“No Free Will” can mean two different things – The first of these is in our brains That we’re simply biological robots, Thinking we’re free but forever in chains.
The second is that the Future exists, It already exists, so it has to arrive – And the only way from here to there Is to give up choice and to let fate drive.
According to boffins, it’s out of our hands, That we’re all algorithms just floating in space, And the only uncertainty’s not us, but quantum, And anyway time is all over the place.
Now I know pressure, and I know predictable, And I know duality – a body and a soul – But minds are physical, products of biology, Not separate from bodies, but under their control.
And yet…And yet… Honestly ? I mean, yes, I get what they’re trying hard to say, But it doesn’t sit with me. I don’t feel a slave even on the dullest day – You know, I’m feeling pretty free. And yes, we could be programed so we never notice anyway, Or maybe we’re just bluffing. I mean, we’re self-aware – does that count for nothing ?, Not that the universe would care. But when it’s down to tails or heads, To blues or reds, Or jazz or blues, That barely even matters which we choose – Well…have we still the power to refuse ?
And as for that time thing…what’s there to discuss ? How did the future even get ahead of us ? They say it isn’t set, That we still get to select, Except, of course, except, That the causes haven’t happened yet, But all of the effects are in effect.
But come on, we all know that it’s bollocks ! Of course we all get to make a choice, We’re not all living in a virtual simulation, And there is no cosmic script that we must voice, Now normally I show respect to scientists, But normally they have to prove their stuff – So I’ll rely on common sense and take responsibility, And I’ll be free, at least – or free enough.
I heard him say the universe Is held within a glass of wine – And yes, it’s true there’s science, Even at the table when we dine – The way the light reflects, refracts – The way the liquid lets it shine – The glass that’s made from sand-made-clear, By how its molecules align – And evolution never sleeps, To accident’ly sculpt the vine. So let me raise a toast to Richard With this universe of mine.
February – season of mists And sniffles and sneezes and snorts. The lurgy is lurking, the palsy persists, That there’s no patent tonic or tincture can thwart. My fluid-filled senses are under attack so, And nothing can soothe me from Pfizer or Glaxo. Instead I must mop them with Cussons and Lever – The sweats and the shakes and the chills and the fever.
Is it just because my hands are swollen That my nat’ral poise is stolen ? Clumsy fingers uncontrolling, Rolling like they’re locked in boxing gloves. Is it just the syrup that I’m spooning That sets my giddy head to swooning ? Drifting in-and-out of tuning, Mooning like I’m some young thing in love. Either way, the outlook’s flaky – Something’s come and left me shaky. How am I to stem this phlegm cocooning me, That’s strewn in tubes below and pipes above ?
Unless… Unless it is you who is making me bluesy, Unless it is you who is laying me low, Weary and woozy and bleary and boozy I hate to be choosy, but say it ain’t so ! A cold front is passing, a hard sleet is falling – I hope they blow over once spring comes a-calling… Yet if I’m infected by what I suspect – Then there’s no cure can save me, and no ward protect.
Is it just because my eyes are streaming That the world looks like I’m dreaming ? Hazy psychedelic gleaming, Seeming strangely vivid yet unreal. Or is it my subconscious that I’m spying ? All the drugs my brain’s supplying Must have set my nerves to frying, Flying-off, and sleeping at the wheel. Either way, the outlook’s gloomy – Something’s come and left me rheumy. How can I accept your love undyingly, When dying is precisely how I feel ?
Gods dammit !, I’ve let myself grow optimistic ! I can’t believe I’ve let myself get hopeful-careless now ! “Cynical and real”, a jaded zeal and nihilistic tantra, That was long my mantra, was my self-improving vow – Forever “Cynical and real”, from Shangri-La to Slough. Expect the worst – the worst exists – be never solipsistic – I’m not alone, alas ! – there’s people ev’ry-bloody-where, Who seem to think their mission is to try and make me care. But hey, I seem to say, chuck that away for anyhow, For maybe and perhaps and if-I-dare, and worth-a-prayer, And gleaning gosh and go-for-it from what-about and wow.
Oh, this is gonna hurt, I know, Oh, this is gonna crush me in the vice of lessons-learned. But truly I deserve this blow, Because the flame of Hope must feed on hope, Must burn-up hope, till hope is burned. I should, I do, know better than to think that this old rope At which I grope, is yet a lifeline, not a noose. Ah, what’s the use… However much I tell myself That hopefulness is bad for health My under-mind is getting drunk on jubilation juice. Defeat is gonna flood this town Because I let my shields down, And all because I let the bastard Hope get on the loose. So come and claim me, He-Who-Wins, Come poke my eyes and kick my shins, My inner-voice needs dowsing and my spirit’s due a sluice.
But still…but still I hear its whisper, even now – I hear it over ev’ry chanting of my vow – “Cynical and real, must keep it cynical and real. There’s no repeal.” And if that’s bleak and bitchy, good ! It’s time I understood that harsh reality’s a cow, It ain’t some sweet and sad-eyed pup. So please, Defeat, please shoo the mutt And shut the damn thing up ! Please be the poison in the buttercup, The fungus in the bough.
