Think of the number of subatomic particles in a grain of sand, of the billions of electrons, neutrons, protons, and all their myriad variants and constituents that make up such a small thing. Now think of something larger, like the entire beach where you found the grain of sand. Think of how many more subatomic particles there are in something so large - a truly vast number. Keep going though, through all the beaches that there are, the oceans, all the land, the entire planet, out through all the planets, the Sun, and then roam even more. Think of all the particles that constitute all of the 400 billion stars in this average galaxy, and of all the particles in the billions of of galaxies that exist throughout the entire universe. Keep that thought.
Your brain, that three pound lump of meat between your ears, consists of about 100 billion neurons and 100 trillion synapses. Very large numbers indeed but small compared to the number of subatomic particles that make it up, and vanishingly tiny when compared to the scales above. Yet it is not the sheer number of neurons and synapses that should take your breath away, that should boggle your mind, because the magic strong enough to do that is in the number of possible interconnections; the combinations and permutations that underpin everything that makes you, well, YOU. The number of neuronal/synaptic combinations and permutations in your brain, the thing thinking of these words, exceeds the total number of subatomic particles in the entire universe by three orders of magnitude!
It is within this extravagant excess that you brain contains something even more wondrous than the universe itself; your brain is the physical seat of what you are, and is the springboard and reservoir for mind, for consciousness, for spirit, for soul, for you.
And something else. Are you the collection of subatomic particles that make you up? If this is so, how is it that you remember anything from even a year ago? During the last twelve months all the subatomic particles that make up your entire body, every one of them including those in your brain, have been replaced. Not one meson, quark, electron, particles on and on, that constitutes your physical self has been part of your body for more that several months. Not one! You are constantly renewed. Are you then simply the pattens impressed on this physical substrate? I can represent any pattern, by definition, as an algorithm, albeit a complex one in the case of representing you, but it is possible in principle. I don't think I could represent 'you' with an algorithm, no matter how complex. Do you? Think about this.
And lastly, at least for now, a question: Have you ever heard of quantum entanglement? There is a process whereby pairs of subatomic particles become entangled in that they exist in a state where they always exhibit identical behavior regardless of the distance between them and they do this instantaneously. Every bit that makes you up is potentially related by this process to an exactly equal number of particles that could be, and are, anywhere in the universe and any time a particle in you undergoes a quantum change so does the paired particle, at exactly the same time, even if that particle is on the other side of the universe.
There is so much more. In due time........
25.3.07
18.3.07
Spam
I got an email with the subject "See How Smart You Are - Take Our Free IQ Test." I couldn't figure out how to open the test.
Another email was bannered; "Al - Learn how to qualify." When I opened it I discovered that the body was blank. Apparently I'm unlikely to become qualified anytime soon.
"Al: Go to the bathroom more often" got my attention but the message itself was incoherent. I think it's from the same doctor who wants me to quit wearing my bra to bed.
Another trumpeted "Are you paying too much for auto insurabce, [double sic] let us quote you." I wasn't sure how that would do any good, but I sent them a few lines I thought they could use anyway.
I have 17 messages promising, for a price, "clinically proven" techniques for "natural male enhancement." I have questions. Natural male? As opposed to....? Where exactly are these clinics? What do they look like? And most importantly, if I buy and use each of these "techniques" in series are the effects cumulative? I mean, wow! Maybe I'd have to use turn signals.
To assuage my girl side, I looked for corresponding messages offering "natural female enhancements" and am happy to report that those born or converted to this state have an even larger offering to consider and apparently many more things that could do with some "enhancement." I believe that the cumulative thing is applicable here also.
The religious right is in on the act too. I'm promised a date with "Sexy Christian Singles" and told "How to get rid of Debt the Christian way." War, I guess. Or maybe get the lenders dates with sexy Christian singles and in their bliss they'd forgive all the loans. Ya think?
Over the past three weeks I've received 15,356 spam mail messages selling, promising, giving away, and soliciting just about everything imaginable. Thanks be unto Google for sequestering it, but I must admit that my visit to this strange place has been entertaining. I'll go back soon, say sometime in 2012.
Another email was bannered; "Al - Learn how to qualify." When I opened it I discovered that the body was blank. Apparently I'm unlikely to become qualified anytime soon.
"Al: Go to the bathroom more often" got my attention but the message itself was incoherent. I think it's from the same doctor who wants me to quit wearing my bra to bed.
Another trumpeted "Are you paying too much for auto insurabce, [double sic] let us quote you." I wasn't sure how that would do any good, but I sent them a few lines I thought they could use anyway.
