David Boles: Human Meme

Nowhere was the tension between local and standard time more vivid than in Indiana. Before 2006, the state was a confusing patchwork of time observance. Some counties followed Daylight Saving, while others steadfastly refused. Some aligned with Chicago on Central Time, others with Ohio on Eastern Time. Locals became "time-bilingual." A dentist in Jasper might advertise appointments at 9 a.m. "slow," knowing that patients driving from Louisville, already on "fast" time, would show up at what their own clocks read as 10 a.m. The question, "Your time or my time?" became as essential as a zip code. The situation bred both confusion and comedy. In 2001, a software company famously missed its own earnings call because half the team dialed in on "fast" time and the other half on "slow." Finally, in 2006, the logistical headaches for businesses and even Little League tournaments compelled state lawmakers to adopt uniform time observance. The old idiom, however, persists, a linguistic fossil from an era when time was a negotiable treaty between neighbors.

The phrase “if the center holds” has its conceptual roots in the broader cultural and literary assertion that social, political, or ideological cohesion can be sustained only so long as the core remains intact. This phrase is often considered a response to William Butler Yeats's famous lines from his poem “The Second Coming,” in which he prophesies that “the centre cannot hold,” implying an irreversible spiritual or cultural unraveling. The contradictory statement “if the center holds” presupposes that even in moments of uncertainty or crisis, there remains a stable pivot, a moral or structural nexus, that prevents total collapse. 

The legal systems of this era struggled to adapt to these new realities. The Restored Justice Protocols of 2900 allowed victims of crimes to be restored from backup, effectively undoing the crime itself. But this raised questions: if the harm could be undone, had a crime occurred? The infamous Paradox Trials of 2923-2947 attempted to prosecute crimes that had been "uncom­mitted" through temporal manipulation. The final verdict, delivered by the Quantum Supreme Court, declared that justice itself had become a form of deus ex machina; an external imposition of order on a reality that no longer recognized linear causality. The court dissolved itself immediately after this ruling, declaring that in a post-causal universe, judgment itself was an obsolete concept.

The first forgotten truth emerges from the medieval understanding of time as a living, breathing entity rather than a mere mechanical measurement. Before the proliferation of mechanical clocks in the fourteenth century, communities understood time through the rhythms of nature, prayer bells, and seasonal cycles. This organic temporal awareness created a psychological resilience that we've lost in our nanosecond-obsessed age. Medieval chroniclers spoke of "thick time" – moments that expanded during contemplation, compressed during joy, and flowed like water through daily life. Recovering this elastic relationship with time would immediately address our epidemic of anxiety and burnout. When we cease treating time as a scarce resource to be maximized and instead experience it as an abundant field of presence, we naturally align with healthier patterns of work, rest, and relationship. The practical application is startlingly simple: organizing our days around natural light cycles and meaningful rituals rather than arbitrary clock divisions restores a sense of groundedness that no amount of productivity optimization can achieve.

The human yearning to create intelligence beyond our own biological constraints stretches back to antiquity, manifesting not as "artificial intelligence" but through divine automata, mystical golems, and mechanical servants. The ancient Greeks spoke of Talos, the bronze giant who protected Crete, while Jewish mysticism produced the golem of Prague, animated by sacred words. Medieval Islamic scholars designed intricate water clocks and mechanical musicians, calling them "al-jazari" - the skillful ones. These weren't mere toys but embodiments of humanity's deepest aspiration: to breathe life into the inanimate, to create minds from matter. They were referred to as "animated beings," "enchanted servants," or "mechanical souls" - each culture wrapping the concept in its own mythological and technological understanding.

Yes, we are each other: The Us of Us. To deny this truth is to court disaster. When we forget that we are each other's possibilities, we begin to retreat. Into silos. Into tribes. Into fear. We stop looking for kinship and start demanding conformity. We begin to believe the lie of the self-made person; the myth that what we've done, we did alone. That we owe nothing to no one. That is not independence. That is isolation. That is a world without bridges. And a world without bridges will only ever be full of walls. When you deny someone else their possibility, you shrink your own. When you strip rights, when you refuse resources, when you silence voices you don't just hurt them. You destroy the potential you had to grow. To learn. To live in a world better than the one you were born into. Because the arc of progress is not a ladder. It is a spiral. We rise together or we fall apart.

