On Genesis, Chapter 3

            The Adam and Eve story makes no sense, my friend said.  Since they didn’t know good from evil when they ate the fruit, they shouldn’t have been punished.

            It’s not as simple as that (I should have said).  Adam’s and Eve’s sin, and the reason for their expulsion, was disobedience.  They didn’t know “good” and “evil” in the moral sense, but they knew that they weren’t supposed to eat the fruit of that tree.  Before they ate the fruit, their moral consciousness was that of a toddler, who understands very well what happens when Mommy says, “Don’t!” and they do anyway.  Adam and Eve knew blind obedience; they knew that what they had done was forbidden.  That was enough to make them merit punishment.

            As a result of their disobedience, their punishment had to be expulsion. It could be nothing else.  Nothing had been forbidden to Adam and Eve except the one thing that rendered it impossible for them to remain in Paradise.  When they were pre-moral, that is, when they knew nothing but obedience, they needed the safety of Paradise in addition to being entitled to live there.  But once they ate the fruit, their consciousness changed.  They obtained a higher consciousness, the consciousness of “right” and “wrong.” They became moral beings.  A pre-moral being, such as a toddler, does not have that higher consciousness.  His moral decisions must be made for him and that is why he must remain in a secure, nurturing place—a “paradise.”  He cannot leave until he learns morality.  Adam and Eve grew up and had to leave home.

Even if the punishment might have been something other than expulsion, would Adam and Eve even have wanted to stay in Paradise once they acquired the knowledge of good and evil?  When an individual is able to make moral decisions, does he want to stay where his choices are limited?  Would he be content with another making decisions for him, even if that “other” is the Almighty?  Is that not like totalitarian systems, which decide all questions of right and wrong (and death to those who disagree)?  Free individuals usually want to determine right and wrong for themselves.

Another aspect of the story is that once Adam and Eve became aware of good and evil, they acquired the capacity to dissemble.  They hid; they did not forthrightly announce that they had disobeyed.  Moreover, when asked why they hid, they used a cover story of being ashamed because they were naked.  They didn’t actually tell a lie; their new awareness included the idea that nudity was improper.  But the excuse they gave revealed at once what they had done, since they had never before felt bad about being naked.  It seems that awareness of right and wrong comes with an instinct to skew facts in our favor.

            The story of Adam and Eve is deceptively simple.  If I had known then how to respond to my friend, I would have said: The story is like a “zipped” software file: study it closely and it unfolds, revealing profound observations on individual growth and awareness.  Thousands of years before psychology, there were people who knew the human condition very well.

On my horse, Wellington

                 A word to you, Wellington-- or should I call you by your legal name, Holds Well?  After five years together, I feel we are still at arm's length.  We are not quite on the same page although we have made progress of late.  You have all the right qualities.  There’s good bloodstock in your pedigree (you are a great-grandson of Northern Dancer and among your ancestors on both sides are Gallant Fox and Count Fleet, both Triple Crown winners).  Your breeder thought enough of you to pay the $500.00 fee to have you nominated to the Breeders' Cup, meaning you were eligible to run in the fancy races sponsored by Breeders' Cup, Ltd.  I doubt you did.  I know you spent time on the racetrack, two years according to your previous owner, who bought you when you were six.  You have a lip tattoo, so you clearly were raced.  Your Certificate of Foal Registration, however, is notably empty in the column for "races won on the American Continent."  I can only assume that was why you were gelded.

                Hey, flat racing is an unforgiving way of life.  So many enter, so few achieve.  But you had your time among the elite, living the life of a pampered athlete, fussed over by hot-walkers, grooms and vets, energized by the excitement (or the jockey's bat) at the clang of the starting bell.  Now you've come down in the world.  What inspiration can you find, what status is there in a suburban barn and a riding ring full of little girls on ponies?  No long empty track for a morning "breeze" workout, just trotting in circles, cantering serpentines like some delicate dressage horse.  No chance to display that raw, purebred running talent.  Once in a while you're asked to go over a few jumps or if you're lucky, you get a jaunt to a park for a trail ride.  You're bored; I know it.  This is beneath your dignity and you are not giving all that I know you can.  But this is your life now and it's better than what usually awaits an unsuccessful racehorse.  Really, it’s not a disgrace to be a top-notch pleasure horse.  Try it; it can be quite satisfying.

