Skeptophilia (skep-to-fil-i-a) (n.) - the love of logical thought, skepticism, and thinking critically. Being an exploration of the applications of skeptical thinking to the world at large, with periodic excursions into linguistics, music, politics, cryptozoology, and why people keep seeing the face of Jesus on grilled cheese sandwiches.

Thursday, November 14, 2024

History by proxy

In a study from Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, we learn something simultaneously fascinating and alarming; humanity's fingerprint on the globe is so clear that it can even track our wars, famines, and plagues -- back twenty-five centuries or more.

The whole thing was done using proxy records, which involve using indirect sources of evidence about the past to infer what conditions were like.  A commonly-employed one is using the constituents of air bubbles in amber and ice to make inferences about the global average air temperature at the time -- a technique that shows good agreement with the measurements of the same variable using other methods.

Here, in a team effort from the Desert Research Institute, the University of Oxford, the Norwegian Institute for Air Research, the University of Copenhagen, the University of Rochester, and the Alfred Wegener Institute for Polar and Marine Research, researchers studied ice cores from thirteen different locations in the polar northern hemisphere, and found that the levels of one contaminant in the ice -- lead -- was enough to parallel all of the major plagues and wars that occurred in Europe and northern Asia back to 800 B.C.E.

What they found is that lead concentrations in the ice rose when things were quiet and prosperous, probably due to an expansion of smelting operations for items like lead seams for stained-glass windows and impurities in silver ore processing.  If the signature of wars was clear, the signature from plagues was blatantly obvious; the years following the Plague of Justinian (541-542 C.E.) and the two spikes of the Black Death (1349-1352 and 1620-1666 C.E.) were two of the lowest points on the graph.

"Sustained increases in lead pollution during the Early and High Middle Ages (about 800 to 1300 C.E.), for example, indicate widespread economic growth, particularly in central Europe as new mining areas were discovered in places like the German Harz and Erzgebirge Mountains," said study lead author Joseph McConnell of the Desert Research Institute.  "Lead pollution in the ice core records declined during the Late Middle Ages and Early Modern Period (about 1300 and 1680 C.E.) when plague devastated those regions, however, indicating that economic activity stalled."

Silver smelting plant in Katowice, Poland, ca. 1910 [Image is in the Public Domain]

The authors write:
Lead pollution in Arctic ice reflects midlatitude emissions from ancient lead–silver mining and smelting.  The few reported measurements have been extrapolated to infer the performance of ancient economies, including comparisons of economic productivity and growth during the Roman Republican and Imperial periods.  These studies were based on sparse sampling and inaccurate dating, limiting understanding of trends and specific linkages.  Here we show, using a precisely dated record of estimated lead emissions between 1100 B.C.E. and 800 C.E. derived from subannually resolved measurements in Greenland ice and detailed atmospheric transport modeling, that annual European lead emissions closely varied with historical events, including imperial expansion, wars, and major plagues.  Emissions rose coeval with Phoenician expansion, accelerated during expanded Carthaginian and Roman mining primarily in the Iberian Peninsula, and reached a maximum under the Roman Empire.  Emissions fluctuated synchronously with wars and political instability particularly during the Roman Republic, and plunged coincident with two major plagues in the second and third centuries, remaining low for >500 years.  Bullion in silver coinage declined in parallel, reflecting the importance of lead–silver mining in ancient economies.  Our results indicate sustained economic growth during the first two centuries of the Roman Empire, terminated by the second-century Antonine plague.
Of course, there's nowhere in the ice cores that has as high a level of lead contamination as recently-deposited ice does.  "We found an overall 250 to 300-fold increase in Arctic lead pollution from the start of the Middle Ages in 500 C.E. to 1970s," said Nathan Chellman, a doctoral student at the Desert Research Institute, and co-author on the study.  "Since the passage of pollution abatement policies, including the 1970 Clean Air Act in the United States, lead pollution in Arctic ice has declined more than 80 percent.  Still, lead levels are about 60 times higher today than they were at the beginning of the Middle Ages."

