Tree

There is a green hill far away, outside a city older than Methuselah. There is a tree there, and that too is older than Methuselah. Indeed, both stood there before Methuselah was born, and stand there still long after he has gone.

The city was built on another tree, one of knowledge that broke a race; the remaining tree offers eternal life, and is despised. Five times a day, the horn of the deep sounds, and five times a day, it receives no answer there.

I stand outside the old walls of the crumbling city. I wish I had known it before it was built, and the mighty men raised high its walls. I wish I had been there to see the dawn of the age of men. And I am glad I was not.

21st Century Competencies, Skills, Whatever

In the New World, they have decided that the 21st century (10% of which has already passed us by) requires the development of three main clusters of skills:

1. making use of data/information/knowledge;
2. making decisions concerning individual and social life; and
3. creating useful outputs by synthesis and/or collaboration.

In Atlantis, they have decided to describe these clusters as:

1. civic literacy/global awareness/cross-cultural skills;
2. critical and inventive thinking; and
3. information and communication skills.

For some reason, these skillsets are being touted as the new educational must-haves, as if they are something like Athena sprung fully-formed from the head of Zeus. Come off it, educators. You dropped the ball and now you are renaming the game. These skills have always been needed. You could find them in the marketplaces of Atlantis centuries ago, in the agoras of Greece long gone, in lost and legendary cities as well as places like the souks of Cairo and Byzantium Istanbul. Wherever humans have come together in civis or polis, there too have these skills been needed.

They are NOT tools unique to the 21st century, no matter how catchy the propaganda sounds. They are the Apollonian sense-making instruments that oppose the Bacchaean and Dionysian chaos and primal instincts of our passions and desires. They stand, have always stood, between us and the Dread Anarch.

Although these tools have lost in the past, they need to hold the line if we are not to enter darker times. To understand why they are more needed now than ever before, and thus why people are labelling them '21st Century' when they were as relevant at the dawn of civilisation, we need to note just two things: 1) there are now more people than ever before in the history of humanity; and 2) there is now more available data than ever before in that same history.

This means that 1) getting people to work together and solve problems and plan for the future is more important than ever before; and 2) making sense of the data-stream, like being forced to drink the ocean, is the new magic. And there has only ever been one coherent myth which attempted to resolve the difficulties while preserving the world of men.

I speak, of course, of the myths of the Norsemen. In those myths, Odin Allfather made it his quest, for which he suffered on the World-Tree and gave up his eye, to find the overarching wisdom that would save creation from Ragnarok, the Twilight of the Gods.

With Thought and Memory as his aides, he still lost. But he found the right solution: ameliorating the destruction while planting the seeds for rebirth. Meanwhile, his son Thor was busy trying to drink the ocean by brute force, and failing.

He who has ears to hear, let him hear.

Off to See the Wizard

Tomorrow afternoon I am off to see the Wizard in the Palace. I hear that we are launching a book which is already in the bookstores. This is the 'lite', coffee-table-ish, version of the story of the Gnome. And it will, I suppose, have a 'lite', coffee-table-ish, launch at tea in the Palace.

It amazes me, thinking about the story behind this story's publication, that we have survived as long as we have while evolving as a state through such peculiar and unnatural processes. And the people involved! Oh dear, the people involved...

Blue, Gold and Red

In heraldry, blue represents the heavens and the spiritual virtues; gold represents the earth and the temporal virtues; red represents sacrifice, courage, and the common blood of mankind. And so Sir Wolff, knighthood regained, looks upon the armoury of his forefathers and meditates on the shield thereof.

It is divided blue and gold, and the blue is on the shieldbearer's right, for it serves him foremost and is the source of his virtue. The gold is on the shieldbearers's left, for it serves to support him and is the product of his virtue. Across, in letters of crimson fire, is the monogram of his order — it reminds Wolff of the blood shed by the Redeemer, that binds heaven and earth as one.

In chief azure is an historical and legendary wyvern limned in gold and fire, but not the poisonous serpent with an envenomed tail of other traditions. Rather, this has the head of a lion, for courage is its first answer, and it was born from the power of the Lion Throne. It has the wings of an eagle, for excellence lifts it, and it was brought here by a mission of Eagles. It has the body of an oriental dragon, for the wisdom of the past and the wealth of the Middle Kingdom gave it form and substance.

