Quick thought
I'm writing in response to some of my altered-ego D.L.'s ideas (expressed on Lasken's Log at https://laskenlog.blogspot.com/) in which he seeks to prove the existence of machinations designed to ensure that we walk into World War III with our eyes open, thinking we are awake though we are deep in a pre-scripted dream. As I gape at Doug's stamina in constructing proofs (or at least support) for his ideas, I can't help sitting on my rocker on the front porch of my desert abode, looking out over the baked Mojave and wondering if I should be sorry that long ago I stopped trying to prove things. Now when I argue with my frequent companion Robert the Telepathic Gila Monster, he will barrel down on me for the slightest variance from his opinion, yet if he opposes mine, I just stop trying, frustrating him no end.
What is all this about "proving" things, anyway? It's not like we ever really prove anything. What if standard humans were telepathic and evolved to share ideas, to have them together at the same time, and to change our minds about those ideas together? I bet there would be no less certainty about reality than if aggressive humanoids invaded and started proving things.
That's my quick thought for now! Best, Harry
Addendum: Robert the Telepathic Gila Monster, it turns out, was crouched outside my cabin scanning my mind as I wrote the Quick Thought above. His intrusive mental barks jolted my creative space just as I hit the "submit" button:
Robert: Harry, you defeatest! So you're through proving things, and to cover your collapse you now claim, without proof I might add, that nothing can be proved?
Me: The correct form is proven, Harry.
Robert: Oh is that the correct form? Can you prove it! Ha! Ha! [It turns out you can laugh telepathically.] You sad sack, Harry! Proving something just means you give a reason why you think it. If you've given up on that, you're probably well on your way to La-La Land, where I'm sure you'll make many new friends.
And with that I heard the soft splatter of Robert's urine against my cabin. The next morning I learned that Robert is able to write with his pee, adding for the purpose a special dye that stains whatever the receiving medium - in this case my front door - a bright orange. Confirming my suspicion that Robert is a narcissistic pest with whom I associate only to avoid too much of my own company, I beheld on the lower end of my cabin door Robert's poem, squirted, I assumed, in response to the previous night's exchange:
Listen to the raindrops:plink...plink... plink...
Saying something clear yet
indistinct.
Watch the swirling foam going
down the sink,
and you'll agree with me about
what I think.
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