A Suspect in my Building

I

As soon as I enter the hall, I see that they have placed a sign on the wall. The oversized red letters read "Never let strangers into the building." I reread the notice and nod approvingly. It was high time. There are too many deranged people out there.

This month, they have not cleaned the stairs and the steps are a little greasy. When I arrive at the fourth floor, my apartment key is already in my hand. I walk down the corridor, turn the corner, and then I freeze. Who is the woman standing in front of my door?

"Are you the scientist?" she asks with a heavy accent. I stare at her and take in a deep breath. I know how to deal with this. At work, we all receive training to handle this sort of situations. "I am not a medical doctor," I reply in a neutral tone. "I am afraid I can't help you."

She shakes her head firmly. "I know that you are a physicist, Prof. Raymond," she says. How come that she knows who I am, I wonder. "My name is Raymon, without a d," I correct her mechanically. She has long blond hair and, for a moment, I wish that she was here just to sell me something.

When she walks up to me and takes a cable out of her pocket, I see my worst fears confirmed. Now I have no doubt that she is one of crazies against whom newspapers so often warn. "What do you want from me?" I ask, shrugging my shoulders. My acting is pathetic and doesn't fool her in the least. "I can't start the battery," she explains, pushing the cable into my hands. "Can you help me?"

II

Her apartment is a mess, but the view from the twentieth floor is breathtaking. She picks up a box of electronic components and points at the ceiling. "It is on the rooftop," she lets me know. I decline her offer of a cup of coffee and climb the last stairs after her. How long has she been working on this?

The spacecraft on the rooftop corresponds to the design publicized by newspapers. I inspect the battery and shake my head. Although the media always portray Alpha Centauriers as mentally unstable, this woman seems surprisingly well-balanced. Does she really believe that she can build a spaceship to return to Alpha Centauri? This is insane.

She informs me that her name is Amy and tells me the story that has been passed from generation to generation. Who hasn't heard of the Alpha Centauri myth? Who doesn't want to believe that a perfect world can exist? I hand her back the cable and start to tell her that I must go back to my apartment, but she cuts me off. "My real name is not Amy," she says. "It is AmyFri."

My heart misses a beat. This can't be true. Nobody can possibly know about the names. "I am AmyFri," she repeats, "and you are RayMon." I stare at her blue eyes, seeking to be reassured. I want to know that I am not dreaming. Only real Alpha Centauriers possess names ending with their day of birth, Mon for Monday in my case. Was AmyFri born on a Friday? I cheer at the possibility that she might be one of us.

I accept her cup of coffee and we sit on the sofa in her living-room. As we watch the sun go down, we exchange stories about our forefathers. AmyFri believes that she belongs to the Rigil tribe, but she is not sure. "From the forty-six tribes of Alpha Centauri," I confirm, "Rigils are the most intrepid." Then my voice trembles and I shut up, unable to tell her that I am also a Rigil.

III

When I return to my apartment, I close the door and the keys drop from hand. As I stand motionless in the corridor, my mind reviews everything that's wrong with AmyFri's spaceship. It is a long list of unsurmountable problems. No wonder, since the design published by newspapers was nonsense.

I pick up the keys from the floor, walk to the bedroom, unlock the drawer under my bed, and take out my design. It is the blueprint of an ultra-light spacecraft, the result of fourteen years of work at nights and on weekends. I have not looked at it since my fortieth birthday, the day when I gave up hope of ever returning to Alpha Centauri.

As I deploy my blueprint on the kitchen table, I remember the reasons that made me abandon the project. The impossible technical specifications. The gigantic cost. The back-breaking work that it will require. My design is revolutionary, but I know that it can work. With the help of AmyFri, I might be able to build my spaceship in less than ten years.

Through the hours of the night, I feverishly remake my calculations. I find no errors, but I wonder every minute if this is the only way. When the first light of dawn comes through the window, I have already made up my mind. No matter how long it takes, no matter how much it costs, I am going to do it. I am going to build my spaceship for Alpha Centauri and, when it's ready, I will take AmyFri with me.


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If your old tribe grows stale, it's time to start a new one

"The human mind is designed for exercising memory and imagination," wrote Baruch Spinoza in his Ethics in 1662. The book would be published only fifteen years later, but Spinoza didn't care, since he was recording his thoughts mainly for himself.

