The Mating Imperative

Some time back in high school biology, I was captivated by the mating of fruit flies. The deterministic control of the experiment gave me a heady sense of the order of the universe. Such an orderly taxonomy of all of god's critters was antidote to the uncertainty of another outbreak of acne.

I suppose those little creatures, pinned and poked, were my creepy-crawly concubines. They gave my life purpose, beyond indiscriminate masturbation.

But after many formative years jumping through one academic hoop after another, the last twenty years as Professor of Entomology has me pining for the driven sense of purpose I felt when I would impale a frog's tiny hand with a straight pin.

For many years I was clinically detached delivering my bug lectures like an automaton in LL Bean khakis. Now I grow all teary-eyed and mushy when I explain to freshman

Males serenade females with close-range wing vibrations. Females feel the wispy air currents with their finely-tuned antennae.

The wiser I get, the harder it is to be non-didactic with my students. After all, procreation is our one encoded imperative. And two winks after a couple of hucklebucks in the hay, my biological progeny are already finding the rungs of academia to be hastily attached to the rails.

It's only when students visit during office hours that I can be candid about how I feel about those kill-joy existential questions. Mating rituals of insects merely provide the context.

If procreation wasn't our encoded imperative, the antennal ears of female tephritidae wouldn't be exquisitely dialed into the vibratory gusts emanating from their mates. They'd be ignoring this biological imperative as if they'd better things to do.

The female antennae would be tuned to something else - like vintage Chubby Checker. Their tiny gyrating thoraxes would be doing The Twist.

True Objective & Hitting Switches

In life happiness is a false objective. The most important ingredient of life is desire which is not an objective. ~ Ergun Çoruh (a.k.a., @ProudElephant)

I won't labor you with the time-space wormhole minutiae that enabled me to drive my hybrid-powered automobile accompanied by Madame Curie (1867–1934) riding shotgun at the butt-end of a 21st century winter.

Rolling downhill in Eco-Mode, I explained to Madame Marie that some automobiles are fitted with hydraulic modifications so they can be made to bounce, on demand, several feet off the pavement by toggling a switch -- much like a jolt of applied voltage might inspire a bucking mule. I told her that this pastime is colloquially known as "hittin' switches".

Marie was amused by the absurd theater of bouncing automobiles wondering, tongue-in-cheek, if perhaps there was an underlying practical basis, like using the bouncing automobile as a weapon to catch prey, or to fend off an enemy.

Descending from the clouds towards Lucky's 13 Pub, she also questioned the utility of the EV switch in my hybrid automobile when I gleefully switched to electric propulsion once the speed limit dropped to 25 mph on the memorial artery of historic Mendota.

Her arm in my elbow, we crossed the threshold into Lucky's 13. She smiled wistfully when she asked,

"What element would you be be on the periodic table?"

I thought of the transition metals, then blurted mercury. She knowingly acknowledged my choice as if she had anticipated it, but I thought I detected a wisp of sadness in her acknowledgement.

I had been feeling mercurial - somewhat flighty and erratic having discovered the subtleties of ferreting time-space wormholes. I have had brief periods of melancholy centered about the passage of time - time that extended beyond many lifetimes.

I was sure she would say she was uranium, but I regret not asking her. She might have felt more akin to inert gases, despite the celebrity status two uranium minerals, pitchblende and torbernite, had brought into her life.

There are infinite time-space wormholes, so I doubt I'll have the pleasure of Madame Marie's company again.

Much as I try, it's nigh impossible to melt and mold a nugget that embodies my philosophy.

Yet I am as sure as a relativist can be that existential concerns are the singular thread worth traveling. Other concerns seem like hitting switches - creating a sort of mental turbulence that make you bounce up and down.

Suffice it to say, time does extend beyond many lifetimes. There's nothing we can do about being finite. About the best we can hope for is to carry the torch of humanity a few clicks before an eternal dirt nap. And now that I know inquisitive humans can tap into wormholes, there is a pinhole of light in the finality of death.

One can take infinitesimally small comfort in the prospect of a visit from the future. A visit from someone curious enough about our hopes and aspirations; someone willing to take the time.