Now and Then, Why the Present is Very Different from the Past

It has become common to define ourselves as a Knowledge Society, usually in contrast to the Industrial Society. Or before that the Agricultural Society. These are sloppy definitions, for sure, for they immediately beg the question how we can have industry without knowledge or live with knowledge without making stuff, let alone growing food. I suppose the point is, how many of us are engaged in these necessities. Today more people than ever are part of the "creative class", the folks that simply research, study, teach, write or create while a smaller and smaller portion of the population is needed for production or food.

While this is pretty well understood, the focus on these definitions is on the material aspects of society rather than what is going on in us, the people in society, human minds and their thinking.
Outwardly it would seem people grow older on average and they are taller as well, they can run faster and operate complicated stuff with ease, but generally it is assumed that human needs and abilities and the great drivers that makes us tick, remained pretty constant throughout history. Love, competition, aggression, fear, the desire to socialize, get recognition. We assume that caveman was subjected by pretty much those same forces and, indeed, pictures, narratives, books and music suggest as much. While technology changed, the human remained much the same.

What if this is assumption dramatically wrong? What if a medieval farmer who could magically be transported into  our life would not just be hopelessly overwhelmed by our technology and would have no clue what to do with I phones, TV's or cars, he would also be aghast about how women and children live and behave, about the multitude of races, about the pace with which we race through the day? About the fact that so many different things are all considered "right" at the same time, our way of questioning things and allowing new ideas very hour of our lives? Did we ever consider that he, who lived in the middle ages would have lived in a time where things at his birth were exactly the same as things were when he died and then the same again for his children and children's children?

In spite of all the technological progress of the last two hundred years, knowledge about knowledge itself has been slow in coming. We have decoded DNA and know how genes program our bodies but we know very little what ideas are, how knowledge manifests itself or what consciousness is. Of course, these questions have been asked throughout history, typically known as the "meaning of life", yet it is fascinating how much these remain still questions with no answer. We still struggle with the concepts of  the "soul" or the crudely mechanical constructs of the Id, the Ego and the Super-Ego invented by Freud and Jung to explain the forces that form our mind and consciousness. Neurologists are feverishly tracking the electric currents fired off by neurons trying to find what thought and emotions are what or what may make the two different. While we know that society certainly creates common patterns in thinking and emotion we still like to think of ourselves as singularities, one of a kind prototypes, somehow driven by a mix of nurture and nature but also "free will".

While we are conscious of the fact that technological and social change have accelerated, few have a concept for logarithmic or exponential developments and many of us are, in spite of two and a half centuries of enlightenment, still deeply influenced by the cyclical world concepts of eastern philosophy in which things turn in cycles and circles without actual progress. These cyclical philosophies, actually even had a renaissance in recent decades, driven by all those who where frightened by the fast speed in which we moved away from "paradise" and our place in nature. Indeed, critical thought would have to admit that the possibilities created by technology exceed knowledge, morale and ethics, the very foundations and faculties to exert some control. Hippies and tea-partiers are united in their attempt to slow things down. The ones preach unity with nature over progress the other "the America they know and grew up in" over the change they think is brought about by sinister forces.

But nature as our model is tricky. It isn't a paradise and it sure isn't static and also not cyclical. It has entropy and it appears to have a clear arrow of time. It can't be fully symmetrical since matter somehow won out over anti-matter. The universe is getting colder and is expanding in an ever accelerating fashion. This, after all, may be an appropriate analogy for the human condition.

Some philosophers and scientists are trying to apply the methods to explain genes and their reproduction to ideas as well. They call those memes. Memes as societal formations of ideas, patterns that mutate and procreate and hop from person to person and from generation to generation. But while genes are quite slow in their adaptions to the change, memes are exploding just like the universe into wider and wider horizons of knowledge and understanding. This journey into infinity might just have begun. While our imaginary medieval surprise guest would be quite confused in our world, his puzzlement would be nothing compared to the ours if we could see the very world in which our very own children will live when they will be old. The change that will sweep through this century would make us utter strangers in it.

Reference literature: David Deutsch, The Beginning of Infinity, Penguin Books 2011
Brian Greene, The Fabric of the Cosmos

Juror #13

On November 13, after three hours of waiting and being processed in various ways, I stood in Judge Barney’s courtroom on the third floor of the county court house in front of the two prosecutors, the defendant and the two defense lawyers. They all looked me briefly up and down and then both sides agreed:“Acceptable”.

Thus I became juror #13. I took a seat in the jury box.

It was a surprise to me that more than twelve jurors would be selected and that “alternates” were a normal and reasonable occurrence injury selection. I should soon see why. But when I sat down I thought being the spare tire was the worst fate, for I would have to listen to everything while I would not get to deliberate or vote.

Eventually fifteen of us were jammed into the jury box. The judge, the defense and the “State” had taken their places as well, the defendant in his light blue shirt was well in my sight-line. #13 was a good seat for that, also close to the audience where some family seems to sit. The judge,a middle aged black female gave us general instructions, sort of what they had already told us all morning but only now, after actually being selected, were my ears open.