I have 17 messages promising, for a price, "clinically proven" techniques for "natural male enhancement." I have questions. Natural male? As opposed to....? Where exactly are these clinics? What do they look like? And most importantly, if I buy and use each of these "techniques" in series are the effects cumulative? I mean, wow! Maybe I'd have to use turn signals.
To assuage my girl side, I looked for corresponding messages offering "natural female enhancements" and am happy to report that those born or converted to this state have an even larger offering to consider and apparently many more things that could do with some "enhancement." I believe that the cumulative thing is applicable here also.
The religious right is in on the act too. I'm promised a date with "Sexy Christian Singles" and told "How to get rid of Debt the Christian way." War, I guess. Or maybe get the lenders dates with sexy Christian singles and in their bliss they'd forgive all the loans. Ya think?
Over the past three weeks I've received 15,356 spam mail messages selling, promising, giving away, and soliciting just about everything imaginable. Thanks be unto Google for sequestering it, but I must admit that my visit to this strange place has been entertaining. I'll go back soon, say sometime in 2012.
BiggerBetterFaster
What's up with plain old base reality? We don't like what we get? Well, we'll just bend it, twist it, shove it, and presto-changeo - something new and improved will pop up.
Satisfied with the Civic? Hell no! Let's make us some SUV's - Why settle for a puddle hopper when we can jump the whole damn lake? What? You say the lake is now filled with oil? Well, Duuuuh! Presto-changeo - The Escalade!
Like the good ole taco? Up yours buddy. I want a double meat thrice wrapped Ersatz Mexican Thingie, super biggie it please, with a longer belt on the side. Presto-changeo - The Nacho Gordita Supreme.
And now for something completely different. The Russians were on to something back in the '70's. Tape some weird sensors on your head, take a nap, and wake up knowing new and improved things. Wanna know about nuclear physics, or nail down the complete Mayan Calendar? No problem. By tomorrow morning you can be the expert.
And of course somebody was bound to improve on the good-old-fashioned wet dream. Now we have sleepsex!
But why stop there? Surely there are other sleep-x potentials out there. How about:
Sleepbirth - If you can have sleepsex, surely there will be a little sleepconception going on. And all those sleepzygotes will eventually want their own Escalades and Gorditas and demand the full rights inherent in being birthed. "Well uh, I dunno, I had a little sleepsex, woke up, and now there's this little kid here. Musta been a long nap. He's already outa diapers."
Sleepwork - Why wake up and go to work when most of us are asleep there anyway? Getting your work done while you sleep must have some kind of advantage. "Hey, how ya doin'?" "Oh, good I guess, just a little tired. I worked a double while I was sleeping. But the money will be good come payday. I think I'll take a little ride in my Escalade and get a Gordita. Wanna go wit me?"
Sleepwar - This is one of those times you probably don't want to share your mattress with someone else. Hey, a little sleepsex or sleepbirth is fine, but a full-blown blitzkrieg while you nakedly nap, well, what a turn-off. Enough of us go to bed with a .38 Colt under the pillow anyway, so who's to mind a few M16's or SAW weapons? Oh, and please get yourself a new and improved pillow holster.
Can sleeparchitecture, or sleepuniversity, or sleeplandscaping be far behind?
I'm gonna go nap now. Hey, anything could happen!
Satisfied with the Civic? Hell no! Let's make us some SUV's - Why settle for a puddle hopper when we can jump the whole damn lake? What? You say the lake is now filled with oil? Well, Duuuuh! Presto-changeo - The Escalade!
Like the good ole taco? Up yours buddy. I want a double meat thrice wrapped Ersatz Mexican Thingie, super biggie it please, with a longer belt on the side. Presto-changeo - The Nacho Gordita Supreme.
And now for something completely different. The Russians were on to something back in the '70's. Tape some weird sensors on your head, take a nap, and wake up knowing new and improved things. Wanna know about nuclear physics, or nail down the complete Mayan Calendar? No problem. By tomorrow morning you can be the expert.
And of course somebody was bound to improve on the good-old-fashioned wet dream. Now we have sleepsex!
But why stop there? Surely there are other sleep-x potentials out there. How about:
Sleepbirth - If you can have sleepsex, surely there will be a little sleepconception going on. And all those sleepzygotes will eventually want their own Escalades and Gorditas and demand the full rights inherent in being birthed. "Well uh, I dunno, I had a little sleepsex, woke up, and now there's this little kid here. Musta been a long nap. He's already outa diapers."