Thoughtfully, Wolff lifts it. It is heavy, for its gravity is great; it is light, for its burden is balanced. No helm goes with it, no armour is specified for it, and it has no visible supporters — all that is supplied by the invisible realm.

Tonight, he will stand vigil. He will speak to the memories of his ancestors and the histories of those who served before. He will bow in the presence of his Creator and give thanks. And the crosspiece of the blade Perdurias, the glaive of the Dauntless, will be the focus of his thought.

Who knows the mind of God, and who will be His counsellor? Not Wolff, never. But he who lives to serve will some day be rewarded — for the best is yet to be.

=====

Note: The fictional adventures of Sir Wolff do provide much that is of interest. You can find some of them linked here. Just ignore the one about earwax. That was an accident. And you might want to start here.

Citadel Miniatures

She sits in her office as the work piles up. She never knew it would be this heavy a burden, to be the left hand of the Grand Inquisitor and then to be abandoned to do the work herself.

(There is a fitting end to ambitions.)

She sits in her office unaware of the burden she never knew. It is abandoned and piles up, to be handed to the next Grand Inquisitor who worked heavy-handedly and who has now left.

(There will be no more Grand Inquisitors.)

She sits in her office thinking to play the game while deluding herself that she is not. She has lied to herself so much that she cannot see it is all happening again, and again.

(There will always be such delusions.)

She sits in her office doing the work. She has nothing much else left but work. She is abandoned by the rest, but she will always have her work. She expected nothing more than that.

(There will always be someone like that.)

She sits in her office. She has a good job and she has kept it that way all along. Not for her the gulls and the subterfuge, although she could probably handle all that. Good job, eh?

(There will always be what will always be.)

Wolff, who was once Sir, walked into the Panoptikon. He said to the Russian, "Ah come on, boyo, stop taking up precious observation time. We all know where those are going. Look at something else more important, will you?"

Transsubscription

If I'm not wrong, the term 'transsubscription' (single word, all lower-case letters) has not been defined before. I hereby define it as the footnoting of something which used to be (or ought to be) something else. Treat this post as an instance (or, if you like, which I am hoping not, an instantiation).

There has just occurred this conversation, in which two Old Ones (and one not so old) were engaged in interlocution with He Who Remains Unnamed. Here is the transcript (or transcription):

OO1: I am dining with some (younger) [entities] to whom you are apparently a mythic figure from ages past.

HWRU: [displays consternation] WHAT? How come?

OO1: Something to do with [life-transference specialist parasites]. I couldn't quite follow; it was abstruse. [pauses] Or [mystical] arts.

HWRU: What? [Life-transference specialist parasitism] and/or [mysticism]? How old are these younger [entities]?

OO1: I estimate about 10 [unspecified periods of time] younger. It is hard to tell nowadays. I feel antediluvian.

HWRU: Ten [upot] your junior? That would be a [cohort] from the [ages] after I left as a [minor servitor class entity] and before I arrived as a [major power]!

OO1: I don't think you [inflicted educational function upon] these...

HWRU: Hmm. My first [cohort] was about 10 [upot] after that — [date redacted].

OO1: No no your reputation has reached these mortals in other spheres.

HWRU: Goodness. Or the opposite.

OO1: The tones were as of journeymen speaking of a noted sage of old.

HWRU: Do I know any of these people? [grins]

OO1: I don't think so. But they know OF you as a Great Old One.

[redacted]

OO1: I was quite amused when your name was invoked spontaneously in the middle of conversation concerning creatures that go bump in the night.

NSOO: HWRU, in the Room of Staves at the College of Wyverns, people compare you to Dorian Gray.

OO2: Hahahaha! So, the Great [name redacted] has achieved immortal status akin to [name redacted]... Another one for the pantheon!

HWRU: Oh dear! Oh dear oh dear! I am undone! (Or at least, Unnamed.) [laughs out loud]

And thus endeth the transsubscription.

Life in Wartime (Part V): Götterdämmerung

Wagner was a romantic fatalist, compared to his sources. For him, valkyries and pyres, heavenly choirs, all kinds of mushy guff. And that abomination, he called Götterdämmerung despite it having nothing to do with the original.

But to us who served during the Twilight War, it was clear that the Wagnerian take was what the public saw, and most of the clientele saw it that way too — fake thunder and lightning, drama and beauty, and everyone taking a bow together at the end. Under the surface, however, the Tree of Life groaned as the dragon gnawed at its roots. The ravens took flight, and ponderously, the ship made of fingernails moved into play.