Then she sent us to our jury room where we were released for lunch. We received our phones back which we had just surrendered and could go our merry way, but just for 45 minutes. It seemed so implausible now after we were told to speak to nobody about anything related to this case.  But there I was outside the court house back in the world I knew. This freedom felt already sweet after only the briefest of interruptions.

After this interlude, we freedom and electronic devices alike were locked away while we lined up in the order of our seats to walk collision-free into the courtroom and the jury box, now in full and official function. We learned that “all rise” not only for the judge but for the entering jury as well.

Proceedings started with the opening statements. The defense laid out the case for us from their perspective, trying to explain the complicated events and what we had to expect.  As if to confuse us, the prosecution immediately followed with a very different story.

While the case was still an entirely blank sheet for us, we hungrily took the brush strokes with which the defense painted the picture,after all, this was the first information we received about the case. Right before us unfolded bits and pieces of the type court room drama we know from TV, enacted only for us jurors, it seemed. The attorneys marched up and down the jury box, trying to make eye contact.

The judge had explained that these opening statements were not evidence and should not be considered when we deliberated guilt or innocence.

 It became immediately clear that we had a tough case: Murder and attempted murder in one crime act.State and defense warned us that we would get to see “shady characters” that we would “our daughters not want to go out with”. A statement that I as father of five daughters could easily relate to,even though the State used it for the defendant while the defense characterized witnesses which we had yet to see the same way.

I peered over to the defendant who sat small, and quiet, his head lowered.  Rarely daring a glance sideways to the jury he appeared already somewhat defeated. If one can say such a thing at all, he didn’t look like a murderer. Rather, just sitting there silently,in his slender shape and blue dress shirt, he reminded me of a well connected up and coming Washington developer I had met a few times.

The opening statements quickly conveyed a rough outline of the crime and what had preceded it. Four people who all know each other had gotten together in a car, drove around for a while, left the vehicle in a dark forlorn cul de sac of a yet to be completed subdivision. Shortly afterwards,the only girl in the group is dead, her boyfriend has been shot and left behind for dead, the two others have fled. People who hear the gunshots call police which eventually find the victims. The surviving boyfriend immediately sets police on the track of his friends. Both will be arrested within 24 hours after the shooting.

One of the alleged perpetrators sits in front of us, the other has already had his day in court, although we won’t be told the verdict.The wounded victim has recovered and will be the prosecutions key witness.

Many names and nicknames swirl around in our heads and notes. (All names have been altered). Shacky, the other perpetrator, his real name Bryan McLod. Cornell Hull, the other victim, was also called Coco. Andthen, of course, the defendant, Emrich Altona Smith, now 19 years old and the murder victim Catelyn Dresser, 17 years young when her life was taken. A somewhat interesting detail is that the victim is not only the only female, she is also the only white. At the early stage of this trial, no plausible motive emerges why these four friends would have trained guns on each other. Neither does it appear obvious to us jurors who shot whom or if anybody other than the four occupants of the car may be involved.

Back in my home for the night I realize how close these events were to my life, geographically and because of the age of my children.  Yet, language, culture and circumstances of this world of drugs, gangs and violence were worlds away from my experiences.  Crime can bring it all together, as was not only demonstrated by my presence here in the courtroom but also by the mother of the killed daughter sitting next to the mother of the injured but recovered shooting victim although the killed girl apparently never has had a run-in with the law while CoCo ad just been released from prison at the time of the crime.

 Over the next two days  the prosecution will line up witness after witness and expert after expert to prove that a gun, retrieved in a hiding place, was the murder weapon and that DNA clearly links the defendant to the crime scene. Gang experts explain gang culture to us, the prosecution is trying to distill motives out of that culture. Murder as admission test to a gang, or retribution for going with a girl that a gang leader may have laid claim to. Maybe snitching since the surviving victim had just been released from prison before that hot July night, that brought him into a helicopter and the shock trauma center. It is one of the great revelations from ballistics tests and forensic evidence that two guns were fired at Catelyn and that shots from either one could have killed her. The second weapon never found.

Obviously, the most interesting witness is the shooting victim, Coco. After all, he was clearly there when Catelyn was shot. The defense does what they can to render him not credible, and indeed, some of his statements are contradicting themselves, especially the story about the defendant’s cellphone, whether it was lost (as he says it was in the lonely dark court and caused everybody to get out of the car to search for it) or if it was clearly sitting on the dashboard as he had also testified. It remains murky, why he would have encouraged his girlfriend to get out of the car as he admitted he did. The defense points out that Coco was once again in prison and had a motive to lie so he would be released early. The defense attorneys also pointed out that one of the investigators bought Coco lunch while he transported him to an interview and could have told him the details that CoCo now spits out as his own experience in the case. The defense, in their closing argument, went as far as describing him as one of the shooters, potentially even the murderer. They described in vivid colors a possible shootout between rivaling gangs in which the girl just happened to get caught up.