Sleepwork - Why wake up and go to work when most of us are asleep there anyway? Getting your work done while you sleep must have some kind of advantage. "Hey, how ya doin'?" "Oh, good I guess, just a little tired. I worked a double while I was sleeping. But the money will be good come payday. I think I'll take a little ride in my Escalade and get a Gordita. Wanna go wit me?"
Sleepwar - This is one of those times you probably don't want to share your mattress with someone else. Hey, a little sleepsex or sleepbirth is fine, but a full-blown blitzkrieg while you nakedly nap, well, what a turn-off. Enough of us go to bed with a .38 Colt under the pillow anyway, so who's to mind a few M16's or SAW weapons? Oh, and please get yourself a new and improved pillow holster.
Can sleeparchitecture, or sleepuniversity, or sleeplandscaping be far behind?
I'm gonna go nap now. Hey, anything could happen!
Breasts
I was thinking of George Carlin's "Seven Dirty Words" the other day when by pure chance I saw the oddest thing on TV. There was a program on The History Channel of all places, about breasts. Not the ones on chickens, but the ones on human females. Boobs, tits, headlights, knockers. You know, those kinds of breasts.
I thought it might bear watching. I mean, after all, when a major educational channel devotes one full hour to breasts, it must be important. I might learn something. So I watched, with great anticipation of enlightenment.
The show was divided up into four equal-length sections: The history of breasts, breasts in art, the support of breasts, and the augmentation of breasts. Now here's the odd thing. In the history section I saw representations of how breasts developed, in size and shape, through successive editions of homo habilis, homo erectus, homo neanderthalensis, and finally to us, homo sapiens sapiens, double-wise man. (Hmmm. Really? And how in the world does anybody know what homo habilis breasts would have looked like? And what are breasts doing on a man?) In the art part, I saw painted and sculpted breasts from Greek, Roman, Mezo-American, classical Indian and modern times. In the support presentation there were thousands of breasts, every one slung, trussed, flattened, pointed, puffed, flattered, fluttered, pushed up, out, in, sideways, and every one in a bra or some such cantilevered contraption. But not once in 45 minutes of watching had I actually seen a photograph or video of a naked breast. But then it happened! In the augmentation discussion. A naked breast, on a woman, well partly on a woman, who was lying on an operating table in a Los Angeles hospital. The surgeon deftly separated the bottom of the breast from its owner, lifted it away from her supine body, and in the resulting gap slipped a pouch that looked something like a sandwich bag filled with Jello. He then patted the breast, which by this time looked something like a bruised breakfast egg, back into place like a teenager out for his first feel, and stitched up the incision. After a quick commercial break, I was treated to before-and-after photos. The "before" photos showed a rather nice looking pair of breasts. Ones that if I were the owner I'm pretty sure wouldn't want to change. They looked like they would do whatever it is they are supposed to do just fine. But then the last "before" photo morphed into the aftermath, or the afterbreast. There was nothing in the history, art, or support sections that could have predicted this, or rather these! I was unprepared. I half expected that little critter from the movie Aliens to pop out. Well, two little critters, just for symmetry's sake. It looked like something was trying to get out! Breast Monsters! These were no longer breasts, they were weapons! Whether you own breasts or not, or in either case even if you're only borrowing someone else's for a little while, you do have certain expectations of curve, softness, texture, temperature, etc. These new fangled additions to this woman's chest looked like they could hurt you; big time. "Hey, what happened to your fingers?" Bashfully: "It's a long story, but...."
So like Carlin's words, words we can only hear after they have been beaten and mashed, and transformed from their original shape, if we can ever hear them at all, we have breasts, which are fun to look at we all agree, but some among us add: "Only after they have been beaten and mashed, and transformed from their original shape."
I thought it might bear watching. I mean, after all, when a major educational channel devotes one full hour to breasts, it must be important. I might learn something. So I watched, with great anticipation of enlightenment.
