No solace in Quanta

At the moment multiverses and string theory are the ’go to’ explanations
of the world as we don’t know it.
Intermittently I console myself with the thought that we are a young species
with that has only recently confirmed the existence of the Higgs boson so perhaps
there is a way to go yet in terms of our understanding of the universe both
great and small. Perhaps one day in the not too distant futures some genius
will explain everything in a simple and elegant manner that even a politician
might understand. Perhaps that latter qualification is asking too much. Nonetheless
I feel I should understand more about quantum physics but, given that I struggled
with Euclidean geometry, perhaps I am being wildly optimistic. So I will give
John Gribbin’s book ‘Computing with Quantum Cats’ another
go in the vague hope that something sometime might make sense. Anyway, in all
probability the ability for one person to ‘know’ everything last
happened a couple of hundred years ago so I suspect that I am not alone in my
ignorance.
When I grew up, which as you may guess was some time ago, there was nothing
in our household that I or my step-father could not fix, a level of competence
that was enhanced by my step-father being a qualified electrician. Given that
I was living in the land of the Long White Clod (sic) improvisational skills
were always being called on as the rest of the world was reluctant to embrace
the New Zealand pound given that it was only backed by sheep of uncertain disposition.
‘Do it yourself’ was the watch cry decades before Bunnings loomed
over the suburban landscape. And we did with all the enthusiasm of people who
were too optimistic to think that it might actually be difficult. I repaired
our car armed only with a chisel and a crescent wrench! Eventually New Zealanders
built yachts and powered them with Chinese Gooseberries. What next?
At Art School one of my flat mates built a television from parts stolen from
where he worked to fund his voracious requirements for paint. It was not exactly
perfect, being housed in an orange crate, the actual casing being too bulky
to smuggle out, but it worked reasonably well considering its origins. It provided
rolling screen versions of ‘George of the Jungle’, ‘The Avengers’
and “Dangerman’ to an audience all too eager to succumb to the enchantment
of guided electrons inside an evacuated phosphor coated tube. Another art student
built his own stereo – the first I had ever heard – where I listened
entranced to the sound of a train traversing the room from one side to the other.

I made my own trousers with a stapler, gaffer tape, and some purloined paisley.

But there are limits and it takes a while before you see them. Let me give you
an example. Our grandfather was President of the Auckland Operatic Society so
it was inevitable that Michael and I would go to the opera at quite a young
age, dressed to the nines and incredibly unrelaxed in case we farted at that
particular moment when the audience becomes absolutely silent for the first
time during a performance. The opera was Tosca and my memory of it is remarkably
dim except that I recalled that the eponymous heroine throws herself of the
balcony in the last act. And that Scarpia was a really bad villain who met an
appropriately sticky end
So sixty year later, at vast expense, I set off with my intelligent daughter
to the same opera this time performed by the Australian Opera in Melbourne’s
Art Centre. Strangely enough Mike and Maria were there probably propelled by
the same atavistic instinct to turn back time. Neither of us was worried about
flatulence but the rest of the audience might have been. I have to say that
it was quite well done performance. Very handsomely staged, good orchestra and
direction and more than passable singers. A fruity melodrama with good tunes
meant that a good time was had by all.
And then I had to ruin it all and do something that made me realise that home
grown competence does not actually mean world class. You may not know that the
New York Metropolitan Opera films its performances and broadcasts them around
the world in High Definition. They are astoundingly good because you have not
the best seat in the house but all the best seats in the house. And the best
sound in the house. You are not in the gods looking at the stage which can seem
several hundred metres away through your lorgnettes but almost (when appropriate)
sitting in the laps of the cast. And New York naturally can employ the best
singer/actors in the world, and support an orchestra of the highest class directed
by James Levine.
And two days after Tosca I saw the most perfect opera ever written. Mozart’s
‘Marriage of Figaro’. You probably don’t have to like opera
to think that it is a treat. It is one of those rare works that manage to seamlessly
move from comedy to tragedy in the space of seconds.
I know it’s not fair but when you see how good something can be you realise
that the there are some things that you can actually understand at the deepest
level. It was, for all practical purposes, a perfect universe.