When four days of arguments, witness testimony and cross examinations had passed, the hard evidence, indeed, allowed a number of scenarios even though it was indisputable that two potentially deadly bullets retrieved from Catelyn’s body came from two different weapons, one from the weapon that had been found. DNA linked all participants to the crime scene or the vehicle. Still no direct evidence was found on the weapon or on the perpetrators that clearly proved who shot whom.

What was the jury to do? Isn’t guilt beyond any reasonable doubt the condition for a guilty verdict as well as the “innocent until proven guilty” maxim that is the hallmark of any real justice system?

By the time closing arguments had wrapped up, the jury consisted of only the necessary twelve members. Already on the morning of the second day two jurors were eliminated due to whatever legal concerns brought forth by either defense or prosecution and I advanced from being substitute juror #13 to actual juror #5. On day three another juror was dismissed, thus even juror #15 was now a regular.

It was Friday evening and the prospect of a reconvening after the weekend became increasingly likely. But the judge sent us into deliberations after reading to us the charges again which included first-degree murder, attempted first-degree murder and two counts of use of a handgun in the commission of a crime of violence. All seemed to hinge around the key question, did the defendant kill Catelyn?

The jury would have been hopelessly stuck, if that, indeed,would have been the main question because it wasn’t even proven that Emrich Smith had fired a weapon at all.

 But, alas, it would be simpler than that. As the judge explained, if two people premeditate murder,both are on the scene and a person is, in fact, killed, it is sufficient to be present and not intervene to be guilty of first degree murder. This is the legal principle of “accomplice liability”. CoCo’s witness testimony that Emrich called out “kill him” when he tried to flee after the first shots rang out would be a key ingredient in establishing that Emrich would not have been just a passive bystander in the commission of the crimes.

It was Friday after 6pm when the jury gathered in the always too hot or too cold jury room with its drafty windows. Finally we were not only allowed but required to discuss the case with each other. To date we had barely talked, afraid to say something non permissible. Our dozen was a diverse group,by age, gender, race and background. Although juror #1 was technically the jury foreperson, she was rather unsure how to go about the deliberation while the youngest, a white male took several successful attempts to guide the deliberations.  As often in cases of severe emotional stress, people need comic relief and there was laughter and banter that felt somehow inappropriate in light of the gravity of the case with one young person’s life already gruesomely ended out and a second now in our hands.

We had learned very little about the defendant. His history was not brought up and he never took the stand. What we knew about him was from tapes of recorded phone calls he had made from prison. Those stood in stark contrast to his appearance; the two hour recordings were throughout a barely understandable foul mouthed rant about a mix of trivia and items possibly relevant to the case. It turned out that a few in the jury had been able to follow those tapes well, but most of us did not comprehend much other than that he was frustrated that his friends didn’t do more to help him out, at least with some phone money. There was no clarity if he had, as the prosecutors maintained, alluded to his gun. His elaborations used code words and extreme street slang that had only been partly decoded by the gang expert from the County police.

Several on the jury wanted to discuss the behavior of the crown witness in order to find out how credible he was. I thought, though, that with the newly learned principle of accomplice liability, that it didn’t matter if CoCo had lied or not. That even if the defense’s scenario would have been true, namely that there was, in fact, a shootout and that the missing second gun may have belonged to him, this would not change the fact that the defendant was in cahoots with the already earlier convicted  Bryan and that they together drove the victims into the cul de sac and that together they assaulted them. Whether two guns were used, one by each of them, or if one of them shot both victims with one gun or possibly with two, is ultimately non material under the accomplice principle.  

An hourly later, we were not anywhere near a consensus. We had spent almost all the time to explain the case and available evidence to one juror who simply hadn’t followed the proceedings with enough care. He kept saying that the case is too grave to rush it and I assume, that secretly every single juror was glad for the added review time, even if we had now run against the time the judge had given for a postponement until Monday. After we sent a message that we may be close, though,  the judge ordered pizza and we got some more time. I can only imagine how high the tension runs in the courtroom where the defendant, his lawyers, the state attorneys, the judge and the families wait for the verdict. Back in the jury room we finally determined that we all felt comfortable being asked the big question. Do we find the defendant guilty of premeditated murder or not.  Twelve times the answer was: Guilty. That eliminated the also possible second degree murder charge and made the weapon charges basically inevitable.

It was after eight on that Friday evening, when we marched back into the court room and took our seats in the jury box for the last act:To listen to our forewoman how she responded to each of the three judge’s questions with a low voice “guilty” and then confirm that she had spoken for all of us. 

Catelyn’s mother cried. The defendant did not show any emotion, the young state attorneys looked pleased with themselves, the defense lawyers less so.

Leaving the courthouse into the cold crisp evening, free to go wherever I pleased, I thought of the young defendant who was heading back to prison, whatever hope he might have had for a release, completely dashed. One more young black male in prison, for a very long time. I did not feel accomplished, neither as juror #13 nor as #5.