The show was divided up into four equal-length sections: The history of breasts, breasts in art, the support of breasts, and the augmentation of breasts. Now here's the odd thing. In the history section I saw representations of how breasts developed, in size and shape, through successive editions of homo habilis, homo erectus, homo neanderthalensis, and finally to us, homo sapiens sapiens, double-wise man. (Hmmm. Really? And how in the world does anybody know what homo habilis breasts would have looked like? And what are breasts doing on a man?) In the art part, I saw painted and sculpted breasts from Greek, Roman, Mezo-American, classical Indian and modern times. In the support presentation there were thousands of breasts, every one slung, trussed, flattened, pointed, puffed, flattered, fluttered, pushed up, out, in, sideways, and every one in a bra or some such cantilevered contraption. But not once in 45 minutes of watching had I actually seen a photograph or video of a naked breast. But then it happened! In the augmentation discussion. A naked breast, on a woman, well partly on a woman, who was lying on an operating table in a Los Angeles hospital. The surgeon deftly separated the bottom of the breast from its owner, lifted it away from her supine body, and in the resulting gap slipped a pouch that looked something like a sandwich bag filled with Jello. He then patted the breast, which by this time looked something like a bruised breakfast egg, back into place like a teenager out for his first feel, and stitched up the incision. After a quick commercial break, I was treated to before-and-after photos. The "before" photos showed a rather nice looking pair of breasts. Ones that if I were the owner I'm pretty sure wouldn't want to change. They looked like they would do whatever it is they are supposed to do just fine. But then the last "before" photo morphed into the aftermath, or the afterbreast. There was nothing in the history, art, or support sections that could have predicted this, or rather these! I was unprepared. I half expected that little critter from the movie Aliens to pop out. Well, two little critters, just for symmetry's sake. It looked like something was trying to get out! Breast Monsters! These were no longer breasts, they were weapons! Whether you own breasts or not, or in either case even if you're only borrowing someone else's for a little while, you do have certain expectations of curve, softness, texture, temperature, etc. These new fangled additions to this woman's chest looked like they could hurt you; big time. "Hey, what happened to your fingers?" Bashfully: "It's a long story, but...."
So like Carlin's words, words we can only hear after they have been beaten and mashed, and transformed from their original shape, if we can ever hear them at all, we have breasts, which are fun to look at we all agree, but some among us add: "Only after they have been beaten and mashed, and transformed from their original shape."
Magic
One can debate and refute magic forever, and many do, mostly those who refuse by way of reason magic's provenance, or those, who by their unfortunate nature, see nothing they have been told they cannot see. And then there are those of us who might perchance have fallen into this denial but for luck. For it is a proven fact that if magic happens to one, with the full force and presence of its beauty, it can no longer be denied.
The table thus set, I spin a tale of magic.
Simply to sit and contemplate, to smoke, to sip my coffee, to eat my salad, that was the plan. I was to steal a few moments alone and allow the tides of life to wash over me. It is in these moments that I most feel love, mine extended and mine received; the wonderful connections of my life. There is a picnic table behind the factory where I work. It is solitary, rarely visited, and an ideal place for reverie. On this day a warm afternoon sun was reluctantly giving way to dusk, gentle zephyrs swirled vortices of dust over the parking lot, and I settled into my seat.
I didn't witness his arrival because like many good things he just appeared. One moment there was an unknown void, and then it was filled. He just happened. The connection was immediate, and elemental. He had soulful eyes, dark brown, and of unfathomable depth; eyes that said I had something he wanted, wanted even more than a sweet breath of Spring, and if I would please be so kind, he would reciprocate in his own way. Now, I am not one who takes lightly the possibilities that tumble forth from the cornucopia of my life, but I also listen to what experience has taught me; not to promise myself what is not mine.
Nevertheless, of his own volition and with my unspoken encouragement, he transformed himself before my eyes, from a simple thing of flesh and blood, into a manifestation of his own desire to fulfill an ancient need. A soft breeze swirled the hair on his head and sunlight played lightful melodies across his back. His muscles rippled with a supple vigor infused by his want, and the delicious tension of anticipation played out across his flank. I was helpless before him.
He approached, and I felt my own longing spawned by this chance encounter stir powerfully, until it was a thing unto itself; a fleeting possibility of spirit taking on substance, an irrevocable touching of the being behind those dark eyes. Closer. Power and permission incarnate. His breathing amplified into short puffs. Closer. What little fear remained to him dissolved into a singular pellet of want; I could see it behind his eyes. Closer. That field of pure energy that defines me, and that I in turn define began to mingle with his; began the wonderful and overwhelming mixing that creates something so much greater than its parts. The promise of the mystics, that there is just the one, can in this moment be realized with the intensity and presence of a god. Slowly, and with a grace that I do not command, I reached out and offered my hand and its bounty. Touch. In what seemed an eternity but was surely only an instant, the exchange was made, and I basked in the radiance of his love; a love that knew no name.
He withdrew to the corner of his safety, tension slaked, awaiting the rest of his life. I bade him farewell and too quickly became again who I had been only moments before; a man, and like him, awaiting the rest of my life.
