
Regrets
Approaching mid-seventies, I suppose everybody contemplates the ultimate ‘end’. It would be unnatural, really, not to. And yet I do not wish to descend into some maudlin recantation of my regrets. I find myself, rather arrogantly, shuddering at the loss of information I have garnered over 75 years.
Physicists of today study the flow of information, much as those of the 1900s studied the flow of energy, those of the 1800s studied the flow of disorder (rise of entropy). The flow of my thoughts is far more erratic, and I am not about to change that now. I look back at what I have written over the last seven years, and I guess it overwhelmingly brings sadness…sadness at what I have neglected. There are things I might have done, but the competition of what might have been and what probably would have been caused the latter to always win, in my somewhat pessimistic mind. My thoughts of what could have been, rather than what were, seem always to have dictated my decisions.
I think of my university friend with whom I should have re-connected, only to find some years later when I did that he had died of the disease I knew he feared…Huntington’s. That should have been a lesson, it was not.
My quite wonderful cousin…which one? The girl who looked like me (in spite of being quite beautiful). Her husband who is my greatest fan and whom I know so inadequately. The much older cousin come uncle who read me bed-time stories, and whom I loved, but who my mother expelled because in her mind, homosexuality was an abomination, and akin to pedophelia…a lie if ever there was one. That older male model who was essentially perfect. The family friends who welcomed me into their parental circles, who watched me vicariously, and a bit proudly, whom I lost permanently when my father died. Their children who were my friends as a child, and total strangers as an adult.
I must reframe all this to ‘wonderful that I had them’ from ‘sorry that I lost them’.
But I do not need to reframe my childhood nuclear family (four first degree relatives, mother, father, two brothers). My greatest strength there was my ability to separate. One by death alone (and sadness and devotion and attempted emulation), the others decision guided by circumstance. If I am anyone, I hope to god I am my father.
Everything Is Relative
My driving desire as an individuated person was to understand the world. There are two worlds…the physical world…and the personal humans (the personal world). There is a third group. The rest of the natural world of people who start as impersonal in importance and may progress to personal with experience and exposure. The impersonal world. Maybe the ‘unpersonal world’ is better.
So the world is really divided in three: the ‘physical world’, the ‘personal world’, and the ‘unpersonal world’, more or less, with some smudging of this boundary over time. Physics, mathematics and chemistry are easy, relatively speaking, compared to the personal world. And what of the rest?
The ‘personal world’ and the ‘unpersonal world’. Not bad. But what of the creative, imaginative, artistic world?
Where is music?…Oh god, that, or at least the appreciation of it, has to be the ‘personal world’. It’s too good to be impersonal…or unpersonal. But part of it, maybe the best part, is not rational enough to be the physical world. And what does that say…the rational intellectual world that makes sense, or the personal world that soothes and moves me.
I have a Facebook friend whom I have never met in person. Only one really, as I think about it.

She and I have both trolled a religious or anti-religious site (depending on who is commenting). From opposite sides, though Cat, of all of them, tends to have more integrity, honesty and kindness than most theists I meet on such internet sites (I almost never ask my friends their religious views, so really do not know about them). She is proof that ‘there are very fine people on both sides’. (Now why does that quotation from the Orange Orangutan in the White House come to mind, in this context?)
Exit Stage Left, Enter Stage Right
I went to sleep when I was about four years old, and woke up again when I was nine. As is often strange in life situations, that seeming adverse events might actually have some benefit, deafness proved a bonus. I missed a lot of bad stuff. When I woke up at age nine, I found people talking about God and Jesus and miracles and changing water into wine. For the life of me, I could not figure out why they all seemed to believe it. There was no evidence. God didn’t talk back when you called Him. While I briefly remember marvelling that two Sundays in a row were sunny days, that correlation fell apart pretty quickly…there was nothing special about God’s day of rest. A little older I learned the phrase, “correlation does not mean causation,” under a proudly displayed picture of a pussy cat sitting in the valley of a broken aluminum awning.
I was deaf, essentially, from age four to surgery five years later. I could communicate with my father because, being deaf, he didn’t talk at all. I could communicate with my dog…his facial expressions told me I could, and anyway, dog is just ‘god’ spelt backwards. I missed a lot of concepts in school. On the other hand, I missed a lot of my mother’s explicitations. My mother taught me that tricking people was clever, especially when you did so without lying. That was the cleverest! She praised my brothers for being clever. I could not hear enough to be clever. But I heard enough to learn that courtroom lawyers were the cleverest, like my grandfather, her father, like the desired profession of her brother, until he saw the horrors of the war and retreated to less violent pastimes. She taught me that if you count ten seconds between when you saw the lightning, and when you heard the thunder, the storm was a mile away.
