My New Hero: E. O. Wilson

I have a Pavolovian response to any image
of Professor Wilson. Men are not made wiser.

I love the passion I develop for my heroes. Edward Osbourne Wilson is my latest. He has come to me at a perfect time compensating me for the recent loss of one of the biggest stars in my personal aurora: Oliver Sacks. Now E. O. Wilson shines supreme.

Last night I watched the wonderful documentary: E. O. Wilson: Of Mice and Men without any knowledge of who he is or what it was about but I have always loved biology, even sticking with it in university. I taped the doc only because of the word ants in the title.

Professor Wilson is an Emeritus professor at Harvard. He is also the Honorary Curator of Entomology there as well and as such, he oversees one of the world’s largest collections of insects.

He has twice won a Pulitzer Prize for his writing. He “invented” the science of sociobiology and coined the term “biodiversity.”  Wikipedia can tell you about his many accomplishments; I am not going to do it here.

Instead, I will tell you the sentence that was my eureka moment: “The problem of humanity is that we have Paleolithic emotions, medieval institutions and God-like technology.”

When I heard him say that in the doc, I was hooked. Later he said this: “In a group, the selfish individual wins. In a society full of groups, however, the group of selfish individuals loses and the group of altruists wins.” Does insight get any better than that?

Dr. Wilson’s peers vilified him following the publication of his sociobiological discoveries. Many scholastic luminaries including his colleagues at Harvard and Richard Dawkins published shaming contradictions to his theories.

What does E. O. Wilson have to say about his critics? “Without a trace of irony I can say I have been blessed with brilliant enemies. I owe them a great debt, because they redoubled my energies and drove me in new directions.” How can you not fall under the spell of such a man?

Here’s more: “If those committed to the quest fail, they will be forgiven. When lost, they will find another way. The moral imperative of humanism is the endeavor alone, whether successful or not, provided the effort is honorable and failure memorable.”

And finally, as someone increasingly interested in the comfort of an association with the concept of God, E. O. Wilson cemented his place in my heart by saying this: “Science and religion are two of the most potent forces on Earth and they should come together to save the creation."

Well-Written and Moving Craigslist "Missed Connections" Ad

I met you in the rain on the last day of 1972, the same day I resolved to kill myself.One week prior, at the behest of Richard Nixon and Henry Kissinger, I’d flown four B-52 sorties over Hanoi. I dropped forty-eight bombs. How many homes I destroyed, how many lives I ended, I’ll never know. But in the eyes of my superiors, I had served my country honorably, and I was thusly discharged with such distinction.


And so on the morning of that New Year’s Eve, I found myself in a barren studio apartment on Beacon and Hereford with a fifth of Tennessee rye and the pang of shame permeating the recesses of my soul. When the bottle was empty, I made for the door and vowed, upon returning, that I would retrieve the Smith & Wesson Model 15 from the closet and give myself the discharge I deserved.

I walked for hours. I looped around the Fenway before snaking back past Symphony Hall and up to Trinity Church. Then I roamed through the Common, scaled the hill with its golden dome, and meandered into that charming labyrinth divided by Hanover Street. By the time I reached the waterfront, a charcoal sky had opened and a drizzle became a shower. That shower soon gave way to a deluge. While the other pedestrians darted for awnings and lobbies, I trudged into the rain. I suppose I thought, or rather hoped, that it might wash away the patina of guilt that had coagulated around my heart. It didn’t, of course, so I started back to the apartment.

And then I saw you.

You’d taken shelter under the balcony of the Old State House. You were wearing a teal ball gown, which appeared to me both regal and ridiculous. Your brown hair was matted to the right side of your face, and a galaxy of freckles dusted your shoulders. I’d never seen anything so beautiful.

When I joined you under the balcony, you looked at me with your big green eyes, and I could tell that you’d been crying. I asked if you were okay. You said you’d been better. I asked if you’d like to have a cup of coffee. You said only if I would join you. Before I could smile, you snatched my hand and led me on a dash through Downtown Crossing and into Neisner’s.

We sat at the counter of that five and dime and talked like old friends. We laughed as easily as we lamented, and you confessed over pecan pie that you were engaged to a man you didn’t love, a banker from some line of Boston nobility. A Cabot, or maybe a Chaffee. Either way, his parents were hosting a soirée to ring in the New Year, hence the dress.

For my part, I shared more of myself than I could have imagined possible at that time. I didn’t mention Vietnam, but I got the sense that you could see there was a war waging inside me. Still, your eyes offered no pity, and I loved you for it.

After an hour or so, I excused myself to use the restroom. I remember consulting my reflection in the mirror. Wondering if I should kiss you, if I should tell you what I’d done from the cockpit of that bomber a week before, if I should return to the Smith & Wesson that waited for me. I decided, ultimately, that I was unworthy of the resuscitation this stranger in the teal ball gown had given me, and to turn my back on such sweet serendipity would be the real disgrace.

On the way back to the counter, my heart thumped in my chest like an angry judge’s gavel, and a future — our future — flickered in my mind. But when I reached the stools, you were gone. No phone number. No note. Nothing.

As strangely as our union had begun, so too had it ended. I was devastated. I went back to Neisner’s every day for a year, but I never saw you again. Ironically, the torture of your abandonment seemed to swallow my self-loathing, and the prospect of suicide was suddenly less appealing than the prospect of discovering what had happened in that restaurant. The truth is I never really stopped wondering.