It might come as a surprise to those who read such things that some secrets of the Twilight War are also woven into the threads of epic myth as described elsewhere. Yet those are hard to disentangle, and the arts required are no longer commonly found among the living. Still, there are more brutal paths to knowledge.

Essentially, the purge of the faithful, which began a decade ago, had weakened the Citadel. The Leader had placed inferior officers slowly but surely into positions of trust. They were reliable people, but often not principled or bright enough to be a threat to him. And in those choices lay the seeds of doom, for if the Leader failed, there would be none left to raise the Citadel.

So it came to pass. All the losses sustained across the years caught up with Asgard, and the ravens left the Tower. When the Old Man looked across the room at the meeting of the wyvern brothers in March, he should have known his time was up. I looked into his face, but he did not dare meet my gaze. And in that moment, I knew it was time.

Life in Wartime (Part IV): Liebensraum

There is a certain kind of restless personality that wants more of everything, that seeks trifling bargains and gambles for power. It is found most often in a great kind of man, and with the right tools, that man can reshape the world. But with the wrong environment, such a man is a great monster.

And so it was that the Great Leader looked around him and saw fertile land which he might claim. He spent a few months in the corridors of the mighty and the councils of the wise, and everyone was saying 'peace in our time'. They might as well have been saying 'one piece at a time'. I was with the Biologist when we saw the great trees fall, with their burden of biodiversity; ironically, that land was slated for an ecogarden which failed to materialise.

The generals and staff of the war college laid out their plans for blitzkrieg while the Great Leader muttered to himself and built great castles in the air. We drew up everything — the logistics, the objectives, the schedules. He nodded. "Very good," he said, and proceeded to give our plans to the incompetents who fawned on him. We remained loyal, nevertheless.

A short while later, he launched the offensive, using an inferior version of the Plan. That he won at all was a triumph of happy circumstance, for our troops were not only the best in the world, but better than we had dreamt. We were in Paris very shortly after, and the best was yet to be. Or was it?

Emboldened by the crushing victory we won, our Leader turned his eyes away from the mundane business of mopping up and incremental consolidation. Instead, he looked away completely from the objectives we had won with so much blood and sweat. And in that instant, we knew that trouble was in the air.

Life in Wartime (Part III): Not Your Father's SA

Sometimes, during the Wyvern War, we sat by the River, and there we wept as we remembered Zion. I remember sitting with the Argonaut at the now-vanished parade square one evening, thinking about what was lost and what was soon to be lost. It was then that I knew he had decided to leave, to turn his back on the place he had made his own for nine years.

I remember the days of my father's world and the world before, when the boss's principal aides were men of valour, the batmen and adjutants from the days of true courage and manhood. I remember growing up in a small wyvern-home where the officers were fearless men with resonant voices, who taught us how to try and determine what was true and right and brave. I remember a cleaner, better time.

But what broke the fragile post-1988 peace was the scurrilous activity of the new right-hand man, an officer who was no gentleman. In private, he would garner personal support from various generals against his own immediate superior. Later, this would all become known, as the generals put the broken pieces together.

This person was well known to be ungrateful to his mentors. His personal belief was that he outshone them all, and that he ought to be recognized for it. He was a very bright fellow — of that there is little doubt. But he gathered around him his own version of the SA, and when the time was right, he made his putsch. The old SA was thrown out, and while those who were loyal to God and the Order remained, they were slowly marginalised.

It was a fact, as a senior staff officer was heard to say, that to oppose the Great Leader was death. To tell him he was wrong would lead to a campaign of destruction aimed at smearing even the memory of the unfortunate commentator. But as long as the people got their bread, circuses and mighty engines of war, nobody complained.

A short generation passed, and a people arose who knew not their past. Those who did remember were sometimes traitors to the old Order. But they were loyalists and faithful servants of the new. And the people did not know their left hands from their right, and there were many cattle besides.

Life In Wartime (Part II): The View From The Trenches

It was the kind of war we didn't know we were fighting until we found ourselves being shot at. I had good people like the Argonaut and Gnomus with me, or I wouldn't have survived as long as I did, which is to say not very long, but long enough.

Looking back is an interesting experience. It has parallels with an earlier war into which I was born. JFK had just died, and hope seemed distant. 'Global thermonuclear war' was entering the consciousness and the vocabulary of the world.

