Unco Rectitude

Recent Advances in Green Monkey Theory

I am not sure – have I discussed Green Monkey Theory in these pages?  Well, if I have, it will not hurt to recapitulate for those who may have come in late.  The name comes from a conflation  of two works of science fiction read back when men were men and sci fi was what it ought to be and dinosaurs contended with dragons for mastery of the land.  Briefly put, the nub of the theory is as follows:

Given a troop of monkeys T, if you introduce a monkey G that you have painted green, they will mount an attack A, tear and rend.  More formally,

T + G > A

This formula is a useful account of the treatment across space and time of minorities by the majority in human societies.  Jews and Gypsies in Europe; brains and retards in American schools; those in the sciences who do not buy into the standard theory – all Green Monkeys.  These are the ones who look different, act different, speak, walk, think, dress differently.

Having been a Green Monkey in almost every social group I have entered, I have come to recognize the validity of T + G > A.  If you doubt, you try stopping after one drink at a party in Kenya, or bringing up intriguing developments in String Theory in a sports bar.

Of late, however, I have realized that the theory as stated is inadequate, and refinements are needed.  We shall consider a few of the most important.

POSTULATE 1:  A Green Monkey must be, or be perceived as being, the same species as the Troop.  A chimpanzee entering a sports bar may be perceived as dangerous or undesirable, but will not be treated as a Green Monkey.  If a humanoid alien from the planet Archon enters the bar, he will be treated as an alien.  If a human dressed as an Archonite enters, he may well be Green Monkeyed.

So we amend our equation to reflect that all players must be monkeys:

Tm + Gm > A

POSTULATE 2:  A Green Monkey must be, or be perceived to be, abnormal.  In a stable and sustainable society, the weird person who moves into the neighbourhood, talking and dressing funny, has a high probability of being GreenMonkeyed.  But a person who talks and acts just as weirdly may well be integrated rather than Green Monkeyed, if he and his peers and cousins grow up together.  But if a normal member of the troop should leave, spend time elsewhere, and then return visibly different, that individual may well be Green Monkeyed – this is the classic case of the monkey taken out, painted green, and returned.

So the equation must again be amended to reflect that familiarity F limits the rejection and separation S enhances it:

Tm + Gm

—————-      > A

F – S

POSTULATE 3:  A Green Monkey must constitute or represent a minority whether in numbers or in power.  A Hmong in an American town is a very probable Green Monkey.  An American Marine entering a Hmong village has a low probability of being Green Monkeyed.  For the Green Monkey phenomenon to occur, the threat associated with the weirdness must not be a clear and present danger.

The equation must now include the factors of power P and numbers N:

Tm + Gm

—————-      > A

F(P + N) – S

POSTULATE 4:  Attitude counts.  A Green Monkey must be perceived as choosing or embracing difference.  A Latvian American who adopts the grooming, topics of conversation, dress, food, social behavior of those around him may well be accepted despite his accent.  A Latvian American with perfect English who wears funny ties and sits in the break room reading a Latvian newspaper and drinks Riga Black Balsam instead of brewskies – that one may well be Green Monkeyed if he is not the boss.

Even where difference exists, it may be taken as a mitigating factor if the weird one has humility.  If the Latvian American is trying to make his English more colloquial, that is a plus.  If he talks about how the Latvian paper is more reliable than the Times, that is a minus.

So we amend the formula with voluntary difference V and humility H:

Tm + (Gm – H)

—————-      > A

F(P + N) – SV

I am sure further refinements are possible, and of course it would be desirable to include, for example, a viridity constant – the amount by which rejection increases for each point of difference, since a monkey painted green and perfumed with My Sin will stimulate a stronger rejection on the part of the troop.

But that must wait for future research.  Here we have offered four amendments to the theory, which was the goal of this paper and constitutes, I would suggest, a significant advance in our understanding.

Ach du lieber

Toma lo que Quieres, Dice Dios, y Págalo

A few days ago I ran across a quote from one Walter Kubilius, apparently a producer of science fiction from the early part of the glory days of sci fi.  I never knowingly heard of him, but he said, it seems:

 

Free will is an illusion.  It is synonymous with incomplete perception.

