Humanity

Commentary Humanity Technology

What Is Real?

So . . . the scene above is on a ridge just a mile from our home. I made the picture from a trail we often use for morning walks. The mountain barely visible in the background is part of the Appalachian range, and the Appalachian Trail is up there along the top of it. As a landscape picture, this one is okay. Not great but okay. If I posted it on Facebook the picture would get some likes.

But what if there were some people in this picture, looking as if they belonged there? That would add to it, right? And since this is rural, perhaps they would best be a farming couple out enjoying the walk and talking with each other. Talking in a way to make you feel their enjoyment of nature and of each other. Something like the following perhaps . . ..

I was happy about what these people added to the picture and went on to think more about this. I visualized the same couple as they might be on a small farm beside the sea. Up high above it perhaps. On the coast of Ireland perhaps. And so I imagined the following . . .

We know the process that might be used to create this series of pictures. I would first have enlisted and contracted with the models. I would have selected the clothing they would wear, and arranged their transportation. I would have shot the bare landscape scene and then placed the couple in it for their part. Putting them in just the right location and distance from my camera. I would have directed them to interact in different ways and later selected the shots I liked best. Then we would book flights to Ireland and repeat this on the Cliffs of Moher in County Clare.

All this is reasonable and could have happened that way with an adequate budget and a good bit of time. Instead, using artificial intelligence, I selected a picture I had already taken and spent some enjoyable minutes with my notebook computer and my AI application. AI and I created these pictures. The result is every bit as good as the traditional method. Who could tell the difference?

But some would say the AI pictures are deceitful and misleading. Although they may look real, they aren’t real and so they should not be allowed. You, the reader, may have thought this already. It is not unusual if you did. It is also to be expected that more and more we will be questioning what we read and see because of AI. 

But, if you think about it, the movies we love are just like this—they aren’t real either. They create scenes and situations that never existed, but we watch them as if they did. Sometimes at the end we are so into the story that we stay sitting through all those rolling credits because we are so transfixed and hating to break the spell.

Music is also like this. Someone feels something strangely moving and writes it into music. The music becomes an experience of something that words only hint at. When this succeeds, the listener has the same experience. When this greatly succeeds, the music may endure for hundreds of years. Sometimes we even refrain from replaying our music too often because we want the experience to remain new and fresh.

Poetry is like this. The poet feels things and then invents the right words to convey those feelings. Some poems may also sustain us for hundreds of years.

So AI is simply another way that our imaginations can be enhanced and extended. And so what if AI can invent some things faster and better than we mortals can? Are we jealous? After all, we humans invented AI, did we not?

Should novels not be published that depict the unknown and uncertain? that portray places that don’t exist? that imagine happenings that never happened? Should makeup not be allowed because it makes people look better than they actually do? Should fairy tales and ghost stories be kept from the minds of children? Should actors not pretend to be someone they are not? Should cartoons and comedians not be allowed to portray the ridiculous?

Imagination, representation, and interpretation—whether in art, science, or storytelling—are inseparable from what makes human understanding possible. And our humanity allows for the paradox that AI, which lacks feelings and emotion, may still create images that produce those feelings in us. That is the remarkable irony here.

We spend about a third of our lives in sleep. And a lot of that time we are dreaming. What do we dream about? Much of the time our dreams have little relation to the literal and actual.

I will give an example of my own. I have a recurring dream where I literally “leap tall buildings at a single bound.” I sometimes do sustained flying using my arms as wings. Sometimes those flying dreams can go wrong and I crash to the ground. But when things are going right they are exhilarating. They are so real that I look forward to the next one.

If the imaginary in our dreams can be more satisfying than the actual in our lives, what does that teach about reality? 

Painters have been falling in love with portraits of people who never existed for centuries; readers weep over fictional deaths; a sculptor feels tenderness for a lump of marble that’s finally “become” someone.

The most persuasive answer to “what is real” could be this: real is whatever evokes a genuine response in us, regardless of where the image or story came from. 

Is heaven real? Some people casually think so. Others strongly believe so. Others doubtfully hope so. Others scornfully deny the very idea. None of these viewpoints can prove itself yes or no in scientific terms. Even AI has no clue. Human understanding and artificial intelligence both have their limitations. But our quest for reality continues.