In this newer war, the phrase 'holistic education' had much the same effect — it was something that everybody was preparing for, that nobody had experienced, and that anybody could define in the knowledge that you could weasel out of it in time for tea. The fact now, as it was then, is that the idea was a chimera designed to frighten children into thinking about obeying the authorities for their own benefit.

And in this war, as in that one, everyone talked about trenches — but nobody actually lived in one. Rather, people built elaborate bunkers, sometimes decorated with stone eagles, and worked long hours under artificial lighting in the depths of fortified hills. From those 'trenches', we saw the creeping entanglement of information that was designed to hold people up rather than set them free — a modern kind of virtual barbed wire. We also saw the machine guns, firing bullets of platitudes and meaninglessness from the stage-managed pill-boxes of administrative power.

But to the patriots and rebels alike, a lot of it was very real. Real blood was shed, real lives were lost (although some were found again). The people in the cities saw none of it. Those of us in the metaphorical trenches saw too much of it. We saw people shelled and blown to pieces. You would be struggling against the forces of ignorance with a colleague at your side, and then that person would suddenly not be there anymore.

Meanwhile, as you desperately tried to protect your flank, the stormtroopers would be breaking down doors and taking down names, intimidating the friends of the missing person, and making sure the political indoctrination held firm. They would read your mail, summon you arbitrarily for meetings, ask you questions which seemed meaningless and which you could not possibly answer. It was as if the Grand Endeavour was just another façade for the Great Game.

And so it was. Those who were most incompetent in battle turned their eyes to competency in backstabbing their own people and sucking up to the powers upon the throne. The people in the comfortable cities saw none of this either. To them, as long as the air-conditioning kept coming and the astroturf was pristine, none of it was their business at all.

That is why, when the war came to an end, most of them manifested serious problems of denial. But that's another story.

Life in Wartime (Part I): A War That Wasn't

There were so many happy people during the war that wasn't. While the soldiers at the front bled and died, or lost their minds to unspeakable things in the wastelands, or sat in dark rooms pondering the blips on green screens, the people adored their strongman. The purges fell like Leonids in August, each orbit of a hidden world dragging flashbangs down through the evening skies.

The young were not to know. They had their own enthusiasms while their mentors and parents took the hits, took drugs in the canteen (mostly hot peppers and coffee) and were sent to Siberia for making puns and anagrams. They looked at the faces of the powerful and felt fond affection for their master and his inner circle.

The young were not to blame. The strongman boasted incredible strength, industrial might based on the efforts of the many cut-price labourers in the mines and factories. The state prospered. The party continued. And there was only one party. The drinking never stopped, the balloons never burst. And every year, the tanks were wheeled out.

Sometimes, people would remark about the missing faces in the photographs. Sometimes, they too would go missing. And everyone was happy as long as the wax was in the ears and the sirens were hunting someone else. It was a weird time. We were the second greatest superpower in the world and thought we were the first.

And one day, it all came to an end. Or at least, it wound down, creaking a bit, just like a party as the booze runs out.

Emerging Disquisitions

The stuff the young people say is the usual stuff. It is fueled by frantic hormones and raging culture-savviness; genes and memes. It is the frenetic commentary of the young when faced by the tipping-point of the pendulum. You see, the older ones have seen the pendulum swing from A to B and back again; some older than that have seen this happen more than once. But the young have seen only the pendulum swing towards its nadir and twitch up again, and marvel at the change in direction.

Let me tell you a story.

=====

Once upon a time, there was a charming prince. His name was Sundark Anthony. He wasn't very handsome, but he was fabulously wealthy, and he was incredibly smart. And the thought came to him one year, as thoughts sometimes do, telling him, "Hey, why not make places where the rich, smart people (like yourself) can learn to be princes?"

But this was Atlantis, and Atlanteans need reasons. And statistics. And study committees, if possible. So the prince got his people together, and they had all these things, and they went to faraway places to collect those things they didn't have, and if I were to tell you all the things they really did and the meals they ate and the words they threw out of their reports, I would never get to the end of this story.

In their final report, they said that if you had something that was good, you could tell everyone that it was good, and make a fence of goodiness (yes, goodiness) around it, and call it goody goody good. Then it would be more good than any good. You could make people pay more for such goods.

A year later, there were seven dwarfs. Actually, there were eight, and they weren't really dwarfs. But whatever they were, they shared one thing in common. There was a lady named Mo, and whatever she told them to do, they did. Each in their own way, of course, but they did it.