Well, I could hardly let that just go by.

 

I have been chewing the metaphysical coding on this issue of free will for a while now. Getting what seem to be useful insights.  There seem to be four principal viewpoints, besides the inevitable “couldn’t care less” contingent:

 

 

The predestinarian claims that free will is not an issue, since God or Fate has decreed all things.

 

The determinist says that free will is not an issue, because the state of the universe at any given instant is predetermined by the initial arrangement of the Big Bang and the laws of nature.

 

The voluntarist chooses to believe that one’s will can determine outcomes.

 

The volitionalist considers that one’s will can affect outcomes.

 

 

Now, of course, the ideal reasoner – that would be me – sees the basic conflict.  At the level of the universe, whether you assume natural laws operating on an initial state or a divine entity assumed to be omnipotent and omniscient and outside or above time, you pretty much have to assume that the whole shebang [how feminist physicists refer to the initial event?] is predetermined.  You can perhaps allow some wiggle room based on uncertainty, but even if locally I can decide to shift to italic and back again, the universe will slide back into its groove; the stamping butterfly will not affect the shape of the galaxy a billion years hence.

 

But at the level of the sentient individual, things look different.  I can watch the bees in their hive and convince myself that their intricately interlocking behaviors, their comb building and wagging dances and swarming, are all mechanical outcomes of their design and programming, their hardware and software, as it were.  Turn the player piano on and sit back, out comes the music, the humming hive, the dance of the galaxies.  But from my seat in the cockpit, it feels different.  There are the indicator lights, the vibrating steering wheel, the cursor requesting user input.  I make a choice, often what certainly feels like a spontaneous decision, choose a response.  And my body, the world, seem to respond.  In some cases – think of Joseph deciding to go ahead and marry merry Mary [that is a tribute to my grandfather and his speech patterns], or the Buonaparte’s deciding to have another baby – individual decisions have made a noticeable impact on the planet.  Maybe I cannot determine the path of this skidding semi that is the universe – mine is not the only will on earth, and there is such a thing as inertia – but my choice seems to be effective.  Maybe the effects of the butterfly’s stamp are damped out before they reach Andromeda, but the butterfly might just make a difference to the next Olympic Games.

 

Of course, it is impossible to determine with certainty how the two sides play out.  Whatever the outcome of whatever the experiment, the hardcore determinist can always claim that outcome was preordained.  And since we do not know the Big Bang state nor all the natural laws nor the perfect will of God, we must hold our peace.  And the hardcore voluntarist can always say, “See, I chose to stick my tongue out at you.  Show how that is written in the laws of God and the universe.”  And since -again – we do not know the Big Bang state nor all the natural laws nor the perfect will of God, we must hold our peace.

 

Now neither Almighty God nor the stamping butterfly have given me knowledge of he Big Bang state and all the natural laws and the perfect will of God, but I choose to speak.  I have maintained for a little while now that because in this universe there is Time, and because we can see only this small slice of the space-time continuum, we are not omniscient, and we can and will choose.  Incomplete perception, as Kubilius states, makes choice – will – possible.

 

Yet because the timed universe IS in timeless eternity, and known in all its dimensions by eternal sentience, the outcome is in fact determined.  Our choice is as determined as its effects.  We have Free Will in the universe.  But the universe and all in it is predestined.

 

Like most paradox, this rests simply on a semantic quirk.  All that has been claimed by most serious thinkers is free WILL.  The punter can go to the races and bet on whatever horse he may choose.  His $50 on the nose of Fireplug will not change the outcome of the race.  But he chose to make that bet.  Who knows, he may win.

 

Most of us who do not think that long hear “Free Will” and figure that means we pays our money and we takes our choice AND THEN WE GET WHAT WE WANT.  Talk about the triumph of hope over experience!  I don’t know about you, but I have decided and requested and commanded and prayed – and daily I run up against man proposes, God disposes.

 

But Kubilius is wrong.  There IS free will.  He is right.  Free will does come from incomplete perception.  But what we don’t have is CONTROL – the spirit is willing.