Yes, simply to sit and contemplate, to smoke, to sip my coffee, to eat my salad, that was the plan. How did I know that silly rabbit was going to come hopping up to the break table? I hope he enjoyed the carrot but I didn't see him eating it. He hopped into a pile of gear crates stored in the back of the factory; presumably to eat without any other rabbits trying to steal his meal away. I'll have to say that that was a first for me. So very unafraid. He gently took the carrot from my hand – and then raced off.
The magic was very real. There was a momentary suspension of the normal instincts that keep wild creatures from getting too close to us; large bipeds that we are, always unpredictable, and sometimes dangerous. When he approached to within two or three feet the fear just evaporated, as though he'd judged me and found me harmless; at least to him. But the magic was in more that just this. I had a very strange but very clear feeling that, for a special moment, I was him; that I could feel the order of the world he feels daily. I "felt" his world as an impressionistic mosaic; a soft edged approximation that so eloquently captured the spirit of things. Maybe that's why rabbits are such great broken-field runners.
He had given me a slice of his world, and as best I could, I had given him a slice of mine.
Actually, I don't know if it was a "he" or "she" rabbit. I mean, they're not like humans. You can't just go up, flip 'em over, and take a look. "Hmmm, let's see here. Oh yeah, it's a girl." Nope, that doesn't work with bunnies.
The table thus set, I spin a tale of magic.
Simply to sit and contemplate, to smoke, to sip my coffee, to eat my salad, that was the plan. I was to steal a few moments alone and allow the tides of life to wash over me. It is in these moments that I most feel love, mine extended and mine received; the wonderful connections of my life. There is a picnic table behind the factory where I work. It is solitary, rarely visited, and an ideal place for reverie. On this day a warm afternoon sun was reluctantly giving way to dusk, gentle zephyrs swirled vortices of dust over the parking lot, and I settled into my seat.
I didn't witness his arrival because like many good things he just appeared. One moment there was an unknown void, and then it was filled. He just happened. The connection was immediate, and elemental. He had soulful eyes, dark brown, and of unfathomable depth; eyes that said I had something he wanted, wanted even more than a sweet breath of Spring, and if I would please be so kind, he would reciprocate in his own way. Now, I am not one who takes lightly the possibilities that tumble forth from the cornucopia of my life, but I also listen to what experience has taught me; not to promise myself what is not mine.
Nevertheless, of his own volition and with my unspoken encouragement, he transformed himself before my eyes, from a simple thing of flesh and blood, into a manifestation of his own desire to fulfill an ancient need. A soft breeze swirled the hair on his head and sunlight played lightful melodies across his back. His muscles rippled with a supple vigor infused by his want, and the delicious tension of anticipation played out across his flank. I was helpless before him.
He approached, and I felt my own longing spawned by this chance encounter stir powerfully, until it was a thing unto itself; a fleeting possibility of spirit taking on substance, an irrevocable touching of the being behind those dark eyes. Closer. Power and permission incarnate. His breathing amplified into short puffs. Closer. What little fear remained to him dissolved into a singular pellet of want; I could see it behind his eyes. Closer. That field of pure energy that defines me, and that I in turn define began to mingle with his; began the wonderful and overwhelming mixing that creates something so much greater than its parts. The promise of the mystics, that there is just the one, can in this moment be realized with the intensity and presence of a god. Slowly, and with a grace that I do not command, I reached out and offered my hand and its bounty. Touch. In what seemed an eternity but was surely only an instant, the exchange was made, and I basked in the radiance of his love; a love that knew no name.
He withdrew to the corner of his safety, tension slaked, awaiting the rest of his life. I bade him farewell and too quickly became again who I had been only moments before; a man, and like him, awaiting the rest of my life.
Yes, simply to sit and contemplate, to smoke, to sip my coffee, to eat my salad, that was the plan. How did I know that silly rabbit was going to come hopping up to the break table? I hope he enjoyed the carrot but I didn't see him eating it. He hopped into a pile of gear crates stored in the back of the factory; presumably to eat without any other rabbits trying to steal his meal away. I'll have to say that that was a first for me. So very unafraid. He gently took the carrot from my hand – and then raced off.