In the history of ideas, or for that matter, of entrepreneurship, few men have shown such extraordinary courage as Spinoza. His daring dismissal of safe common memories in favour of an uncertain future estranged him from his family and made a pariah out of him, socially and financially.

Born into a wealthy family of Jewish merchants and destined to a life of economic comfort, Spinoza's free spirit began to outgrow the narrow traditions of his community already when he was a school kid in Amsterdam.

In July 1656, the rabbi of the synagogue, after having consulted the elders, gave Spinoza an ultimatum. He was to stop asking questions during lectures. He was to stop talking to other youth about tolerance and individual freedom. In a word, he was to stop being different and, instead, he was to become like everybody else in the community.

Although the rabbi uttered his threat in a soft voice, he painted clearly what consequences non-compliance would bring. Expulsion from the synagogue would be tantamount to lifelong ostracism. If Spinoza refused to conform to social conventions, all doors would be closed to him.

"We expect your answer on the last Sabbath this month," concluded the rabbi, already anticipating his victory. At that time, Spinoza was 23 years old and the rabbi felt sure that no one would be foolish enough to throw away a bright professional future in an established community for the sake of some intellectual nonsense about truth.

On July 27th, Spinoza returned to the synagogue. The rabbi and the elders were awaiting him. "What have you decided?" he was asked. "Are you with us or are you on your own?"

"A man must be guided by reason, if he is to remain fully a man," answered Spinoza. "Without the urge to understand and the freedom to search for answers, neither truth nor happiness are possible."

After leaving Amsterdam, Spinoza moved thirty kilometres south and created a new community from scratch: a group of free-thinking intellectuals who would spread around the world his ideas about tolerance and change the course of History.

What would have happened if Spinoza had remained in his traditional community instead of starting a new tribe? As he wrote himself in his Ethics: "The essence of human thinking is to identify true ideas."

May you always have the courage and determination to follow them through.

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A more tangible and immediate reward

"You are not one of us, Aristotle, and you will never be," sentenced Plato. "This is why I have to ask you to leave the Academy." Plato made a pause expecting to hear bitter recriminations from his student, but none were forthcoming. Aristotle stared at Plato silently, almost with indifference, and shrugged his shoulders.

"Haven't you realized how much your questions irritate other students?" continued Plato, his voice tainted with anger. "Can't you see that nobody likes you?" Without saying a word, Aristotle turned around and faced the class.

They were all there. All of Plato's students at the Academy. Sippus, Xenocrates, and the rest. None of them had wanted to miss the spectacle of Aristotle's public humiliation. All of them had wanted to savour the vindication of their timidity and conformity. Aristotle was an outcast. Aristotle didn't belong. Aristotle had to go.

Sippus stood up, walked to the front of the room, and stood still facing Aristotle, the Macedonian. Sippus had disliked Aristotle since the first day they had met. He hated Aristotle's cool reasoning and passionate logic. He would have liked nothing better than to see Aristotle condemned for contempt of the gods and sold as a slave.

"I have refrained myself for too long," began Sippus, turning to his fellow students. "Have we not all learned that there is no higher purpose than unity? That the goal of a philosopher's life is to share the common opinion?"

The other students nodded. Sippus was neither brilliant nor well-spoken, but he could be trusted when it came to echoing Plato's teachings in a righteous tone. Many regarded him as the most likely to succeed Plato at the head of the Academy. Sippus was also Plato's nephew, although that was a coincidence.

Aristotle smiled and looked at Plato. It was such smile of Aristotle that all students at the Academy had learned to fear. It was the smile that always preceded powerful arguments put forward softly, arguments that would tear any fallacy to shreds.

"Since when is the common opinion worth more than the truth?" asked Aristotle without raising his voice. Plato took in a deep breath, but did not respond. Sippus searched frantically in his mind for a good answer or, at least, for a sophism that he could use to confound the odious Macedonian.

That winter, in the year 347 B.C., was going to be Plato's last. Aristotle would soon leave Athens, only to return 13 years later, in his early fifties, to start up a competing school, the Lyceum, and write 40 essays that would change the course of History.