My Ostracon

So, we done did the election thing.  Lulu and I piled into the car and went to do our civic duty, and we can therefore claim equal responsibility for any welcome developments with all the upstanding citizens who voted, and blame any negative outcomes on people like Ibrahim, who cynically opted out. and stayed home.

So here we are, the results are in, the dust is settling, waiting for the winds of change to rise and make a clean sweep, and it is a good time to reflect on our great republic’s democratic system and my part in it.

My first vote in a national election was cast for Richard M Nixon.  No, wait, don’t leave the froom, and put down the rotten tomatoes and stones.  The ticket was Eisenhower and Nixon, and I was in 4th grade.  I have no idea if they still do it, and I did not and still do not understand why they did it then, but in 3rd grade we had to read and report on wars and peace talks which made no sense whatsoever, so as to be up on “Current Events”, and in 4th grade we had to pretend we were voting for president.

I was almost as politically savvy then as I am now.  I voted, as I said, for Eisenhower and Nixon.  My choice was based purely on the issues of the day – that is, I believed that my parents were going to be voting Republican, and I believed they must know what they were doing.  Hey, we won – yay team.

No, I cannot tell you why I thought that they were Republican leaning.  One of the many topics never discussed and rarely if ever mentioned at our house was politics.  Some years later, having noted that most people in academia were functionally Democrats, and, running through the syllogism, recognizing my parents as part of the academic community, I decided they were probably voting Democratic.  This too, was pure extrapolation from no evidence at all.  To this day, I am pretty sure that they voted, but for whom, and what their feelings on the successive administrations might be, there is no way to know.

Time passed; after 4th grade I had little to do with elections until I was qualified to be a voter in my own right.  Senior year high school I associated wit  a crowd several of whom were politically conscious and even active.  Since of the two most involved and conscious one was a Young Republican and the other a Young Democrat, and since they never explained their stances and since they were not that different, they did little to politicize me.

But I was starting to be aware of who was president, even of some candidates.  I didn’t care much for Kennedy – there was too much fuss over him and I did not care for his First Lady.  Disliked Johnson,  had problems with Goldwater, did not trust Nixon.  Rather fond of Carter and wary of Reagan – he was too big.  This was all reaction to the person, policies were never clear enough to judge.

By this time I had a political stance.  It was not as cynical as Ibrahim’s, but not dissimilar.  In its original form:

I cannot really trust anyone in office except a few people I do know personally

No one I know personally is tunning for office

That over tme evolved, to become:

No one who wants to be elected can be trusted in office.

Voting at this point was fatalistic.  I had passed beyond “I vote as I THINK my parents or my friends or my hero would vote”.  I had avoided “Voting is a waste of time”, and arrived at “I will vote but it will change nothing”.  I went to the polls, shrugged my shoulders, and picked what seemed the best of a pretty mixed barrel of pickles, with no expectations.  Occasionally I would vote against one of the more objectionable.  I think my vote in the last election involving Nixon went that way, an argument for the validity of my principle.

These days, I have changed.  When I cast my vote this time, I reasoned:

No one I know and trust is running for office

Instinctively I think A is more trustworthy than B, less trustworthy than C

Statistically, one vote will have little effect on the outcome

Experience has shown my candidate is unlikely to win

But there IS a point to voting, because there IS a power that steers the voters, and the cumulative effect of hundreds of thousands of arbitrary votes will put in place the right man at the right time, however any individual reasons.

So I vote.  And I may not see an effect, but I believe, at least in this, in the theory of the butterfly stamping.

We hear – off and on – about how we need an educated and informed electorate to guarantee good government.  I am sure that there are those who feel that if people are socialized right they – or their designees – will be elected.  They may be right, up to a point.   But I am educated – clearly educated is NOT the same thing as socialized.  I am – kind of – informed; I have ready access to the facts and opinions running around the news media, and while I do not work at following Current Events [nor do I understand them much better than I did in 3rd grade]  a lot sifts through.  Clearly informed is NOT the same thing as convinced.

