The Cosmic Problem, how I solved it (almost).

Waking early this morning, bright in mind but lazy in body, I thought to while away the time before I got up by solving a problem that is foxing the cosmologists of today.  Nothing can match the nest of a comfortable bed to the fostering of a straightforward answer to a large question.  I got it in five minutes.

I asked, why do the outermost bits of the cosmos speed up instead of slow down as I would expect.  When a bullet is sent on its way by an explosion, its speed and the distance it travels becomes immediately effected by gravity drawing it down towards the earth, and by the material through which it travels, such as air, metal, clothing, flesh and bone. Even if there is nothing it its way I would not expect it to move faster and faster - but the outer reaches of the cosmos do just that.

My understanding of the Big Bang is that it was not unlike the showy bit of a firework when it bursts onto the night sky in an expanding sphere of coloured sparks. As the initial thrust of the explosion loses its power the bits and pieces of burnt paper and cardboard begin to fall back toward the earth. Slowly at first, then quicker and quicker as gravity takes hold.

Burrowing back into the pillow -, I said to myself, it is plain common sense to infer that there’s something outside our cosmos that is pulling the outermost nebulae and stars away from us at ever increasing speeds.

Since cosmologists factor in Dark Matter because they can’t make their sums work without it, even though they are not sure what it is, what it looks like, or smells and tastes of, then they should also factor in a constant for HHG-Matter*, this being the attraction force outwith our cosmos.  Although I use the phrase ‘Big Bang’, the actual event might have been quite a small big bang when seen from the greater perspective.  It’s not difficult to imagine lots of little big bangs going off like fireworks all over the place each pulling and jostling the others, like they might be at a party of adolescents…at which point, as our planet bowled along in a bewildering number of directions, consequent distortians, all at a frightening velocity through space,  I slipped into a secure and happy sleep...

*: HHG= Huge Humongous Gravity

Tony Blair: "Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise, That last infirmity of noble mind"… John Milton

I use an old stage director’s trick to help make up my mind about people who somehow raise a question mark. To get it to work, I imagine the person in question within the proscenium, picture frame, of an old fashioned theatre - often as not their true character begins to emerge. Everything about them sharpens into significance and becomes as clear as if they were appearing in a play. We have all strutted and fretted our hour upon the stage.  Even in the first hour of our lives we are what I like to think of as a professional baby.  Even when asleep, we give perfect performances of ourselves.

A politician who raised a question mark for me was Tony Blair when urging us to vote for him on his way to becoming leader of New Labour.  Mystified by his popularity, I subjected him to ‘test by theatre’. Within the confines of my imagined proscenium arch he came over the footlights as a matinee idol, complete with flashing teeth, a daringly sincere eye and with the two sides to his face both ‘best’ and ever ready to be photographed.  We can all call upon what acting ability we may be blessed with to make a point - I have in mind, teachers and politicians.  I think it must be a rare treat to find someone using politics to forward an acting career.

A well-known rule of thumb tells us that we tend to marry those in whom appear traits and characteristics of our parents, or carers.  At the time of which I speak, it was no secret that Cherie Booth’s dad had been a successful professional actor. Tony Blair was Cherrie Booth’s choice of husband. At the time, I was living and working in Scotland, and must have askit masel, maybe, just a wee bitty, was mistress Booth’s choice influenced by that sma bit something in Tony Blair’s perrson that reminded her of her auld daddy? Och aye, mebbe! I’ll hae a wee dram on that forbye.

I was appalled, though not surprised, when Tony Blair joined President George W. Bush in pouring scorn on the view held by the United Nations' former chief weapons inspector in Iraq, Hans Blix, that Saddam could be disarmed without a war.  It was then that my harmless necessary theatre of fun was overshadowed by the shock and awe of the theatre of war.

Tony Blair appears to me to hug dramatic moments unto himself.  Even to marrying into the family whose antecedent, William Booth shot President Lincoln during a theatrical performance in 1865.  Keep the spotlights on me, seems to be Tony Blair’s slogan

I wonder if the danger to us, let alone his own soul, lies in his not recognising this aspect to his character - he just doesn’t know what a damn good actor he is.  His current performance is that of being our Middle East peace envoy. Give that man an Oscar.

I remember seeing three women teachers on TV insulted by a professor who they looked to for guidance on the subject because he upbraided them on their loose use of the word.  It was a sharp reminder to me that one goes further with a lump of sugar than a spoonful of vinegar.

I have little memory for words that I had not got under my belt by the age of 20. And a high proportion of those I tend to misspell. Yet I would not have them simplified for the reason that they, like me, carry within their eccentricities a history of their being in our speech and dictionaries. I enjoy words, even though they tease me unconscionably.  Thank goodness for spell checkers. I look forward to software that helps with rhythm in writing.

A year or two ago I faced with trepidation an operation to replace my left hip.  I needed something to take my mind off the approaching event.  I put to good use my difficulty with words.  I chose to learn verbs and case ending in Ancient Greek – How sensible! I hear you say?

Well, sensible or not, the ruse worked. That is, it worked for long enough to get me through.  I’ve forgotten most of it, but that doesn’t matter.

Here are two efforts I made to go with exercises I was working on in my copy of Teach Yourself Greek. Ancient Greek is the language of drama (the thing done), and of philosophy and poetry, and myth….And of getting over the fear of an operation. I suppose the sketches are too sketchy to mean much, but they are actually scans of my having to think hard about something not important to avoid thinking about something very important – like catching a killer bug in hospital…. perhaps there is something aseptic in ancient Greek because I didn’t catch anything nasty.