The experience haunted me for days. I went on the internet and tried to find whatever news that had been published about this case which somehow had kept a pretty low profile in the media both when the crime happened and also now, during the trial. I found that Emrich Smith and his father had been mentioned in the local paper when he was only four years old in a little story about his father moving his hair cutting business outside on Monument Street so he could keep an eye on his son.

It was only at the sentencing hearing that I learned more about Elrich. Almost three months had passed since the trial, Christmas had been celebrated,  a brand new year had begun when I settled back in the same courtroom where time seemed to have stood still. Emrich was the only one who had changed, he had gained weight so it seemed to me. Maybe it was only that he wore two T shirts on top of each other instead of the blue dress shirt. Defense and State attorneys looked like they never had left the courtroom at all, each one of them wore the exact same clothes, hairstyles and facial expressions as back in November and Catelyn’sfamily members sat in the same places as in November.

As at the trial, the defense got to talk first with a somewhat impassioned but not very well performed plea for mercy. I learned that Elrich had been born to a drug addict and had drugs in his blood at birth. That his parents didn’t care for him and he lived with an ant. Then at 4, as I had found out already, he lived with his father; but it was only for one year. When he was nine the mother tried to be a parent but didn’t last any longer than the father and then left her son once more. Thus, Emrich had jumped from place to place all his young life. The mother’swhereabouts were unknown today, the defense lawyer pointed out and that neither parent ever contacted court or defense during the entire time between the crime and now. We learned that Emrich had his first contact with the Department for Juvenile Services at the age of 12. "Emrich never had a chance. Temper justice with mercy" pleaded the defense in closing. Naturally the State prosecutors didn’t see it that way, they presented the young man as one thatcouldn’t be reformed, that had been accused of robbery, arson, assault and violation of probation even before Catelyn died. As a son whose father was on record as having said on occasion of the arson case: "Emrich has a demon in him". That even now in prison he is alleged to have associations with BGF (black gorilla family) gang  and was involved with assault. That he had tested positive for a certain drug even during the trial. "He is beyond rehabilitation". 

The prosecution called on Catelyn’s father who appeared with his “lady friend” and then the mother for testimony on the emotional harm their daughter’s death had inflicted on them.  Finally, the defendant got one more chance to address the court. He did not use it.

The verdict came swiftly. The judge pointed out that it was impossible to undo what had been done or do now what should have been done then. Then she read her sentences: Life without parole and 20 years each for the each of the firearm and assault charges. The defense noted that they will appeal.

Handcuffs clicked around both of Emrich’s wrists. Then he was guided out of the courtroom, I detected what looked like defiance in his eyes. He would not agree that justice had been served here or anywhere in his life. Catelyn’s mother and father went their separate ways: Parents who lost a child. They will never find closure.

As the judge said, it isn’t for the justice system to fix the past. But true justice cannot exist, if the society continues to fail so many children.

Optimistic Predictions. Liam 2080

In 2080 when Liam will have to celebrate his 83^rd birthday he will be still younger than my father is today. When my father was born in 1923 his father tended the field with horses. Tractors, cars, radios, telephones were invented but just began to become common goods. Europe had just finished a horrible war and although everybody had resolved that no such war should ever occur again, the second world war was only 16 years away.

When Liam will be great grandfather, what will the world look like then? It is common knowledge that the rate of change accelerates almost exponentially, predictions over 79 years seem a very bold and presumptuous undertaking. But watching Liam keeping a close eyes on his cars and trucks while he eats breakfast, I couldn’t resist to wonder, if there still will be cars and buses in 2080.

So here we go:

In 2080 the world will finally have transformed entirely to renewable energies, mostly solar. But energy also comes from transformations of waste, foremost human waste. Except for the big cities people live off the grid and create electricity from hydrogen cells which are fueled by the sun. There will be 18 billion people populating the earth, almost 2.5 times what it was when Liam was born. There is little hunger but water had first become a precious commodity before desalination was used so widespread that the water crisis had been overcome.

Nobody seems to eat animals anymore; killing animals for food or even raising animals for food seems barbaric now. Meat like processed food is generated with cell cultures and genetic engineering. Most countries have dissolved and instead large metropolitan conglomerations are governed on their own not so much by parliaments, kings, presidents or mayors but by task forces, councils and numerous ad-hoc assemblies of people that solve a problem and the dissolve. There are few elections but many procedures to vote issues up and down on an almost daily basis.

Most people live in large metro areas but good transportation has become less important since many products can be produced locally or even on the premises with 3D printing, genetic cultures and virtual depictions of faraway places and experiences. Places and people can be encountered as holographic images including touch and smell sensations making distant travel an exotic undertaking for the privileged or very adventurous. There is still fascination with mobility, for sure and car like vehicles are still sought after. They are propelled with solar fuel cells and small electric motors directly in the wheels or small air jets. However, control of these vehicles is almost entirely coordinated by electronic systems that couple individual trips to a kind of train with very high speeds, the orchestration of the movements follows the principles of emergence which is now very well understood and has substituted all mechanical and linear thinking and science. The uncertainty principle just discovered after my father had been born has become the modus operandi of all science, multiverses have been proven to exist and it is generally assumed that universes expand, then contract and then expand again in an endless cycle. Many problems are analysed in far more than four dimensions and each child can understand the idea of nested dimensions and the holographic principle.