There were many years that a lot of us looked forward each week to the imagined lives of people in a small Minnesota town named Lake Wobegon. We knew them by name, almost like dear friends. Father Emil, Pastor Ingqvist, Pastor Liz, Wally Bunsen, Mr. Berge, Miss Falconer, Johnny Tollefson, Harold Starr, Carl and Florian Krebsbach, Art of Art’s Bait Shop, and Dorothy of the Chatterbox Café. Some of them reminded us of people we knew, and some of them reminded us of us.

Was Lake Wobegon real?

I think the answer is both no and yes. I think the reality of much reality is both no and yes. The reality of the couple on the hillside near my home or on the Cliffs of Moher is both no and yes. I did not actually make a picture of those two people in those two places. But they look happy and can be imagined as belonging to either scene. You can imagine walking up and meeting them, smiling and getting acquainted. That would be so nice.

Maybe, for a while at least, it is better to dwell on things like that than on all the war and killing and lying and stealing and imprisoning and executing and deporting and other human cruelty that is the focus of our daily news.


Afterword

Someone might read this article and say that I have been duped by AI. I realize there is lots of negative feeling about AI these days. People complain about the jobs it is replacing, the energy it requires, the falsehoods that people create with it, the “cheating” that occurs when students use it in school. And, of course, others claim that AI is out to get us all and eventually destroy humanity. 

Along with this, there is also a lot of negative criticism directed at cellphones. They are ruining our children. We are getting addicted to them. People can’t have a conversation with people any more because of them. They are robbing young men of their manhood, etc.

Along with this, there is also a lot of negative criticism directed at social media. It is dividing the country, dividing families, promoting conspiracies and falsehoods, etc.

To me, it is all about how we are using these amazing tools. They can be used for amazing good or for depressing ill, and sometimes it does seem that the ill is winning out. 


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Commentary Humanity Stories

Meeting A Woman at the Pool

I drove to the pool with maybe a few problems on my mind. Eighteen strokes to the lap, thirty-six laps to the mile, half an hour of hard exertion, counting down, counting down.

My left hand is getting better. It used to start the pull too soon. The timing now is even and the stoke is smooth. It has taken years of daily swimming to accomplish this.

But what a feeling! To glide to the wall that last lap and let the body go loose. Let it hang free while the breathing slows to normal. While the day begins to form again, and the arms pull me up. Feet go under and the legs lift, and I am now like people suppose they were meant to be instead of swimming in water like a frog or fish. Hands take off the goggles and rub the eyes.

I headed for the small pool in the corner where you sit in hot water that churns at you from all sides. Good for the circulation but don’t stay too long and don’t use if you have a bad heart, they say. And I found a woman there, a woman all alone.

She was a friendly woman. Smiling and saying hello and wanting to talk. Talk I do not remember not much of, as you will soon understand.

For what I kept from that day till now was the sight of her body. Her body I tried not to be caught looking at. But whenever her head turned, or I dared a glance, I did look. Over and over I looked, as if forced and powerless.

And what I saw more of, each time, was always what I knew from the first. That she was a dying woman here in this water. Of cancer that was somewhere, maybe everywhere. A body looking dead already. As if nothing were left between her bones and the covering skin. Nothing.

It made me look strangely at the parts of myself I could see along with her parts. Mine were no stuff for a magazine cover, yet what a contrast. As if I were rich and famous and beautiful now. A different class of person from her. It felt good and bad both. Proud at first, then guilty. Conspicuous even, as if I was the one who should hide myself from view, not her. The lesser person there, and not the better one.

And I remembered there those troubles I’d brought. They came at me with a vengeance, as she smiled her bright smile, and chatted about the water and how nice the day was. Then said goodbye, pulling up to leave. And was sadly beautiful as she made her way.

 

Commentary Humanity People

What Becomes of All Our Stuff?

For many years, I have kept and preserved six large sealed bins of “keepsakes.” Some years ago I went through these bins and selected items to scan or photograph and preserve digitally. More recently I have done a second pass. I concentrated on items listed in their envelopes as “not scanned” and asked myself in terms of each single item whether to keep this or throw it away. I found myself throwing away a great many items and also reflecting on the time, not all that far away, when someone will have the task of going through all my life’s remainders and deciding whether to keep or throw away. 