As an aside, the Trump administration v. 2.0 has already promised to drastically roll back regulations requiring industry to conform to reasonable pollution standards, including allowable levels of air pollution.  So look for the contaminants in ice -- and in your lungs -- to spiral upward once again.

But hey, if the price of eggs goes down, then fuck the environment, amirite?  

Of course I'm right.  Nothing to worry about.  MAGA FTW!

Ahem.  Back to reality.

As I've pointed out (repeatedly), what we are doing does have a measurable, quantifiable effect on the environment, and studies like McConnell et al. should be a significant wake-up call.  And as I've also pointed out, it probably won't.  It's all too easy for people to say, "Meh, what do I care about a little lead in Arctic ice?  So it bothers a few seals and polar bears.  Too bad for them."  And continue with our throw-away, gas-guzzling, conspicuous-consumption lifestyles.

It's cold comfort knowing that when the aliens come here in a thousand years to find out why the Earth is barren, they'll be able to figure it out by looking at the traces we left behind in the ice, soils, rocks, and air.

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Wednesday, November 13, 2024

The world of the trickster

Sometimes I run across a piece of research that is just so charming I have to tell you about it.

This particular one comes from the European University of St. Petersburg, where anthropologist and folklorist Yuri Berezkin has been working on tracking down the origins of trickster myths worldwide.  Every culture seems to have them -- characters from folk tales who are clever, wily, getting themselves into and then deftly out of trouble, often helping we humans out as they go (although we're the butt of the joke just as frequently; one of the persistent themes is that tricksters may be dashing and funny, but they can't be trusted).

I remember first coming across trickster myths when I was a kid, and had a positive obsession with mythology.  Loki, from Norse mythology, was a trickster of a more malevolent kind; the Greek god Hermes was the messenger of Olympus, but got his start as a small child stealing his brother Apollo's sacred cattle; and Coyote, a character in the stories of many Indigenous American cultures, one that was generally more benevolent to his human acquaintances.  When as a teenager, I read Richard Adams's amazing novel Watership Down -- in the characters' tales of the wise and daring El-Ahrairah (his name means "The Prince With a Thousand Enemies," translated from Lapine), I recognized the tropes right away.  El-Ahrairah is courageous, sometimes to the point of foolhardiness; out for his own gain and that of his friends, even if it means breaking the rules; not above taking every opportunity to make his foes look like idiots; fiercely loyal to the weak and powerless who call on him for help.

What Berezkin found is that trickster figures fall into three broad categories: fox/coyote/jackal, the most common, found throughout Europe, Siberia, East Asia, North Africa, much of central and eastern North America, and the Andes region down into Patagonia; hare/rabbit, found in the tales from southeast Asia and sub-Saharan Africa (from which it jumped to North America via the slave trade; thus the Bre'r Rabbit tales, and ultimately, Bugs Bunny); and raven/crow, found in northwestern North America and across central Canada, far eastern Siberia, and a few spots in east Asia and Australia.

Coyote the Trickster (Edward Curtis, ca. 1915) [Image is in the Public Domain]

What's fascinating is that it appears that as people moved, they carried their stories with them, but upon settling in new areas, simply applied the same stories to a different set of anthropomorphized animals, based on whatever wildlife lived in the new region.  (For example, as Indigenous Americans moved from the Northwest into the Plains, their stories remained similar in theme, but they substituted Coyote for Raven.)

Berezkin writes:

The existence of two major zones of trickster tales in Eurasia and Africa, one with the fox/jackal and another with the hare/rabbit, seems to reject the differentiation of Homo sapiens populations after entering Eurasia from Africa.  During the Last Glacial Maximum (LGM) the Pacific borderlands of Asia and the northern/continental Eurasia were isolated from each other by sparsely populated mountainous and desert areas.  Each of the major zones populated by modern people during the LGM produced its own cultural forms.  When the LGM was over, the bearers of both cultural complexes took part in the peopling of the New World.

