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by Richard Nilsen
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In 1966, I invented the Gaia principle. Me. That the earth is a single living organism. But more on that later.
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First, of course, I’m not the only one to figure this out. At about the same time, chemist James Lovelock and microbiologist Lynn Margulis gave the idea its name, after the primeval Greek goddess of the Earth and the primordial mother of all life. But I beat them out and claim my primacy.  But again, later.
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It turns out, it is not unusual for ideas to pop up simultaneously and independently. Science and technology are littered with such examples. For instance, Isaac Newton and Gottfried Leibniz worked out the calculus at the same time, although Newton called the process fluxions — which I think is a much catchier name. They did not get on, and Newton always felt that Leibniz must have cadged the process from his notes. (Leibniz didn’t).
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Charles Darwin and Alfred Russell Wallace came up with the concept of natural selection as the mechanism for evolution at the same time. In this case, the two worked it out between them amicably.
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These are the most famous examples of ideas welling up separately, but there are many more.
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Joseph Priestly and Carl Wilhelm Scheele discovered oxygen both in the 1770s. Both Nettie Stevens and Edmund Wilson submitted papers that formed the modern view of genetic gender determination 10 days apart. Takaaki Kajita and Arthur B. McDonald independently proved neutrinos have mass. Lothar Meyer and Dmitri Mendeleev each created the periodic table of elements — a year apart. The British Frank Whittle and the German Hans von Ohain each came up with the first jet engine, during World War II, on opposite sides of the conflict.
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I could go on: Within six months of each other, Jack Kilby and Robert Noyce each invented the microchip in the late 1950s. Benjamin Franklin invented the lightning rod in 1749 and Czech theologian Prokop Divis came up with the same idea in 1754, independently. In 1953, both Daniel Fox of General Electric and Hermann Schnell of the German company Bayer invented polycarbonate plastic. American Don Wetzel and British John Shepherd both invented the automated teller machine (ATM) in the late ’60s. In 1902, Leon Teisserence de Bort from France and German Richard Assmann discovered the stratosphere just three days apart.
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At least five people came up with a mechanism for television in the 1920s.
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Clearly, something was in the air, besides oxygen.
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The same thing happens in movies. They are called “twin films,” and Wikipedia lists 173 pairs of them: movies that share the same plot made at the same time by different studios.
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Among the most notable: Deep Impact and Armageddon in 1998; Tombstone and Wyatt Earp 1993 and ’94; Dangerous Liaisons andValmont in 1988 and ’89; Volcano and Dante’s Peak in 1997. Sometimes the pairing is quite specific: drag queens on a road trip across a continent to discover themselves — The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert in 1994 and To Wong Fu, Thanks for Everything! Julie Newmar a year later.
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Just last year, there was Sink or Swim and Swimming With Men, both films about a man in midlife crisis joining an all-male synchronized swim team. And Skate Kitchen and Mid90s, both about skate boarders, both with non-actor skateboarders and young heroes dealing with difficult mothers.
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It seems the zeitgeist is pregnant with something and then it all coalesces with the birth pangs around the world.
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Of more import are those significant upwellings of political synchronicity. Probably the most famous is the year 1848, when revolutionary movements exploded in some 50 countries worldwide, from Ukraine to Brazil. It seemed to come from nowhere and suddenly, it was everywhere. Unfortunately for history, almost all of the revolutions failed.
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A lesser confluence of revolution had occurred in 1830, in France, the Netherlands, Belgium, Poland, Portugal, Switzerland and Italy. In France, it brought the “citizen king,” Louis Philippe, that 1848 attempted to unseat.
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In our own time, 1968 was the focus of international disruption, protest and violence, not only with anti-war protests and civil rights unrest in the U.S., with the assassinations of Robert Kennedy and Martin Luther King Jr., and the riots at the Democratic National Convention in Chicago, but major strikes in France, crises all through Western Europe, the beginning of “The Troubles” in Northern Ireland, the Tlatelolco massacre in Mexico City, guerrilla war in Brazil, the Prague Spring and the Red Square Demonstration in Moscow protesting the Soviet invasion of Czechoslovakia. There were uprisings in Poland and Yugoslavia, student revolt in Pakistan, and the climax of the Cultural Revolution in China. The whole globe seemed to be in paroxysm: Gaia was having a heart attack.
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 An aftershock hit in the years on both sides of 1989, with the fall of the Berlin Wall and the complete collapse of the Soviet Empire. There was a sense that it all seemed to happen at once.
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And today, all across the planet, there is a simultaneous rise of populist authoritarianism. We could soon look back and see this moment as another one of those global seizures.
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So, it can seem at times that the Earth is a single thing, that suffers global events, seemingly unconnected, yet simultaneous. A shadow, like an eclipse, sweeps across its lands.