I could communicate with my older brother because he always looked straight at me and spoke loudly. And when the eldest was not around, he was around.
It was this older brother who told me about Relativity. His claim was that ‘only five men in the world understood Relativity, but Relativity explained the world.’ Or so it seemed. Only five men, and apparently my older brother acknowledged that he was not one of them, but he was only a couple years older than I, so he must have been closer. And he listened to me. He taught me that if you count five seconds between when you saw the lightning, and when you heard the thunder, the storm was a mile away.
And that is when, sitting in our father’s unoccupied studio, to the sound of lightning in the distance, I silently determined that one day, I would understand Relativity! The Theory of Everything…well, in my worldview when I was four, anyway. Understanding beat out everything. Because, coincidently at that time, out the north window of the studio, there was a thunder storm just five seconds away. One mile away.
Seventy years later I still don’t understand Relativity. In fairness, I think my brother might have been talking about Special Relativity, the kind that tells us we cannot discern the difference between two frames of reference which are travelling at a velocity relative to one another. Not General Relativity. While I understand Special Relativity well enough, even now, I may have understood General Relativity ten years ago, but that ability is passed now. It passed when I lost track of differential transformation rules for four-dimensional second order tensors, both co-variant and contra-variant.
Put us in the apocryphal freight train with an open side door, and have us pass another freight train, we cannot really tell which one is moving without looking at the surrounding landscape (yet another frame of reference) or the ground beneath. That’s Special Relativity. Maxwell’s equations already tell us the speed of light is constant in all reference frames, and with those two ideas (constant speed of light and no preferential frame of reference) time and space change with speed; a purely logical thought experiment, beautiful in its completion, and yet so bloody simple a slightly precocious nine year old could actually understand it (oh, not me…I was eighteen when I really understood it). Distances shrink, and time slows. In theory, and yes, we have proven it. Muons from the sun, subatomic particles spewed out by the sun’s solar wind radiation, could not get though our atmosphere in their life time, to be detected on earth, if time did not dilate and atmospheric height did not contract enough for the poor dears traveling so close to the speed of light, to make it through unchanged.
And lots of other direct tests, amazingly leading to that famous equation for energy equal to mass times the square of the speed of light. E equals McTwo! Yes, Special Relativity is true because all subsequent data fits the theory!
That’s science for you. Create a theory based on your best knowledge so far. If the data fits better than current theories, and you did your measurements well, you have the current best theory. But don’t rest on your laurels. “Scientific knowledge is always provisional.” [Priamvada Natarajan]
But as I look back, was my older brother talking about General Relativity? He didn’t specify. General Relativity is the kind that tells us we cannot discern the difference between an accelerating frame of reference in which we are travelling, and a frame simply existing in a gravitational field (like the ground under our feet).
And yes, maybe when my brother told me of this Relativity, back in 1953, some thirty-six years after Einstein’s ground-breaking paper (1917), maybe only a handful of men understood it. Indeed, when Einstein (a German man) received the Nobel prize in Physics, in 1921, Sir Arthur Eddington (an Englishman, just after a war to end all wars between England and Germany) was one of very few who understood General Relativity. Eddington’s experimental observations (in 1919) put Einstein on the map (in a brief glimpse of science transcending politics) essentially proving that light is bent by gravity. The James Webb telescope has recently sent back beautiful pictures which contain examples of gravitational lensing (light bent by gravity), proving Einstein and Eddington were right. And yet, Eddington could not accept Subrahmanyan Chandrasekhar’s concept of Black Holes (but then, neither did Einstein, even though probably all galaxies have them, even ours).
Back in 1921, so few physicists understood the implications of either form of relativity that the big prize was given, to Einstein, not for the Special or the General Relativity, but for the Photoelectric Effect, a discovery that only lead to Quantum Mechanics. Relativity still had to wait.
Beauty Is Truth, Truth Beauty
Cat Leonard paints truthful portraits. I found out one day, conversing back and forth about religion and art. I don’t know that many theists, and it was refreshing to converse with one who would listen. Her Facebook page has numerous references to her work, and as the son of an artist, a man to whom I was devoted, I knew a little bit about art.