Two of them spoke Neo-Classical Latin, and they were the Gambler's son and daughter. One spoke only Church Latin, and his name was Joe. Two wore blue and gold, but one wore jade and gold. One wore brown, and carried a flaming book. And the last was always clad in white. Four of them were male, and four were female, for the balance had to be maintained.

And they were to be fenced around with goodiness, and they would be more good than good, and everyone would come to them to learn how to be good. For if they were good to begin with, how much more goody would they be when they had been goodified?

The years passed, and those who were good were treated as good, and their children were told they were good, and everyone saw the signs of goodiness, and said, "Good! Good!" But honestly, a good look would have told you all you needed to know about looking good.

Sundark Anthony prospered, but he was getting older, and the white streak in his dark hair was getting whiter, and his belly was broadening. He was a very nice man, and a very clever man, but he wondered a lot about why his goody goody goodies were not really as goodified as he thought they would be. And he wondered those wonderful thoughts until he finally retired to his home on the crest of the hill.

But before he left all that behind, he had some provocative words with the managers of the goody estates. Or at least, some of them. And so, goodification gave way to greatification. Into greated programmes, to be exact, with nearly instantaneous greatification too.

=====

It is traditional to tell of wonders and youngest sons, dragons and magic swords, marvelous artifacts and flying ships, blue oceans and two-headed gryphons. However, you would never believe the whole story anyway, if I put all those things in. It is also traditional to wind the story down and say, "And they lived happily ever after." Yet I cannot bring myself to say it, because I don't think it has happened yet.

In fact, like a typical B&M case study, the eight goodies messed around a bit too much, got into bad ways, played with mergers and inquisitions, hired and fired, highered and lowered, went multinational (some say international), and in general created a story that sounded like a China that never was.

=====

I'm done for now. But I am going to tell the story of at least some of those goodies over the next few days.

Empirical Problem

The problem, thought Wolff (once, he had been Sir Wolff) to himself, was unusual. In most empires of the past, large or small, the issue of who would inherit the poisoned chalice (or sanctified mantle) always arose. Even if there were no direct heirs, at least there were generals of prowess who would raise competing standards over the kingdom-sized fragments of the dying realm.

But here, there were none. The Emperor had pretty much burned the earth and salted the soil. There were no heirs to split, and the problem would not be settled by general solutions.

Wolff chuckled to himself. The empire's between a rock and a hard place.

The Tangled Web

At the Citadel of the Wyverns yesterday, the congregation of the faithful was summoned to the Auditorium (for there is now no Chapel at the Citadel, but only a place for listening to the Inquisition). The sorrowful knight, heir to those who had gone before, sat listening. And when he had listened, he could control himself no more, and his mind went out in search of the Wolff...

=====

Wolff, no longer Sir Wolff, sits sipping his atrament with old friends. It is the season of prevarication again, and deceit like a cloud of flies hovers over the Citadel. He speaks.

I have heard from the sorrowful, and though the Grand Inquisitor is not in residence, it is said that his consortium makes words as from his mouth. They have told the faithful to speak the truth of the Citadel, but only the truth that suits the Lords of the Magistratum.

In particular, one of them has said most plainly, "I am confident that you will respond in the way we want you to," and also, "The lenses and prisms that spy upon you are for your safety, and not because we wish to scry upon your deeds through sorcery," and also, "We do not want you to lie for the Citadel."

His friends stir. One points out that this particular one-who-speaks-for-the-Magistratum is adept at misdirection and manipulation. Another points out that she is also adept at threatening without actually saying so. Wolff laughs. He remembers the taint. He knows what is in his book. He replies.

I remember speaking the truth with intent to misdirect, on the orders of the Grand Inquisitor himself. He said to me, "Sir Wolff, tell of the glories of the Citadel, but do not bring down wrath, nor lead us into difficulty, by telling the kind of truth that does not bring us reward. Do not search too deeply, nor research again, for life can be very short, and you must live well."

This is what the Faithful are told in the Auditorium-that-is-not-quite-a-Chapel. And some have learnt that loyalty to the Brotherhood is only loyalty to the Citadel, that loyalty is the clever silence and the beautified truth. For the Grand Inquisitor and his High Lords of the Magistratum seek to hold truth by power, knowing that they have not the excellence of the unvarnished truth.

=====

And talk moved on to other things, such as how come the Gryphons had convened a conference on the Science of Sport, while the Grand Inquisitor had six years past decided to do no such thing at all.