I have this feeling that there are a lot of people who vote their parent’s slate, or their friends’, or that of the blogger they follow.  That a lot of people vote to be contrary, or vote at random despairing of beingh heard.  That the number of people who clearheadedly weigh the candidates against the issues and so vote is small, and has little effect on the election, especially since such people almost certainly will disagree among themselves.

But – thank God! – I do not run this country any more than Mr. Obama does, and this butterfly [there is that song again!] will keep on stamping out the beat, playing my part in the Great Dance of the Butterflies.

Come Into my Parlor

It is a mixed blessing, this World Wide Web, this Misinformation and Disinformation Superhighway, this Jenny Say Quoits of the age.

It is a landmark day – week- -month.  For years more and more we experience what in an e-joke once sent me was called orld Wide Waiting.  Then we got a different service, so I could actually check my email in under two hours.  Then we actually got wireless access so we could actually sit in comfort at more than one computer and browse.

Then I figured out how to get a bit stronger signal in the sitting room so Lulu could browse more comfortably – in fact, she will shiortly read this, say hi to Lulu, everybody.

Hi, Lulu.

But then – I spent the past two days throwing out – I HOP- a little virus [not my first, not my last].  And spending more time on line bbecause I CAN do something can eat into productivity.

And yet is it not a triumph?  Right up there with flying in only a few hours to London – with long gridlocked drives at both ends. both

They say you can’t stop progress.  We will just hop you can progress past a stop.

Spider webs have sticky threads.

Spuo, Ergo Sum

Perhaps someone might say, “Socrates, can you not go away from us and live quietly, without talking?” Now this is the hardest thing to make some of you believe. For if I say that such conduct would be disobedience to the god and that therefore I cannot keep quiet, you will think I am jesting and will not believe me; and if again I say that to talk every day about virtue and the other things about which you hear me talking and examining myself and others is the greatest good to man, and that the unexamined life is not worth living, you will believe me still less. This is as I say, gentlemen, but it is not easy to convince you. Besides, I am not accustomed to think that I deserve anything bad. … Perhaps you think, gentlemen, that I have been convicted through lack of such words as would have moved you to acquit me, if I had thought it right to do and say everything to gain an acquittal. Far from it. And yet it is through a lack that I have been convicted, not however a lack of words, but of impudence and shamelessness, and of willingness to say to you such things as you would have liked best to hear. Plato’s Apology, extracts

A while back, in the process of assembling Schrödinger, the Buddha, and the Elephant, I shocked and awed myself with the realization that I, Mr. Stay-away-from-philosophers, was in agreement with Immanuel Kant on a basic  point.  The past day or two, trying to put this current je ne sais quoi together, I discover two FACTS.  The FACT that Immanuel Kant was a badguy because he said things that Big Brother tells us are mean spirited, wrongheaded, and not in tune with the Spirit of the Times and Community Values [these times and the Loyalist Community, if you were wondering].  And the FACT that the reason he was unemotional, withdrawn, wrongheaded and hard to read and had headaches is that he had a braintumor which made pretty much all of his mature writing incomprehensible, wrongheaded nonsense.

 

I have to marvel at this.  Is anybody listening?  Whether he had a brain tumor or was a normal specimen of what he was, Kant is DEAD, folks – put away the tar and feathers.  Wrongheaded nonsense or enlightened understanding, his philosophy is not affecting anybody but Philosophy majors who take a Kant course, so what is the big deal?

 

But of course, by saying that I am being wrongheaded and missing Big Brother’s point.  The process of Gleichschaltung is not complete, and I must run and confess my errors to the comrades.  We have to have these FACTS about Kant, or someone COULD take something he said seriously.  And I actually told people I agreed with a Kantian tenet!

 

What started this, you ask?  Well, a couple days ago I was temporarily without a book I was halfway through.  We all know that is not how Sharif likes to live.  Allways have at least two books in progress.  So I picked off the shelf Sir Thomas Browne’s Religio Medici. I still have not gotten really into it, because I got hooked when I read the intro.

