nocturne

[Repost from 6 June 2005. Since I'm getting thick into debate over which side of the political divide is most guilty of politicizing science, here's a slightly different sort of take. Just because.]

THE DREAM is always the same.

I am wandering, for hours it has seemed—a maze of cavernous corridors leading to intersections and locked doors and dead ends. There is no one about, although presently I hear voices: not near, but muffled, as if coming from a great distance and then echoing down endless hallways.

For long I search out the source, hoping to find a way out of the maze and perhaps then up into the light of day. By chance I come across a passage, wide but lit only dimly by flickering fluorescents behind yellowed screens. I follow, as the voices seem more distinct this way; and when, at last, I arrive at a set of doors, I am relieved to find one unlocked.

I push it open, and find myself in an arena, filled with people of every description. (Except that most all are white.) The air hangs thick with a self-righteous smugness, which to my surprise has a distinct odor: sharp, and rather like that of vegan cheese left long in the sun. All are wearing t-shirts, though emblazoned with various slogans: something about a reality-based community, or f*** middle America, or Howard is my President, or Peace in our time. As I look about, I notice several activists scowling at me, or pointing at my own shirt; I glance down, and see

A holed boat needs no ballast.

“What kind of progressive are you?” hisses a nearby woman. She is middle-aged and thick in the middle; her shirt reads I had an abortion. “It's a zen thing,” I mutter, fearful of being discovered. She lets me pass, though with eyes still narrowed with suspicion.

But most in the arena do not notice me at all, for their attention is fixed on the main stage. The speaker is a shortish, balding man with the air of a pugilist and the charisma of a revival-tent preacher. And whenever he says the words Republican party or George Bush—often, as it turns out—his gorge manifestly rises, as if the chestburster from Alien had taken a wrong turn and then been stymied by his Adam's apple.

His manner is oddly compelling; but I am no progressive acolyte. Looking about, I realize to my dismay that the arena has no exits. Even the doorway through which I entered has somehow vanished: I am ensnared in an echo chamber of the Damned. Then—for the briefest of moments—all the trappings of my surroundings fall away, and I hear the music of the spheres and see the orbs of Creation spinning in their cycles: wheels within wheels within wheels. But an instant later I am back in my Purgatory. Minutes become hours, and hours days. Time stands still.

And yet the shortish, balding man will not shut up.

The Bush administration has declared war on science. In the Orwellian world of 21st century America, two plus two no longer equals four where public policy is concerned, and science is no exception. When a right-wing theory is contradicted by an inconvenient scientific fact, the science is not refuted; it is simply discarded or ignored…

I no longer care about my fate, only about a means of escape. Suddenly, before me I discover opportunity: an open microphone, intended perhaps for the Q&A session a decade or two hence. I seize the mike, and interrupt the speaker. Dr. Dean, I begin—

“What do you know of science, anyway? I mean, you're only a physician. MDs aren't scientists.

“I've seen the most arrogant of premeds turn clammy with fear when faced with billiard-ball physics. And in my experience, most MDs couldn't tell good science from bad science if the bad lunged forward and bit them square in the ass—”

The scene become indistinct after this. The listening crowd rises up in anger; blows are landed, and all goes dark.

And then I awake. The tattered remnants of dream's vision scatter, and all that remains is an unearthly scream echoing in my ears.

That reminds me of an H.P. Lovecraft short story I read. "Progressives" and Lovecraft...

Comparison to Lovecraft is high praise indeed. Not sure if I deserve it, but thanks.

Mostly, I was trying to riff on a cliché: The dream is always the same is second only to It was a dark and stormy night.