An Oddly-Named Virus, A Link To Coleman Hughes, & A Poem By Rita Dove

The hypothesis that there was some lab-tinkering is not all that crazy, while pursuing this line of inquiry can potentially help us combat the virus.   The video focuses on what is known from current facts.

More importantly, this should spur some rather dark thoughts about real risks:  Just as the proliferation of nuclear fission, storage and rocketry has trickled down to non-state actors over time (any smallish group with funding and a grievance), so too are lab costs for bio-weaponry coming down.

This, and the ocassional accident, are enough to keep me and you up at night.

From Quillette Magazine, a podcast:  Professor Wilfred Reilly discusses his new book Taboo: 10 Facts You Can’t Talk About

Your moment of Zinn:  The 1776 project is a response to the 1619 project.

Just aim to be reasonable, your ears perking-up when smart individuals approach a problem.

If one pursues the transcendence of feeling [into] group emotion, one may miss much of the truth, and what’s possible.

As for poetic license…:

Geometry

I prove a theorem and the house expands:
the windows jerk free to hover near the ceiling,
the ceiling floats away with a sigh.

As the walls clear themselves of everything
but transparency, the scent of carnations
leaves with them.  I 
am out in the open

and above the windows have hinged into butterflies,
sunlight glinting where they’ve intersected.
They are going to some point true and unproven.

Rita Dove

Monday Poem By Rita Dove

Geometry

I prove a theorem and the house expands:
the windows jerk free to hover near the ceiling,
the ceiling floats away with a sigh.

As the walls clear themselves of everything
but transparency, the scent of carnations
leaves with them.  I 
am out in the open

and above the windows have hinged into butterflies,
sunlight glinting where they’ve intersected.
They are going to some point true and unproven.

Rita Dove

Thursday Poem-Rita Dove

Geometry

I prove a theorem and the house expands:
the windows jerk free to hover near the ceiling,
the ceiling floats away with a sigh.

As the walls clear themselves of everything
but transparency, the scent of carnations
leaves with them.  I 
am out in the open

and above the windows have hinged into butterflies,
sunlight glinting where they’ve intersected.
They are going to some point true and unproven.

Rita Dove