 

Wikipedia says of Browne, very mildly, “Browne has a paradoxical place in the history of ideas, being both a promoter of the new inductive science, and an adherent of ancient esoteric learning as well as a devout Christian. These allegiances have greatly contributed to his ambiguity in the history of ideas.”

Right, guys.  In the comic series [or should I say Graphic Saga?] Bone, which I have also been reading on the recommendation of Kamal, the character Roque Ja is primarily concerned with determining which side everybody is on.  Gotta polarize, folks.  In Great Brotherton, you can EITHER be evil and sick and wrongheaded, OR you can be an enlightened diss-sputator. You can EITHER believe in the manifest destiny and ultimate victory of Scientism, OR you can be a snivelling park your brains at the door life-denying Funda Mental Case.  Jesus says you cannot serve both God and Mammon, Big Brother says you cannot trust both God and ME.

 

So, Sir Thomas Browne crossed the line.  He wants to have it both ways, to go both with science and with faith.  But he cannot straddle the fence.  That means, for Big Brother, he must be an enemy of Scientism and therefore unfriendly to Big Brother.  I wonder if he had a tumor.

 

Here is what the intoduction, by M. R. Ridley, apparently a prolific writer of introductions, says of Sir Thomas:

 

“He is the kind of man whom it does one good to meet, even through the medium of the printed page, for he is the very pattern of the courteous gentleman… He seems incapable of an ungenerous thought, and incapable too – which is rarer – of an intolerant thought… His temper of mind is that of the first-rate scientist, who is prepared to examine any idea, not of the second-rate scientist who will not even examine an idea if it conflicts with his own preconceptions.”

 

There you go; Browne stands condemned.  He hath spoken blasphemy; what further

need have we of witnesses? behold, now ye have heard his blasphemy.  Sir Thomas had best stay away from Great Brotherton and 99% of all modern universities, that is all I can say.  As Ridley says, “his scepticism is true scepticism, namely a readiness to examine, not a predetermined disposition to believe.”

 

Well, well.  I have agreed with Kant.  I get what Socrates was talking about.  As a scientist and a Brownian sceptic I thank God that I am no longer trying to hold on to a niche at the university in Matthews.  The unexamined life is not worth living.  Nor is life in an academic institution where examining ideas without taking sides is heresy, corrupting the minds of the youth and not believing in the gods of the state.

 

Just a second – someone seems to be pounding loudly on my door.

Color Bind

 

I am slightly color challenged, I admit.  But even the acutely wavelength sensitive might be forgiven for being a bit confused these days.

 

Let us see.  Red, White and Blue – the colors of the United States of America – or was that France?  Or Norway, the Netherlands, and various other sovereign nations.  These days Red seems to have been assigned as the color for the Republicans.  Or the color of Communists, of revolution?  Or the British Army, the forces of oppression?  Anyhow, we know Red means Danger, Stop.  It is the color of fire engines – except in towns where fire engines are white or yellow.

 

So Blue has been commandeered by the Democrats.  Fair enough, it is after all the coloe of the Colonial army, of righteous revolution.  Or of the Union Army suppressing secession.  Or the color of police – except the Mounties, who go with Red.  It is a poetic color, so many of our bards sing the blues.

 

So – what is left for White?  White Russians – oppposed to the Reds.  The French forces under tthe Bourbons – opposed to the Blue of the revolution.  But who uses it today?  I suppose bluecollar rednecks  are Whites – but would they go for it as THEIR color symbol?  Ibrahim thinks they might just go for it.

 

Me, I think we can take White as up for grabs in the USA.  Green is claimed, though.  Both Blues and Reds here would like to be seen as Green.  These days it is probably the best loved political color – not that anybody is really sure what it implies.  In flags Green is popular in Muslim countries – Saudi Arabia is a prime example.  But here Green is purely secular, with no reference either to St Patrick or to Muhammad.  We do not want to drive out the snakes.

 

There are flags with yellow sectors, but I don’t think there are any all yellow flags, and I don’t believe anybody around here is using it symbolically.  A pity – it is a very bright, visible color, and the association in English Yellow >< cowardice is no worse than Blue >< misery and Green >< inexperience or envy.  Also, it shares with Blue the merit of standing out for us Daltonists, the ones who see a monochrome [green to me] rose bush until we get close enough to smell the flowers.

