An Experiment in the Irrational

An Experiment in the Irrational

Image from http://www.pebblecreations.com/

When I was a kid, I had a problem with patches of itchy skin on my hands and arms. No matter how fastidiously clean I was, no matter how hard I scrubbed, and no matter how many medicines and creams and remedies I tried, I could not get rid of them. It wasn't a life-threatening situation – or even a life-challenging one – but they were ugly and annoying. And they would not go away.

One day, I happened to overhear three old Italian women, neighbors of ours, trading stories of Gypsy fortune-tellers they had consulted. I listened to the predictions that the fortune-tellers had made with disdain: I was only about nine or ten at the time, but even I could have come up with such generic, bound-to-come-true prophecies as these.

Then, one of the old Italian women started to relate a method for getting rid of skin problems that her Gypsy fortune-teller had told her. She had my instant attention. She related the whole method step by step and, when she had finished, the other old Italian women all nodded in agreement. Yes, they concurred, that's how you get rid of them, all right.

I had paid keen attention to the entire method, and it seemed the most ridiculous nonsense I'd ever heard. Even dressed up in scientific language, it's absurd. Step one was mathematical: Count the number of itchy patches you have. Step two was geological: Find the same number of pebbles. Step three was aesthetic: Get a small pretty box and put the pebbles in it. Step four was geographical: Put the box someplace where someone will find it and open it.

Apparently, the theory behind this procedure was that the pebbles represented your skin problems. When someone took and opened the box, they took away your skin problems, too.

Let me be perfectly clear at this point. I did not believe that performing these steps could possibly cure my itchy patches, not after all of the reasonable things that I'd tried that had been unsuccessful. But I was desperate. I would do it, even though I had zero confidence in the method. I had nothing to lose but my itchy patches.

First, I counted them. There were five, which surprised me. Considering the misery and annoyance they caused me, I would have put the figure closer to a hundred.

Next, I selected five pebbles with great care. Two were pure white quartz, with sparkly facets. One was a perfectly matte-smooth grey flint. One was pink. And the fifth was some kind of striped sedimentary rock. Each one was about the size of a lima bean.

Then I found a small candy box covered in shiny gold foil, and put the pebbles inside. It was the kind of box that someone might open out of curiosity.

The location I chose for the box was on the sidewalk near a small variety store a few blocks from my house. I wanted a place that I didn't go to very often, so I wouldn't constantly be checking to see if someone had taken the box yet. I didn't place the box in the middle of the sidewalk, but off to the side, so no one would step on it accidentally. Still, it was perfectly visible, so that someone might see it, walk over to it, and pick it up.

I left it there and walked away, feeling a little foolish to have done something so ridiculous.

My itchy patches were gone in a week.

I was stunned. I'd had no expectation whatsoever that this would work. To me, it had been just one more ineffective idea to get out of the way. I was certainly surprised and relieved that they were gone, but puzzled also. Why had this worked?

Thinking back on this episode, there were only three possible explanations, of which I totally rejected two.

First, it could have been pure coincidence. In other words, my itchy patches were about to go away on their own anyway, and I just happened to perform these actions at about the same time. What I did had nothing whatsoever to do with their leaving. I might just as well have played the zither or stood on my head: the result would have been the same.

I didn't believe this. These things had shown no sign that they were on their way out. On the contrary, they had resisted every reasonable treatment I had tried and, if anything, were spreading further and getting uglier. I couldn't believe that they were suddenly passing away, and that it had nothing to do with what I had done.

Second, it could have been magic, whatever that is. This had been the implication of the three old Italian women. Putting those pebbles into that box was some kind of spell that magically connected my itchy patches to the pebbles. When the magic pebbles left my possession, so did the itchy patches. It was some kind of symbolic transaction.

Sorry, but no. I certainly got the symbolism of the five pebbles, but that's all it was. There was no magical connection between the two, no arcane link that joined the existence of one with the other. The pebbles did not magically represent the itchy patches on some mystical balance sheet, so that losing one set meant losing the other.

But eliminating those two explanations leaves only the third: Something Else. I don’t know the details of this Something Else, but I have some hints about its shape, its limits, and what it must involve.

For example, it must involve my own body – because that’s where the effect was – and it might involve my own mind – because that’s what conceived and carried out the actions. It’s interesting to speculate on whether the same result would have occurred if my mind hadn’t been involved; in other words, if someone else had carried out these steps on my behalf, but without my knowledge. Of course, for all I know, this is actually occurring all the time. If so, thank you, unknown benefactor!

In addition, the Something Else might also involve the box with the pebbles. Are they really necessary for the process? Could you simply imagine doing these steps, and not actually do them, and still get the same results?