We begin with a silence, the kind that rings heavy in the ears of the alone. This is the quiet place many young men now occupy—a self-imposed solitude, carved out not of preference, but of defeat. The dating app didn't swipe back. The college classroom became a battleground of ideas they couldn't win. The workplace offered no solace. And so they withdraw—not only from dating, but from the belief that women are allies in life. They begin to bond instead with other wounded men in digital caves, places where contempt is currency and mockery of women is misidentified as empowerment. What has happened? How have we arrived here, in this silo of misogyny?

The fall of the Western Roman Empire in the 5th century was not merely the collapse of a political order or the ruin of marble monuments. It was the slow eclipse of an entire world – a complex tapestry of cultural practices, technical know-how, intellectual traditions, and spiritual paradigms – many of which vanished forever. Historians often highlight the sack of cities and the demise of imperial authority, yet beyond the smoking ruins lies an even greater tragedy: the loss of ways of life and thought that had no true successor. Reconstructing these forgotten dimensions of Roman civilization requires equal parts scholarship and imagination. What follows is an academic meditation on those elusive losses – facets of Roman society unique to their time, only partially understood today, and largely without modern analog. Each represents a thread of human experience that was severed in the aftermath of Rome's fall, leaving later generations in a poorer world, often unaware of what had been lost. 

When a society starts to devalue education, the consequences quickly ripple through every aspect of civic, cultural, and economic life. Education is much more than a process of transferring facts; it is the crucible in which critical thinking, moral reasoning, civic responsibility, and creative innovation are forged. The deliberate or inadvertent devaluation of education leads to a dramatic diminishment in collective wisdom, eroding the very foundation upon which a healthy society stands. 

First, let's be honest: calling something “precious” can sometimes act as a velvet rope, a cordon sanitaire that says, “This is off-limits. This is untouchable and apart.” Think of the grandmother's china locked in a cabinet—too precious to use, too dear to risk. It preserves a memory, but it can also freeze it, holding it out of the flow of everyday living. You can't dish up takeout pizza on those plates; you just stare at them gathering dust. That's the peril of the precious: sometimes, it sterilizes, it sanctifies—and inadvertently, it excludes.

Let's talk about something that might have happened to you, or someone you know: going to the doctor and getting a blood pressure reading that seems way too high. But what if that number isn't the real story? What if it's just a temporary thing that happens when you're in a medical setting? We're going to talk about "White Coat Hypertension," and why, even though some doctors might not think it's a big deal, it's actually a real thing we should be paying attention to.

Yes, that infamous -- Roman dodecahedron. So? What was it? A tool? A weapon? A religious artifact? A toy? A candleholder? A multi-purpose cosmic Swiss Army knife for the ancient world? Nobody knows. And that, my friends, is what makes it so deliciously fascinating.

Across the gnawing of human civilization, a subtle yet persistent blindness emerges — one not simply defined by wars, environmental neglect, or productivity cycles, but deeper flaws rooted in the human condition itself. One such blind spot is humanity's relentless misunderstanding of freedom. Freedom, often worshiped as the highest virtue and tirelessly pursued through revolutions and struggles, has repeatedly been misconstrued as mere absence of constraint rather than proactive alignment with genuine purpose and inner fulfillment. Consider the French Revolution, where liberté became the battle cry, yet the subsequent chaotic implosion via the Reign of Terror and Napoleonic wars underscored that freedom misunderstood leads merely to a more intricate enslavement.

When we speak of wonders, we often conjure images of iconic structures like the Great Pyramid or the Hanging Gardens of Babylon. But obscured by the passage of time and the focus on well-trodden historical paths lie numerous marvels that were equally – if not more – fascinating, yet are far less known today. These "forgotten" sites offer unique insights into human ingenuity, societal structures, and the complex relationship between civilizations and their environments.

Long before modern cities and towns covered Nebraska's landscape, the land held secrets of communities that finessed their environments with skill, creativity, and resilience. While Nebraska might not have boasted ancient metropolises like those found in Mexico or Illinois, it quietly housed sophisticated village societies whose existence we can glimpse today through scattered remains and archaeological clues. These settlements offer a rare insight into a human story where innovation and adaptation were key to survival on the open prairie.

From the highest crest of an ancient mountain stood a stone—a towering monument sculpted by the gentle and patient artistry of the universe itself. Here, under skies older than thought, the stone first awoke, catching the first rays of the sun, feeling the cool breath of passing clouds, hearing whispers of winds from distant lands. It began its life indifferent to time, proud and immovable, bearing witness as empires rose and empires fell, as forests flourished and oceans receded.

Henry VIII's marital saga was as much a tale of personal ambition and passion as it was one of statecraft and religious upheaval. From the outset of his reign, Henry was fixated on securing a male heir—a goal driven by both the turbulent precedents of medieval succession and the very real fear of dynastic collapse. His own father, Henry VII, had claimed the throne through force rather than clear hereditary right, and Henry knew that a secure male successor was essential to solidify the Tudor legacy and avoid further civil strife.