Humans have been storytellers for a very long time.  If Berezkin is right, trickster stories go back at least to the Last Glacial Maximum, which is on the order of twenty thousand years ago.  How much older they are than that is anyone's guess, but given how widespread they are, and the commonalities between them worldwide, they might be twice that old or more.

So the next time you tell folk tales to your children, or read mythical accounts of the derring-do, cleverness, and craftiness of figures like Prometheus and Anansi and Kokopelli and Veles, you are participating in a tradition that far antedates written language, and has been passed down through the oral tradition back into a shadowy and unknown past.  You are helping to keep alive something that unites every culture on Earth.

I think Coyote would be proud.

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Tuesday, November 12, 2024

Bubbles, dimensions, and black holes

One of the weirder claims of modern physics, which I first ran into when I was reading about string theory a few years ago, is that the universe could have more than three spatial dimensions -- but the extra ones are "curled up" and are (extremely) sub-microscopic.

I've heard it explained by an analogy of an ant walking on a string.  There are two ways the ant can go -- back and forth on the string, or around the string.  The "around the string" dimension is curled into a loop, whereas the back-and-forth one has a much greater spatial extent.

Scale that up, if your brain can handle it, to three dimensions of the back-and-forth variety, and as many as nine or ten of the around-the-string variety, and you've got an idea of what the claim is.

The problem is, those extra dimensions have proven to be pretty thoroughly undetectable, which has led critics to quote Wolfgang Pauli's quip, that it's a theory that "is not even wrong," it's unverifiable -- which is synonymous to saying "it isn't science."  But the theorists are still trying like mad to find an indirect method to show the existence of these extra dimensions.

To no avail at the present, although we did have an interesting piece added to the puzzle a while back that I somehow missed the first time 'round.  Astronomers Katie Mack of North Carolina State University and Robert McNees of Loyola University published a paper in arXiv that puts a strict limit on the number of macroscopic dimensions -- and that limit is three.

So sorry, fans of A Wrinkle in Time, there's no such thing as the tesseract.  The number of dimensions is three, and three is the number of dimensions.  Not four.  Nor two, unless thou proceedest on to three. 

Five is right out.

The argument by Mack and McNees -- which, although I have a B.S. in physics, I can't begin to comprehend fully -- boils down to the fact that the universe is still here.  If there were extra macroscopic spatial dimensions (whether or not we were aware of them) it would be possible that two cosmic particles of sufficient energy could collide and generate a miniature black hole, which would then give rise to a universe with different physical laws.  This new universe would expand like a bubble rising in a lake, its boundaries moving at the speed of light, ripping apart everything down to and including atoms as it went.

"If you’re standing nearby when the bubble starts to expand, you don’t see it coming," Mack said.  "If it’s coming at you from below, your feet stop existing before your mind realizes that."

This has been one of the concerns about the Large Hadron Collider, since the LHC's entire purpose is to slam together particles at enormous velocities.  Ruth Gregory of Durham University showed eight years ago that there was a non-zero possibility of generating a black hole that way, which triggered the usual suspects to conjecture that the scientists were trying to destroy the universe.  Why they would do that, when they inhabit said universe, is beyond me.  In fact, since they'd be standing right next to the Collider when it happened, they'd go first, before they even had a chance to cackle maniacally and rub their hands together about the fate of the rest of us.

"The black holes are quite naughty," Gregory said, which is a sentence that is impossible to hear in anything but a British accent.  "They really want to seed vacuum decay.  It’s a very strong process, if it can proceed."

"No structures can exist," Mack added.  "We’d just blink out of existence."

Of course, it hasn't happened, so that's good news.  Although I suppose this wouldn't be a bad way to go, all things considered.  At least it would be over quickly, not to mention being spectacular.  "Here lies Gordon, killed during the formation of a new universe," my epitaph could read, although there wouldn't be anyone around to write it, nor anything to write it on.

Which is kind of disappointing.