When Sippus finally managed to put together a reply, he pointed his finger theatrically at the other students. "Do you dispute, Aristotle, that the highest honour in life is the good opinion of your fellow citizens?"

"An honest man would do better to strive for a more tangible and immediate reward," answered Aristotle calmly. Then he walked to what had been his place at the Academy during the last ten years, bent over, picked up his roll of manuscripts, and headed for the door.

"What reward are you talking about?" retorted Sippus infuriated. Aristotle's response came as he crossed the doorway, without bothering to look back. "Immortality," he said.

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About The Epitome of Vanity

As soon as we are born the learning process begins. First we learn to eat, talk, walk etc from our parents. Then we learn from our neighbors about certain social norms and the wider world outside our immediate home. Our school teachers then put the icing on the cake, by giving us knowledge of different subjects. As we progress up the academic ladder, we acquire more and more knowledge in a particular field. Finally graduating from college and university with a degree, we think we achieved what others have not been able to achieve, and therefore we think society owes recognition or even worship.

Srila Bhaktivinode Thakur, a magistrate, administrator, great saint and mystic, who prominent in Bengal and Orissa during the British rule, made this observation;
"all the so-called knowledge of this world is born of the illusory energy of the Lord. It is an impediment to the execution of devotional service to Lord. Indulgence in mundane knowledge verily makes an ass of the eternal soul by encouraging his infatuation with this temporary world.

Here is one person who has been turned into such an ass, who for so long has carried on his back the useless burden of material existence. Now in my old age, for want of the power to enjoy, I find that nothing at all pleases me.

Life has now become agony, for my so-called erudite knowledge has proven itself to be worthless ignorance. Material knowledge has now become a pointed shaft and has pierced my heart with the intolerable, burning pain of ignorance. It is all vanity from beginning to end."

"Knowledge" itself is elusive. The wisest have always claimed to know nothing. One is always getting the impression that mankind is still in kindergarten, especially as one gradually becomes more certain that "This life's five windows of the soul, the knowledge acquiring senses, "Distorts the Heavens from pole to pole." (Blake, From The Everlasting Gospel)

Socrates was always claiming to know nothing, and Whitman echoed him: "I cannot tell how my ankles bend, nor whence the cause of my faintest wish. That I walk up my stoop, I pause to consider if it really be." (Song of Myself, 24) The time arrives when man sees himself and his "accomplishments" as nothing more than the dabblings of a child, fabrications to pass the time, games to distract.

It is at this point that "knowledge" begins to break down. Man begins to question, "What is this 'knowledge' I've been so long pursuing? What are its purposes, its categories? Am I on the right path in this pursuit, or am I deluding myself?" If such a man is fortunate, he will turn to a scripture such as Bhagavad-Gita for guidance, and he will see that Krishna Himself, the Supreme Personality of Godhead, divides knowledge into three "gunas" or qualities: sattva, rajas, and tamas-namely, goodness, passion, and ignorance.

A brief review of the fields of contemporary knowledge reveals passion and ignorance to be the two predominant modes. In the "humanities," for instance, history (from the transcendental viewpoint) truly becomes a pack of lies perpetrated on the dead, so much senseless conjecture and family gossip. Of what use is history? Its only justification is that man can learn from it and it can give man a sense of direction; in this century alone there have been two major wars and thousands of books have been written about them, horrors that might well have been forgotten have been dug up, revitalized and dealt to the public in tons of newsprint. Still mankind rushes stubbornly into a third holocaust. History only teaches that it teaches nothing. That most historians are cynics is testimony to this.

Like history, philosophy, and literature, science has only succeeded in implementing man with encumbrances that mainly serve to divert his energy. For example, because there are so many automobiles, man feels the need to travel more and more. Now man is spending so much energy and scarce resources to reach the moon-for what specific reason, no one can really say, save for the psychological need he must feel to feel superior and may be the possibility of escaping from the earth to the moon, in times nuclear catastrophe.