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Now, back to me and Gaia. It was 1966 and I was a freshman in college taking an intro to biology class with Richard Carleton Ward, a teacher of peculiar manners and prejudices. I could write a whole chapter on him, the way he spoke out of the side of his mouth in a gravelly grunt, the way he bought conspiracy theories, his suburban house blocked from view in a bourgeois neighborhood by a jungle of bamboo, vines and weeds.  He wrote an article for the underground newspaper I was publishing in which he complained ferociously about students’ inability to spell the word, “spaghetti.”
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In his class, were assigned to write a research paper on a living organism, animal or plant, complete with footnotes and citations, and following the Kate Turabian style manual. Points would be taken off for failing to properly spell, capitalize, indent, space margins, and italicize.
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I am basically a very lazy person, and all this sounded like work. Doing research meant digging through the library for books, scouring theReaders Guide to Periodical Literature for articles, and — worst of all — cataloging the findings and writing the bibliography and footnotes.
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So, I decided I would be “creative” instead. Please remember, this was 1966, and “creativity” was a buzzword more in evidence than “clickbait” is now.
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To avoid all the tedious detail that research would entail, I hit upon the idea that I could invent a new organism — the Earth. Our textbook listed a series of five or six essential qualities that define life, and I applied them to the planet. I could easily make the argument that the planet respires, that it metabolizes — that all the inhabitants of the world could be seen as the same as the individual cells that make up our body: The macro rhymes the micro.
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I hit the height of cleverness discussing reproduction. I wrote that at my age, I hadn’t yet reproduced (“as far as I know,” I threw in to be coy), but that didn’t mean I couldn’t, and just because the Earth had not yet reproduced didn’t mean it couldn’t. And I proceeded to hypothesize how the planet could bud like a hydra, planting new “cells” on another great, round, rocky skeleton or coral stone elsewhere in the solar system. Mars, for instance. And thus, the planet could duplicate itself.
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And so, I proved, at least to the satisfaction of my crackpot teacher, that the planet we lived upon could be taken as a single giant hyper-organism. He gave me a B-plus and I managed to avoid all the serious work and pass the course. I therefore invented, out of abject laziness and sideways thinking, the Gaia Principle. Credit where credit is due. I will be happy to share the Nobel with Margulis and Lovelock.
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Years later, my wife, Carole, had a different way of looking at it, which makes even more sense. She was bothered by a politician making a speech and talking about how we live on the planet and need to take care of it — a worthy idea, for sure — but her take was that we don’t live “on” the Earth, but rather, we are the Earth, along with, and no different from the birds and bees and rocks and trees.
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And that is now my mantra: We don’t live on the planet; we are the planet.
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Richard Nilsen inspired many ideas and memories at the salons he presented through the years when he was an arts critic and movie, travel, and features writer at The Arizona Republic.   A few years ago, Richard moved to North Carolina.   We want to continue our connection with Richard and have asked him to be a regular contributor to the Spirit of the Senses Journal.   We asked Richard to write short essays that were inspired by the salons.

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by Richard Nilsen
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Sometimes you are in the mood for Chopin, sometimes you want the energy of Beethoven, yet again, you occasionally feel the need for the sonic jalapeño bite of Stravinsky. Music appeals to our moods. Many moods, many musics. But one composer seems to be just right for any mood: Johann Sebastian Bach. It doesn’t matter: depressed, joyous, expectant, busy, stressed — Bach helps cope with all these feelings. He is truly universal.
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So, it is surprising that he is so roundly misunderstood. One hears that his music is “mathematical,” as if it were worked out not from inspiration, but by algebraic formulae. Sometimes, it is expressed as if this very supposed regularity is what makes his music so satisfying.
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Yet, like so much conventional wisdom, it is wrong. The image of Bach as a staid old periwigged frown, writing his fugues and canons by strict adherence to rationality is almost the opposite of the truth. Bach is really nuts. I mean, really out there. But you have to listen rather than pay attention to the cliches.
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He makes the case, almost as a joke, in his Prelude and Fugue in C-minor from the first book of the Well-Tempered Clavier. The prelude begins like a machine, chunking out a repeated pattern of notes outlining a progression of chords. Even in the score, it looks mechanical:
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But don’t be fooled. Three-quarters of the way through the piece, he breaks out into exuberant goofiness, flying this way and that, bringing the prelude to a seeming conclusion, then changing gears once again and careening off in a new direction before doing it one more time, bringing this craziness to a cascading conclusion with a naked Picardy Third (ending in major rather than minor).
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This unpredictability and irrationality is the norm, not the exception. Bach is, after all, a Baroque composer and all things Baroque are wild and crazy. It is what the Baroque is all about.
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Think of a Baroque painter, such as Peter Paul Rubens. Take his painting of Abraham meeting Melchizedek, which hangs in the National Gallery in Washington. It seems to be a painting of a tapestry held up by putti. The tapestry shows the prophet and priest in a scene from Genesis 14: Melchizedek offers bread and wine. But there appear to be two servants carting jugs of wine up from the cellar — are they “real” or are they part of the tapestry? The painting is richly ambiguous. And typically Baroque. Real toads in imaginary gardens.