Anyhow, what Mack and McNees have shown is that this scenario could only happen if there was a fourth macroscopic dimension, and since it hasn't happened in the universe's 13.8 billion year history, it probably isn't going to.

So don't cancel your meetings this week.  Mack and McNees have shown that any additional spatial dimensions over the usual three must be smaller than 1.6 nanometers, which is about three times the diameter of your average atom; bigger than that, and we would already have become victims of "vacuum decay," as the expanding-bubble idea is called.

A cheering notion, that.  Although I have to say, it's an indication of how bad everything else has gotten that "We're not dead yet" is the best I can do for good news.


That's our news from the world of scientific research -- particle collisions, expanding black holes, and vacuum decay.  Myself, I'm not going to worry about it.  I figure if it happens, I'll be gone so fast I won't have time to be upset at my imminent demise, and afterwards none of my loved ones will be around to care.  Another happy thought is that I'll take Nick Fuentes, Tucker Carlson, Elon Musk, Stephen Miller, and Andrew Tate along with me, which might almost make destroying the entire universe worth it.

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Monday, November 11, 2024

Color my world

When you think about it, color vision is kind of strange.  Our eyes -- unless you have a genetic or physical inability to do so -- are able to sort out the frequencies of light, and each range in the visible light spectrum looks different to us.  But why do we have the ability to distinguish between, for example, light with a wavelength of 570 nanometers (which looks yellow) and that with a wavelength of 470 nanometers (which looks blue)?  It's a small shift in wavelength, but triggers a completely different response in our eyes and brain -- so it must be important, right?

Color perception in the natural world seems to serve a fairly small number of functions.  There's sexual signaling -- the (often) brighter colors of male birds, for example, is most likely a cue for females signaling fitness (and thus good genes, worthy of producing young with).  It can be a sign that food is ready to eat, such as fruits changing from the blend-with-the-foliage shades of green to something more eye-catching.  It can also be a danger signal, as with the brilliant warning colorations of coral snakes, the foul-tasting bright orange and black monarch butterfly, and Central and South America's dart poison frogs.

So our ability to sense colors, an ability shared with many other mammals, birds, reptiles, amphibians, fish, and some arthropods, seems to have evolved as a way of distinguishing things that need to stand out from the background, for purposes of reproduction or survival.  There's a reason, for example, that stop signs are red; our dim-light vision is poorest in the red region of the spectrum, so when car headlights catch a bright red stop sign at night, it immediately grabs our attention.  (The flipside of this phenomenon is why snow under moonlight looks blue.  It's not that snow preferentially reflects blue light; it's simply that our eyes are better at picking up the blue region of the spectrum in low light levels, so it's almost as if our eyes are subtracting the red frequencies from the white light reflected from snowbanks, resulting in it appearing blue.)

What this means, of course, is that pigment production has to have evolved in tandem with color perception.  There are undoubtedly exceptions, where colorful chemicals have evolved for other purposes, and their hues are accidental byproducts of their molecular structure; but otherwise, the evolution of bright pigments must have coevolved with the ability to perceive them.  The brilliantly-colored organic compounds produced in the petals of many flowers, for example, are generally for the purpose of attracting pollinators, and the reds, oranges, and yellows of ripe fruit attract animals to consume the fruits and then disperse the seeds.

Scarlet passion flower (Passiflora coccinea) [Image licensed under the Creative Commons gailhampshire from Cradley, Malvern, U.K, Scarlet Passion Flower - Flickr - gailhampshire, CC BY 2.0]

What's curious about this, and why the topic comes up today, are the findings of a study out of the University of Arizona that appeared in the journal Biological Review last week.  It showed that based on genetic studies of distantly-related animal groups, color vision evolved a very long time ago -- on the order of five hundred million years ago, so the middle of the Cambrian Period -- while the first fruits didn't show up for another 150 million years, and the first flowers 150 million years after that.

So the earliest production of functional color (and the ability to perceive it) almost certainly was driven by sexual signaling and warnings.  Then, once animals were able to see in color, it became an evolutionary driver in plants to ride the coattails of that capacity in order to facilitate cross-pollination and seed dispersal.