=====

Note: The fictional adventures of Sir Wolff do provide much that is of interest. You can find them linked here. Just ignore the one about earwax. That was an accident.

The Silence of the Wolff

I asked Wolff, my old acquaintance who was once Sir Wolff, to comment on the state of things at the Citadel of the Wyverns. All I received in response was silence.

It is a hard thing to realise that the work of all the old Order is slowly slipping away into a Slough of Despond. Yes, the numbers out of the Citadel are fantastic. But they belie a trend towards a truly low form of education.

What does the analysis say?

Essentially, a meticulously reasoned survey exposes the entire scam. There are five functional sections of the old academic division. Maybe six. Among the Lords Academic, perhaps three are fit to run the Citadel; the rest are either inexperienced or incompetent. Among the Lords Regnant, Lionheart himself has said there are none competent. When the Aasvogel departs, the whole will fall.

So now, Lionheart waits for a final accounting. The great question was, if things are so bad, wherefore the excellent results?

The game was given away by the High Priest of the Temples of Instruction. He and his predecessors have pointed out, through interesting statistics, that the overall ability of Atlantean students to produce results is excellent. In fact, given the cohort that the Citadel has been absorbing, it is NO surprise at all that these results have been achieved. Statistical logic almost compels it.

It is revealing that the areas propping up the performance are in Chemistry, Physics, and Mathematics (all of which are preselected for by national examinations); and Economics and Business & Management, both untainted by the rot that has infiltrated the Citadel, since they never had roots in the squalid regime of recent years. It is also revealing as to where indiscretions and lack of integrity have led to system-rigging and other improprieties — especially in the hotly-disputed area of whatever tongues one's mother speaks.

But what about the bonuses that accrue to those who do well in lengthy dissertations and epistemological reasoning? The answer is, if the former is greatly aided by constant rewriting under supervision, and the latter (while not excelling) produces enough B-grades, then a fair number of students will earn two or three bonus points — the majority come from A+B, not A+A.

And all this was said, by saying nothing, by the Wolff. What amazing sources he has! And what glorious detail? What else are the Lords Regnant of the Citadel concealing from the outside world? We wait with bated breath.

Transdarwinian

In the last couple of decades, the determinists have hit the wall of reality while the atheists have been pushed to another wall by a tide of relentlessly unmindful religionists. The world is turning like Dorothy's house on a whirlwind simply because some people don't know where to stop.

For a start, I say to Christians (who the bulk of the relentlessly unmindful seem to be), "Have you considered what actually is necessary for salvation? Does it include the ideas that the Bible is a science manual and that Man is unable to write a Bible with errors in it? For if so, none are saved since those two points have been clearly and decisively disproved."

But in the humility of my own mind, knowing that I am all too fallible and human and prone to error of all kinds, I think of what might have been. I look at what the Bible says. And I look at what kinds of expression humans typically use. And I look at what we seem to see of history. And maybe...

Two hundred thousand years ago, God (in whose image man the scientist — as well as man the artist — was made) raised one particular kind of animal upright in the plains of Africa. For thousands of years, this animal had been viable, intelligent, but not going anywhere fast. And that is the message of Genesis 1, for it is clear that when God speaks, He speaks to an entire race of humans, male and female, and then He rests. They filled their African world, a world where no less than a dozen different population clusters of breathtaking genetic diversity could be found. This took 130,000 years.

Seventy thousand years ago, God inspired man. For some reason, the mind of man opened, as did the geography of man, and man exploded from Africa. But it was a slow and odd migration, for crossing the centre of the world (where Africa meets Eurasia) and then filling the rest of it with loose groups of random humans, took 60,000 years. And then man decided to build permanent settlements in Eden, where God had finally placed him — for that is what history tells us.

And somewhere around 6000 BC, where recorded history first begins in written language, the second narrative of Genesis has begun. For there are two creation stories in the first three chapters of that book, and one question has always been, why two? And perhaps the first is the story of Man the organism, while the second is the story of Man the inspired. Where inspiration arises, choice follows, and where choice appears, change will come.

Genesis 4 tells us that Cain, the farmer who founded a city killed his brother Abel the nomadic herder. It might have been literal, but it is certainly historical in vision. For the third son of Adam was Seth, and in his time, men adopted organised religion. There is no way to prove that any of these people existed, but history tells us that the kinds of people they represent did indeed arise in that order.