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The Baroque loves energy, swirling action, and emotion over clarity.
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Take John Milton’s Paradise Lost. Its sentences long and stanzas indeterminate outlining in meter to us the import of its myth and truth can uncertain us in transcendent confusion its meaning simple.
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Of Mans First Disobedience, and the Fruit
Of that Forbidden Tree, whose mortal tast
Brought Death into the World, and all our woe,
With loss of Eden, till one greater Man
Restore us, and regain the blissful Seat,
Sing Heav’nly Muse, that on the secret top
Of Oreb, or of Sinai, didst inspire
That Shepherd, who first taught the chosen Seed,
In the Beginning how the Heav’ns and Earth
Rose out of Chaos:
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That’s six lines before we get to the verb, and the thing goes on for another seven lines before we even get the first period. Now, that’sBaroque.
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The list of weirdnesses and excesses in Bach’s music is long — too long to feature here. But let’s take just one of them, in the Brandenburg Concerto No. 5 in D-major. It features solo flute, violin and keyboard, with the keyboard as primus inter pares. Seven minutes into the 10-minute first movement everyone else shuts up while the keyboard continues maniacally for the next three minutes, piling arpeggios on arpeggios, scales on scales, and bopping us over the head with new keys totally unanticipated — a pedal A, which should resolve to the tonic D instead wanders off into the key of B, via an excursion through the dominant-of-a-dominant F-sharp. He scrapes a dissonant B-flat against an A in the bass. I could go on, but unless you are a musician, you might be bored by the technical talk. Leave it said that this extended cadenza has no precursor in music history, no simple explanation for its existence even here, and must at first performance have befuddled both its audience and the rest of the musicians in the orchestra, sitting there, twiddling their thumbs while the keyboardist works up a good sweat.
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A more restrained composer would have kept the music from derailing, kept it within bounds. But Bach isn’t so restrained. He is off to the races.
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Looking at a Bach score is an eye-opener as well as an ear-opener. We think of his music as gloriously harmonious, yet you look at the ink-dots on the music staves and see them colliding constantly like neutrons in a reactor, heating up the music: Bach is the single most dissonant composer before Arnold Schoenberg. Of course, all that grinding and grating is smoothed out by the resolution of those dissonances, making the whole appear safe. They are anything but.
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Bach harmonized some 400 Lutheran chorales, many redone several times, each freshly rethought and re-harmonized. They can be impressively complex, with appoggiaturas, passing tones and suspensions in all four voices (soprano, alto, tenor, bass) constantly adding dissonance. If you were to play only the off beats, you could mistake the music for atonal — yet it is always caught, sometimes at the last moment, and saved for consonance.
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The term “Baroque” comes from the Portuguese “barroco,” which is what they called a misshapen pearl. It was applied to the art of the 17th and early 18th century by critics who did not mean it as a compliment. They looked back at the art of those centuries and saw a lack of form and proportion. The Swiss art historian Heinrich Wölfflin (1864-1945) wrote influential books describing the differences between the classic art of the Renaissance and the darker, sweeping art he called Baroque.
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Friedrich Nietzsche styled these two impulses in art as “Apollonian” and “Dionysian.” They are also called Classic and Romantic. All of art history is a pendulum swinging back and forth between the two. Bach’s idiosyncrasies were all tidied up and tucked in by the time Haydn and Mozart wrote. The sanity and proportion of these two was smashed by the Romanticism of Liszt and Wagner, whose excesses were pummeled again by Debussy and Stravinsky. Do we value order and mind, or do we seek emotion and energy?
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As William Blake wrote: “The cistern contains; the fountain overflows.”
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The sober Apollonian Modernism of the 20th century is now replaced by the Dionysiac Postmodern of the 21st. Back and forth.
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So, when we listen to Bach’s music, we should be alert to its headstrong waywardness. Who but Bach would crazy enough to write fugues for a solo violin? Trail out the conclusion of his famous Toccata and Fugue in D-minor well past the end of the fugue, in contrails of afterthought? Write an hour-and-half of 12 fugues on a single tune, turned upside-down, inside-out, backwards, slowed, sped — but all on that single tune, originally of only 12 notes in a span of only a minor sixth? Open his St. Matthew Passion with two orchestras and three choruses playing different music at the same time?
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So, never say to me that Bach’s music is mathematical. Or dry. Or rational. The man was nuts. Beautifully nuts.
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Richard Nilsen inspired many ideas and memories at the salons he presented through the years when he was an arts critic and movie, travel, and features writer at The Arizona Republic.   A few years ago, Richard moved to North Carolina.   We want to continue our connection with Richard and have asked him to be a regular contributor to the Spirit of the Senses Journal.   We asked Richard to write short essays that were inspired by the salons.

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