And once that back-and-forth coevolutionary relationship was in place, it was off to the races.  Give it another couple hundred million years, and we have the rainbow hues of the natural world today.

One thing I still find hard to explain -- from an evolutionary standpoint, at least -- is why we find brightly-colored things beautiful.  Having our attention caught by a bright red apple, or the wild stripes and spots of the venomous lionfish -- sure, those make sense.  But why is it almost universal to find a daffodil or a wild rose beautiful?

Ah, well, maybe it's just one of those accidental things that is a consequence of other, more vital, evolutionarily-derived traits.  Whatever it is, we can certainly still enjoy it, and not let our wondering why it occurs interfere with our appreciation.

But it's still kind of cool that the ability that allows us to have that experience goes back at least five hundred million years.

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Saturday, November 9, 2024

A Cambrian holdout

Although you don't tend to hear much about it, the Ordovician Period was a very peculiar time in Earth's history.

From beginning (485 million years ago) to the end (444 million years ago) it experienced one of the biggest global climatic swings the Earth has ever seen.  In the early Ordovician the climate was a sauna -- an intense greenhouse effect caused the highest temperatures the Paleozoic Era would see, and glacial ice all but vanished.  By the end, the center of the supercontinent of Gondwana was near the South Pole, and glaciers covered much of what is now Africa and South America, resulting in a massive extinction that wiped out an estimated sixty percent of life on Earth.

At this point, life was confined to the oceans.  The first terrestrial plants and fungi wouldn't evolve until something like twenty million years after the beginning of the next period, the Silurian, and land animals only followed after that.  So during the Ordovician, the shift in sea level had an enormous impact -- as the period progressed and more and more ocean water became locked up in the form of glacial ice, much of what had been shallow, temperate seas dried up to form cold, barren deserts.  And that was all there was on land -- thousands of square kilometers of rock, sand, and ice, without a single living thing larger than bacteria to be found anywhere.

Somehow, despite the extreme climatic swings that happened during the Ordovician, life in the oceans diversified, and rebounded after the dramatic dieoff at the end.  And along the way, there were some really peculiar life forms.

One of these was discovered not long ago in the Castle Bank Formation in the middle of Wales.  (Ordovician outcrops in Wales are what gave the period its name; the Ordovices were a tribe that lived there around the time of the Roman conquest of Britain.)  The animal was small -- the fossil measures only thirteen millimeters from tip to tail -- but it was one odd-looking critter:

A reconstruction of Mieridduryn bonniae [Image credit: Franz Anthony]

Aficionados of paleontology will no doubt immediately recognize the similarity to Cambrian animals called Opabinia and Anomalocaris; Mieridduryn looks almost like a hybrid of the two.  (If you're a linguistics geek like myself, you might be interested to know that the genus name Mieridduryn comes from Welsh words meaning "bramble snout.")  And it does seem to be a holdover from the Cambrian Explosion fauna, which also produced such weird forms as Hallucigenia (the name means "comes from a hallucination"), which is so bizarre that at first, paleontologists reconstructed it upside down, until some better-preserved fossils made them realize their error.

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons Qohelet12, Hallucigenia, CC BY-SA 4.0]

By the Ordovician, however, a lot of the stranger (to our eyes, at least) life forms had gone extinct, and the wipeout at the end of the Ordovician finished off the last of them.  At that point, what was left -- arthropods, primitive vertebrates, mollusks, echinoderms, annelids, and so on -- would have begun to look a lot more familiar to us.