Along with these scientific changes religion underwent substantial transformation from teleological and theocratic models to an adoration of phase changes, transformations and emergence, a kind of natural religion in which science and religion are very close and not at odds.

Medicine has entirely changed from the plumbing and cutting approach of the 19^th and 20^th century to one of programming and renewal. Any damaged tissue can be grown back in any part of the body except the brain, but here progress is on the horizon as well. Most babies are not naturally conceived nor are they born by mothers. Women became fully equal to men by having the gestation occur in devices that allow interaction with the growing fetus almost as well as in the woman’s body, except the interaction is now available also to men. The main reason for this development had been less the liberation aspect as more the fact that the heads of the newborns had become larger and larger until birth has become too risky for too many women.  There are always new diseases appearing that have not found a counter program yet, but generally embryos will be genetically coded so that they are immunized against all known defects and with the most desirable features that parents like to see. Worldwide a hybrid race of part Asian, part Indian part African has been most popular, medium dark skin, brown or blue eyes, smooth dark hair. Humans can direct all kinds of devices and tools with their brainwaves without lifting a finger. The attempt to run computers this way as well failed since the humans seem to never be able to concentrate long enough to exact complicated commands via brainwaves, only short and simple ones. But in the reverse, computers can instill brainwaves and initiate direct action this way. Humans seem to be omniscient this way since they have full access to almost all available data in their thought processes to a point that one would be hard-pressed to tell the difference between human and device intelligence. Still, there are huge differences how adept people are with their tools and differences in intelligence and success are still as noticeable as ever.

People still die of old age in spite of all attempts to prolong life. Somehow the average life expectancy stalled out around the age of 90 and seems to be stuck there, no matter all scientific progress.

The division of life into childhood, adolescence, adulthood, of learning, working, retirement has entirely been transformed into a continuum of work, research, learning and enjoyment that begins as young as 10 and ends often only near death.  Very young people often have the best ideas and are fully integrated into the cycle of life including decision making and production of things. Little time is spent on basic sustenance, most issues and problems pertain to organizational matters. Almost everybody enjoys and practices the arts, creative writing and various forms of music. The materialism of the early 21^st century seems very uneducated now and so does the simple pursuit of money. In fact, real money is absent from daily life and even in virtual form it is  rarely used. Instead there is a virtual bartering system in which desirable items are directly obtained as payment.

The creation of alternative realities out of whole cloth in which an individual can readily transpose him or herself is a favorite pastime and reduces the need for travel which is limited to the well to do and the privileged because it is difficult to obtain the necessary mobility tickets for the surface or the air passages, even though large airships transport up to 1000 people at a time in nuclear propelled air vehicles that travel in higher altitudes utilizing gravitational forces once they have reached travel altitudes.

The earth climate had shifted drastically and what appeared to be apocalyptic around the time when Liam was 25 years old. The gulf stream had suddenly tipped and whole climate zones abruptly shifted with terrible flooding in some areas, aridity and freezing conditions in others that had just gotten used to mild climates. But then engineers received the green light to use methods to capture large amounts of carbon and other greenhouse gases in huge ocean algae sinks and a series of large underground graviton accelerations that shifted the earth axis slightly. Thus the climate was finally corrected and now almost resembles conditions in the 18^th century before the industrial revolution.

Due to the failure of making devices write directly from men’s thoughts (due to the lack of concentration already mentioned) pens like the old fashioned pencils became again the standard mode of writing. Just that there is no need for paper and that the pens can complete words and sentences as soon as the writer has established some key words and store the entire message instantly in whatever places are designated including communication receivers in far away places even as far away as Mars where several colonies have been erected for those who are bored by living on earth.

And as so often before, history seems to repeat itself. On Mars unfettered materialism is reported to have led to degradation of the environment and human settlements push ever further west on that planet.

 Liam looks out of the 60^th floor of his New York apartment. Sheer nostalgia brought him back to the place of his childhood. The East River glimmers in the red glow of the sinking sun. The bio-mimicry skin of the building will soon turn the transparent windows into a solid for the night for better insulation. He looks at his wife who is already asleep. Sleep and love are still the two best things in life, even in 2080.

(Initially written on March 15, 2011, slightly modified on 12/8/11)

Philip Andrew Duff. Life's Fragility.