What becomes of all our stuff?

Many of the items I put in the trash were 1) old pictures with no idea of who this was, 2) old articles that were meaningful to someone else but not to me, 3) pictures of family members I never really cared for, 4) old records that I see no future need for, and 5)  images and items of poor quality

My wife’s mother had been living alone in an apartment at age 86. She had a fall and decided it was time to move to assisted living. She left an apartment full of stuff with no space for it in the small bedroom where she had moved. All of it had to be gone through, sorted, donated, given to friends and neighbors, trashed, and a small amount preserved. My wife inherited this task.

My neighbor across the court died of a heart attack on vacation in his ’50’s. His wife who loved him dearly continued to live in their house for 15 more years with all his stuff. Then she became old and unable to live independently and moved to assisted living. Her family put out seemingly tons of old stuff for the trash, recycling, and various donations. Her stuff and his stuff.

My long time friend whose wife died could not bring himself to get rid of her clothes, her belongings, even her shoes beside the bed. He left it all just as it was. Now he has fallen and broken a hip and in rehab and looking at living with a walker the rest of his life. What what will become of her stuff?

Our neighbors on the court, neighbors for some 20 years, have been putting out huge amounts of recycling, trash, Salvation Army donations, and other unwanted stuff. They are not dead, then are moving to Florida, which is close to it. Their house has been full, and they must dispose of a lot of stuff before the move. It is like a rehearsal, a rehearsal for what comes later on.

And as I go through all my keepsakes, one by one, piece by piece, I know in my heart that most of these precious possessions, precious to me, are just “stuff” to others. Someone will clean them all out and discard them for trash or recycling, or to keep for awhile but then later get rid of. I anticipate this and do not dispute it, because I have done it myself. Maybe they will have a smile to two, a nod, a laugh of fond remembrance.  But their lives go on, and on without me and without my stuff.

Hopefully our lives are not the stuff we leave behind, although perhaps they actually are.

Presidents have a planned Presidential Library to preserve them when they leave. Most of us have no such privilege. Most of us leave stuff that gets thrown away. The most unfortunate among us leave nothing at all. The unfortunate leave no trace.

I am amazed at how easilyI discard some items I had saved in earlier year: articles by brother wrote, articles my father wrote, newspaper clippings, graduation programs, church certificates, pictures of dead relatives – it is almost like playing God. They are dead, and I am not, and I am deleting them. Sorry to them but so be it.

Those of us who live ordinary and commonplace lives have nothing more to look forward to than this when we are gone. Someone will dispose of all our stuff. And then we will be more gone from earth than we already were.

There is one complication in this discussion. In past ages, a person’s stuff consisted of paper housed in books or boxes. Now it consists a lot in digital images and documents housed on hard drives and stored in cloud storage. Much of my stuff is now digital. This means it might possibly endure for longer, or that it can be dealt with by a simple “select” and then “delete.”  And with that I am gone forever unless you rescue me from the trash.

I have texts of my authored books and all my old sermons when I was a minister. I have photos and videos of all my travel and adventures. I have articles, medals, letters of appreciation, records, awards, notes, everything dear to me. But all that is just my stuff. Others have their own lives to lead. What, if anything, will remain when I do not?

I imagined someone sitting at this table beside the boxes of my remaining stuff. Old seminary papers, sermons, book manuscripts, motorcycle pictures, travel photos, Boy Scout camp, parents, childhood, brothers died and killed, swim medals, books written, friends I knew. What, if anything, will endure?

The poor leave little or nothing. The rich leave a lot, but none of them survive it. As they say, “you can’t take it with you,” and you obviously can’t. The most of us leave some things, but those things do not endure.  All of it is “stuff,” and all of it was meaningful to us, but not to others, even our own children. This is true of rich and poor alike. Accept this as just how life is, and how it must be.

Commentary Humanity Religion

Do Short Shorts Matter?

There are those who live their lives with no moral struggles. To them, nothing is right or wrong. Things are simply desirable, or they aren’t. Self interest makes the choices. The laws of man or God may get in the way, but only as barriers to get around. 

