February 28, 2018

monkeys

P.J. is curled up under a weighty layer of blankets and sheets and is sleeping the sleep of the person who was hospitalized last night and therefore didn't get a wink.  I've been tip-toeing around in my sock feet, accomplishing small household things, sorting her medications by schedule, and taking the occasional stab at parenting.

It was all good until I accidentally bumped into my son's backpack and saw the library copy of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy slide out of it onto the floor.


The five books in Douglas Adams' Hitchhiker's trilogy are collectively as close to a holy book as I get.  They're the Geek Bible.  It was like the opposite of marijuana sliding out of his backpack.

Good.

Until I started to think about the monkeys ....

“Ford!" he said, "there's an infinite number of monkeys outside who want to talk to us about this script for Hamlet they've worked out.”

Infinite monkeys.
I didn't sleep so well the past couple of nights, either.

So if there were infinite monkeys hammering away on typewriters -- well, hang on, that wouldn't be possible, because you could have either the monkeys or the typewriters, but not both, because if you had infinite monkeys ... everything would be monkeys.  And they wouldn't even be separated out, individual monkeys, because they'd be infinite, so even the Universe, ostensibly also infinite, couldn't actually hold them, so everything would be this big mass of merged monkey tissue, every molecule in the Universe a bit of a monkey.  One big, cosmic monkey mush.  No typewriters.  No Hamlet.

We wouldn't even be here.

And would this mean everything would immediately implode, because all that monkey would mean infinite density, too?  Would the Universe fold up and disappear?  It wouldn't be like a bounded infinity of monkeys, like when a monkey walks half the distance toward an organ grinder, and then half the distance to the organ grinder again, and again, and so on.  This would just be ... nothing.  Because if everything is monkey, nothing is monkey, because there's no longer anything resembling a Cartesian dichotomy involved.

And what about the role of time?  Was it always this way?  Are we made of monkey?

Conclusion One:  Infinity is bullshit.
Conclusion Two:  This is what happens when a mentally ill person doesn't get enough sleep.

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