3.12.2012	12-3-11
Das Auto als tödliche Falle, das musste Jasons Famile erleben, als Jasons Bruder Jeremy nicht mal einen Kilometer vom Elternhaus gegen einen Baum raste und aus dreiwöchigem Koma nicht mehr erwachte. Und das muss nun die Frau von Naynas verstorbenem Bruder Geoffrey erleben. Die Zwillinge, Phillip und John, deren   Vater an Herzversagen starb als sie noch ganz klein waren, und die nun beide stattliche und erfolgreiche junge Studenten sind, waren mit dem Auto unterwegs, John auf dem Beifahrersitz. Auf regennasser Straße verlor Philip die Kontrolle, kam auf die Gegenfahrbahn und prallte auf ein entgegenkommendes Fahrzeug. Nun liegt er schon seit über zwei Wochen auf der Intensivstation und wird künstlich beatmet. Er ist noch immer nicht zu sich gekommen. Nachdem alle betäubenden Medikamente abgesetzt wurden, hat er zwar die Augen geöffnet und wendet sich dem Licht zu, aber Augenkontakt, sprechen, Bewegung oder andere Reaktionen sind nicht möglich.	The car as death trap, an experience Jason’s family had to live through after Jason’s brother Jeremy crashed against a tree only a short distance from his home. He didn’t wake from a three week coma. And now the wife of Nayna’s late brother Geoffrey has to experience this very worst nightmare of a parent as well. Her twins Phillip and John, Philip at the wheel, John in the passenger seat, travelled on Lexington's outer bypass ManO’War   Boulevard. The road was wet and Phillip lost control and veered into   oncoming traffic. While John could get out and call 911 his brother was unconscious and trapped in the car. He has not woken since. He is still in the ICU with all kinds of tubes and a respirator. Even after all sedatives were eliminated, he cannot do much more than open his eyes and turn his head towards the light. Eye contact or any other reaction remain elusive.
Da liegt nun ein sportlicher, intelligenter junger Mann, mitten aus seinem Leben gerissen, und alles was ihn zu einer Person macht, fehlt. Einundzwanzig Jahre Zuwendung, Fürsorge und Entwicklung, alles dahin innerhalb von ein paar Sekunden. Das Wissen um diesen Unfall hat sich lähmend in unser Haus eingeschlichen, selbst wenn der Neffe entfernt von uns in Lexington aufwuchs und relativ wenig Kontakt mit uns hatte. Die Gedanken können sich dieser Tragödie nicht entziehen, haben wir doch selber sechs Kinder.   Diese Unsinnigkeit, die auch soviel über die menschliche Bedingtheit aussagt.  Die Zerbrechlichkeit, Verletzlichkeit und die Vernetzung, die den Rest so unnütz macht wenn der Kopf nicht mehr funktioniert. Philips Familie ist sehr christlich religiös und betet viel, aber Gott hat bisher nichts gehört und was man nun schon als ein Wunder betrachten muss, eine Art von Heilung, es ist noch nicht geschehen. Dann, wie die Hand vom heissen Pfannengriff, schrecken die Gedanken zurück, es ist undenkbar sich in die Trauer der Mutter hereinzuversetzen, die nun erneut vom Schicksal geschlagen wurde. Der ältere Bruder Steven hat sich ein Haus gekauft in Lexington. Heute ist seine Einweihungsfeier. Die wird stattfinden, Nayna ist dort und wird auch daran teilnehmen. Das Leben geht unaufhaltsam weiter, auch dies erscheint undenkbar, und ist doch so unabwendbar.	In the ICU one can see a fit and good looking young man in his best years who was an academic and athletic star up to the second that took everything away that made him a person. Twenty one years of care, affection, raring and development, all gone. The knowledge of this situation has creeped into our house like a dark cloud, no matter the distance and the fact that we had only occasional contact. For parents of six this tragedy is close to home. For humans it sheds a glaring light on our fragility and vulnerability, the whole human condition. A  robust body that is useless if the head doesn’t function well. Philip’s family is very religious and there is much praying. But God did not listen yet and any kind of healing would have to be a miracle at this point. Yet, like hands from a hot skillet do our thoughts shy away. Unthinkable is the morning of the mother, struck once again by cruel fate. Steven, Philip’s older brother recently bought his first house. Today is the house warming party. It will take place. Nayna drove to Lexington and will be there for it. Life keeps going, this, too seems unthinkable yet it is unavoidable.
Wie ich ja selber weiss, im Auge des Sturms ist es seltsam ruhig. Trotz der Turbulenz in unmittelbarer Sichtweite, trotz der unendlich vielen Dinge, die getan werden müssen, trotz ders Alltags, der wie auf einem Bildschirm weiter abläuft. Die unmittelbar Betroffenen sind weitgehend ausgeklinkt, betäubt reihen sie sich  von Zeit zu Zeit als Akteure wieder ein, sich mitbewegend als ob nichts geschehen sei. Auf der Fahrt vom Krankenhaus nach Hause zum Beispiel, inmitten der anderen, die nichts wissen. Aber diese Augenblicke sind kurz, denn schon zu Hause angekommen, ist die klaffende Lücke unübersehbar, die Erschöpfung unleugbar und ein paar Stunden Schlaf sind die einzige Flucht und Rettung. Der winzige Funken Hoffnung erlaubt es den neuen Tag zu beginnen, bis Gewissheit einsetzt. Doch soweit ist es noch nicht, und so bleibt uns nichts als weiter zu hoffen.	As I know from my own experience, it is strangely quiet in the eye of the storm. In spite of the frantic activities which are in clear view. The people directly affected are numb, only occasionally hooked into life that otherwise appears distant like on a TV screen. Only for short moments can they pretend things are normal, like on the drive home from the hospital among all the anonymous people who don’t know. But those moments are short, already upon arrival at home is the gap once again overwhelming, so is the fatigue and a few hours of sleep are the only possible refuge. And the small glimmer of hope fuels another day. Until there is the unwanted certainty. But that day has not come yet and so we all keep hoping.
Philip Andrew Duff.. Geboren am 3.Juli  1990. Verunglückt am 15. November 2011.	Philip Andrew Duff, born 7/3/1990. Crashed on 11/15/2011