Finally, the Something Else might involve another person. Someone might or might not have picked up that box and opened it. If they did, their involvement might be an essential part of the method. Or it might not be. Or maybe nobody touched the box at all.

Here’s one possibility for how the Something Else works. My mind, at some level, understands the symbolism of the pebbles, and directs the body to heal, and the body does: it heals itself. This is a remarkable thing, but it’s consistent with “psychosomatic” (literally, “mind-body”) situations, where the state of the mind affects the state of the body. However, if this is what’s happening, why was this pebble-in-the-box method effective, but my fervent wishes to be rid of the itchy patches were not? Could it be the difference between my conscious mind wishing and my non-conscious mind believing?

This possible explanation of Something Else is attractive, because it only involves me: my mind and my body. In this explanation, the box and the pebbles are only props to fool the non-conscious mind. The hypothetical other person opening the box is not necessary at all.

Here’s another possible explanation of Something Else: something—I don’t know what—is actually transferred to the pebbles during this process. My mind knows that this transfer has taken place, and my body feels it. As to what the something is, the usual suspects would include some kind of biochemical material, an electromagnetic field, or some quantum state.

The nice thing about this possible explanation is that it offers the possibility of testing to measure if anything has actually been transferred. However, in this explanation, too, the body heals itself.

There are other more complicated possible explanations, but they all seem to be combinations of these two.

Now, in both possible explanations, the body actually heals itself. Nothing external or medical happens to cure the body. At first, this seems strange, but it’s actually quite plausible. After all, human beings survived for millions of years before the discovery of medical cures, presumably overcoming countless plagues, injuries, and other challenges. The healing power of the human body must be prodigious.

Which brings us to the main point of this particular column. This ability to heal ourselves is a super power in real life. We don’t know how to do it. We don’t know how to control it. But we seem to have this ability, somehow. And it can be amazing.

But this raises an annoying question: if the body can heal itself so well, why doesn’t it? If my body could heal all along, why didn’t it? Does it require some kind of incentive to do this healing? If so, why? And how can we invoke this incentive more deliberately?

These are all intriguing possibilities, some of which might actually have great value and significance. However, it’s also intriguing to consider what led us to even contemplate these possibilities, namely, doing something totally irrational and nonsensical: trying to cure itchy patches with pebbles in a box. If I had behaved rationally and sensibly, I would never have performed those steps, never experienced the total surprise at their outcome, and never thought about the actual mechanisms that made this possible. And, maybe, never gotten rid of those itchy patches.

This kind of irrational and nonsensical behavior is important. If people never tried something as ridiculous as chewing willow bark to cure a headache, they would never have discovered aspirin. If Darwin had never had the foolish desire to sail halfway around the world to study birds and iguanas, he would never have formulated his ideas of how life changes. If Einstein had never had the absurd idea of riding on a beam of light, he would never have created his theories of relativity.

So, paradoxically, it might actually require irrational and nonsensical acts to lead us to the scientific insights that we regard as rational and sensible, and thus to the knowledge we value so highly. To try something new, something that has no logical basis for working according to what we know so far, might be essential for discovery. It's very odd, but this strange and self-contradictory method of gaining knowledge seems to work.

And it’s satisfying. Kind of like scratching an itch.

Real-Life Super Powers: Lightning Lad

Lightning is a powerful natural phenomenon. A bolt of lightning can carry 120,000 amps of current—and it only takes 1/10^th of an amp to kill a person.

The chance of a person in the US being struck by lightning in a year is estimated at about 1 in 960,000—literally, one in a million. Of those struck by lightning, about 90 percent survive.

What would you think about a person who was struck by lightning, and who survived? Well, first of all, unlucky to have been struck, but lucky to have survived.

But what would you think about a person who had been struck by lightning twice? That’s a one in a trillion possibility. It’s far more likely to win Powerball than to be struck by lightning twice. So, what would you think? Really unlucky, right? And, if they survived, really lucky, right?

How about a person who was struck by lightning three times? In other words, this one-in-a-million possibility occurred to this person three times already, a one in quintillion chance. Would you start to think that maybe this person might have something strange going on with them? Some odd affinity for lightning? Some bizarre attraction for lightning? And if they survived all three lightning strikes, would you say that this, too, was pretty remarkable? That this person was pretty special in some way?

What if they were struck—and survived—four times?

How about five times?

Or six?

Seven?

A man named Roy Sullivan was struck by lightning seven times during a 35-year period, and survived every strike. His worst injuries were burns.

Admittedly, he worked as a park ranger, which would put him outdoors a lot. But there are many people who work outside all their lives who are never struck by lightning even once, never mind seven times. Also, Sullivan was not outside in the park for several of the strikes. Once, he was driving a truck. Once, he was in his own front yard.

