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Concluding Unscientific Postscript free porn video
Concluding Unscientific Postscript
By Cal Y. Pygia
Dr. Percy Stanley detested etiological, or so-called explanatory, myths,
the lies that ancient storytellers had told to gullible audiences to
explain--supposedly--how such-and-such an island came to be, why there
are seasons, or how the world began. Nowadays, mothers had inherited
the role of the ancient liars, it seemed, for Percy had just heard one
of them answer her young son's query as to what causes thunder with just
such an absurdity as those that the ancients had made up, telling him
that thunder was the sound of angels bowling in heaven, and, a week
before, another mother had "explained" to her daughter that the sea is
blue because God ran out of green after he'd painted all the grass and
leaves.
Why couldn't mothers tell their children the truth? Was it so hard to
understand that thunder is caused by the shock waves that result from
the sudden release of the tremendous energy associated with the
electrical charge of cumulonimbus clouds or that the sea looks blue
because it reflects the sky? It looks green, the mother might add,
where an abundance of underwater plant life overwhelms the effect of the
reflected sky. (Of course, these explanations would entail further
explanations of optics, the affects of atmosphere upon ultraviolet
radiation, and the phenomenon of color itself.) Before Percy, a
physicist, got hold of these kids in college, his students' minds were
full of such nonsense. Sometimes, it took half a semester to disabuse
them of the foolishness they'd learned at their mothers' knees. Telling
lies to one's own offspring was immoral, Percy believed; he also
believed that it should be outlawed.
It was the same in every scientific subject, his colleagues complained.
"The ignorance of youth about sex is truly astonishing," Dr. Hugh Lyme
confided in Percy once, as they were lamenting of their respective
students' general ignorance and naivet? concerning scientific topics.
"Romanticism is not dead," he concluded, "despite Poe's 'Sonnet--To
Science'":
Science! true daughter of Old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest thou thus upon the poet's heart,
Vulture, whose wings are dull realities?
How should he love thee? or how deem thee wise,
Who wouldst not leave him in his wandering
To seek for treasure in the jewelled skies,
Albeit he soared with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragged Diana from her car?
And driven the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?
The poem to which his colleague had alluded was one of a half dozen or
so that Percy enjoyed--in part. He liked the way that the poet admitted
the triumph of science over mythmaking and poetry, but, at the same
time, he detested the verse's lamentation at the loss of the simple-
minded faith upon which a belief in deities--or, for that matter, Deity-
-was based. Rather than a lamentation, the poem should have been a
celebration of such a triumph. Poets, even of the stature which had
been accorded to Edgar Allan Poe, never seemed to get anything
completely right, especially when it came to science. (Poe's Eureka!
was truly ludicrous.) Still, he had to admit, if grudgingly, that the
poem did at least admit science's truth and the falsity of myth or, as
it had been understood in its day, religion.
As he sipped a daiquiri at his umbrella-shaded table atop the balcony of
the beachfront restaurant that, in the evening, doubled as a nightclub,
looking through his sunglasses at the spectacle of human folly that
occupied the beach below, he watched the pounding surf roll in from, and
out to, sea. The ocean had once been said to have been full of
monsters, he mused. Even today, most people had no idea, really, as to
why there was a surf or tide or waves. One woman, an especially
annoying evangelistic type, had insisted that the tide was an effect of
"original sin," adamant that, had Adam and Eve not eaten the forbidden
fruit, the ocean would be as placid as a lake today, as it had been
before the "fall." There'd been no sense arguing with such a fool,
Percy knew, and, wisely, he'd replied, "Interesting." Had the woman
never heard of Galileo? Did she never read about the scientific
revolution? Did she not know that science had landed a man upon the
moon? No, it was unlikely. He'd bet anything that she knew her Bible
by heart, though, every scripture.
Percy consoled himself with the knowledge that, for truly educated,
modern people, science had replaced myth and religion as the explanation
for the universe and everything in it. Such men (and, less often,
women), he knew, believed that, at most, such superfluous disciplines as
were represented by the dying dinosaurs of the humanities--philosophy,
art, and the like--were, if anything, tentative explorations of the
inner self, the subjective aspect of the conscious being that was
mankind (and, less often, it seemed to Percy, womankind). The human
soul was, in the words of the idiot Soren Kierkegaard, science's
"unscientific postscript." The self itself was "left over," to use the
philosopher's words.