Most of us aren’t able to live that way. Most of us have a nagging conscience raising questions of right and wrong. This can be a burden or a blessing . . .  depending. Most of us struggle to develop our standards of right and wrong, and struggle even more to follow them.

I was reminded of this at a dairy farm in Pennsylvania. A wonderfully clean and healthy place. A great place to live if you’re a cow or calf or human child. A place where Amish buggies come driving in to buy milk and eggs, delivering children to enjoy ice cream and animals.

The folks who run this farm work hard, love one another, live modestly, help their neighbors, study their Bibles, and go to church on Sundays. And like most of us, they consider the rightness or wrongness of their words and deeds. So as I read the polite request bullet-pointed in a list on the wall, I smiled but did not scorn it. It said:

To many, such a sign will seem quaint and belonging to an earlier time. When I first read it, I had that reaction. But then, the very next day, I read about the funeral of Aretha Franklin in Detroit. There was much discussion of the mini-skirt worn by one of the singers, and whether it was appropriate for a funeral or not. Many considered it “immodest attire.” And former president Bill Clinton was accused of gazing at the singer in an inappropriate manner by a Fox News panel. They called it “leering.” So the sign I read in rural Pennsylvania is more current than it appeared. …

Commentary Humanity

Life At the Social Security Office

He had made an appointment to see me at 1:30 to “catch up.” When I looked up and saw him walking in, I saw there was an HR person following. Inwardly I said, “Oh Shit!” Verbally I said, “Looks like I’m in trouble.”

2014-06-20_05-40-29So yesterday I went to my local Social Security office to apply for Medicare to replace the company health plan I’ll be losing soon.

The SSA office opens at 9:00 a.m. and I arrived right on time so I could get this done promptly. Instead, I found there were 50 people already there and lined up ahead of me. The guard opened the door on schedule, and we were all assigned a number and told to wait for our number to be called. Others kept arriving and all the seating on the hard steel rows of benches was taken and newcomers began standing around the walls. It seemed to take about 5 minutes for a new number to be called. That was not encouraging. …

Disabilities Health Humanity Uncategorized

A Hand and A Foot

My father and I had in common a pair of physical disabilities: his right hand and my right foot. Both were handicaps beyond our control, and both were a part of our self-consciousness around others. Although he was right-handed, Dad shook hands with others using his good left hand turned thumb downward. Around others, I instinctively hid my bad right foot behind my good left one. This created something of a bond between us.

Dad had mangled his right hand as a poor North Carolina mountain boy feeding sugar cane into a sorghum molasses mill. The mill took his index and middle fingers, and did damage to the rest of the hand as well. Despite this, Dad went on to college and played football, baseball, basketball, and track. The lack of fingers never kept him from writing or gardening or typing or fishing or anything else. But he was always conscious of it and spoke little about it.

Now and then, when they give us our feet, someone gets a defective one. My right foot was given me defective, being abnormally large and equipped with tiny useless toes. Doctors removed the toes and over the years whittled down the size as much as possible. The lack of toes never kept me from football, running, golf, hiking and mountain climbing, tennis, and swimming. But I am always conscious of the foot, especially around the curious.

One day I had finished swimming at a community pool and was showering in an open area in the men’s dressing room. In from the pool came a young boy, and I saw him see my foot. After an excited, wide-eyed look, he turned and ran back the way he’d come in. He returned with his little sister to show it to her. Then he went to the door and called for his mother to come in and see. The mother called them both back out and that was the last of it. Over the years I have had many wide-eyed children staring, and occasionally some adults.

When he was old, my father took me to the area where he had lived as a boy and lost his fingers. Out from Asheville is the town of Marshall, and out from Marshall was Brush Creek. Dad and his family lived in a cabin in a valley there, close beside the French Broad River. The valley was all grown up and void of homes or dwellings, but Dad took me where he said the cabin had been located, and where the cane mill had been. He explained that after the accident they took him across the mountain to a doctor, and the doctor removed what was left of the two fingers by lantern light. His older brother George kept the fingers in his pocket and the next day the boys buried them on hill behind the house. Dad told me he could show me the burial spot “within ten feet” and did, I can only assume.

