Ken Watts

The Guardian Dolphin

1 - I Want to Tell You a Story

Forty, fifty years, and I still remember the sunset, the color of the sea.

And Charlie...

I want to tell you a story.

Part of it is mine, and part is only mine to tell.

Don't ask why it happened this way.

Don't ask how I know.

You might as well ask why a baby smiles—how the right woman brings meaning with her, like a shawl.

It's magic, that's all.

Like yesterday.

Like everything.

Like the color of the sea.

Picture this.

No One has Seen an Evolution at Any Time...

And another...

"We know atoms exist. Yet, unless one has an electron microscope one cannot see an atom. So we believe the evidence (facts) other have given us.

The difference here, someone could get a microscope and actually show us an atom. And while you and I may well believe the evidence we've been shown concerning survival of the fittest and losing our tails over time is compelling evidence of evolution, we just don't have anything akin to the microscope for this argument. "


A reader writes:

"Since the whole gravity thing is just a theory, we should have tethers so we don't float out into space."

This may make my point better than I did. Knowledge about the real world consists entirely of theories, which we have more or less evidence for. We can't prove, absolutely, that gravity will always work—because absolute proof belongs to abstract subjects, like mathematics. But the evidence from our past experience is so strong that we are quite willing to walk around without tethers.

Notes from the Rim

The Chasm

I've been having a discussion on email lately with a friend. I have the highest regard for him, and I hope he feels the same about me. We get along well in person; partly, I think, because we never talk about politics or religion.

On e-mail, however, we can't seem to agree on anything, even on what we don't agree about, or why we don't agree.

It's as though we lived in two different worlds, and in a way I suppose we do. Our world is as much a function of our worldview as it is of our experience, and my friend’s worldview and mine are separated by an enormous chasm.


The Book of the Story

THE BOOK, OR THE BOOK OF THE STORY1, was composed sometime during the early twenty-first century, in the midst of the neo-post-modern reactionary ferment which preceded the period of The Second Enlightenment. The alert reader can see, with little difficulty, the seeds of that Enlightenment in these pages.


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