So be it, Percy thought. If some people wanted to retain the ghost in
the machine a little longer, the way a frightened child holds onto its
teddy bear in the dark of the night, let them. Children, after all,
eventually grow up, and, when they do, they set their toys aside.
"May I get you another drink, sir?"
The blonde bimbo in the thong bikini, showing her buttocks to secure
tips from her ogling male--and, increasingly, if sexologists' studies
could be believed--female customers, paused at his table, baring her
teeth in a fairly believable smile, as if she really did care about her
"guest" and what Percy might want.
"No, thanks," he said. He'd had quite enough of the world for one
afternoon. "Just the check."
"Yes, sir." In a moment, she brought it. He paid the bill, without
adding a tip, and started for the sanctuary of his home, a beachfront
condo a half a mile away.
En route, he heard a boy with a helium-inflated balloon on a stick ask
the woman with whom he strolled the boardwalk, hand in hand, "Mommy, why
don't girls have pee pees?"
The sea was darkening. Afternoon was deepening into evening, and the
horizon wore pink and purple clouds, edged with gold.
This ought to be good, the scientist thought.
"They do," the mother said, smiling. "They just have a different kind
of pee pee."
Percy shook his head. The boy, who was, perhaps, five, might be too
young to hear the complete details concerning the sexual differentiation
of the species, but his mother could have explained that boys have
testicles (and, as part of the sperm's delivery system, a penis) while
girls have ovaries, the former organs existing for the sake of
fertilizing the latter, and that the resulting offspring, as a mammal,
is born alive after its nine-month-long gestation inside the womb.
The boy asked, "Why does sand ripple?"
Percy hurried ahead, not caring to hear the mother's preposterous
answer. He was no longer interested in human folly. At the end of the
day, he had other things on his mind.
An hour later, at home, Percy, naked, stepped into his bathroom's shower
stall. Beneath the steaming needles of water, he soaped his body,
luxuriating in the feel of the hot, hammering water. As it sluiced down
his chest and belly, over his cock and balls, along his thighs and
calves, coursing over his back and following the curves of his buttocks,
he felt as if the water were somehow washing away the stupidity and the
ignorance of the general public. The water seemed to carry away with
it, down the drain, notions of angels bowling, of God at an easel upon
which his work in progress consisted of a blue sky and green grass and
leaves, and of boys and girls who had sexually differentiated "pee pees"
instead of procreative genitals.
People were such fools; their absurdity of thought and belief, born more
of emotion than logic and of desire more than reason, were exhausting
and, often, seemed unclean. A long, hot shower made Percy feel better,
though. After toweling himself dry, he stepped into his bedroom, to
dress.
He'd laid his clothing out on the bed.
He sat, still naked, on the bed and, after peeling and rolling one leg
of the sheer pantyhose down upon itself, he inserted his foot into the
gathered leg, methodically easing it up, and unrolling it over his
shaved calf, over his dimpled knee, and up his smooth thigh. He
repeated the same procedure with his other leg, before, standing, he
pulled up on the waistband, so that it fit snugly around his hips.
Then, he donned the brassiere. Next, he put on his blouse, slipped into
his skirt--the pink and purple one, edged with gold--and added a
complementary bracelet and pair of earrings before applying his makeup
and fixing his hair. Finally, he eased his feet into the sexy high-
heeled shoes he'd bought just last week. Like the skirt, they were also
pink and purple, edged with gold. He picked up his gold purse.
Now that she was dressed--or armored--Phoebe could face the maddening
crowds who inhabited the same establishment he'd just frequented, the
one that, in the evening, changed from a restaurant into a nightclub,
the same way that he changed from Percy into Phoebe, from a he into a
she.
Feeling just the slightest bit absurd, Phoebe checked her reflection in
the full-length mirror and decided that there was nothing foolish in the
least about her appearance. In fact, she looked stunning!
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