But during the mid-Ordovician, when Mieridduryn was snorking about in the mud of shallow, warm oceans, there were still some mighty peculiar animals.  If you hopped a time machine and went back there, you might well think you were on a different planet.  It reminds me of the poem by Irish geologist John Joly, which he was inspired to write while looking at a the fossil of a long-extinct animal, and seems a fitting place to end:
Is nothing left?  Have all things passed thee by?
The stars are not thy stars.  The aged hills
Are changed and bowed beneath the ills
Of ice and rain, of river and sky;
The sea that riseth now in agony
Is not thy sea.  The stormy voice that fills
This gloom with man's remotest sorrow shrills
The memory of thy lost futurity.
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Friday, November 8, 2024

A botanical chameleon

One of the things I love most about science is its capacity to astonish us.

You can be really knowledgeable in a field, and then the natural world slings a curve ball at you and leaves you amazed.  Sometimes these unexpected twists lead to profound leaps in our understanding -- an example is the discovery of the parallel magnetic stripes in igneous rocks along the Mid-Atlantic Ridge leading to the theory of plate tectonics -- but sometimes it's just a fascinating bit of scientific trivia, one of those little things that makes you smile in a bemused sort of way and say, "Science is so cool."

I had a moment like that yesterday.  I taught biology for 32 years and have been interested in plants -- especially tropical plants -- a great deal longer than that.  I have a fine collection of tropical plants, currently jammed into my greenhouse so tightly that I can barely walk through it because the ones who spend the summer on my deck have to be tucked away in a warm place during our frigid winters.  I have bromeliads, cacti, three species of ginger, four different kinds of angel's trumpet (one of which got to be seven feet tall this past summer, and sometimes had twenty giant, peach-colored flowers all blooming at once), a fig tree and a lime tree that produce every year, and two species of eucalyptus.

Among others.

While I wouldn't call myself an expert when it comes to tropical plants, I'm at least Better Than The Average Bear.  So I was startled to run, quite by accident, into an account of a species I had never even heard of -- and even more startled when I found out how truly bizarre and unique this plant is.

It's called the "chameleon vine," and its scientific name is Boquila trifoliolata.  It belongs to a small and rather obscure family of dicots called Lardizabalaceae, which contains forty species found in two places -- southeast Asia and western South America.  (How a group of plants with common ancestry ended up in such widely separated locales is a mystery in and of itself; populations like this are called peripheral isolates and are a perennial puzzle in evolutionary biology.)

Boquila is one of the South American ones, and lives in southern Chile and Argentina.  It's a woody vine whose leaves are composed of three leaflets (thus the plant's species name).  Here's a picture:

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons Inao, Boquila trifoliata [sic], CC BY-SA 2.0]

It's not really much to look at, and you non-botanical types are probably tapping your fingers and saying, "So what?"  But wait till you hear what this plant can do -- and why it merits its common name of "chameleon vine."

Boquila trifoliolata has an extraordinary ability called mimetic polymorphism.  It's capable of altering its leaf shape to mimic a variety of different (unrelated) plants -- including the ones it most commonly twines up as a support.  We're not talking about small differences, either.  It can be glossy or dull, have different petiole lengths, have different leaflet sizes and shapes, and even change whether or not it has serrations or spines along the edge!

This ability, first described in a paper by botanists Ernesto Gianoli and Fernando Carrasco-Urra in Current Biology in 2014, was first attributed to genetic transfer from the host to the vine, a sort of genetic parasitism.  I'll admit that was the first explanation I thought of -- although how a plant could take up DNA from another species and only express the genes related to leaf morphology left me scratching my head a little.  But Gianoli and Carrasco-Urra were able to rule out this possibility, because Boquila can alter its leaf shape without touching the plant it's mimicking.

All it has to do is be nearby.  So it isn't a parasite at all.  The current guess is that Boquila is picking up volatile organic compounds emitted by the other plant, and those are altering gene expression, but those organic compounds have yet to be identified -- nor has any kind of specific mechanism by which that kind of alteration in phenotype could happen.

Less certain still is how it perceives those specific traits in its neighbors so it knows what genes to express, and how.

