A Duel with Reality

“The mind of man has perplexed itself with many hard questions. Is space infinite, and in what sense? Is the material world infinite in extent, and are all places within that extent equally full of matter? Do atoms exist or is matter infinitely divisible?”
E. Maxwell, quoted in E Maor, To infinity and beyond (Princeton 1991)

Now you know what I’m thinking.

In a fit of recent sobriety, I overheard that there’s an unusual twist to some of the latest findings by our greatest minds devoted to the theories of quantum physics. In hushed tones it was related to me that, based on the results of new experiments, there are indications that distinct pieces of matter may coexist in two separate locations of the cosmos at the same time.

Don’t misunderstand me. This is not about illusion or misperception. I am not describing an exquisitely fashioned or miraculous mirror image. This is about detecting one pure thing standing alone in two different spots simultaneously.

That, to my more conservative friends, seems on the one hand very difficult to fathom while, on the other hand, something that I think I’ve known about all along. The evidence of such a fantastic coexistence, in any case, may be presented to us in casual ways every day.

Journeying through a more accelerated reality, I searched out my old teacher on this subject, a defiant old fellow who once taught me many moons ago how to actually count the infinite sands of time by their distinctively colored “zones” of reflection.

He is an old Professor now retired and bedridden in a government hospital. Secretly located in a normally unreachable and secluded bit of swamp land in the Everglades, he was not well but I could see that my unannounced visit brightened his normally gloomy demeanor.

As I quickly approached his bed in a brightly lit room I spied white-cloaked and gloved physicians swarming around him, injecting his body with sips of the latest miracle drugs, swimming fast here and there like great sharks of the deep instinctively picking at his meatier parts. He saw me and grunted loudly, the sea of hungry doctors frightened off to dark and silent alcoves presumably to return only after my departure.

After a few short pleasantries were shared, multiple tubes and taped hoses ripped from his mouth and tossed to the spotless floor, I realized by the Professor’s apparent condition that I could not dawdle in my quest. The poor old man may have transpired at any second. So, like an anxious school boy, I blurted out the subject outlined above and asked for his immediate reflections on this matter.

He was silent for a moment, only the sounds of a muted rattle in his chest and the various plugged in medical devices echoing in the room, until finally, curiously and almost breathlessly he replied.

“Did you see that Rummy visited Vietnam?” he asked in a raspy voice.

I looked behind me and pulled up a chair. Exhausted from my trip, I sat down beside his bed and told him yes, realizing that I might be there longer than I had suddenly anticipated.

There as I listened to him in that clean room, once again, all the old dirty laundry came flying out of the closet. It was like nothing had changed between us. And the silly subject of Rummy in Vietnam opened the door to all sorts of unpleasant memories.

These were the terrifying stories of personal hardship, difficulty and death from a jungle long ago departed that I had heard time and time again over the years. Here we go, I thought to myself, first it’s all about the French Follies, then here comes the one about Monkey Mountain, next we will get to relive every instant of every rocket attack, and soon, with no remorse, the tears began to flow like they always have.

I couldn’t prevent it. I can’t stop the rain. Neither could this sick old man.

This time, though, this time he wiped off the tears with a vengeful manner and began to name names. Maybe it was the fever, I don’t know, maybe he forgot his own part in the tragedy, but with a sudden deep gurgle he asked loudly, do you want NAMES? I will GIVE them to you, he coughed and spat.

The names came quickly to him and before I could stop him the crew was identified in full. He started with Johnson and Nixon, then spouted on and on about Westmoreland and McNamara. In a foul breath, he declared that the last two in particular had micromanaged the whole affair and didn’t even give us a fighting chance. We could have squashed them all and we should have, he exclaimed.

In a soothing tone, attempting to quiet the now rapidly sounding beeps from his heart monitor, I said there, there, reminding him that McNamara had at least offered some sort of apology.

Apology, the old man spewed. Apology? He rose momentarily from his recline, paraphrasing The Duke, he said apologies are for pale women and should never be offered by real men, lest they indicate a sign of personal weakness. Besides, he said as he laid back down, even Chomsky, that commie bastard, had quickly and rightfully pointed out that the so-called apology was worthless. McNamara merely implied that reasons were good, the strategy in line, while only the tactics were misguided. Bullshit!

So, quietly then, he pointed a trembling thick finger at me then beckoned to the ticking clock on the wall and whispered, fear this unvarnished result, young man! Fear that brave men may have died in vain since it does not bode well for your future. And remember, remember this long after I’m gone, he said, that it’s acceptable and appropriate to forgive, but never, never forget.

With that final admonishment spoken, a tearful goodbye gave way to a long ride home pondering the imponderabilty of his response and the surreal meaning any or all of it may have had towards my original question.

Yeah, it was just like the old days, man.

Then I asked myself, could it be that simple? Could it be that assured brave men, confident in their place of doing the right thing, have actually sacrificed for an unworthy cause? Could we, as a people, spend the next few generations then lying about that reality to ourselves? If so, is that not an indictment of all patriotic excursions, present, past and future, unveiling them as not only tactically improper but strategically incompetent if not completely misguided?

And what does that say about us humans? What is going on around us and how are we responding? Are we really doomed to repeat the same mistakes, owing to the same old misperception of a dual reality constantly? Can we at some point let bygones be bygones? Can we ever be sure of what the hell we’re getting ourselves into? Can’t we get over this delusional hump of our own design? We can forgive, but why do we forget so easily?

No, I thought, there are times when sacrifice matches up correctly with the moral imperative. It’s proven, there are times when we remember our mistakes, times when we choose a better path and the future of world is better for that. Our decisions and our hopes are not always that clear cut or diametrically opposed.

But could these seemingly disparate thoughts sometimes randomly coexist on the same spot at any one point of time in the thick recesses of the guilty heads of a collectively free society? And, alternately, does that prove that a single reality, left alone to duel with its dark brother and sway in the wind of its own devices, could coexist in two different locations at the same time?

I don’t know but I suspect that is possible.

Cheers,

Mb