The concept of social safety nets affects every single one of us, whether we realize it or not. These programs and policies—Medicare, Medicaid, unemployment insurance, food assistance—represent more than bureaucratic systems. They embody a fundamental question about who we are as a society. I want to make my position clear: these safety nets aren't optional luxuries—they're essential infrastructure for a functioning, humane society. Let me take you on a think through history, across cultures, and into possible futures to explain why.

How do we punish those who break the rules? Over the past thousand years, we've moved from brutal public executions and torture to sophisticated legal codes and debates over rehabilitation. And if we take a look at where we're heading in the next millennium, the future of justice could be something completely beyond our imagination. 

Regret, in its multifaceted complexity, is an embedded facet of the human condition—a reflective, often painful acknowledgement of choices that have led us astray from our idealized paths. It emerges from the interplay of memory, expectation, and self-assessment, functioning as both a mirror and a guide. The emotion of regret is not simply a byproduct of decision-making but a cognitive mechanism designed to heighten our awareness of moral and practical missteps, thereby enriching our capacity for future growth. 

The late nineteenth century marked a pivotal shift in how “the uncanny” was understood in art and literature, though the roots of eerie resemblance and disquieting near-human forms reach back further. By the 1870s, a transitional period was well underway in Europe, shaped by industrialization and the popularization of automata exhibitions. The public fascination with life-sized clockwork dolls that blinked their eyes or played musical instruments set the stage for the eerie feeling that occurs when something appears human but clearly lacks a human essence. Even before Sigmund Freud offered his famous essay “Das Unheimliche” in 1919, there were tantalizing experiments and anxieties circulating among intellectuals and the general populace. The German psychologist Ernst Jentsch, writing in 1906, introduced the word “uncanny” (in German, “unheimlich”) to discuss that peculiar shiver one feels when faced with an automaton or a wax figure that seems too close to life. His ideas laid much of the groundwork for Freud's subsequent interpretation.

The most curious unrealized secret of the known world is that humanity's survival hinges not on technological advancement or resource extraction but on our collective ability to transcend the illusion of separateness. We exist in a hyperconnected biophysical system where every action cascades through ecological, social, and economic networks, yet we behave as if individual or national interests can be pursued in isolation. 

Throughout history and into our contemporary world, the invocation of divinity in everyday life—particularly in non-religious arenas such as sports and politics—highlights the deeply rooted cultural inclination to attribute human successes or failures to supernatural favor. When a professional athlete declares that a victory occurred because “God was on our side,” it potentially diminishes both the skill and the diligence that contributed to the win. 

Suspension of disbelief, as it is often understood today, traces its formal articulation to the English poet and philosopher Samuel Taylor Coleridge, who coined the phrase “willing suspension of disbelief” in 1817 in his critical work “Biographia Literaria.” Coleridge proposed that readers and audiences consciously set aside the knowledge that what they are witnessing is artificial in order to be moved, entertained, or enlightened by the piece of art before them. 

In the mid-to-late 18th century, as portrait painters struggled to preserve their art form against the sudden intrusion of photographic technology, one can imagine the rumblings across the parlors, salons, and academies of Europe and America. Painters, who had long been accustomed to controlling the manner, mood, and meaning of a subject's likeness through the deliberate strokes of their brushes, saw photography as not just a mechanical rival, but a dull and unfeeling intruder onto a sacred terrain they had cultivated for centuries.

Passive social murder is the quiet, systemic practice of allowing people to die through inaction and neglect. This idea traces back to the nineteenth century, to minds like Friedrich Engels, who accused the capitalist systems of his era of knowing full well that certain conditions would lead the poor to early graves. It is the kind of death that does not come from a gunshot, but from the heavy, silent weight of a society that structures itself so that some lives are nurtured, while others are left to waste away.

A hitherto unacknowledged connection that threads through the entirety of philosophical writing—across centuries, cultures, and varying schools of thought—is humanity's unending effort to sublimate existential terror into a coherent narrative that makes mortal life intelligible, permissible, and meaningful. From the careful syllogisms of medieval Scholastics to the bold manifestos of twentieth-century existentialists, philosophers have not merely flirted with the interplay of reason, emotion, and metaphysical longing; they have continually sought to transfigure our instinctive dread of finitude and futility into something purposeful and noble. The binding force here is not merely the quest for truth or the application of logic, but a more primal task: to shelter the trembling human psyche from the chaos of existence through the scaffolding of a grand conceptual edifice. In other words, all philosophical writing can be seen, at its core, as an evolving strategy for constructing spiritual and intellectual refuges against the terror of nonbeing. 