I wouldn’t want to describe this poor man’s terrible experiences as a super power. But it certainly seems like some kind of an ability, or, rather, a pair of abilities, possibly related to each other: the ability to attract lightning, and the ability to survive it.

This extreme example also suggests that people in general have more going on with them than they might think. That the human body is capable of more than we might suppose.

Enough to attract—and survive—lightning.

What Makes Superman Super?

What Makes Superman Super?

Superman has many amazing powers. He can fly. He has super strength. He is invulnerable to the kinds of things that hurt you and me. He can even see through walls. But what makes Superman super?

I have studied the writings, and I know the answer from the comics. Superman was originally from the planet Krypton, which orbited a red sun. When he came to Earth and its yellow sun, he acquired his astonishing abilities.

That answer is true, but it’s not the whole story. Recently, I realized what it is that really makes Superman super: no one else on Earth can do what he can do. In other words, it's not so much what Superman is able to do, but what he is able to do compared to the rest of us.

For example, what if Superman had arrived on the imaginary planet Super-Earth instead? Things might have been very different for him. On Super-Earth, everyone flies, has super strength and invulnerability, and is able to see through walls. On Super-Earth, Superman wouldn't be anybody special, just an ordinary guy, no different from anyone else. In fact, he might actually be inferior to some of the super-folks on Super-Earth.

And, if he had landed on the even more imaginary planet of Super-Duper-Earth, he’d be even worse off. On Super-Duper-Earth, people can super-duper-fly, and have super-duper strength and invulnerability and vision. Superman would be less than nothing on Super-Duper-Earth. Maybe, if he was lucky, he might get to be the sidekick of one of many Super-Duper-Men.

So, Superman is fortunate that he landed on just plain Earth, where what he can do is so far beyond what we can do. However, what’s even more interesting is the fact that any of us can develop super powers, just like Superman’s. We can do it in the same way Superman does, too.

For example, when I visit the nursing home where my mother lives, I acquire amazing powers. I can take a step forward almost three feet, without using a walker, a cane, or a wheelchair. I have the ability to lift suitcases and carry boxes. I am able to read small printing on a prescription bottle, and see things far across the room. I am Superman.

Sometimes, I volunteer at the local food pantry, and I obtain super powers there, also. I can lift a bag of groceries in each hand, and carry them to a client’s car. I possess the uncanny ability to read the expiration date on a donated can of soup, and decide whether it should go on the shelf or in the trash. I have those abilities, and, believe me, not everyone does. I am Superman.

When I help out in the church nursery, I gain truly astonishing powers. I can build a tower out of blocks, and it doesn’t fall down – until someone knocks it down. I am able to wipe a runny nose with a tissue. I can find a toy lost under a crib. I possess the ability to take goldfish crackers out of a box and put them in a bowl next to a sippy cup of juice. And I can change diapers. I am Superman.

You, too, may possess remarkable super powers, but you may not be aware of them. Make no mistake: there are things that you can do that not everyone can do. When you become aware of all that you can do, remember to use your powers only for good. Because everybody is somebody’s Superman.

Funnybooks

Funnybooks.

That’s what my Uncle Ralph always called the comics he brought me. He’d show up at the back door of our home in suburban Cranston, Rhode Island, carrying a brown corrugated cardboard box. “It fell off the back of a truck,” he’d say.

I was six years old, and didn’t know that “fell off a truck” meant “stolen.” All I knew was that Uncle Ralph worked for a shipping company, and how lucky we were that he was there to catch the things that fell off the trucks and share his good fortune with us.

Sometimes the carton would be full of envelopes, and I’d spend hours writing letters to imaginary friends in far-away places. Other times they had paper – what my mother called “stationery” – that I drew pictures on with crayons or pencils. But many times, the best times, he brought comic books, in colorful piles like autumn leaves. “I got funnybooks for Eddie.”

Because the comic books were only for me. My parents might use the envelopes and paper, but they had no interest in funnybooks, and my little sister Debra couldn’t read yet. I could read, though, voraciously, insatiably. When I tired of my children’s books, I would pull down the thick burgundy volumes of the encyclopedia my parents somehow managed to afford. I would read the entries and look at the pictures. A few years later, teachers at my school would test my reading skills – and many other abilities – then exchange bewildered looks and, the next day, make me line up with the fourth graders instead of the third graders.

Not all the funnybooks were the good kind. Some were about characters like Baby Huey, an oversized duckling who innocently caused chaos with his unsuspected strength, or Millie the Model, a pretty blonde woman who wore a different extravagant outfit in every frame. Some were even about real people, like Bob Hope and Jerry Lewis. I only read those when I was desperate, when I was finished reading the good kind.