Yes, I have been to VA hospitals and seen the war-injured. And, yes, I know that a bad hand and a bad foot are not to be compared with the wounds of those service men and women. And I know I could never fully appreciate the mental trials they endure. But I do have some idea about it.

Humanity People Stories

The Southern Curse

It happened again this morning. After swimming my laps, I proceeded to the large jacuzzi beside the slow lanes. There was a woman already in the jacuzzi and she had the Monster Jet. The MJ is my name for what is the strongest hot water blowing jet in any pool in Montgomery County, Maryland. I know this from trying them all, trust me. Put any sore bone or muscle in front of this jet and appreciate the results. All the regular swimmers at this pool know the MJ, as did the woman sitting there. As did I, and also the two men who entered soon after. You watch for your chance to take over the MJ as soon as someone leaves it.

frferfergverThe woman finally did leave it and immediately, simultaneously, I and another man made moves toward it. Our eyes met and each of us hesitated. He was a polite Asian man and middle-aged. He gestured toward the MJ as if to say “you were here first, go ahead and take it.” Instinctively I gestured back, “no, you can have it. I’m leaving soon anyway.”

I could have insisted and taken the MJ, but then I would have felt guilty. I kindly let the other man have it, and then I felt cheated.  Guilty or cheated, those were the choices.

But why are these the choices, you ask? I call it the Southern Curse. I was raised in Tennessee by a mother who taught and practiced the traits of kindness, generosity, politeness, patience, humility, and loving consideration for other people. She often quoted the words of Jesus about treating others the way we would want them to treat us. This was known as the Golden Rule. And as if our mothers were not enough, we heard of it often in sermons and Sunday School lessons and even from school teachers who were religious. I think it was recognized that we would never succeed in attaining this ideal completely, but the responsibility of trying to was ingrained.

“Do unto others as you would have them do unto you” was the motivating force behind John Brown’s stand against slavery and his eventual martyrdom by hanging in Charles Town, Virginia, in 1859. He reasoned that no person would want to be enslaved and therefore, as followers of Christ, we must not only refuse to enslave others, but must not tolerate a society in which human slavery is condoned and practiced. …

Commentary Humanity

Communication

The man walking to his airport gate with a cellphone at his ear is giving final instructions to someone with a tone of importance. Sitting in the splashing jacuzzi does not deter the bathing woman from talking on hers. And even the hotel maid waiting at the bus stop for her ride to work is talking, talking, talking.

How can she afford this? Something has convinced even our lowest wage earners and their children that their phones and talking on them is a necessity of life.

Switchboard-OperatorsI can remember when placing a call in our small town meant picking up the receiver and waiting for an operator to say “number please.” The phone numbers were three digits and all calls through this operator were local. A long distance call was needed even for another town just a few miles away. For those you needed to ask for a long distance operator. The reception on longer distance calls was often marginal. And because of the costs, long distance calls were considered a luxury and used sparingly. Often they brought bad news: a relative dead or a soldier killed in action. When the phone system was upgraded to rotary dial models that needed no operator, that was high technology. It was also the end of their jobs for a lot of women.

If this sounds like along time ago, it really wasn’t. It was not so long before those days that nothing like a telephone or telegraph existed. Or railroads or automobiles. Or a postal system or newspaper with wide circulation. It is not that far from when the fastest way to spread the word was someone riding on a fast horse or running on foot if they lacked one. …

Commentary Humanity

Room With A Disturbing View

The office where I spend my days looks out across a restaurant parking lot to a major intersection in the Maryland suburbs of Washington D.C. The restaurant draws people who work in offices like mine, mostly well dressed and prosperous appearing. There are groups of men, groups of women, couples, arranged meetings, and a few singles. I am on the ground floor, so I have a good view of this activity. I also have a good view of the activity just beyond it where Nicholson Lane crosses Rockville Pike. All day long the cars and trucks travel there: slowing, waiting, signaling, turning, sometimes honking. There are usually lines of cars just sitting and waiting their turns. This is why the intersection draws homeless people seeking assistance in the form of cash. Quite often there are several of them, and quite often they are there for most of the day. I have watched them in the cold of winter, the heat of summer, and everything in between.  …

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