Immutable facts—certainty cast in bronze—often take on different appearances when viewed through a temporal lens. Like people, as they age, they can become encrusted with patina left by the passage of time. Though facts may remain unchanged, their importance—or their insignificance—evolves to reflect the circumstances surrounding them. Sacrosanct facts and truth are illusions created at the sometimes-chaotic intersection between understanding and interpretation; both of which reflect the influence of perspective. The angle of one’s point of view and the presence or absence of obstructions to that viewpoint determine what a person’s mind processes. There is no inarguable reality. “Nobody’s right if everybody’s wrong.”
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Bias can cause us to interpret ideas and experiences in ways that confirm our opinions and beliefs. We can, for example, decide that every word from the mouths of progressive politicians is a liberal lie or, conversely, that when far-right conservatives speak, it is only to mislead. Statements or actions made by people with whom we usually disagree may be ascribed negative motives which do not actually exist. But people “friendly” to our biases may be assumed always to have only the best intentions. Either way, bias is the enemy of understanding and an obstacle to knowledge. We tend to find it difficult to admit our biases, especially when they contrast with evidence that does not support them—we disbelieve the evidence in favor of our biased opinions. I think the root of that difficulty is that we feel deeply wounded when proven wrong. Rather than admit our strongly-held (but unsupportable) opinions are wrong, we fight to hold on to our self-respect by refusing to admit our faults. By doing so, we dig the grave for our own integrity.
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I keep coming back to an old idea of mine for a book or a short-story set in a fictional town suffering decay brought about by “progress.” Though I regularly think about it, I have been unable to force myself to do much more than that. Actually thinking through the story and the characters—and the ways in which the circumstances and the people affect one another—would take much more time than heretofore I have been willing to force myself to give. If I am to have even a remote chance of brining the story to life, and to conclusion, I have to insist on spending many uninterrupted hours writing every day. Even then, I do not know whether the product would be worth the effort. And maybe it’s just wishful thinking; maybe it’s more work than I’m willing or able to devote to something for which there is no assurance of “success.” Who knows? I’ve had so many now long-dead ideas for stories that I’ve lost count. Ach! And here I sit, procrastinating by complaining to myself about procrastinating.
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We’ve begun watching an Acorn TV (British) police detective drama series entitled “Ellis.” The show, starring Sharon D. Clarke, has thus far been riveting. I need to admit that I’m better at consuming entertainment than creating it.
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Even though we both feel considerably better than we felt during the peak of our fairly minor battle with COVID, we’re still spending our time at home. Had it not been for the damn COVID, we would have gone to the World Tour of Wines dinner a few days ago (Thursday); it would have been nice to visit with our regular wine dinner group and to taste good wine and good food. But, to the extent possible, we’re avoiding contact with others, just in case…we do not want to get, nor to give, unwelcome illnesses. Tomorrow, though, and through Thursday, I will make the rounds with medical folks again. A long chemo session tomorrow, a post-chemo injection on Tuesday, a PET-scan on Wednesday, and (still to be confirmed) a follow-up review of the PET-scan results on Thursday.
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It’s almost 6:30 and I’ve been up for 2½ hours. I’m getting a little sleepy, though, so I might just nap a bit. I’ve already had my breakfast of a peach-flavored Ensure and a banana, but I may have room for something a little more substantial. I shall see.