I had a special stool in my father’s studio. It was red with white legs. In fact, there were two…a small one which I chose, early in life, and a bigger one that appeared later, unheralded, as I grew bigger, also red and white. There was no fanfare with this second stool, and oddly in my memory, it always looked just as beaten up as the first. The stool was always about ten feet behind the position my father preferred in the studio. That position might change with the season, much as the Sun’s position relative to Stonehenge, but the relativity remained the same, whether the short stool in the beginning, or the tall stool later in life.
I would sit for long periods of time on that red and white stool, watching my father work, his back, head looking at his work, and his left arm extended forward to his creation. His body covered the view of the painting and I had to lean a bit to peer around when I wanted to see what he was doing, which oddly, I usually didn’t. And, again oddly, the stool always seemed placed so that I couldn’t.
Occasionally, his right hand would come up to the pipe in his mouth, and a plume of smoke would arise from the other side of his head, from my point of view. Then glancing down to his palette, a large flat marble thing with various tiny mounds of paint, he would work his paints with a palette knife, slightly stooped, face closer to the paints…and there would be the briefest of glances back at me, as if he suddenly realized I was there. And back to work.
I used to have that red and white stool, after my father died. As I glance now at the portrait he did of me, hanging in our living room, that four year old almost in tears because he/I wanted to be outside with my dog instead of trussed up here in my cowboy suit…even now I know I am sitting on that red and white stool. It’s there, in my memory of the agonizing fifteen minutes I had to sit, even though the painting shows only my head and shoulders. The four year old covered to the neck, complete with red neckerchief, like Tom Mix, looking for all the world exactly like my namesake grandson. I used to have that red and white stool. It broke before I learned enough woodworking to fix it. It broke when I was angry about my father’s death, one of the very few times I troubled deaf heaven with bootless cries. It broke when I felt so alone. It broke as I flashed the memory of resuscitating him in the hospital where he died a month later.
It broke when I realized my father was my only connection to my family. I wish now I had kept it. The stool.
My Facebook friend, Cat, enjoyed dad’s paintings which I displayed as I packed them up to move to the city where my kids had grown up, where my grandchildren were. I had to pack each painting carefully, and the photos helped me document the boxes in which the paintings were. Many of my friends knew dad’s work, and since I had left home permanently only a couple of years before his death, I knew them all, had seen it all. I even knew the ones that were still in his studio when he died, even though they all resided, mostly packed away, in my mother’s house until the late nineties when she passed away. Now my third are all hanging in my house…all forty of them, or so, about a third of them upstairs, the rest in the workroom downstairs…destined for periodic rotation. I see them every day.
Cat likes them, likes dad’s paintings, so I looked at Cat’s work.
Her portraits took my breath away. Not all of them…but damn, a whole lot of them.
And Einstein’s field equations remind Cat that G is everywhere, causes everything.
Dad hated doing portraits. Cat loves her portraits, and loves her subjects. She rather kindly suggested that dad would have liked portraits more had he had the advantage of photography to help. I let her know that mother did all that. Though I confess, there were not many photographs of dad’s subjects when it came to portraits.
I knew, everyone in our family knew, that dad could not get his feelings about someone out of the portrait. Best I could tell, the subject almost never knew, and I think dad never tried to hide, the portrayal of character seen in the portrait. I see it now as I look at that four year old on the wall: sadness, longing, some isolation in his deafness that only really his dog can assuage. Every parent who looks, certainly every grandparent, sees the tears about to rain forth. As if I knew my father was dying twenty-two years later. As if I knew I would struggle with the humanitarian decision of whether or not to resuscitate him twenty-two years later, egged on by the nurse who knew I would suffer from the decision if I didn’t.
No, I just wanted to go outside and play cowboys and first nation aboriginals.
I have seen lots of portraits, by some of the very best artists in the country, some friends of my dad’s. Many in the parliament buildings and museums, and boardrooms of companies and, yes, hospitals and girls’ camps! And dad’s portrait ability was one of the very best…but he hated it. And I think he hated it because he thought his subjects were telling him to change stuff, as they most surely were…and his deafness was thereby exposed. All he could do was nod, smile and puff on his pipe. But Cat has the advantage, if you will. Cat loves her subjects…well, most of them I think. Cat could be destined to become better than dad. In fact, I think she is.