 

All in all, it is not a great way to label political affiliation, even in a clearly two party system.  The candidates realize this – with elections coming up, Lulu and I driving through town see all manner of signs, red, blue, blue and yellow, even some green; Face it, sticking to the “official” party colors would not make for very memorable signage.  Still, it is better than some of the alternatives – what is the mnemonic value of donkeys and elephants, or tigers in the old days?

 

I know – we could combine them.  Bluebirds and Cardinals.  The Bluebird of happiness – not a bad image for the Democrats to embrace. But would either the Republicans or the Vatican be content with the Cardinal?  Me, I will just stick with my Raven.  Though some may think I am [sorry, Descartes].

Censorship and the Public Taste

 

Just this past week I heard someone on the radio pointing out how those people who embrace the Theory of Evolution with its premise of Survival of the Fittest set themselves, like Knut of old, to hold back the tide of the fittest.  Of course, he was talking about Social Darwinism [Ooo! Bad bad bad!] while I – not being all that social – tend to focus on the effort to eradicate fitter and more successful invasive plants and animals from the woodland where they are driving out the less fit native species, changing things.  The contradictions pile up – how did the nice native species get to dominate the woodland but by eradicating their predecessors, and who brought the invasive species, and why aren’t we eradicating Norteamericanos of European extraction who took over the habitat of Norteamericanos of Color, and how come we overlook the fact that when the ancestors of the Norteamericanos of Color crossed the land bridge they – being fitter and more successful – wiped out slews of worthy and desirable native species.  And just why is anyone protecting the wild horse?

 

But these mental exercises are child’s play for anyone born and bred on Animal Farm – not, of course, the bad old Animal Farm with the swine in charge, but the better, kinder Animal Farm where the sheep hold sway.  Shall we discuss censorship as moment?

 

Here on Animal Farm we know that censorship is a Bad.  Our libraries stand on the bridge defying the forces that would burn our books – Thou Shalt Not Pass.  Every year they have a display of books that bigots would have banned. Our media stand fast against the McCarthyite tactics that would penalize free speech and the publication or broadcasting of what would offend the narrow minded.   Our universities – but I already talked about sifting and winnowing.  I will just add that we in academia hold to the principle that academics must not be gagged, there is and shall be freedom of debate.

 

Of course, our embracing Freedom of Speech and rejection of censorship should not extend to Hate Speech.  Speaking wrongly of any of the groups that ate not to be spoken wrongly about is a genuine Bad Thing for which we have zero tolerance.  And of course, we cannot allow anyone in academia to continue teaching things that the academic community knows to be wrong.  Our news media may choose, in their wisdom, to quote people who say Bad things, but they have an obligation to label such Bad things and their speakers in such a way that the audience cannot fail to know they are to be rejected.

 

But back to the library, which is what set this off.  From time to time I have thought about, and mentioned in my discourses with various compatriots, The Story of Simpson and Sampson by Munro Leaf, read in days long past and never forgotten.  From the same pen as the justly famous Ferdinand the Bull, it is the tale of twin brothers in medieval days.  One dedicated to doing the right and chivalrous thing, the other equally determined to play the villain and wreak havoc.  The thrust of the story is, they are both equally incompetent – the would-be do-gooder makes trouble for everybody, the would-be evil-doer improves everyone’s lot.  Very much a parable for our time on the vanity of inept good intentions [like stamping out the Lesser Wood Myrtle while pulling up invasive Garlic Mustard].  But – let us face it – arguably not a message that those who mean us well and want to train little children to do good will like to hear.

 

Thinking of this book, I checked to see if the Matthews library had a copy.  No.  I checked the Rockton Library. No.  I checked other libraries in the state in vain.  I looked in larger cities around the country.  Every library had at least a few books by Leaf.  But I could only find three that had Simpson and Sampson, and one of those was in Canada.