Who knows the mind of God? We see in part, as if through a glass darkly; we know in part and think in pieces. And we don't have all the pieces, and never will have, till time ends.

There is a strange world out there, with mysteries which we know because of our science and our reasoning will not be solved. The narratives we spin and contest may incite fear and division, or inspire great feats of achievement, or may have no meaning at all. But one thing is for sure — Christians spend too much time contesting the little firefights and not looking at the prize they claim to be aiming for. You don't need to fight science to be holy.

Old Jokes in New Jokings

Wolff (no longer Sir Wolff) is having kaveh with an old acquaintance. He wonders who had come up with this abomination, neither kava nor coffee, and named after a mythical Persian. He listens to the acquaintance blather on about quality awards and other toys, and then he decides to tell a joke.

Stop me if you've heard this one before.

At first, the secret police came for those who were making too much money (and not sharing it with them). And of course, we said nothing, for we too wanted more money.

His acquaintance smiles, makes a gesture that shows he thinks he already knows the joke but is willing to let Wolff continue.

Then the secret police came for those who were too clever (and tended to show the bosses in unflattering light). And of course, we said nothing, for we thought we were clever too.

Then the secret police came for those who taught well (and told them they were bad teachers). And of course, we said nothing, for we said, "Who are these people who think they are good teachers?"

Then the secret police came for those who spoke up (or who had meals with condemned men). And of course, we said nothing, since we were not inclined to speak up anyway.

And finally, the secret police came for us...

The acquaintance obviously finds this boring. He interrupts.

...and there was no one left to speak up for us, right? I've heard this before.

Wolff laughs. He knows that's not how it goes, in this case.

No, this is how it ends, my friend.

And finally, the secret police came for you, and you said...

"Comrade! Isn't it great to be a member of the secret police?"

Wolff enjoys the look of stunned surprise on his erstwhile colleague's face. He takes pleasure in throwing money on the table and walking away. And most of all, he carries a deep-rooted and ecstatic mirth in him, because he knows what always happens to members of Stalinist organisations.

=====

You can find other adventures of Sir Wolff like this. They're all historical fiction, except the one about the dragon, which is real.

Input-Driven Education Systems (IDES)

It was just two weeks ago that I was mulling over the following oft-quoted passage from Shakespeare's Julius Caesar. The Family capo who sat with me was chortling over some curious similarities that he, a venerable and powerful individual, saw between the eponymous leader and a certain local educator. Let me supply the quotation first, before I tell you the rest. This is from Act I, Scene II.

Caesar:
Who is it in the press that calls on me?
I hear a tongue, shriller than all the music,
Cry 'Caesar!' Speak; Caesar is turn'd to hear.

Soothsayer:
Beware the ides of March.

Caesar:
What man is that?

Brutus:
A soothsayer bids you beware the ides of March.

I pointed out to my associate that it was I who should have feared the ides of March, a year and a half gone. He shook his head. He said, "Well, you weren't assassinated. And besides, I think you should be in another play!" To which I replied, "No Prince Hamlet, I."

The conversation moved on. But I was made to recall how, in a fit of blatant stupidity, some people had actually been confused about the Church/State dichotomy expressed in the quotation, "Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's, and to God the things that are God's." (See Matthew 22:15-22.) I was told that by quoting this line, I was making reference to that same local educator and calling him Caesar. Haha, it was one of the most Kafkaesque moments of my life!

But the way that this conversation turned towards that same man was rather instructive. Several episodes were quoted about how this person was running an institution without adequate spirit, innovation, intelligence, or attention to educational principles. It was pointed out that the only reason good results were still being produced was that the students were being culled early and often, so that only the best students were being allowed to take key examinations.

Alternatively, internally-moderated assessments were rigged to allow for better results to be posted; an assessment designed to be given once was thus carried out a second time for students who were deemed not to have met the minimum grade desired. This was defended as 'being good for the students', which of course was true in a grade-oriented sense but certainly was not something done in a spirit of fairness. Students were therefore graded not on the strength of their natural performances, but on the strength of the performances that the executives decided they should be producing.

The last episode quoted to me was one in which the CEO told students that if they did not meet the equivalent of a Cambridge admission grade in the middle of the second year of their secondary education, they would be dropped from the programme. This bar was raised even higher for the final examination.