                I’m aware that worse than being relegated to a commoner's pleasure use, you're a replacement for another horse I use to own, Champ.  You're the rebound and you probably sense that my emotional commitment to you is, well, less than 100%.  I bought you to stand in for (or, rather, jump in place of) Champ, who as he got older fell down too many times in mid-canter.  Age and arthritis ended his hunter-pace career.  He was more than just a horse; he was my "honey."  You were merely my "mount."  How he hated to see me with you!  I doubt you were aware of it, or cared.  You are too well-bred to take notice of petty jealousies.

                But, really, I like you.  Everyone at the barn who deals with you likes you.  You’re very likeable.  For all that stiff-upper-lip exterior, you have an undeniably sweet nature and the instincts of a gentleman.  It's the Thoroughbred breeding, don't you know-- as you might say, if you had the capacity to think and talk.  You never crowd me when I enter your stall; you wait patiently until your halter is off to duck your head in the grain bucket; you radiate calm and reserve -- until you decide to spook, or you decide it's time to channel your racetrack past.  Then you put on an astounding burst of speed and Heaven help your rider!  Stay on and steer; those are my only options.  I confess I like those occasions once they're over with.  But there's this confidence thing.  I'm not sure of you.  And I sense you're not sure of you, either, or maybe of me.  To jump or not to jump?  I would prefer you make that decision before we're right in front of the jump.  It's less messy that way.  I know you've got the ability but I don't think your heart's really in it.  Probably that was the problem with your racing career, too.

                Look, I’ll do my best to make things better between us.  I’ll start concentrating on what we’re doing together instead of wishing you were Champ.  I promise not to tease you about your fellow foals who reached the winner's circle.  I hope you'll conjure up some enthusiasm for walk-trot exercises.  I know that’s hard to do.  At age 23, you're not likely to change your tastes.  You've come a long way in recent months and there are instances when I really feel at one with you.  There’s hope for the two of us.

On Attending a Mensa RG after Many Years

Having no plans for the Labor Day weekend, I was tempted by Northern New York’s Regional Gathering, “RechaRGe,” in Albany.  Just far enough away to be “away,” but not too far for easy traveling.  I hadn’t been to an RG for 12-13 (or so) years and had only the vaguest of plans of attending one at any time in the future.  But given the circumstances, I figured Albany wouldn’t be so bad.  I recall prior RG’s as being a patchwork: activities with some intellectual pretension and others having no purpose at all … amateurs on parade, lecturing on their notions of history and/or reality … late nights gabbing with friends and acquaintances … games that Milton Bradley would never have dared to market.  A Mensa Regional Gathering is somewhat like a science-fiction convention, only less focused.

On the outskirts of Albany, across the highway from the State University, the workaday motel was sufficient for the needs of a gathering of about 100 people.  Just provide rooms for conferences, space for hanging out and free food; Mensans will do the rest.  It all began to remind me of a cruise ship, only more down-to-earth.

Ruminations on the game room:  all games have one of three themes, rather like Nabokov’s comment that all literature consists of 10 plots.  Games, other than role-playing games, are based on strategy or chance or a combination of both.  The rest is merely “atmosphere”: whether you play on a marked board or not, whether you move pieces, tiles or cards, whether you score points or race to finish first.  I played a round of Scrabble with another participant.  Playing Scrabble with total strangers is risky, especially when there is no dictionary to hand.  There is an art to courteously disputing a player’s attempt at a word firmly enough to convince him to withdraw it from the board.

Ruminations on the presentations: when given by a professional on the topic or by a well-versed amateur, they were informative, even absorbing.  But when given by someone who wanted to be the focus of attention and expound on what he thought fascinating, it was excruciating.

Ruminations in general: There’s still energy in Mensa; the younger generations are still joining … the parties were decidedly tamer (at least based on what went on in public) … Is it realistic to expect wild parties in Mensa?  … The comfort of being among people who accepted eccentricity, even practiced it … All hail the folks who haven’t given up their curiosity!