  

Man and Nature

If a well nurtured and protected citizen of the East Coast of the United States of America experiences an earthquake and a hurricane in one week, it is time to ponder some bigger questions, such as the relationship of “man” and nature.

·         The universe is supposedly 13.75 billion years old

·         The earth is only about 4.5 billion years old.

·         Humans are 2.5 million years around and in their current edition only 200,000 years

Only in the last 50 years or so are we talking about nature being threatened by humans. Before it was always humans threatened by nature. So when we consider our relationship to nature and our desire to conquer rather than nurture, we better keep in mind how deeply ingrained our instinct is to see nature as a threat. Of course, one might object that different cultures had quite different approaches to nature and that the conquest notion is occidental and Christian in particular. True, but this western view unfortunately holds sway over most of the world now.

So when nature comes through and rattles your burg, your nerves get rattled quite a bit. The whole place shaking? Didn’t I just hear a rumbling. Too? Everybody is out of their seats in an instant, staring at each other in disbelief the brain quickly scanning through all available and plausible options that might have caused everything to rattle like this. The thoughts were still tumbling through the frontal lobe when the senses picked up on that rumbling noise and more and stronger shaking. Now the brain shifted and activated flight response: Sequences of nerve cell firings and release of chemicals like adrenaline, noradrenaline and cortisol into our bloodstream. Our bodies underwent a series of very dramatic changes. We breathed faster, our blood was shunted away from our digestive tracts and directed into our muscles and limbs for running. Our pupils dilated. Our awareness intensified. Our sight sharpened. My employees saw the fire escape I saw the interior stairway as the best flightpath. When we met out in the street and all was calm, we felt stupid.

Within seconds we green people who want to protect nature from human damage turned into fleeing mammals who were terrified by nature. And then, not quite as fast, we calmed down and checked out humanities greatest accomplishment, the internet to find out what happened. Alarmingly, the quickest and most comprehensive confirmation that, indeed, we had just experienced a 5.8 Richter scale earthquake came from the good old office radio and not from the computer.

Very few would say that an earthquake is the result of human action (except some Christian fundamentalists who see it as god’s penalty for specific sins). For the immediately following calamity, the hurricane deceivingly peacefully named Irene, this could not be said. Many speculated about how these type storms get more frequent, stronger and larger because of global warming. Yet, when the rain pours like from buckets and the winds blow over longstanding trees, the sense of powerlessness is here yet again. Nature out there, still a threat. While the tremors underfoot challenge deeply ingrained notions of the terra firma and stir up quite deep seated fears, the darkness from power outage and the floods following the rains still threaten our sense of security and our expectation of control and predictability.

A week later the last power lines got reconnected and our sense of “can do” is heightened again while we cut up the remaining fallen trees. Left is a tangle of feelings about nature, the 21^st century confusion between awe, condescendence and impotence. From it, one might hope, eventually arises an adequate response that combines both the urgency for prot

Dancing on the Volcano

If the good people downstream from the Mississippi Morganza spillway who had been evacuated to see their farms and small towns being sacrificed for the safety of the big cities Baton Rouge and New Orleans, if those Louisiana citizens would take refuge in the Big Easy they would have been quite surprised. Here in "Nawlins" it was party time as usual. The red old time trolley operating 9' or so below the waterline is jammed, a freight train winds its way through downtown blowing its horn and the  architects of the AIA convention worry about their continuing credits and hurry from seminar to seminar in the cavernous convention center right alongside the mighty river.    

The barkers bark on Bourbon street, the girls wiggle their assets, a small marching band followed by party revelers squeeze through the gawking masses. Barges ply downstream a lot faster than upstream and the ferry crosses to Algiers a bit more loopy to account for the brown cross-current rich with timber flotsam poking out of the swift waters here and there. In Algiers long time resident Jack, 75 like some of his neighbors  surveying the river on top of the levy looking down on the flooded assembly of shacks and picnic benches in front of the levy which constitute in dryer times some sort of village exhibit. A sign still claims it to be "open". 

