This morning’s news of Philip G. Zimbardo’s death one week ago at age 91 reminded me of the controversy surrounding the Stanford Prison Experiment. In the experiment, Zimbardo and a team of his graduate students recruited college-aged males to participate in what was planned to be a two-week experiment. The young men were to spend that time in a mock prison in the basement of a building on the Stanford campus. After just six days, the experiment was terminated because the men playing the role of guards became psychologically abusive and the “prisoners” suffered a variety of unexpected emotional reactions. Zimbardo was roundly criticized for the fact that he participated in the study, serving as the “superintendent,” an active participant in the experiment and not simply a neutral observer. Psychology and sociology classes I took during that period spent significant amounts of time reviewing the study and critiques of the way it was carried out. Despite its flaws, the abandoned study offered fascinating insights into the powerful effects that assigned roles can have on participants. It gave clues, as well, to the ways in which prison environments can transform individuals’ behaviors in very short periods of time. The experiment spurred other research, as well, that led to all manner of questions and answers concerning psychology and sociology, in general. I think the questions and discussions surrounding the ethics of Zimbardo’s experiment may have been among the topics that ignited my interest the social sciences and prompted my decision to get a degree with a major in sociology. That and the fact that one of my brothers had already followed that path, with a master’s degree in sociology, focusing on criminology. Another brother’s involvement in linguistics sparked my interest in that discipline, as well. I wonder whether I had any interests of my own during my college years or whether, wanting to latch onto something, I gravitated toward their interests? Hmm. Food for thought and fuel for musings.
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Physical energy and psychological energy probably are closely linked to one another, but each may exist on its own, to some extent. Physical energy may not rely heavily on psychological energy, but I doubt the reverse is true; psychological energy almost certainly depends on adequate supplies of physical energy. If I were asked to define those two forms of energy, I probably would stumble and admit my understanding of them is incomplete. Pushed further, I might admit I do not know that they are different from one another. In fact, I might reveal that I know absolutely nothing about them…even whether they exist, except in my own mind. The difference between knowledge and belief is stark; one is based on a person’s understanding/perception of measurable observations—the other requires no evidence whatsoever. When I write, I tend to allow my words to wander in the same way my thoughts wander. Hence, the sometimes difficult-to-follow (for the reader) connections between the ideas I record. Because my fingers cannot keep up with my thoughts, my writing may seem to be embedded with gaps between apparently unrelated ideas. On the other hand, when my thoughts slow to the speed of cold molasses, my fingers may try to fill in the empty spaces with incoherent splashes of language. That is why, on the road to understanding, the shoulders often seem caked with mud.
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A few years ago, I began writing a story that involved mermaids swishing their tails to propel them through the leaf litter on the forest floor. These mermaids were forest mermaids, not the kind we read about that use their tails to swish through water. Like so many other dozens…more likely, hundreds…of stories I have begun, this story about forest mermaids has never been completed. So many unfinished stories remain in my head, waiting to be released into the wild when the time is right. Will the time ever be right?
