thirsty and lust after a hot, freshwater shower. You rinse your equipment and think about how you’re going to do it and where you’re going to go next time.


I’m daydreaming of my foot on the first hold at the bottom of the rock, searching upward for a good grip. I look at my partner belaying and ask, “Ready?” “Ready”. “…Okay”. And for some reason my palms start sweating already, even though I’m still on the ground. I guess they know those words. I guess they know I’m going up. That’s what the chalk is for. I rub the chalk on my palms and fingertips, a little on my nose or cheek to be silly. Then I climb. You contort your body to find the slightest stability. You pull your body with your fingertips and push your body with the balls of your feet. You look down, smile at your partner, they smile back, one fist gripped around the rope behind their waist another just above their bellybutton. Almost there. You’re thinking about getting to the top, but down below, he is watching how you do it. You kick off the wall and he slowly lets you back down. Your achy, exhilarated muscles are shaking slightly because, if you’re like me, you don’t do this every day. It feels fantastic. You feel like you’re ready to try the next hardest way up.