Please, Defeat, for once, for all, Please stop me dreaming quite so tall – I cannot take another fall, Another draining of my tao. A swift one-two into the gut Should hobble me my cocky strut And fill my saccharine with gall. Quick ! I feel another wave of optimism building – But lilies aren’t for gilding, They’re for bearers of the pall. Quick ! Construct a wall to keep my pessimism filled in – I pray for mental doors of bronze To shut out Hope and all his cons, And fire arrows at his swans, until the dread is drilled-in.
Please drag a plough across my brow, I must allow more worries and more fears. So please, to anyone who hears me Hear me now ! Pray dim my eyes and salt my tears, And help me chant my vow: “Cynical and real, keep me cynical and real.” And all you optimists, forgive me, For I never meant to sign your deal. “Mumble, moan, and squeal – always cynical and real.” Let my dread of life outlive me, For I never meant to let me feel. Chant it with me, Chant it with me, Never let my let-downs heal. Cynical and real, beneath the ever-groping thumb – Keep me coping, keep me numb, Before all Hope is come.
And I’m never gonna smoke again – I’m gonna be a Mormon, or a rescued beagle, No more roll-ups, as high as an eagle, Till the wheezes, the hacks and the rasps have taken the hint – I’m gonna survive on placebo patches and mints, Till I can’t stand the pain.
And I’m never gonna drink again – I’m gonna be Methodist, or a prude, Resisting the caffeinated and brewed, Till the migraines, the slurs and the shakes have loosened the strap – I’m gonna survive on organic smoothies and tap, Till I can’t stand the pain.
And I’m never gonna eat again – I’m gonna be a model, or maybe a monk, Working out the body and cutting out the junk, Till the ounces, the pound and the stones have fallen away – I’m gonna survive on wholemeal carrots and hay, Till I can’t stand the pain.
Sketch of the bas relief on the Altar of Domitius, showing different stages of a census (the original is one long strip, here split in two. Judging from the armour, it likely dates from just before the Marian Reforms of 9894 HE.
The Counting Carol
[parts in italics are sung by all.]
The Romans go from house to house, Just counting – The Romans go from house to house To count each man and dog and mouse, And grub and flea and bug and louse, In city, plain and mountain. And when they knock upon our door To tally up our stock and store, Then what shall be our docket score ? But hark, [knock knock] But hark, [knock knock] But hark, I hear them knocking…
I count twelve notes that make a scale. So one last time, let us regale ! Twelve are the jurors, twelve are the scribes, Twelve are the inches and twelve are the tribes, And after a twelvemonth’s high society, Then twelve are the steps to dry sobriety.
Eleven players form a team, Be they ladies, be they gents.
Ten is the base of our number sense, Where digits get a neighbour.
Nine are the months of labour, From conception through to birth.
Eight the planets, like the Earth, Orbiting the Sun we are.
Seven diff’rent grades of star – Oh be a fine girl, kiss me ![/Oh be a fineguy, kiss me !]
Six domains of life we see – Do kings play chess on fine green silk ?
Five is the hour we harvest the milk, Five, five per day to thrive ! Five are my fingers, five are my toes, Five is the starfish and five is the rose. A hedgerow rose ? Well, I suppose. There’s always five on one of those. Five are the petals and the leaves she grows, Attracting the bees and attracting the nose.
Four are the forces, I propose, Forces nature shall have it be – Electromagnetic and gravity, And the strong and the weak attraction.
Three each science branch or faction – Bio, chemo and physio learning. Three the dimensions through which we’re turning, And three the hands on my watch tell time.
Two is the first and smallest prime, Two is the first of the even-kind. Two, oh two, you’re one behind, You’re second-best at bestest.
And then came one, and so we rest – We’ve counted each and ev’ry guest. For one is one, the last and first, The very best, the very worst. For one is one, is most perverse – The all-enclosing universe.
This is intended to be a cumulitive carol, like Green Grow The Rushes, Oh or that other one whose name I can’t recall. It starts from 1 and works its way upto 12, with cut-down verses to speed things along (they’re only sung in full when they’re introduced and on the final time). Thus the penultimate verse is like this:
The Romans go from house to house, Just counting – But hark, [knock knock] But hark, [knock knock] But hark, I hear them knocking…
Eleven players form a team, Be they ladies, be they gents.
Ten is the base of our number sense, Where digits get a neighbour.
Nine are the months of labour, From conception through to birth.
Eight the planets, like the Earth, Orbiting the Sun we are.
Seven diff’rent grades of star – Oh be a fine girl, kiss me ! [/Oh be a fineguy, kiss me !]
Six the kingdoms of life we see – Do kings play chess on fine green silk ?
Five is the hour we harvest the milk, Five, five per day to thrive !
Four are the forces, I propose, With the strong and the weak attraction.
Three each science branch or faction, And three the hands on my watch tell time.