Still, even here where Katrina has flooded the historic small wood houses, as Jack reminisces, apparently glad to find in me somebody who listened to him with some level of attention most residents just tend their yard, talk in their beautiful porches or get a late cup of Joe in the local cafe. The yuppified firmer country store is now wifi enabled and tends to hippies and Yuppies and some folks who come here because there isn't much else to go to. It is 11am when the pub is just starting to air out the stale air from last night. The sky is bright blue, a stiff northerly breeze keeps the usual Gulf moisture away and makes New Orleans crisply feel rather like Portland, Maine. 

The spillway evacuee turning tourist would find that his fellow citizens, New Orleans and  tourist from around the world conduct business as usual, distracted neither by concern nor compassion. 

Maybe he be best visit the Casino at the foot of Poytras Street, 200 from the river but without a view and try his luck against his better knowledge. He would likely lose again, but at least he would have a chance. Upstream his home and land get slowly swallowed by waters that the Corps of Engineers very deliberately directed there so that New Orleans can escape another catastrophe.

 The Mississippi leaking out to Lake Pontchartrain

 Flooding in Algiers

 Partying on Canal Street

Lake Pontchartrain is muddied by the sediment rich river waters spilling into it from the mighty river.

In My Father’s Armchair

(4/17/11)

When on a gray February morning a truck with a 20’ shipping container backed up at Paul Klee Strasse 21 in Heidenheim it was not yet clear that the brown leather armchair with its narrow hardwood legs would make it on to the truck. Neither the armchair with the small hint of “ears” nor the compendium loveseat sofa had the yellow stickers on them that Bodo, Dirk and I had applied to furniture earlier in January when we had set out together to check on the inventory and get the family house ready for sale. Yellow stickers meant pick-up by Hasenkamp, the Shipper Dirk had found on the Internet who had proven to be a lot cheaper than the local Hartmann mover who’s company logo is still adorning one of the model trucks I had already taken from my parent’s attic at a much earlier time.

I sat in the back of Dirk and Wesley’s rented Mercedes on the way to Heidenheim. There we met Bodo who came separately with Waltraud so they could also visit her parents. Bodo still has his other Heidenheim connection. Mine has much diminished with Opa Karl barely being at his house anymore, Inge’s grave abandoned and Babette dead. This trip was, in fact, almost like the nail in the coffin. The three brothers gathering around a table for a quick lunch in the Niko the Greek’s urban restaurant next to City Hall. The city seemed dull and an outpost. Was this our minds playing tricks on us to make it easier to lose this adopted hometown as a destination port? Or a realistic comparison with the vibrant Stuttgart or the medieval half timbered cuteness of Herrenberg?   

Pulling up Paul Klee Strasse between the concrete garage boxes and dirty snow piles one last time in front of the white bungalow with the pine trim and the dark weathered concrete roof tiles the feeling of good riddance got even stronger. We still had the key that has fit the front door since the house was originally built and finished in 1971, just when I had left for college. Now it was rather cold inside and in the state of half abandonment. There was still plenty of furniture for sure, but already nobody had lived there for almost two months. Christmas and New Year had passed without a single light going on or off inside, without any bed being warmed by family. We kept ourselves busy with shipping logistics and cataloging what should go where. This way emotions couldn’t  creep in too much among the three of us, each unsure who would be most attached to this place and each in the Philipsen manner ready to fight off these sentiments in favor of  some better future.  As the father had expressed it when he had stood with Bodo in the attic in front of TV cameras for this TV documentary about old people moving into assisted living. He battled emotion one could see it when his eyes turned stern and he pronounced that it was necessary to look forward. This is what we kids had learned from him and that is what we employed here in January and before we had seen the documentary. His words and views were long burnt into our brains, we didn’t need TV to remind us.

Now in March and thousands of miles further west, the season still rather cool and wintery, I sit in his armchair in front of the wood stove with its comforting flames flickering and heating our Blacksburg cabin. I had taken the cardboard box from our monthly storage facility and pushed into the back of the station wagon. It was the first item to be freed from its wrapping. This one piece transformed the rustic simplicity of cabin and added elegance where there had been only plainness. Added the somewhat uncertain English den style that he had selected for the room sometime after it had completed its service as guestroom and had become his study, his refuge. Squarish and simple in its lines but with the unpretentious, conservative elegance that comes with a price and from careful craftsmanship and careful material selection. Nothing I would have chosen for my study and even less for the cabin. But now fate had brought it here because the shipping container had still space left after all stickered items had been loaded. The B list got a chance.

 Now, sitting in it and trying to find a comfortable position in it’s not so ergonomic shape I feel that these items from the added items list might have been maybe the most important ones, the ones from his refuge away his wife’s relentless television. This chair was where he sat and read his magazines, his newspapers and books. I felt satisfaction and accomplishment to have brought it here at considerable cost and up the cabin steps even with some physical exertion.

But I also feel guilty of sitting in this chair, having pilfered it and taken it from an abandoned house that seemed like it was waiting for the return of his owners. And I felt a foreshadowing of the time when I wouldn’t have my father anymore but just his chair. This mixture of accomplishment,  guilt, obligation and some sadness is well known to the son for most of his life.