My two brothers’ portraits are head and shoulders, like mine, except they are naked. I am clothed. They are happy (even though possibly cold), but not me. Apparently, that two to three years difference in age, theirs were painted in 1945 and ’47, brought changes in community acceptance of the nakedness of children, even when only an idea, a suggestion. So dad did change with the times.
My father had good reason to intensely dislike my grandfather, the one on my mother’s side. Grandfather, or ‘Grandsire’ as he insisted, was a cruel, sadistic, well concealed drunk, always the acerbic court room lawyer who probably never saw a day in court, and who never took a case he was not absolutely sure of winning. I watched in utter horror, and personal fear, as he reduced my father to tears in front of the entire family, at a Sunday dinner table…while he, my grandfather, in his cups, attempted to carve the turkey with the blunt side of the knife. I could not hear what transpired, but I saw it. And I hated the little shit ever after. And the portrait of my grandfather, completed by my father, so clearly exposed his character that nobody in the extended family would take possession of it upon the painting distribution at my mother’s death. Not even cousins unrelated to my father.
But Cat loves her subjects. I think she gets to choose them, instead of the other way round. But then, I am not at all sure there are people in the world that Cat doesn’t love. I think, though, that some of Cat’s portraits are of relatives, even first degree relatives. And maybe those are the breath taking ones.
In The Beginning, There Was G
My theory of everything is that Cat and I share a life view:
The big ‘G’.
G is infinite. No matter how weakly G might be respected, how infinitely far from G one might get, G is never really gone. G is the source of all energy and force in the world. G creates everything.
In the beginning, there was G. And the big G of huge galaxies showing the subtly encircling, curved smear of more distant galaxies aligned directly behind, well…if so finely aligned, it becomes a big circular halo, well…that’s an Einstein Ring. A halo. Due to the big G!
And Cat Leonard has a tattoo of Einstein’s field equations on her arm. I don’t think I have ever been so shocked in my life. It is Einstein’s original equation, the one only a few men in 1953 understood, without yet the second term on the left which represents the Cosmological constant that he called his biggest mistake (it wasn’t, but he didn’t know until later, when Edwin Hubble showed the universe was expanding).
The big G governs everything. The massive explosion of energy at the Big Bang spread throughout the universe which didn’t even exist yet…the ‘spreading’ was the universe. As the universe cooled and protons mopped up electrons into hydrogen, photons could then travel further, unobstructed. The universe became transparent some 380 thousand years after the Big Bang. The big G kept on rollin’, pulling masses together until two hydrogens became a helium, two heliums and two hydrogens pushed together became a carbon, and the rare helium and a carbon became an oxygen. Still the big G pushed, and heavier elements lead to supernovae and neutron stars. The big G pushed, or we should say pulled, two neutron stars came together and even heavier, less stable elements spewed out to the hinterlands rotating around some central G. The hard rocky planets, created by the big G working its magic on hydrogen, helium and neutron stars, those peripheral planets developed molten iron cores with some of the heaviest unstable elements. They radiated particles, heating that core and keeping it liquid. Rotation of liquid ferromagnetic material produced the magnetic fields which protected those rocky planets from solar winds, allowing occasional fragile complex molecules to be born but still allowing some protons (ionized hydrogen) from the sun in to react with oxygen, providing lots of water.
Billions of years in the making, earth, soil, water and nucleic and amino acids lead at last to the precarious roll of the dice: Life. At least on one planet. Quite probably on billions. And intelligent life at that, given they clearly have not tried to contact us!
And sometimes the big G is catabolic instead of anabolic, forcing the other galaxies away, and expanding space-time. The Cosmological constant expands the universe so that some parts escape beyond the constraint of the speed of light. At some point in the future of the universe, those other galaxies will wink out, too far away for light (information) to ever reach us. It will exist only in our history books, if indeed they or their memory exist at all.
The big G giveth, and the big G taketh away.
For me, G is gravity…for Cat, G is God.!
How did the big G give Cat the ability to paint such lovely portraits? Do her portraits, like dad’s capture the beauty of the subject, the truth of the subject? I think so, but why? Because she chose to wear the big G on the skin of her arm, on her sleeve, as it were? No. It’s because she worked at it. And she still works at it.
How long did that portrait take?
Twenty years and thirty-five minutes.
Good work, Cat.


















