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Letters of eclectic commentary featuring the wit and wisdom of a garrulous geezer and {Dana}, a persistent hallucination and charming literary device.
"We must believe in free will, we have no choice." -Isaac Bashevis Singer
Dear Gentlereaders,
I read the novel Exodus, by Leon Uris, several years ago. It's about what happened when the UN divided the Palestine region into two countries in 1948.
Note the word region. It wasn't a country at the time; it was a region. It hadn't been a country for nearly 2.000 years, ever since the ancient Romans got tired of the Jews constantly objecting to their homeland being occupied (via failed revolutions) and ordered everyone out of the pool.
In 1948, European Jews, or what was left of them, despite the enthusiastic efforts of various and sundry European countries/leaders to kill them off, were given a region in the region to call their own, as was the local Arab population.
In short order, Israel's neighbors, and not just the ones in the new country next door, but most of their other neighbors, tried to kill them and toss 'em into the Mediterranean. The Jews, having decided that enough was far more than enough, fought back. Against all odds, they won the first of what would be a handful of attempts to drive them out of the neighborhood.
A recurring theme in the book was that while attempting to survive an existential crisis was a bit of a drag, it was kill-or-be-killed, life or death.
No choice.
AI, bots, and robots are now, quite obviously, a thing, and a real big...feckin' deal at that. Despite the potential downsides and the fact that there may be downsides no one has thought of, every country on the planet with the money to do so is racing full speed ahead to claim a piece of the pie.
If the U.S. were to abandon this quest, the Chinese would double down. I can hear Martha Stewart's voice (or an AI version) saying, "That would be a bad thing."
We're fighting Cold War Two, and the Chinese are our very formidable opponents. They would love, at the very least, to impose "Socialism with Chinese characteristics" all over the Eastern Hemisphere.
That is to say, a non-hereditary emperor, lots of modern-day coolies, and a mercantilist version of capitalism.
They'll be happy to rule the Western hemisphere as well if they get the chance. They've been eating our lunch ever since we let them into the World Trade Organization (a future column, stay tuned), and are carefully watching Western Civilization's repeated attempts to kill itself by repeatedly shooting itself in the foot in the meantime.
We have to follow this road to wherever it leads.
No Choice.
2/24/22. Russia invades Ukraine, "...starting the largest and deadliest war in Europe since World War 2," according to Wikipedia.
The Pooteen says it's a "special military operation" to save the citizens of a couple of Russian-speaking provinces where Ukrainian neo-Nazis were committing genocide, killing off Russians. His goal was/is to "demilitarize and denazify Ukraine," so he needed to take over the whole country as a public service.
The Ukrainians have a piece of paper signed by the U.S. and other European nations — including Russia — back in 1994, guaranteeing their security in exchange for handing over the nukes left in Ukraine by the Soviet Union when it collapsed. They apparently didn't read the fine print.
In 2014, the Poteen invaded/annexed a chunk of Ukraine, the Crimean Peninsula. Various and sundry international organizations bitched and moaned and passed sanctions. The Poteen still grasps Crimea in his grubby, bloody little fingers.
This time — with on-again off-again help from America, as well as various European nations, most of whom have been neglecting their militaries in favor of social justice programs for decades — the Ukrainians said, Oh no you don't. We're not rejoining the ranks of Russia's slaves.
No choice.
I hate to write, but I have no choice. Granted, it's hardly an existential problem like the ones above. If I stopped writing, I'd be unlikely to drop dead as a result. However, it's not hard to make the argument that there are worse things than death, not that you can easily convince a fellow H. sapien who disagrees. More on that anon.
{Anonymously? I don't see...}
Anon isn't necessarily an abbreviation for anonymous; in fact, according to my Merriam-Webster, it means soon, or presently. Alternatively, it may also be defined as after a while, or later. It depends on the context.
It's a very handy word that also serves to make me sound like I have more than 39 certified college credits. I stole it from George Will, whose column I've been following for decades. Mr. Will (Doctor Will, thank you very much) is far better educated and far better read than I. Intellectual stolen valor?
{Anyways...}
Anyways, I've written in the past that there's what you do to make a living, your job, and then there's your work. Except for a lucky few, these are not the same thing.
For example, I maintain that being a rabid sports fan of some sort might be your work, that thing that defines you, that thing (beyond mere survival) that gets you out of bed in the morning and reporting to your crappy job... so that you can come home and do your work,
This is the work you choose to do, even though nobody is likely willing to pay you to do it. In fact, it probably costs you money, and definitely time.
{That's not work, it's fun.}
Lots of things are fun.
Your work is that thing you almost have to do to remain sane, Dana. If you don't have such a thing in your life I highly recommend trying to find it. It took me a long time to find my work. It's easy to put off doing so by staying busy, willingly and/or because you have no choice. Once you find it, you'll discover that at the very least, it takes the edge off the fact that if you're like most H. sapiens, you'll spend your life feeling like something is missing.
Update: Since I came to this conclusion and discovered what my work is, I've learned that discovering what my work is, and doing it, ain't necessarily fun. You've been warned. I mentioned above that I hate to write, which is a bit of hyperbole...
{No! Really!}
...But makes a valid point. I love the feeling I get when I release one of my columns into the wild, and I'm proud of my work. Unfortunately, I'm never completely satisfied with it. If I reread it a hundred times, I'd change something a hundred times.
Worse, if I don't do my work, I feel terrible, emotionally/psychologically speaking, despite the fact that I'm fully aware that it's of little to no importance to anyone but me. I'm damned if I do, damned if I don't, and I can't really say why.
Perhaps I picked the wrong work, or I should've stuck with busy and/or fun. Perhaps my work picked me? Is this why H. sapiens with more money than God keep doing their work till they drop dead? No choice?
Now, here's the anon part mentioned earlier. A few years ago, I managed to accidentally upset a perfectly nice fellow person of a certain age in a doctor's waiting room.
We found ourselves to be on the same page in all sorts of ways, including the fact that we were both delighted to be sitting in a waiting area that had chairs that were quite comfortable and high enough off the floor to make it possible for geezers/geezerettes to stand up or sit down with a minimal loss to one's dignity.
I mention the chairs because they're a surprisingly rare phenomenon given the sheer numbers of Boomers still running around, as well as handicapped H. sapiens of all ages. I intend to remedy this situation once I'm the King of America.
I don't remember exactly what we were talking about when I opined that there were worse things than death. Her demeanor changed dramatically, just like that, with a snap of virtual fingers. I was now clearly talking to a different person.
"How do you know?" she barked.
Oops.
Weelll... I explained, I know a bunch of people who died slowly and painfully, and I was of the opinion that if this were happening to me, and I knew I was terminal, I would much prefer to be able to choose a dignified death than linger on, and on, and miserable and/or "out of it" half of the time.
I deliberately didn't mention legalized euthanasia because I'm opposed to it, except for when I'm for it. I suspect I may not be the only one. Also, my personal public policy is to avoid controversial subjects, if at all possible, when speaking to a stranger I'm unlikely to ever encounter again. Why bother?
And that was the end of that conversation.
No choice.
For the record, on a related note, I don't want to die just yet, but if I got to choose the circumstances of my inevitable demise, I think being hit by a small asteroid that was just big enough to vaporize only me, and that I didn't see coming, would be cool. Just puttin' it out there...
Colonel Cranky
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