 

Is it coincidence that the story with the inconvenient message is the one that is almost forgotten?  I think not.  Check out Little Black Sambo.  Our library has no copy of the pre-1950 editions.  The Toronto library – one of the few which has Simpson and Sampson – has several, but only the reissued and the heavily modified editions circulate.  Look up Little Black Sambo in their catalog, and you are also pointed to Nicholas Tucker’s Suitable for Children: Controversies in Children’s Literature and other similar books.  You see, Sambo – a clever and resourceful Indian boy who escapes from death by tiger – was seen [by people who did not know where tigers live] as a racist slur against African-Americans.  Everybody knows how minorities resent being portrayed as clever and resourceful.

 

There are lots of other examples I could – the revisionist takes on Dr. Doolittle and Uncle Remus, the vanishing of parts of the Little House series, the bowdlerization of Shakespeare.  I do not think that the softly and silently vanishing away of Simpson and Sampson involves the same conscious censorship – on the part of people who professionally abhor censorship – as Little Black Sambo. But popular taste moves – sometimes with and sometimes against the counsel of educators, sometimes urged by the educators and sometimes spontaneously.  A nearly all male story, with non-ethnic characters, showing how action and good intentions are not enough – well, it is not quite what we are looking for.  And libraries tend to move books that nobody borrows first into storage areas, then out of what is after all a finite collection.

 

Who can blame them?

Gotta Mean Something

We moved to Matthews – it was a lot different then – just before school started in 1958.  Somewhere in 1958 or 1958 – I can’t get more precise than that – it was one of the spells where we had a TV and the weather was warm and we were in Matthews House # 1.  One afternoon, my sister Laila was watching TV after school and I had nothing better to do.  I had no interest in the TV, especially not what she was watching – one of those 50s bandstand music showcases.  But there was nothing else, and it was a chance to be a bit of a nuisance.  There – I got it in before she could say it.

So I came into the room, listened a bit, then started capering and air guitaring to make fun of the performer.  Good enough nuisance value for such short notice.  The tune was “You Butterfly”, sung by Charlie Gracie – not, I am very sure, the Andy Williams cover.  Word on the web is it peaked in 1957, but Matthews is not a hot market – could just have gotten there, or maybe they were trying for a comeback.  Whatever.  I never heard it again – until today.

Now, Lulu will tell you when it comes to music do not ask me about lyrics.  I can’t hear them straight, I can’t remember them, often I can’t understand them.  I heard the song ONCE:

You tell me you love me, you say you’ll be true,

Then you fly around with somebody new,

But I’m crazy about you, you butterfly

Once – just once I heard it, cavorting sarcastically.  NEVER heard it again.  But down through the days, weeks, fortnights, months, decades and past the dawning of the new millennium I remembered not only the tune, but also the honey that drips from your sweet lips. I don’t know songs I really relate to that well. Amazing, that I should have stuck in my memory a song I heard once that meant nothing to me.

Apparently it also meant very little to the music industry and the cognoscenti.  As I said, I never heard it again; the Golden Oldies and Moldy Oldies I have tuned into over the years never played it.  Ibrahim Akbar is moderately aware of popular music history; he never heard it.  Or of it, except from me.

So today I had to make a quick trip to the bank – money talks, and mine was a little too quiet this end of the month.  Transacted my transactions, and poked my nose into the supermarket to see was there anything there I wanted to buy.  Turned out there was nothing, the trip was just a waste of time.  But then the taped music they play to keep us from really focusing our attention on the prices started off with the notes I can never forget:

You tell me you love me, you say you’ll be true…

I was in shock.  Just think.  I have NEVER heard these notes, these words, since 1958 [or 1959, but who's counting?]  I have sometimes thought maybe I dreamed them; certainly Ibrahim rejected them scornfully.  But there it is.  After more than 50 years.

What does it mean?  You tell me.  I have enough to think about.  A song can reappear after half a century of silence.  Someone lyrically brain dead can remember a set of words with spit spot accuracy after hearing it once.  It is an omen?  A ghostly voice from the past?  Or should I just let the skeptic in me talk about typewriting monkeys and Shakespeare?

I cannot say.  But it has just gotta mean SOMETHING!