Medical AI is not just a technological leap; it's a cultural shift. When machines analyze our health, we enter a world where the expertise of algorithms supplements—and sometimes challenges—the wisdom of clinicians. This isn't about replacing the human touch but redefining it. The real story of Medical AI is how it pushes us to rethink the relationship between technology, health, and humanity.

The case of Amanda Knox is a modern legal and cultural Rorschach test—sprawling, messy, and deeply personal for anyone who dares to examine it. At its core, it is a story of a young woman, a brutal murder, and an Italian justice system unprepared for the scrutiny and chaos that would follow. Knox's story is not just about guilt or innocence; it's about how we, as humans, construct narratives in the absence of clear facts, how media amplifies those narratives, and how justice can falter under pressure. To unpack it fully, we must walk through the tragedy, the trials, and the aftermath.

In a quaint little home nestled among the cobbled streets of an English village, two British Shorthair kittens, Lotty and Percy, spent their days exploring every nook and cranny. Lotty, a plump and cheerful blue kitten, followed his sister Percy wherever she went, his little paws thumping softly on the floorboards. Percy, a lilac-colored marvel, was the clever one—quick as a flash, with a mind as sharp as her tiny claws.

Imagine, for a moment, the United States without its Department of Education—a federal entity established in 1979 to oversee and coordinate national education policies. This department, though often a target in political debates, plays a pivotal role in shaping the educational landscape of the nation. Its elimination would not merely be a bureaucratic adjustment; it would trigger scary and far-reaching consequences across the educational spectrum. 

Disappointment is the uninvited guest at the table of life. It sits heavy in our hearts, clutches our dreams, and whispers doubts that gnaw at the edges of hope. Yet, disappointment is not a dead end; it's a waypoint, a necessary stop on the task of human growth. To be disappointed is to be alive, to care deeply about outcomes, to have risked enough to feel the sting of falling short. And while the pangs of disappointment may seem like the final word, they are often just the prelude to resilience.

Living in the future now—it's a fascinating idea, isn't it? We're talking about those people who seem to exist just a step ahead of us, those who already walk roads we haven't even built yet. While we're here, comfortably or uncomfortably immersed in today, they're already finding ways through tomorrow. These people aren't necessarily the kind of visionaries we always hear about: CEOs, inventors, or creative masterminds, though many of them do fall into those categories. No, these are people who fundamentally live a little differently, whose minds work in a slightly faster rhythm, who seem to perceive what's around the corner before the rest of us even realize there is a corner.  

False prophets. Charlatans. Snake oil salesmen. These are the people who promise you truth, enlightenment, and a future of clarity—if only you'd let them hold your palm for a moment, if only you'd hand over your money to hear the secret of your life laid bare before you.

The concept of the "Doorknob Confession" in therapy is a fascinating phenomenon, one that captures the delicate dance between time, vulnerability, and truth. It is a moment often recognized by both therapists and clients alike—when the session is coming to an end, when the clock is mercilessly ticking down, and then, just as the client is about to walk out the door, they drop a bombshell. This final revelation, this last-minute unveiling of something deeply important, often takes the form of a confession, a fear, or a truth so significant it threatens to undermine the entire session that came before it.

Now, that phrase: "Bold, Persistent Experimentation." It strikes you right in the heart, doesn't it? There's something stirring about it. It's a challenge, a rallying cry, a promise that our greatest work isn't behind us, but ahead, waiting to be discovered if only we dare enough. If we try enough.

hYou know, the concept of a "Godwink" is really quite fascinating when you delve into it. At its core, a "Godwink" is one of those moments that feels like more than just a coincidence. It's as if the universe — or a higher power — is giving you a little nudge or a wink to let you know you're on the right path or to provide guidance when you need it most.

The idea of "not speaking ill of the dead" is a deeply rooted cultural and historical construct, and its origins and evolution provide significant insight into the ways societies shape their collective memories. This concept, often summarized in the Latin phrase -- De mortuis nihil nisi bonum -- ("Of the dead, nothing but good should be said"), has existed for millennia, emerging from an interplay of morality, religious beliefs, and the need for social cohesion.