I’m an old man now, and only recently did I recount this story to someone for the first time, a friend from the VFW. He suggested I look for you on Facebook. I told him I didn’t know anything about Facebook, and all I knew about you was your first name and that you had lived in Boston once. And even if by some miracle I happened upon your profile, I’m not sure I would recognize you. Time is cruel that way.

This same friend has a particularly sentimental daughter. She’s the one who led me here to Craigslist and these Missed Connections. But as I cast this virtual coin into the wishing well of the cosmos, it occurs to me, after a million what-ifs and a lifetime of lost sleep, that our connection wasn’t missed at all.

You see, in these intervening forty-two years I’ve lived a good life. I’ve loved a good woman. I’ve raised a good man. I’ve seen the world. And I’ve forgiven myself. And you were the source of all of it. You breathed your spirit into my lungs one rainy afternoon, and you can’t possibly imagine my gratitude.

I have hard days, too. My wife passed four years ago. My son, the year after. I cry a lot. Sometimes from the loneliness, sometimes I don’t know why. Sometimes I can still smell the smoke over Hanoi. And then, a few dozen times a year, I’ll receive a gift. The sky will glower, and the clouds will hide the sun, and the rain will begin to fall. And I’ll remember.

So wherever you’ve been, wherever you are, and wherever you’re going, know this: you’re with me still.

Not My Condo

I found these photos on the web. They were undocumented on someone's Tumblr account—Tumblr being my new addiction. I don't wish I had money and I think living in a place like this would induce madness, but….

Prime Minister Asshole

When you enter the Radiology Department where my CT scan was done, you enter a very large reception area with a long counter facing you. On the counter are planters interspersed between two large signs that say: “Please report to Reception, to the left.” There is an arrow pointing to the left on the bottom of each sign and above each of the two reception desks there are large signs saying: “Reception.”

I registered and sat in the waiting area. A couple came in, in their forties, and walked to the counter and stood waiting for service right in front of one of the “Please report to Reception” signs. 

On the scanner there is a little notice: “Do not look into the scanner light.” I wondered about the couple I had seen. What would he do (he being the patient).

After the scan, I walk told to “follow the blue line painted on the floor to find my way back to reception.” That involved making one left turn.

When my (adoptive) mother “failed,” she went to live in what was then called a sanitarium. She lived with the strangest people I had ever seen. I was a child and I learned—I hoped—that the crazy didn’t know that they were crazy.

So now I wonder: Do unintelligent people know that they are unintelligent?

And I also wonder as this election unfolds:  I could not care less if Prime Minister Asshole gets re-elected. Has no one else heard of Einstein’s definition of insanity? Insanity is, he says, as doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Exactly. 

It's like a lottery. Once in a lifetime you actually get a thinker, otherwise its a lottery of idiots. I feel political parties have the same relationship to democracy as religions have to faith. 

(Post 993!)

Monday Morning

Imagine: A CT scan at 8:00 am. That's how my day is beginning today. St. Paul's has a really nice lab where they perform CT scans, X-rays and ultrasound and where they have nice change rooms, a lounge rich with time wasters and lots and lots of heat (because you are hardly wearing anything). But I have to go to the CT scanner in emergency which feels like you are getting the old equipment in the cold dark basement. But once it is over, I get to enjoy two more days of this extraordinary warm and sunny weather.

•

And, today I am writing—because I am tired of waiting for news—to Convergent to see if there has been any progress with Télé Cinq and or Telefilm regarding a partnership for filming my screenplay, Uncle Gus' Monkey.

The Martian is fabulous entertainment. Seeing it made me proud of Monkey because it is not a "crap" movie like an Adam Sandler movie. It has integrity and is genuinely moving. I was fantasizing that is might get released in cinemas (which will never happen) as I walked to The Martian. But Warren, whose idea it was to turn my play into a movie, is the real winner here.

He was the first to believe in that my life story could be a film. And then Praxis at SFU liked it (it won second place in their screenwriting competition). Then, as our prize, SFU hired two professional readers to assess it professionally and to develop an industry-like synopsis for us, and they both liked it. And then Brad, at Convergent liked it, as did his four or five key partners.

No one has disliked it. No one. So I expect Télé Cinq and Telefilm to like it too. How could I not? And if they like it, Convergent will have partners and we will likely go into production. Hence my eagerness to know where we are at. Stay tuned.

HAPPY!!!

I had a very conscious walk today. I walked 8K, careful still on downslopes and stairs. I am positively giddy as I write this because it was 18° and now, having rested, I am going to walk to see the Martian movie with Dwight.

That was scary, that intense pain and being unable to walk. I am so grateful to have sunshine and mobility back.

(This is post #991 on this blog!)

Sunday

Saturday, I thought I might go for a longish walk. I got two blocks before I chickened out. But on the way back I saw this glorious plant in the garden of a marijuana dispensary (one of many, many) near my condo. I walked to the Farmers’ Market to get more Mutsu apples, my diet of choice lately. I eat at least two a day and they will be available at the winter Farmer’s Market through until March. Yay!

Last night I watched George Gently and, as usual, came away gob smacked by Lee Ingleby. I am so often critical of actors and when I am, people often ask: “Which actors do you like?” And I always find it difficult to think of names but Mr. Ingleby is so incredibly believable as John Bacchus, Gently’s sergeant.