 

The good kind were the adventures of superheroes: Batman and Robin, Green Lantern, The Flash, Wonder Woman, Green Arrow, Challengers of the Unknown , Doom Patrol. Reading these comics, I learned of radioactivity and centrifugal force, magnetism and refraction, chemicals and electricity, airplanes and rockets, red suns and yellow suns. I first read the word “scientist” in a comic book, and knew that this was the job I wanted most in life, a childhood revelation that eventually led to a doctorate in theoretical physics.

And the best, the most wonderful, the greatest of all the superheroes, was Superman.

Superman!

Just speaking his name brings his image to my eyes. Tall, muscular, handsome, with wavy hair so black, it was blue. Clad in his blue uniform with red boots and trunks, the red and yellow S symbol on his chest, the cape flowing down his back.

Superman could fly. Lift cars and ships. See through walls . Vaporize hurricanes with his heat vision. Hear bad guys plotting in their hideouts. And withstand their bullets and bombs with no harm whatsoever. He was perfect in every way, and in a way that never conflicted with my understanding of God – a distinction that many grown-ups, even now, cannot grasp.

I wanted to be Superman. Not surprising for a small, skinny boy with no athletic ability at all. I wanted his super-strength to fight the battles I had to run away from. I wanted his invulnerable skin to withstand the daily attacks of life. I wanted his Fortress of Solitude, so I could escape the world and have a place to be just me.

I didn’t have any of those things. But I did have a red vest and a blue shirt and blue pants, and whenever I wore them I was, for a time, Superman. Even now, if I happen to wear something red and something blue at the same time, I feel that I am, somehow, Superman. Disguised in my secret identity, perhaps, but still Superman. When I’m working out at the gym in my blue shorts and red t-shirt, struggling to move a fifty-pound weight, I am also, in some way, the Man of Steel who bench-presses planets. It helps.

My first significant mathematical insight also occurred because of comic books. Comics cost ten cents each in those days, and I would save up twenty cents to buy two at once. The problem was that if you spent twenty cents, the store charged a penny tax. So, I would do my thorough research at the rack of comics, and select two to buy. I would pay my ten cents for the first one, then return to the rack for the second one, which I would also pay ten cents for. Two comics: twenty cents: no tax. Later, in college, I became a math major, took many courses in abstract mathematics, and even taught calculus. But few achievements in math gave me such satisfaction as devising this strategy that meant a free comic book every ten trips to the store.

These days, it’s amusing to see vintage issues of comics selling for five-figure prices, knowing that I used to own those very issues. I never saved my funnybooks. When I was done reading them enough times, I would give them away or trade them to my friends or cousins. For me, their value was never how much they could be sold for: it was how much they meant to me.

Funnybooks taught me more than science and math. Even though Superman had amazing powers, even though he could do anything – even though he was Superman! – he still had problems. He had to deal with everyday life, with people, with complications, with the unexpected, with a world that often didn’t make sense: he was like me. And if he was like me, even if just a little, then that meant I was like him, even if just a little.

Clearly, superheroes have had a great influence on my own life. But I believe that these amazing characters and their stories have important lessons for everyone – lessons for the mind, the emotions, and the spirit. They show us good and evil, greed and generosity, courage and cowardice, betrayal and loyalty, cleverness and deception, selfishness and self-sacrifice. The toil and the triumph of ordinary life, as well as worlds and possibilities beyond the everyday. Why the struggle is worth it, and where to find the strength to continue the struggle for one moment more. 

Maybe even how we can become super ourselves.

And it all began with funnybooks.

Origin Story

I know. Ridiculous, right? Super powers in real life?

Super powers are, by definition, impossible. Because if they were possible, if people could really do these things, they wouldn’t be super powers. Right?

Therefore, super powers are impossible.

So what?

The thing is, there are people out there who can do amazing things. Clearly, what they can do is possible—they’re doing it. But it’s still pretty amazing. They are stretching the limits of what is possible. They are pushing back the boundaries on what human beings can do. They’re expanding what it means to be human.

Part of this blog will be to talk about those people, the ones doing impossible things. The ones redefining what’s possible for humans to do.

But what about those super powers? And the (imaginary (?)) beings who have them? What is the fascination with superheroes? Why do they captivate the imagination? Why are there so many movies and TV shows about them?

Part of this blog will talk about superheroes, too. Where they live in our imagination. The parts of human experience that they tap into. The examples they might offer. The paths they might open up for us all.

I’m hoping this will be fun and interesting and ridiculous and thought-provoking and absurd and inspiring.

Let’s see now. Where to start?