The myth of Prometheus, the fire giver, is a rich and layered tale that has traversed cultures, ideas, and interpretations for centuries. At its core, the story is one of defiance, suffering, and enlightenment. Prometheus is a Titan in Greek mythology, whose name means "forethought," and he is best known for his daring theft of fire from the gods to give to humanity—a gift that symbolizes knowledge, technology, and civilization. But beneath this act of rebellion lies a story of suffering and sacrifice, a warning about the boundaries between human ambition and divine will, and a reflection on the eternal tension between freedom and authority.

Factitious Disorder, often complex and deeply misunderstood, involves individuals deliberately fabricating, exaggerating, or inducing physical or psychological symptoms to assume the role of a sick person. This disorder is distinct from mere malingering, where an individual feigns illness for personal gain such as financial compensation or avoidance of responsibilities. In Factitious Disorder, the primary motivation is to acquire the identity of a patient, receiving attention and care in a medical setting.

Sartre's reflections on prejudice reveal not just the mechanics of anti-Semitism but the broader patterns of hate and bad faith argumentation that persist through time. We'll explore how these dynamics might evolve over the next 50 to 100 years, anticipating new forms of prejudice that could arise as our world changes. From technophobia and xenophobia to potential discrimination against genetically modified humans or off-world colonists, the targets of hate may shift, but the underlying tactics and impacts remain.

The roots of the moon landing conspiracy theories trace back to a fundamental distrust in government. This sentiment was particularly inflamed during the 1960s and 70s, amidst the chilling winds of the Cold War and the fiery protests against the Vietnam War. The United States was a nation divided, its citizens wrestling with political disillusionment. In such an environment, the narrative that the moon landing could be a grand deception orchestrated by the U.S. government to assert dominance in the space race against the Soviet Union found fertile ground.

The thick, humid air of Mississippi hung heavy on Alana's shoulders, mirroring the weight of her sorrows. The cicadas' chorus, a constant reminder of the stifling heat, seemed to echo the loneliness that had settled deep within her. In her small, clapboard house, she often sought escape in the worn-out grooves of her grandfather's vinyl records. The raw, soulful voices of Bessie Smith, Mahalia Jackson, and Robert Johnson poured from the old turntable, weaving tales of heartache, resilience, and spiritual redemption.

The British Shorthair is a breed steeped in history, defined by a calm dignity that's as much a part of its character as its iconic round face and plush coat. From its humble origins as a Roman ratter to its modern status as a beloved family companion, this cat has evolved through centuries of selective breeding, weathering wars and fashion trends to emerge as a timeless symbol of British resilience.

Fixed delusions are a type of psychological disorder where a person holds unshakeable beliefs in something that is clearly untrue or illogical. These aren't just occasional misunderstandings or mistaken beliefs; these are convictions that remain firm even when confronted with conflicting evidence. Unlike broader delusions often associated with psychotic disorders such as schizophrenia, fixed delusions can occur in individuals who might otherwise appear completely functional in everyday life.

The Inflationary Universe Theory proposes that the universe underwent an exponential expansion in the first fraction of a second after the Big Bang. This rapid inflation stretched space-time itself, smoothing out any irregularities and setting the stage for the universe as we know it today. This theory was first put forward by physicist Alan Guth in 1980, and it has since become a cornerstone of modern cosmology.

What exactly are cryptids? The term itself comes from the Greek 'krypto' meaning hidden. So, cryptids are the hidden animals, not yet cataloged by conventional science. These are creatures reported to exist based on anecdotal evidence, eyewitness accounts, and sometimes even grainy photographs, but they remain unconfirmed by modern science. They range from the Loch Ness Monster in Scotland to Bigfoot in the forests of North America, from the Yeti of the Himalayas to the Chupacabra of Latin America.

The genius criminal mind, a phenomenon that marries extraordinary intelligence with malevolent intent, has long captivated our collective imagination and incited deep-seated fears. From historical tyrants orchestrating mass atrocities to modern-day masterminds manipulating complex systems for personal gain, the intersection of brilliance and criminality raises immediate questions about human nature, morality, and the potential for intervention.

Let's start by examining the psychological foundation of this issue. Traditionally, men have been socialized to adopt what psychologists call the "stoic" model of masculinity. This model prioritizes traits such as toughness, self-reliance, and emotional restraint. Historically, these traits were essential for survival and success in a more physically demanding and competitive environment. However, as society has evolved, these characteristics can sometimes become barriers to deep, emotionally supportive relationships.

Squatting, or adverse possession, is a legal doctrine that allows a person to gain ownership of a property under certain conditions. This notion might seem straightforward—occupy a space long enough, and it becomes yours. But as we think, we uncover layers of legal, ethical, and societal implications that complicate this seemingly simple idea.