I went on a fanciful bike ride through Colorado. Every time I came to a mountain crest, my mind envisioned it to be the top but it only was once.  Singularity is religion.  Every other time brought pangs of anxiety as in the clearing I realized the climb only continued. Then came the anger; you won't beat me mountain, I've come to befriend.

In planning, I had not well accounted for this. I fell behind schedule. Then when I finally passed that one true peak, the schedule shifted; I had to slow down and thank the forces of nature for joining my side.  Reduction is the addition of electrons; electrons underlie energy.  I had not accounted for gravity.

Gravity always wins.

I stopped at a large dam just off the roadway and took possibly the only selfie I've ever taken. This was 1993 Anno Domini; they were just called pictures at this point in the trajectory of the human experiment.

There was so much potential energy sitting silent behind me.

I can imagine my maternal Grandmother encapsulating this trip with the common quip, "Work is its own reward". I coasted into town intending to have a meal, stay one night in a bed somewhere cheap then continue on.

In the morning, it was difficult to walk so I rested another night before accepting I had blown out my knees. Then I ate two medium Pepperoni lover's pizzas and took a train back home that next morning.

Entering a new environment, there are two basic choices, adapt or disrupt. It's what defines whether you are the protagonist or antagonist. That and the outcome.

The thing is, over time, lines get blurred. New knowledge is found that doesn't always directly contradict earlier knowledge but in the refutation of said earlier knowledge, builds an opposition. Culture becomes counter-cultural becomes counter-counter-cultural and so on. Eventually everything just gets blurry.

This notion wouldn't work in engineering. Planes would crash more than they flew. Most of the modern economy relies on precision.

If the environment is just, it's sensible to adapt. If it's unjust, it's superior to disrupt. Just disruptors of an unjust system have always been considered heroes in human narratives across all cultures. But who arbitrates what is just?

Debate is the arbitration of opinion.  The conclusion of a debate is some sort of verdict and viably, in policy-making, a just compromise between competing narratives.  It is the mechanism by which two conflicting beliefs are able to merge into one conclusion.

The most central mechanism of debate is evidence. Evidence is generally thought of as proof of fact between that which is true or false.  There are no nulls in the concept of evidence. 

The opinion more supported by fact is generally the superior one. Behavior is ideally influenced by fact.  Such is what should drive public policy and ought be the goal of governance.

In science, facts are immutable.  Truth exists.  Absent this maxim, science would fail; there would be no phones, radio, planes nor spaceships.  Truth matters.

Mud is malleable.  Those that treat truth like mud are malleable.

When the truth of character precludes adaptation, the unjust disrupt.  Truth may not be rigid but it is firm; truth is substantial.

Sociopaths are limited by their lack of empathy.

Criminals crave chaos.

My mother's father apparently drove a taxi in Southern Illinois then when he grew tired of it, became a barber. Sadly, I never met him; he died long before I was born.  I'm told he was an amiable figure.  We had his barber chair in our house during my childhood. I loved playing in it, spinning around until I became dizzy.

My Grandma however, I thought would outlive me. She used to eat raw onions like they were apples. She would literally walk around her old, giant house taking bites out of a raw onion like it was an apple. I hated onions and at this age, I was terrified of her.

I remember sitting in my room around my 10th year on this planet, thinking about where in our yard I could poke a stick furthest into the earth when she walked in. She told me I needed to do some yard work, how at her age she was working the fields of her family's farm. This was the reason she terrified me; it wasn't because of the onions.

I have profoundly fond memories of her. I was with her when she told the doctor that she didn't want the surgery, "I know what that means, I've had a good life. I was a nurse." She damn well could have outlived us all, I think she was just bored of everything.

Her funeral was simple and somber yet somehow joyous. It just felt honest and I think it was proper closure to a life well lived. Afterwards, I convinced my cousins and sisters to drive by her old house, where we'd all so often met up over holidays.

Sadly, Southern Illinois, like many communities, had been decimated by economic contraction and methamphetamines. As we travelled toward this childhood respite, we saw abandoned and boarded-up houses. It seemed such a sad parade to what other-wise was a day of cherish.

As we approached the house, at the end of a dead-end road that had now apparently become a path to somewhere else, we were all shocked by how tiny it actually was. I guess everything is a matter of perspective.