Even though we still have no idea how Boquila is managing this neat trick, the why is pretty clear.  If it's hiding amongst the foliage of another plant, herbivores can't single it out for a snack.  Gianoli and Carrasco-Urra found that when Boquila is climbing up a non-living support like a chain-link fence, herbivores actually seek it out for browsing.  But when it's camouflaged within another plant's leaves, it can avoid being seen and identified -- and, they found, browsing of its foliage dropped by as much as fifty percent.

Fascinating, isn't it?  And yet despite study, we haven't been able to figure out how the plant evolved this amazing (and apparently unique in the plant world) ability, nor what kind of information it's gleaning that might say, "Okay, time to change color and grow some spikes!"

So yet another example of how science is really freakin' cool.  It also illustrates how every new discovery opens up new avenues for investigation.  The crazy chameleon plant should make it absolutely clear that if you go into science, you'll never be done learning.

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Thursday, November 7, 2024

What will continue

Like many Americans, I spent most of yesterday in a state of shock and incredulity.  I felt, honestly, like I'd been kicked in the gut.  It's not that I thought a Harris presidency was a foregone conclusion; but the margin by which she lost was a horrible wake-up call, and a reminder that racism, sexism, xenophobia, and Christian nationalism are still forces to be reckoned with.

In yesterday's post, I gave voice to my anger that a man like Donald Trump could win a national election not once, but twice.  All of us know exactly who he is, or should.  When the chaos comes, which I am certain it will, no one will have available the excuse of "we didn't know."  Whatever else you can say about him, he's never been stealthy.

The lion's share of the blame, though, goes to the corporate capitalists who bankrolled and supported him -- men like Elon Musk, Jeff Bezos, and Rupert Murdoch -- purely out of self-interest.  Also to the media, which scrutinized every damn thing Kamala Harris said and did, and gave Donald Trump carte blanche to babble nonsense and fraternize with racists and right-wing extremists of the worst sort, barely giving any of it a mention.  (Of course, those are not unrelated factors; the media itself is controlled by the very wealthy, who more than anyone else stand to gain from a Trump presidency.)

So yesterday was devoted to processing my own rage.

But today, I'm trying to figure out how I and my family and friends are going to cope with all this.  Just feeling hopeful for the future is a struggle right now.  But when hope is far away, you have to fall back on commitment.  So in today's post I want to focus on what will continue -- what I did last week, when I was still hopeful that sanity would prevail, and will still do now, when I am forced to concede that it did not.

So here's what I'm going to do going forward.
  • I will continue to take care of my family and friends, to let them know I'm here when they need me, and to fight like hell for them when I have to.
  • I will always be a voice for marginalized communities, especially religious and ethnic minorities, people of color, and LGBTQ+ people, and I vow to protect them physically and materially if it becomes necessary.
  • I will continue to write about critical issues like climate change, public health policy, and the environment, regardless of the repercussions.
  • I will stand up to bullies who attempt to destroy our rights and freedoms, even if it's at risk of my own bodily harm.
  • I will speak truth to power.
  • I will keep doing the small things -- tending my garden, making good food for my family and friends, and giving loving homes to our wonderful canine companions.
  • I will continue to support artists, writers, and musicians and their commitment to bring some beauty into this poor, struggling world -- and I will continue to create as well.
  • Tomorrow, I will be back to writing about cool and interesting stuff here at Skeptophilia, because teaching and learning and curiosity and humor will always be important.
  • I will never, ever stop fighting for what is right, what is true, what is compassionate, and what is kind.

Even in my optimistic moments, I suspect we've got some dark times ahead.  Nothing will change my stance that American voters made a huge, huge, mistake on Tuesday, and will all too soon be finding that out.  But despite all that, I'm determined to keep putting one foot in front of the other, and to make sure that the people I love are doing the same thing.

Day by day, step by step.  It's all we can do.  That, and to help each other.  So check up on the people you care about.  Frequently.  Don't be afraid to reach out when you need help, or even a hug or a shoulder to cry on; you'll find it.

Whatever happened two days ago, and whatever will happen in the upcoming days and weeks, keep your mind focused on the things that need to continue, and turn your hope into a rock-solid commitment to hold fast to those.

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