What to make of such stories? I've seen these things happen for years, throughout the system, in isolated hotspots of chicanery. To my everlasting shame, I suppose I have been part of such things, though on the periphery, without making sufficient noise, letting off steam, or blowing whistles. A misplaced sense of loyalty can be a terrible thing.

Yet there are important lessons to be drawn from this kind of episode. The learning points become more obvious by analogy especially when looking back at economic situations like the Asian Financial Crisis of 1997 (now more than a decade ago), and the more recent events of the year just past.

In the former situation, economic results were boosted by the extreme ratio of input-driven vs productivity-driven processes. Essentially, throwing effort into making more and more things, rather than making better things, or making things better, screwed up the system and brought about a crash. In the latter situation, borrowing based on imaginary money (well, more imaginary than usual, that is) eventually led to attenuation of belief, a crisis of disbelief, a failure of suspension of disbelief, and a hefty and terrible dose of consequent reality therapy.

I've seen both of these things developing for a while now. He who has ears, let him hear.

A Brief History Of Weaponry

I've just realised that two whole batches of students have not had the experience of enduring my standard TOK lecture on the sciences. The slides are available in my public folder, but here is an excerpt from the text, on the matter of the human tendency to indulge in arms races.

Example: Historical Trajectory (Narrative)

“I have a fist.”
   “I have a rock.”
“I have a sharp rock."
   “I have a rock on a stick.”
“I have a flying rock.”
   “I have a rock launcher.”
“I have a rock-on-a-stick launcher.”
   “I have a rocket launcher.”

To be exact, this came from Slide 30 of Lecture II. Lecture II was also titled Scientia — Humanities through a Narrow Window: Conscience and Non-Science, and was used to compare, contrast and correlate the sciences to all other disciplines, one group at a time.

Since I had 47 slides in that lecture, there's a lot more to come. Of course, I regret that I will not be delivering the full lecture again anytime soon, so there'll be no extemporaneous jokes and bad puns to accompany the slides even if you do download the original presentation slides.

The Taint

It was during the onset of winter just past. Sir Blugo the Archivist was distinctly worried. He was being summoned by the Grand Inquisitor (or High Panjandrum, these titles meant little to him) for no reason that he could think of at all. He negotiated the deadly fish tanks and ominous trophy cabinets as he entered the inmost Sanctum of the Inquisition.

Sit!

He was commanded the Grand Inquisitor himself. The black leather furnishings mocked the stolid knight. All around, the appurtenances of the Inquisition hung, symbols of the many ways in which truth could be elicited ab initio. The signs of authority and certificates of high-stress interrogation littered the walls.

In the year to come, you shall receive no portion of the tithe paid to this Order, as discipline for your soul, on which the Highest have mercy. You are an officer of the lowest quality and ability. Dismissed.

Sir Blugo was outraged. It was an unexpected and unjust attack. But he was calm, and composed, and most unlike the man he used to be.

My lord, I beg you to show me in what sense and to what extent I have shirked my calling and demonstrated a lack of quality and ability. Do this that I might learn, and grow.

It has come to Our attention that you have been seen in the company of our former Sir Wolff, he of the Great Taint. He was untrue to his calling, and a knight of low quality, so low that we stripped him of it altogether. Accordingly, you must be also tainted, and hence undeserving. We command you not to associate with such miscreants in future, and perhaps you will yet be a good knight.

Just that, my lord? Did I not teach the apprentices archival skills satisfactorily and without complaint? Have I not given a good account of myself in my attachment to the Knights Hospitaller?

No. No. No. There is more, and the apprentices were badly treated by you, and the Master of the Knights Hospitaller has submitted bad reports about you.

My lord! Do the apprentices say so? Did the Master indeed say such things? What more is there?

What the apprentices say is not the issue; it is well known that you are a rude varlet with a poisonous tongue. The Master confessed with such honeyed alacrity that we have given him a seat at the Middle Table and gold for his pains. And there is more. It is alleged that you consort with demons, that you offer papers to be read, that you teach falsely about the nature of the Inquisition and the deeds of State.

This is not true, my lord. Except for the papers, which indeed I have offered to be read, and they were approved by the Lords Intellectual of the realm. Where is the evidence that condemns me?

We need no evidence. The Inquisition is the Hand of the Divine Law. Words are carried to Us on the wind, and over the ether come the confidences of the damned. You are dismissed! Or shall We do this as We did to Sir Wolff?

It was with a heavy heart that the Archivist descended to his own deep cell. Three months later, he would leave the Order forever.