However, advanced yogis and those advanced in Krishna-consciousness know that such vehicular interplanetary travel is most difficult, if not impossible. Space travel is not difficult-the gross materialists are simply going about it the wrong way. Furthermore, science has principally helped man to destroy himself most effectively. In the realm, science has proved itself most helpful and progressive. Extermination. When God gave man gunpowder He knew the little bangs would grow into bigger and bigger ones. In this field, science is most adept. "They murder to dissect" is now a bland statement. It is a familiar story. Yet these madmen, masters of extermination, receive large financial grants from universities and foundations to further pursue the annihilation of the race. They have produced dangerous viruses such as HIV, to eliminate their fellow men. The millions of children, who are the hope for the future, are with a scientific arrogance aborted as lifeless tissues.

Yet science, the pursuit of the firecracker, is considered knowledge. At its best when it attempts to satisfy the material desires of man by helping him attain adequate food and shelter or curing his physical diseases for a short duration, it is knowledge in the mode of passion. And when science shackles man with modern "conveniences" or frivolous gimmicks or when it exterminates man by monstrous bombs and military devices, then it is knowledge in the mode of ignorance and darkness. Although modern man places all his hopes in science, the wise know this to be the knowledge of the madhouse.

Many examples of similar diversions can be given: mathematics are concerned with number games. No mathematician has ever been able to prove that one equals one, and besides, reducing everything to an equation helps no one. Politics is an animal farm for the power-hungry, the vanity of vanities, and business and finances are simply the arts of throat-cutting. In that sense they hold hands with science. Sociology is concerned with the dying and anthropology with the dead. The language into which one is born affords a sufficient number of confusing symbols without one's trying to learn others. Most comparative linguists never manage to master their own native tongues. When it comes to the field of astronomy, glancing at the sky and any fool can tell you the stars are innumerable.

All these fields of knowledge are in the modes of passion and ignorance, and only help to increase the burden of the false ego, and perpetuates our material existence.

Such are the branches of "knowledge" offered by man, a poor serving indeed, hardly worthy of consideration let alone a lifetime's devotion. The principle of money-making keeps most of them in business, and behind the money-making principle is the principle of sense-gratification. And sense-gratification mainly includes eating, merry-making, sleeping sex-life and defending. So take these away and the whole structure of "knowledge" collapses. It's all really rather basic after all. But the veneer, glossed by centuries of deceit, is thick indeed, and many are entrapped. The real problems of birth, old age, disease, and death go unsolved and untouched. So it is said that "Grace is given of God which makes humble, but knowledge is bought in the market which increases our pride."

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The deepest fear comes always in the morning

I am a scientist of a kind that is rarely talked about. My field of expertise is neither chemistry nor astronomy. Even at the beginning of my studies, I found those subjects too limited, too simple and mechanistic.

"You will never go far if you choose fear as a study subject," I was told over and over when I was a young student. Those who warned me were wrong, but I thank them for discouraging competition in my field.

Did you know that fear-related products constitute 13% of our economy? The demand for my services has only grown stronger with time, no matter how often I raise my fees.

"You can only catch big fish by getting into deep waters," my father's advice still resonates in my ears. How true, I reflect every morning as I set up my camera next to the highway.

My video equipment is itself not expensive, but the way I use it makes it unique. My steel tripod allows me perfect pointing accuracy. Artificial lighting is unnecessary, since the deepest fear comes always in the morning.

I look at the drivers in the passing cars and I smile. I might fail to read the fear in their eyes, but my camera won't. My computer will turn digital images into statistical data and draw me a simple curve. The fear curve.

Today was a good day. I have found another hot spot in the highway. Why does the fear curve climb precisely at this turn of the road? Who knows. There are so many good reasons.

Those who are driving by might be workers about to be fired from a nearby factory. They might be cancer patients awaiting the result of a test. Or investors fearing a crashing stock market or simply parents worried about their children.

I have found another ideal location for billboards promoting drugs against anxiety, but this time, I won't be telling any pharmaceutical company about this spot on the highway. I am thankful that I no longer need the money and I am fully devoted to my mission.

"Check the land registry and find out who owns this parcel," I instruct my lawyer on the phone. "Get me a lease to put up a sign."

It's the fifth billboard that I put up this month on a fear spot. Most drivers won't read my message and, from the few who read it, most will ignore it. I don't mind.

I am a scientist and I trust statistics. I know that one or two persons will read my text and change their course. I call up my carpenter and command a new billboard with my usual text. "Fear is paralysis. Take action."

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