The magic was very real. There was a momentary suspension of the normal instincts that keep wild creatures from getting too close to us; large bipeds that we are, always unpredictable, and sometimes dangerous. When he approached to within two or three feet the fear just evaporated, as though he'd judged me and found me harmless; at least to him. But the magic was in more that just this. I had a very strange but very clear feeling that, for a special moment, I was him; that I could feel the order of the world he feels daily. I "felt" his world as an impressionistic mosaic; a soft edged approximation that so eloquently captured the spirit of things. Maybe that's why rabbits are such great broken-field runners.
He had given me a slice of his world, and as best I could, I had given him a slice of mine.
Actually, I don't know if it was a "he" or "she" rabbit. I mean, they're not like humans. You can't just go up, flip 'em over, and take a look. "Hmmm, let's see here. Oh yeah, it's a girl." Nope, that doesn't work with bunnies.
16.3.07
Global Rabies
Visiting a friend in hospital, you leave her room to get some coffee. Walking down the hall toward the vending area you spy a towel on the floor. A few feet beyond the towel stands one of those all-purpose carts -- the kind used by the janitorial staff. Reasonably assuming that the towel has just fallen from the cart, and being the fastidious citizen that you are, you bend over, pick it up, and toss it into the cart's wastecan just as two orderlies charge down the corridor toward you. They look at you, eyes wide, and say, voices trembling: "That fell from a tear in the bottom of the waste bag on the bio-hazard cart; it's contaminated with rabies virus!"
As you absently finger your watchband the staff physician tells you that rabies is virtually 100% fatal, that in all of medical history there has been only one person who survived untreated; a fifteen year old girl from Wisconsin. The physician says that infection may enter the body through the bloodstream and asks if you have any cuts or sores on the skin that came in contact with the towel. You look down at your index finger, at the little paper cut you got yesterday afternoon while cleaning your office. You silently pray to a personal God you do not really believe in.
So you are presented with your options and asked to make a decision. It is entirely possible that the part of the towel you touched was virus free, or that the virus particles in that area may have already been dead, in which case you will not contract rabies. It is also possible that the virus has already invaded your body. It may not be necessary, no one can tell you with absolute certainty, but you can choose to undergo a series of injections that will stimulate your immune system; enabling you to fight off the disease. The injections would be administered into the muscles of your abdomen and are known to be quite painful. Alternatively, you may elect to forgo treatment. After all, if you aren't infected you don't really need it and you will be fine. But, if you do have the virus in your body, you will almost certainly die.
As individuals most of us would choose to vastly reduce the risk of symptomatic rabies, albeit at the expense of some pain.
Where is Hari Seldon when we need him? As a species we often act contrary to the good of the whole, or of the individual. Humans have possibly contracted something far deadlier than individual cases of rabies, yet we debate endlessly. Is this weather, or is this climate? Are the changes we measure the result of axial precession, or the burning of hydrocarbons? Who the hell cares? We have touched the towel and we might get a fatal disease. The treatment will be painful; economic dislocation, clashing cultures, famine, disease, real suffering, and death. The alternative is possible, even probable, extinction.
We admire lemmings too well.
As you absently finger your watchband the staff physician tells you that rabies is virtually 100% fatal, that in all of medical history there has been only one person who survived untreated; a fifteen year old girl from Wisconsin. The physician says that infection may enter the body through the bloodstream and asks if you have any cuts or sores on the skin that came in contact with the towel. You look down at your index finger, at the little paper cut you got yesterday afternoon while cleaning your office. You silently pray to a personal God you do not really believe in.
So you are presented with your options and asked to make a decision. It is entirely possible that the part of the towel you touched was virus free, or that the virus particles in that area may have already been dead, in which case you will not contract rabies. It is also possible that the virus has already invaded your body. It may not be necessary, no one can tell you with absolute certainty, but you can choose to undergo a series of injections that will stimulate your immune system; enabling you to fight off the disease. The injections would be administered into the muscles of your abdomen and are known to be quite painful. Alternatively, you may elect to forgo treatment. After all, if you aren't infected you don't really need it and you will be fine. But, if you do have the virus in your body, you will almost certainly die.
As individuals most of us would choose to vastly reduce the risk of symptomatic rabies, albeit at the expense of some pain.
Where is Hari Seldon when we need him? As a species we often act contrary to the good of the whole, or of the individual. Humans have possibly contracted something far deadlier than individual cases of rabies, yet we debate endlessly. Is this weather, or is this climate? Are the changes we measure the result of axial precession, or the burning of hydrocarbons? Who the hell cares? We have touched the towel and we might get a fatal disease. The treatment will be painful; economic dislocation, clashing cultures, famine, disease, real suffering, and death. The alternative is possible, even probable, extinction.
We admire lemmings too well.
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