Two is the first and smallest prime, Two is the first of the even-kind.
And then came one, and so we rest – We’ve counted each and ev’ry guest.
I am aware that although their are twelve notes in an octave (not counting the repeat of the root-note an octave higher), only seven or so will be used in any given scale – well, except the chromatic scale of course. Yes, that’s it, that’s what I really meant, I wasn’t being ignorant at all…
I’m also aware that current biology only recognises three domains of life (bacteria, archaea, and eukaryotes) though the latter is often further divided into four kingdoms (animal, fungus, plant, and protists), which of course totals six. But these days there are many competing schemes, and so I called them ‘domains’ here because a) it makes it clear not to take it too literally, and b) because it scans better.
Anyway, current thinking has it that eukaryotes were born from a combination of an asgard archaea with a mitochondria bacteria, meaning that the current living descendants are more closely related to humans and dandelions and baker’s yeast and kelp and slime moulds than they are to all other bacterias and archaeas. Well, sort of…
And yes, I know those are double plurals – but hey, it’s Christmas, the season of giving!
Mary, Mary, Little fairy, Like those Grecian girls of old: The bull and swan have entered in, The golden rain has soaked your skin, So what’s inside, Mary Bride, And were you told ? Like the girls and the Nephelim did when they kiss In the book of the partheno-Genesis, So a tale this big is too big to disbelieve, And the giants in this world are conceived By women who are bold.
Mary, Mary, Extr’ordinary How does your foetus grow on its own ? Maybe a haploid, unfertilised seed, That’s only half a human, indeed ! So are you sure, Mary Pure, Just what you’ve grown ? But it has been shown in the lizard and the aphid, And a miracle Messiah has been prophesised since David, In a tale so big it’s too big to be denied – So the drag-king of the Jews must be supplied Through your daughter – through your clone.
If depression is a black dog, Then I reckon that Paranoia is a grey rat: Small and sulking, Squeaking, skulking – Always watching, Always gnawing, Never passioned, Never thawing.
Yes, that’s about the sum: A greyed-out rat who always looks askance – A rat who feasts on ev’ry crumb, And looks for plots in ev’ry chance. A rat who thinks the world must think About his each and ev’ry thought – A rat who sniffs at ev’ry chink, And always find the intrigues sought.
He pads in silently, and whispers how The world conspires to bring his doom, The righteous woes that plague him now, His whiskers twitching in the gloom. Then scuttles off to disavow, And seep his piss across the room.
This is the time of the viral star: Of the unintended baritones, Of sudden blasts on nose trombones, And the throaty roar of bass catarrh ! The husky whisper strains with grief To the beat of mints against the teeth.
It was late o’clock in late October, I recall, As I buttoned up my coat and set off home – My hours in the library had still left no trace, The depths of my mind were whipped to foam. So, keen to sooner reach out to my waiting bed, I took a shortcut past the ancient church – And in my barely-woken walk I stumbled through the graves, As I fancied how their folks might up-and-lurch.
But I never thought they would… But I never thought they’d push the slabs aside… And yet, here were their skeletons Just walking round as if they’d never died ! Good thing I was overtired, Or else I’d surely have to scream and hide…
Paralysed by shivering and weariness, For the sight of all those bones had rattled me – But most because I’d spent all week to memorise On the finer points of man’s anatomy. And as I looked in horrified astonishment, A prayer had made its way onto my lips: “The head bone is connected to the vertebrae, And the metacarpals to the fingertips.”
But I never thought they could… Yet I never had the chance before to watch the dead. And yes, the hour was very late, But then, well, so were they ! Yet there they tread – And right there in the flesh… Or, excuse me, out the flesh, I should have said.
I saw upon those skeletons the marks of busy lives, Like bones that once had broken and re-set – I saw some more with fractures, some with cancers, some with spurs, In a lesson I could never now forget ! Their joints had lost their cartilage, yet showed no trace of arthritis, Where bones were grinding naked onto bones, And osteoporosis having tapered some so thin, Yet so carelessly they danced around the stones.
And I’ve never understood… But I suddenly remembered ev’ry word I’d read – These visions were impossible, Because of ev’ry fact that popped-up in my head And I was overcome, And I dropped down in exhaustion on my grassy bed.
And when I woke up, slowly woke up, propped against a gravestone, Quite alone in my new neighbourhood – Well, I dusted off the dew and I made my way to class, To a test I had to pass – and knew I would. Now I cannot expect you to believe a single word of it, Yet deep down in my marrow, there’s a shred… Though I looked around the churchyard on that morning as I left And saw ev’rything was still and very dead.
But I never said you should… Don’t believe my ev’ry no-word-of-a-lie – And as a trainee-medic, I will always trust in science till I die. But whatever did occur that night, I’ll always know one thing – dem bones ain’t dry !
I am a little bit embarrassed to admit that ‘arthritis’ above needs to be stressed on the first syllable instead of the second to fit the rhythm, but I can’t be that embarrassed since I haven’t removed it.
