And so should the uncreative. It is becoming very clear that the road to Hell is paved with good inventions.
Einstein noodled with Newton, mish-mashed with Maxwell and thoroughly thrashed both time and space leaving us, relatively speaking, lost in the stars. Fired up by all this enthusiasm a raft of wild genial physicists and engineers ran off into the desert like the ancient Hebrews and cooked up the nastiest device known, up to this point, to mankind. Einstein, who more or less initiated this trek into drek confessed, subsequent to the incineration of a city full of civilian men, women, boys, babies, cats, dogs, crickets, mice and, of course, the inevitable sparrows that fascinate God so much, that he shoulda bin a plumber. A good deal of the crafty crew also revealed that the unexpected (to them) use of their toy to create an instant massacre left them in dismay, a peculiar emotion for a congregation of some of the world’s most brilliant minds who evidently couldn’t conceive that anyone would actually put it into operation.
No one can possibly know who invented the wheel, the lever, the filter, the ramp, the rope, the wedge, the hammer, the cork screw, intoxicating beverages, the back scratcher, shoes, silk underwear, toilet paper, and all other basics necessities for human civilization. It is unlikely it was dolphins but lately it has been observed that crows seem to be as inventive as chimpanzees so it might be a toss-up between those two.
But the wheel, inevitably, led to Henry Ford who did his bit for the automobile which lately is responsible in the USA for about 38 thousand deaths in one of the latest years. Worldwide it is much greater and increasing rapidly as the rest of the world can afford this lethal mechanism.
My general impression of scientists and engineers and architects and poets and painters is that what pulls them into their respective fields is not that they will become overnight billionaires by learning cosmology or particle physics or efficient mechanisms or how to structure a house or what two words do strange things to each other or the occult weirdness of colors or shapes but there is an intrinsic fascination with the manipulation of the variables and although nobody spits on money, that’s not the important part of their lives. Poets, of course, are extraordinarily successful at being bums and probably actors and folk singers fit in there rather neatly too. Some, of course, do make a good deal of money but some people also win lotto. I doubt many make a career of lotto.
Very simply, the money people are very direct at involving themselves in marketing and finance and whatever the hell will dig into the public’s pockets and these people are not stupid and they are very good at what they do.
And these are the people who mine the brains of the creative people and frequently do things with the concepts to make them sell and by that the world benefits. But the point of these people is the money, not the happiness and if they can make the stuff cheaper and perhaps not as good and perhaps not good at all is of no consequence if that makes them sell better and bring in tons of dough-rae-me. That’s why creative people in pharmaceutical firms get very good at producing new drugs that are no better than the old drugs (or no better than no drugs at all) if they are under patent and can persuade people to buy them for extremely high prices.
And the truly creative people do mind.
From under Euclid’s hat
Where space is very flat
The points dance out to anchor skeins of lines
Forming abstract mediums
Subservient to axioms,
Hypotheses and theorems that underlie designs
Which articulate extensions
Of the classical dimensions
Where the ideal and the concrete intertwines.
But something misty-hazy,
A modicum quite crazy,
Infected lines selected parallel.
It was hard to put your finger
On the doubts that tend to linger,
But they rang an alien brass bell.
When scrutinized with rigor
They simply wouldn’t figure –
A discord most difficult to quell.
With the grace of an Eglevski
Along came Lobachevski.
He’d an eye to Euclid’s parallel device.
By combing suppositions
He discovered new conditions
To make the general precise.
With Riemann he played games
With mathematic aims
And invigorated space with new spice.
Einstein looked at Newton’s space.
He measured to the millionth place
And discovered something really wasn’t right.
At orders of high magnitude
He found old concepts came unglued,
Especially at speeds close to light.
“The problem is,” he had to state,
“Space is really not quite straight
But somehow strangely slickly subtly skewed.
How it’s curved, he could not say.
It could be almost any way
Dependent on the mass proximity.
It needed no great miracle
For fourth dimension spherical
But then, in equanimity,
Held truth in anonymity.
“This space”, he said, “I must
Most radically adjust
By fusing it confusingly with time.
So that the present, past and future
Are joined in special spacial suture.
Not in plan Satanic nor sublime.”
Since time is also space
In each and every case,
We should call it tace or, maybe spime.
But events within this framework
Became, no longer, tame work.
The kingdom of the random becomes rife.
Uncertainty is certainty,
Will becomes insanely free,
And God is playing craps with your life.
So, if you are late for dinner,
You no more are a sinner.
Modern physics will explain it to your wife.